Free Crime Machine by Giles Blunt

A quick smile, then: “Now that you have heads, are you able to make an ID?”
    “I didn’t say
heads.”
    “I can do the math, Detective.”
    “What paper are you with, anyway?”
    She took off a leather glove, reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card and handed it to Cardinal. Donna Vaughan.
New York Post
. “The card’s out of date. I’m not actually with the paper anymore. I’m freelance.”
    “Why is a reporter from New York interested in a murder in Algonquin Bay?”
    “I think you’ll figure that out pretty quick. I’m working on a story—not for the
Post
, for someplace national, hopefully—a story that’s taking me all over. And I think maybe we could help each other. Did you get anywhere with the tire tracks at the Trout Lake scene?”
    “We’re running down a lot of leads. It takes time.”
    “And the footprints?”
    “Like I say, we’re following up a lot of threads.”
    She looked him up and down. “Maybe I was wrong. It doesn’t look like you can help me at all. Thanks for your time.”
    Cardinal got into his car and switched on the ignition to warm it up. He pulled out his notebook and started jotting down a list of calls he had to make. Ms. Vaughan pulled up beside him in a tan Focus and rolled down her window.
    Cardinal pressed the button on the armrest.
    “You know, Detective, I bet I know more than you do at this point.”
    “For instance?”
    “For instance, the identities of the victims.” She flicked a strand of hair out of her eyes. Her brows were dark, and the contrast gave her eyes an added intensity. “Their names are Lev and Irena Bastov. Russian extraction, but they’re both U.S. nationals.”
    “Uh-huh. And how would you know that?”
    “The story I’m working on? It’s about the Russian mafia—and please don’t spread that around, because I’d kind of like to stay alive.” She drove away before her window was finished closing.

7
    “W E KNOW WHO THEY ARE,” Delorme said when Cardinal arrived in the squad room. “We’ve got IDs!”
    “Let me guess,” Cardinal said. “Lev and Irena Bastov.”
    Delorme looked deflated. “How’d you find out?”
    “Doesn’t matter. How’d
you
find out?”
    “Woman up at the fur auction called in a missing person. They were staying at the Highlands Lodge. We should head up there right now.”
    “Let Ident get started on their own. We’ve got the autopsy this morning. Just give me a minute and we can catch the next plane—I’m not driving on the 400 again.”
    Cardinal sat at his desk without removing his coat, pulled out the business card Donna Vaughan had given him and dialed the
New York Post
. It being Sunday, there was no upper management available, but Cardinal finally got connected to an editor.
    “Donna Vaughan? Yes, she used to be on staff here.”
    “Why did she leave?”
    “I can’t discuss anybody’s work history, Detective—too likely to end up on the wrong side of a lawsuit. I can confirm that she was on staff and that she left about a year ago, and that’s it.”
    Cardinal had googled Donna Vaughan as they spoke. Several stories popped up with her byline, mostly about fashion.
    “You coming or what?” Delorme was standing beside his desk, looking annoyed.
    —
    They caught an Air Canada flight to Toronto and arrived at the morgue a little early. Cardinal made a few calls, but Delorme just sat staring at the row of wellington boots lined up on a high shelf. A list of funeral homes and phone numbers was tacked up next to the door, and a hand-lettered sign above the sinks said
Caution: Chlorine + Ammonia = Poison!
    Eventually the door opened and Dr. Elmer Spork was saying hello and introducing his assistant, a petite, intense woman named Tranh, who was about half his height. He took off his sports coat and threw on surgical scrubs and a plastic apron. He didn’t look anything like you might imagine a pathologist would look. Although he must have been fifty, he had curly blond hair