A uniformed cop arrived at the door, his weapon drawn.

"Don't allow anyone into this room until Forensics gets here," MacNeice said, leading Aziz past him and out into the hall.

"Do I shut the door, sir?" The cop began reaching for the handle.

"Leave it as it is. Don't touch anything."

"No problem." The cop turned his back to the room, holstered his service weapon and stood at ease for a moment before looking over his shoulder at the room again. "Big job for housekeeping...."

AT THE ELEVATORS A AZIZ AND MacNeice met the forensics team, two men carrying their kits and a young woman wheeling what looked like a large grey metal suitcase. MacNeice met the forensics team, two men carrying their kits and a young woman wheeling what looked like a large grey metal suitcase.

"Look for marks from someone swinging something like a baseball bat," MacNeice told them as he held the elevator door open for Aziz. They nodded.

Aziz backed into the corner, against the bra.s.s rail, and looked up at the indicator panel as the numbers began descending. "A baseball bat?"

"Well, a little shorter than that. I think I know who was in there. Gregori's bodyguards were both carrying thick hardwood dowels-sticks. Short bats."

"He flew, you know. I mean, he was flying." She turned her gaze to the numbers again.

"Meaning?"

"To land where he did, he had to be at least ten or twelve feet away from the rail, as if he'd been launched off that balcony. Before he went down, he went out."

"So it had to be two-one on either side-to launch him. He couldn't have jumped on his own and one person couldn't have heaved him that far."

The elevator doors opened. As they walked over towards the clutch of police surrounding the body, MacNeice noticed that the deputy chief was there, hands in his pockets, looking up to the open sky through the broken grid.

"MacNeice, a word." Wallace moved over towards the waterfall.

MacNeice handed the keys of the Chevy to Aziz. "Why don't you wait outside in the car. I'll be right there." Then he followed Wallace, who was still standing with his hands in his pockets, now gazing at the tropical splendour.

"Does this kid have anything to do with the dead girl?" The chief pulled a hand out of his pocket and stared down at the screen on his cellphone.

"He was her boyfriend and the father of her child."

"What's the story here?" Wallace looked up from his phone.

"His name was Marcus Johnson."

"He didn't do the girl, though?"

"Marcus was in love with her...." MacNeice was struggling to get a grip on himself, to be specific. He wanted to get out of there, now. "He told us he arranged to take her to the beach house and was paid to take nude pictures of her while someone he didn't know was taking pictures of her too. She didn't know anything about it."

"Christ!" He put his cellphone away, pushed his hands into his pockets and seemed to lift his heels as if to gain a bit more height. "MacNeice, I need to know if we are any closer here."

"I think we are, sir. I don't have a motive yet, but I believe we're very close to making an arrest."

"That's the first thing you've said that has given me hope. I hope you're right. I've got everyone from the mayor to the media climbing up my back for answers."

"There is a but, however."

"f.u.c.k. I hate buts." Wallace glared at him.

"I believe we're going to be dealing with foreign nationals who will claim diplomatic immunity." MacNeice rubbed the back of his neck.

"You do your job, Detective, and I'll deal with the diplomats. For now, am I clear to say that this horrific mess has brought us closer to an arrest?"

"I believe that's accurate, sir."

"Good. Don't prove me wrong." Wallace walked away, pa.s.sing the body without looking down, and pushed through the revolving door to face the various media already setting up in the parking lot.

MacNeice took one last look at Marcus Johnson and wished he hadn't. The young man's left eye had been dislodged from its socket and was lying like a discarded marble next to his ear. "Jesus," he muttered, not conscious that he'd said it out loud.

The forensics officer glanced up him from his squat. "Yeah, nasty. I don't think it popped out with the first impact, though. The second impact was what shook it loose."

"Please don't go on," MacNeice said, holding up a hand to silence him. "But if you can find them in that awful mess, see if you can spot any initial blows from a wood baton."

"I won't likely be able to figure that out here, sir, but Dr. Richardson might. I'll keep looking, all the same." He turned back to delicately probing the boy's flattened skull.

As MacNeice walked away he was silently apologizing to Marcus Johnson for not keeping him safe, for not even realizing he was at such risk. The young man had had sense enough to hide, but he and Aziz had been complacent. He went out through the revolving door and swung left to avoid the DC, still facing a dozen or so microphones.

