Kneeling next to the bodyguard on the ground, Stephens said, "Same here, sir. A stick-that's it." He tucked it under his arm before looking through the downed man's wallet. "This guy's called Uri Bavorich, also Romanian."

"Help him up, Stephens. Give him this." MacNeice handed a handkerchief to the officer, who in turn pa.s.sed it to Bavorich, who clasped it to his nose.

Stephens turned his attention to Petrescu, who raised his arms, cigarette in mouth, as the patrolman patted him down. "Nothing here, sir. Want me to check his ID too?"

"That won't be necessary. Give them both back their sticks and IDs." MacNeice slid his handgun into its holster. "When did you arrive in the country?" he asked Petrescu.

"Last night. Bucharest-Rome-New York...here."

"Where are you staying and for how long?"

"Chelsea Manor." He inhaled, and on the exhale said, "I'm here for the funeral of my sister, however long it takes to get her body released. Now if you have no further questions, we will be leaving." He turned towards the Range Rover, dropped the cigarette onto the sidewalk and ground it twice with his shiny shoe.

MacNeice stood aside as the bloodied Bavorich opened the rear door and Petrescu climbed in. His nose angry and swollen, he turned to smile broadly at MacNeice, revealing the blood r.i.m.m.i.n.g his teeth, before he climbed into the front seat and shut the door. MacNeice had always admired the pampered, insulated sound of a luxury-car door closing. Petrov, the driver, walked quickly past the officers without making eye contact, opened his door and climbed in. In a moment the Range Rover had powered off, leaving the four patrolmen looking at MacNeice.

"Why didn't we arrest them, sir?" Bolton asked.

"Well, other than telling me to f.u.c.k off and putting a hand on my shoulder and carrying sticks, there wasn't much we could book them for."

"Your call. But I imagine those boys know how to use those sticks, and I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end when they do." Bolton adjusted his vest and signalled his partner to head back to the car.

"Who called you in?" MacNeice asked as he made to leave.

"Someone inside-a woman, I think. It's funny, we were having a coffee at Sacred Grounds two blocks away and shootin' the s.h.i.t about Vertesi when we got the call."

"I'm glad you showed up when you did."

MacNeice looked up at the house and saw Madeleine's face behind the sheers. It had been ten minutes since he'd seen the old man at the door-now shut-but presumably he too was somewhere inside watching. He shook Bolton's hand and said goodbye, then turned towards the mansion.

ONCE AGAIN HE FOUND HIMSELF in the library. Nothing had changed, but there was an ache to the place he'd not noticed before, as if all the life had been sucked out of it. He had been in museums that felt more alive. in the library. Nothing had changed, but there was an ache to the place he'd not noticed before, as if all the life had been sucked out of it. He had been in museums that felt more alive.

He stood by the window and waited, looking out to the garden, where a robin was busy searching for worms. The door opened behind him and Antonin Petrescu stepped in. "Detective MacNeice. Please, sit."

MacNeice took the chair by the window where Aziz had sat last time, and Petrescu sat opposite him. "As you know, I met your son and his colleagues outside," MacNeice said.

"Unpleasant. I trust you were not without justification in your actions." Petrescu's hands rested on his thighs, his eyes riveted on MacNeice's.

"Yes, I was justified. Mr. Petrescu, is there anything I should know about your son?"

"In what regard, Detective?"

"Why does he need bodyguards?"

"His work is sensitive in nature and he would be a prize catch for several...competing interests."

"What was his relationship to your daughter? While I understand that he has spent most of his time in Romania with the military, I found him less than-"

"Grief-stricken." The older man looked away from MacNeice then, studying the garden.

"Cold is how I would describe him. I can only think that this is difficult for you, sir." MacNeice watched as Petrescu's left hand began folding over the crease of his grey trousers.

"They weren't close, it's true. And while it's painful to admit, neither are we."

"Your son said that he arrived last night. Was that because you called him, or was it a coincidence?"

"I had called and left a message, yes. But he was already en route."

"A scheduled visit, sir?"