When he got to the car, Aziz was staring out the windshield into the middle distance. MacNeice stopped for a moment to phone Mary Richardson before he climbed in. He got her voicemail. "Mary," he said, "you're going to be taking delivery of a young man who was thrown out of a window. I believe he may have been beaten first with a baton, a foot-long dowel roughly an inch and a half in diameter. He's been badly damaged from the fall-well, two falls, actually-but see if you can't find something that suggests he was beaten first."

Putting his cellphone away, he took a deep breath and got into the driver's seat. Aziz was still staring directly ahead. "What's that bird?" she asked.

He followed her gaze to a stand of birch on the opposite side of the lot. Halfway up an almost vertical branch was a black and white bird with a pale yellow breast and a red streak on its head. "It's a yellow-bellied sapsucker, tapping for veins of sap under the bark."

"Funny name," she said.

"It's a beautiful bird, a close relative of the woodp.e.c.k.e.r."

They sat in silence watching the sapsucker work the upper extremities of the branch, while behind them the deputy chief was busy working the media. Only when MacNeice saw the black van arrive that would take Johnson's body away did he turn the key in the ignition. He eased the Chevy as close as he could to the tree, stopping there so Aziz could watch the bird until it flew off.

"I could use a drink. How about you?" MacNeice said as they drove slowly through streets that for a moment seemed like a parallel universe, one that knew nothing about the violent death of a very talented young man.

"I don't really drink."

"I forgot. Sorry."

"Forgot? No, no, it's nothing to do with my religion. It's just that I have a very low tolerance for it. I end up falling asleep." She shifted, sitting up straight in the seat.

"I could make a case for sleep," he said.

"Okay, let's have a drink. But I'm not up for Marcello's right now." She allowed her head to fall back slowly onto the headrest and looked over at him.

"We'll go to my place. I'll pour you a grappa and we'll look out the window so you can see more birds. I live in a virtual bird sanctuary." He glanced over to see if that was okay with her.

"Right. let's do that. I'd love to try grappa-if only for the name!"

She fell silent, and a few minutes later when he glanced her way, her eyes were closed, but he couldn't tell whether she'd fallen asleep or was closing off the world for a moment. He drove slowly, avoiding sharp turns and sudden acceleration or braking. It wasn't until he came to a stop in front of the gatehouse and turned off the engine that she opened her eyes.

TWENTY ONE.

WALKING INTO M MACNEICE'S HOUSE, Aziz was determined to absorb everything about it. She noticed first the dark, wide-planked floor of the hall, then the smell of the place-fresh, as if the windows were always open. The black-and-white photograph on the wall, above the small credenza where he dropped his keys, was of a nude, shot from behind on a stony beach. It immediately, and sadly, brought her mind back to Marcus Johnson's studies of Lydia.

"Who is this?" she asked.

"It's a portrait by Bill Brandt, a gift from a few years ago."

"From whom?"

"From me. It cheers me up. I needed some cheering up.... It was an extravagance, but a day never goes by when I don't feel grateful for its being there."

She nodded, then followed MacNeice into the living room, where he stopped to clear away the only visible clutter, a few books on the sofa. He carried them over to the desk.

"Okay-are you ready?" he said as he walked over to the windows.

"I think so."

He flung open the curtains and the room was immediately flooded with late afternoon light.

"There's oak, maple, birch, cedar and a few serviceberries, but mostly maples as far as you can see. I tapped them for a few years and took the sap to a local farm. I'd come back a week later and there'd be a dozen bottles of syrup; the farmer kept six and I kept six. It was terrific."

"Why'd you stop?" She thought she knew the answer but couldn't resist asking.

"Just lost interest, I guess." He moved two wooden armchairs in front of the window and said, "Sit down. I'll fetch the drinks."

Aziz picked the one with the high back, which reminded her of the chairs by the fireplace in old English pubs. The trees were even more impressive from a lower angle, stretching into the distance like proud columns before diving down the slope of the hill towards the highway. She rested her head against the back of the chair and looked up. The canopy was alive with birds, hopping from one branch to another or shooting into the sky.

MacNeice returned with a tray. On it were two tumblers of water with lime wedges and two gla.s.s cylinders that looked like shot gla.s.ses, only taller. The gla.s.ses had thick bases that, when she lifted hers, made the contents-a clear liquid-seem heavier and more impressive. He set the tray down on a small wooden table, sat down and handed her a gla.s.s.

"Cheers, Fiza-to life and better days." He watched her study, smell and swirl the grappa. "Best to sip it slowly."

"Is that your best toast?"

"No, my best is 'Here's to us. Wha's like us? d.a.m.n few-and they're all dead.' It was a Gaelic toast popular among Scottish airmen in the Battle of Britain."

"I see. Well...cheers."

MacNeice drank his in one gulp, holding it in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. His attention was on the trees but he was aware of her gaze. "I can make you tea or coffee, if you'd prefer," he said.

"No, this is perfect. I'm just savouring the moment." With that she tasted it, held it in her mouth, then swallowed, wincing slightly.

"Too strong, I guess. Let me-" He leaned forward as if he was going to get out of the chair.

"It's just a new sensation. I like it. I think I like it a lot. I was expecting something that burned more, but this is just warming me up."

"There are many grappas that burn, but this isn't one of them."

They sat in silence looking out into the forest. Every so often their heads would turn, like people at a tennis match, when a bird flew by. "What was that last one?" she asked.

"A chickadee. They'll eat seeds out of your hand if you go out there."

"You're not serious."

"Oh yes, I am. They'll land on your arm, your head or your shoulder, make their way to your hand, pick up some seeds and fly off. Then they'll come back for more, often with friends." They sat watching the chickadees for some time before he added, "After they get to know you, they follow you, waiting to see if you're going to feed them."

Within minutes of finishing her grappa, Fiza had slid down in the chair so she could put her feet up on the radiator under the window. The conversation slowed, then stopped, and soon she was asleep.

MacNeice cleared away the grappa gla.s.ses and the untouched water, then returned to the window. Fiza's head had tipped sideways. He helped her up and over to the sofa. Laying her head on a cushion, he lifted her legs and took off her shoes. He took the Glock from her belt and placed it on the coffee table, then lifted the soft grey throw from the back of the sofa and draped it over her. She nodded slightly and smiled, but didn't open her eyes. MacNeice closed the curtains.

When she woke, she found a folded note on the coffee table. Gone to get some provisions. I'll make dinner. Back in one hour Gone to get some provisions. I'll make dinner. Back in one hour. She loved notes. Notes like this one, which gave a return time but no departure time, especially amused her. Sitting up, she took in the room for the first time. Though she'd been fascinated by every detail as she came into the house, the moment the curtains were drawn back, her attention had been focused on the view outside.

On the desk she noticed shreds of poems scribbled on pads or tucked into the books like bookmarks, some several stanzas long, others just a line or two. Scanning the bookshelves, she saw volumes on birds, art, architecture, photography, poetry, gardening, cooking, history and biography. The Complete Diaries of Samuel Pepys The Complete Diaries of Samuel Pepys, books on John Donne, John Aubrey and John Evelyn, anthologies of music from jazz to cla.s.sical, but no books on criminology and no crime novels. There were more photographs, some framed, others just lying neatly in stacks. The subject matter varied but most were from nature: close-ups of trees, several of tree trunks carved with messages, still others of telephone poles riddled with rusting staples, shot so the sun made them seem golden and beautiful-and they were beautiful. There were studies of flowers in their full-bloom glory, but more glorious by far, she thought, were those of the same flowers dying.

Fiza pulled the curtains open and sat down in her chair. The light had changed while she'd been asleep, and she wondered for a moment what the view was like in the morning, in autumn, in winter, under a foot of snow. She felt utterly at home here, safe and comfortable, even though she had no real idea where she was, other than in his house. She realized then that the source of the comfort was MacNeice himself.

Her thoughts returned to the hotel-the chaos, the smashed gla.s.s, the spectacular, unnecessary death of a young man. On her pant leg were several narrow blood splatters, now almost black on the grey fabric. Holding out her blouse so she could see it, she noticed mascara tracks from her earlier tears. Suddenly needing to pee, she pulled herself out of the chair and went in search of the bathroom, which she found by tracking a spill of light from the master bedroom.

Sitting on the toilet, Aziz scanned the room. With the skylight over the granite shower stall and the window beside her that looked out to a row of mature cedars, it felt as if the bathroom were part of the forest. Flushing, she stood and stepped out of her pants, then slipped off her panties and reached into the stall to turn on the shower. Without undoing her blouse, she slid it up and over her head, shrugged off her bra and stepped in.

Placing her hands flat on the back of the stall, she leaned in, her head under the flow. The heat and force of the water seemed to wash away more than dirt and tears. If she stayed there long enough she might be able to wash away the memory. When her breathing slowed, she picked up the soap, turned it over, saw how the original form had melted away-and marvelled at the intimacy of taking a shower in someone else's bathroom. This soap had been formed by his hand and his body, like a river stone smoothed by the current. She rubbed it slowly over her arm, imagining his arm, slowly over her stomach, imagining his-and then she laughed out loud, shoved the idea out of her mind and soaped herself down.