"Not exactly. From time to time Gregori is called to join the Romanian delegation at the United Nations. When that happens, he'll often come here first. But you're not here to talk about my son. What can you tell me about the investigation?"

"I believe that someone killed your daughter to deliver a message to you. It was a pa.s.sionless act that had nothing to do with Lydia other than her being your daughter. Do you have any idea who that might be?"

Petrescu simply stared at him. "That's very cruel speculation on your part, Detective." He put both hands on the arms of the chair, preparing to stand. "If you have no more information or real questions for me, I think you should go. I'm extremely tired."

"I did have one last question, sir. What did you do before coming to this country?"

Petrescu's chest deflated as if he'd been punched, and his hands dropped back onto his thighs. He gestured weakly towards MacNeice. "No more, no more. I must ask you to leave, Detective. I will answer your question, but not now."

"I understand." MacNeice put away his notebook and got up. "Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Petrescu. I'll find my own way out."

As he opened the gate, he noticed his handkerchief on the ground, covered in the bodyguard's blood. He picked it up and put it in the waste bin at the corner before returning to his car.

EIGHTEEN.

AZIZ WAS ALONE IN THEIR CUBICLE. Vertesi's chair was shoved under his desktop where the cleaning staff had left it. Other than when he was on vacation, MacNeice couldn't recall ever seeing it like that. He swung it out and sat down next to Aziz.

"His name is Marcus Johnson," she said. "He's an on-again, off-again student at the art college down the street from the Conservatory." MacNeice swivelled the chair towards her. "Several of the Conservatory staff recalled seeing him around, but even better, one of Lydia's cla.s.smates told me who he is and where he lives."

"Strange that he hasn't come forward. Any word from the hospital?" MacNeice took out his notebook and put it on the desk.

"Yes. Good news. They've gotten all the buckshot out of Vertesi and they've managed to sew up the wound. His blood count is back to where it should be and the only concern now is infection. In time they'll do a skin graft and they feel the muscle that was torn can be repaired. They think he'll be fine." She turned in his direction, her knees only inches from his.

"Good to hear."

"What happened at Petrescu's?"

"I met the son. He's Shiny Shoes from the condominium security video. I met his bodyguards too-had a run-in with one of them."

"Define run-in." She moved her chair back slightly.

"He slammed my shoulder from behind and-I don't know, I guess some long-ago training I thought I'd forgotten kicked in."

"Uh-huh." She moved her chair another inch or two away.

"I applied blunt force to his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es and then broke his nose. You want an espresso?"

"No."

MacNeice got up and left the cubicle. When he returned, espresso in hand, she said, "Did you arrest him?"

"No. I even gave him my hanky. If I had arrested him, he might have had a good case for being a.s.saulted by a police officer." He leaned against the desk.

"You know, I had a funny feeling about your going there alone." Aziz seemed angry.

"I'm okay. Really." MacNeice put his cup down.

"One cowboy on this team is already in the hospital." Aziz's voice was steely. "Let's do this thing together from now on-seriously."

"I wasn't-Okay, you're right. No more going solo. Actually, I lucked out. Madeleine called it in and there were two cruisers there before it got really weird. Shall we go over to Marcus Johnson's place?"

"Yes. And Petrescu senior, did you see him?"

"I did. It was fairly brief, as he was exhausted."

Aziz grabbed her jacket off the back of the chair and stood to leave. As MacNeice stepped aside to let her pa.s.s, she looked down at his hip. "That's the first time I've seen you carrying your weapon."

"Well, pilgrim, I felt naked without it." It was bad John Wayne, intended to break the tension.

"Right. Very funny, Clint Eastwood."

"John Wayne."

"Who's he?"

"Right."

THE HOUSE WHERE L LYDIA'S BOYFRIEND lived was a wide, stately brick Victorian, not especially attractive but beautifully maintained. A translucent curtain backed the tall oval cut-gla.s.s door with dark oak trim, and beside it were individual doorbells to four apartments. Marcus Johnson's name wasn't listed beside any of them. Through the curtain they could vaguely make out a figure coming down the hall towards the door. lived was a wide, stately brick Victorian, not especially attractive but beautifully maintained. A translucent curtain backed the tall oval cut-gla.s.s door with dark oak trim, and beside it were individual doorbells to four apartments. Marcus Johnson's name wasn't listed beside any of them. Through the curtain they could vaguely make out a figure coming down the hall towards the door.