When she got out, she looked in the mirror and noticed a large bruise on her hip. She must have got it when MacNeice pushed her out of the way of the falling Marcus and the gla.s.s. Aziz picked up her panties and put them on, then put on her bra. Staring down at the heap of clothing on the floor, the pant leg flecked with dried blood, she lifted the clothes, folded each piece and went into the bedroom, turning on the light. Inside the closet everything was hung neatly, jackets and trousers together-mostly grey or black-and shirts to the right. She took out a pale blue cotton shirt and slipped it on, rolling up the sleeves and b.u.t.toning it. She stood in front of the mirror that ran the length of the wooden chest of drawers, ran her fingers through her hair and thought, What is it about a man's shirt on a woman? Now there's a question for Bo What is it about a man's shirt on a woman? Now there's a question for Bo. She leaned closer to look at her face. In her dark eyes she saw the pooled sadness, and turned away.

There were photographs in this room too, mostly, she a.s.sumed, of his parents. Two were of himself, one as a teen-diving off a dock, caught in mid-air, his long, slender body captured beautifully against the black stillness of the lake. In the other he was a toddler wearing a white knit top; his smile was wide in a way she couldn't remember ever seeing. Maybe that joy had been beaten out of him and would appear no more, lost to a life of observation.

She could tell which side of the bed he slept on by the wrinkles in the pillow and what was on the night table. The telephone sat next to a small reading lamp beside two books, The Kilvert Diaries The Kilvert Diaries and and The Collected Works of John Keats The Collected Works of John Keats. On the wall behind the headboard was a large painting, a mountain scene reduced to form and colour. Beside the bed was an engraving of a horse's head with its mouth open, but whether it was laughing or screaming like the one in Guernica Guernica, she couldn't tell. In her current state she a.s.sumed the latter.

She carried her neatly folded clothes out to the living room and placed them on a chair. In the kitchen she retrieved the tumbler of water he'd poured for her. She squeezed the lime into it and went back to the living room. She looked at the bookcases again, and up to the top of the shelves, where a stack of objects stood alone. A cream-coloured vinyl zippered envelope, like those used by accountants or insurance agents, sat on top of two photo alb.u.ms. Aziz knew instinctively that this was where he kept Kate, on the periphery, almost out of sight but not out of mind. She stood on her toes and took one of the alb.u.ms down, then, leaning against bookcase, opened it to the first page. It revealed a close-up of Kate playing the violin in concert, her bobbed dark hair slightly out of focus. The orchestra was also out of focus, and only the baton and hand of the conductor were visible. It was the expression on her face that made the deepest impression on Aziz: her eyes were almost closed, her eyebrows arching, and her mouth turned upward in a sublime smile. It was an image of pure joy. She suddenly felt ashamed to be snooping, and without turning another page, slid the alb.u.m back in place.

She heard the unmistakable rumbling of the overpowered Chevy. She smiled for a moment at her agitation about being discovered in her underwear and wearing his shirt. She fluffed out her hair, still wet from the shower. Still somewhat fearful that he might be offended, she was considering making a run for the bathroom to put her soiled clothes back on when the door opened and MacNeice appeared, carrying several bags of groceries. As he stood there on the threshold, his jaw dropped slightly, but then he smiled.

"I'm sorry, Mac. I woke up and looked at myself.... I hope you don't mind, but I took a shower and hunted around for something clean to wear."

"I don't mind. But if you're uncomfortable, I can find you a pair of sweatpants."

"I'm not uncomfortable, Mac...though perhaps I should be."

"Well, I have to say that seeing you in front of that window brings more beauty to the scenery than I've experienced in a long time. I need to put these groceries away. Come and sit in the kitchen-I've got a real treat for you." She followed him, perching on a barstool while he dropped the bags on the counter.

"What are you going to feed me?"

"Mrs. Provenzano, the matriarch of Provenzano's, has made her gnocchi with ricotta-light as a feather." He lifted out a tinfoil dish carefully, as if it were precious metal, then a bunch of greens. "Sage. A bit of garlic, olive oil, a sprinkle of Parmesan and Italian parsley, and you'll think you're somewhere else."

He doled out equal portions onto two plates, set them on the table and put half a baguette in the middle. Aziz climbed off the barstool and sat down as MacNeice poured two gla.s.ses of white wine and took his place opposite her. They had just begun eating when his cellphone rang. It was Swetsky. In the silence Aziz could hear him clearly.