"Mrs. Hausser?" Aziz asked, when the woman opened the door.

"Just Miss. How can I help you?" She wasn't unpleasant, just precise.

"We're police detectives. This is Detective Superintendent MacNeice and I'm Detective Inspector Aziz. We're looking for Marcus Johnson. Does he live here?"

"He did. Come in, come in."

"When did he leave, Miss Hausser?" MacNeice asked as they stepped inside.

"Yesterday-rather abruptly, though his month was paid up, so I cannot complain. He said he was going home because his mother was dying."

"Did he leave anything behind?" Aziz asked.

"He didn't have much, but what he had, he took-except for his bicycle, which is in the garage, and a knapsack he said belonged to a friend. He asked me to keep it until he could come back for it and the bike."

"We are currently investigating the death of a young woman, a close friend of his. Have you looked inside the knapsack to see whose it is?"

"No, it's not my place to do so. I can tell you there's a cellphone inside, though. It has gone off several times in the last couple of days."

Aziz reached into her bag and took out a photograph of Lydia Petrescu. "Did you ever see him in the company of this woman?"

"No."

"Did he say where his mother lived, or when he'd be back?"

"No, though once I saw a letter addressed to him and it was postmarked...what was it...Wawa? Yes, Wawa. I thought it was such an interesting word-Wawa, like a baby crying-that I remembered it. I believe it is somewhere up north."

"Did he have a phone in his apartment?"

"There is a phone, but you know these young people don't use land lines. They're always texting and talking on cellphones. He never activated the line."

"Do you mind if we look at his apartment, Miss Hausser?" MacNeice asked.

"I don't, but I have already cleaned it, Detective, and I have a young woman coming to see it. I thought it was she when the doorbell rang. What has Marcus done? Is he in trouble?"

"No, we just need to speak with him. Can we take a look? We won't be long," MacNeice said. "And we'll take the knapsack when we leave. It will help with the investigation."

"Come along, then." She opened the door to her apartment and a smell of flowers wafted out into the hall. "Wait here. I'll get the key."

"What is that lovely smell?" MacNeice asked.

As she walked towards the fireplace mantel, Miss Hausser turned and smiled at him, revealing a gold tooth on the left side of her mouth. She disappeared behind a dark oak door. In a moment she came back with the key and the backpack, handing it to MacNeice. "That's lily of the valley from my garden," she said. "I'm so happy you noticed. I have the key, so come, come."

They followed her upstairs and into the small front apartment. She had indeed cleaned it. There was a bay window, and on each of its three sections, an accordion-fold blind was lowered exactly to the crosspiece of the bottom pane. In the bedroom, leaning on the mantel of a disused fireplace, were two photographs: one a close-up of a bouquet of white lilacs, and the other the back of a violin with its mirrored and complex grain and delicate shadows. Both were framed in cheap black wood.

"These are his images," MacNeice said.

"Yes, they are. So you know his work. I think he's very talented, yes. When he was leaving, he said to me, 'Keep these-they belong here.' I have a large stand of lilacs in the garden and he was always out there when they bloomed. Pointing his camera so close, it looked funny, but he's good. Good."

"Yes, he is. He has a wonderful eye for light and form. Are you going to leave them here for the next tenant?"

"No, no. Goodness, no, I will take them downstairs to my apartment. But they do look so pretty here, yes?" She looked at the prints and then up at MacNeice, who nodded.

The doorbell rang and Miss Hausser turned away from the fireplace.

"Thank you, Miss Hausser, for showing us the apartment," MacNeice said. "Here's my card. If Marcus Johnson gets back in touch, please tell him we're interested in hearing from him."

"Yes, certainly," said the landlady. Then she volunteered, with a worried frown, "He looks rough, but he's a good boy, Marcus."

NINETEEN.