VERTESI CLIMBED OVER THE TAPE and walked through the breezeway to the deck. He turned to look inside the cottage; everything was just as MacNeice had described it, except of course that the girl and the Seabreeze were gone. and walked through the breezeway to the deck. He turned to look inside the cottage; everything was just as MacNeice had described it, except of course that the girl and the Seabreeze were gone.

The call of a gull pulled his attention back to the beach and the lake. For a moment he couldn't help imagining himself as the owner, surveying all that's lovely about the world. Then he snapped out of it; this would never be the life he'd have. Looking to the left, he could see the leading edge of the neighbouring cottage; to the right was a dock with a small, red-hulled sailboat moored at the end. "Beautiful. Like he said, a hundred yards in either direction."

He sat on the bottom step, untied his shoes, took his socks off and rolled up his pant legs. He folded the socks, put them in the shoes and set them on the step. Retrieving his camera and notebook from his pocket, he took off his jacket and folded it neatly, then set it on the shoes and placed his notebook on top. Picking up a branch that had fallen from one of the birch trees, he stepped over the yellow tape and walked towards the water. The gra.s.s was cool under his feet, and the transition to warm sand made him pause for a moment, then shimmy his feet deeper into the sand.

The surface of the lake was almost still; the water lapped half-heartedly at the sh.o.r.e as if it had to keep up appearances. Vertesi walked slowly along the dry sand just above the waterline. He could see the bottom: a shoulder of hard sand that ran the length of the beachfront, extending a few feet into the lake before dropping off a couple of feet or more. He could see the silver slivers of minnows darting about in the deeper water. "What one thing ...?" he said to himself as he looked back at the cottage nestled cosily among the trees.

He thought about the boat, about how, if you were going to land it in order to carry someone to the cottage, you'd likely choose your spot so it was more or less in line with the stairs. He walked to the point opposite the bottom of the steps. Squatting down, he peered beneath the surface. Sure enough, there was a groove in the sandbar; it had been softened by the wavelets but was still a distinct V. He drove the stick into the sand just beyond the waterline to mark the spot. He took the camera out of his pocket and framed several shots of the V, checking each time to make sure it registered. It did, but because of the glare off the surface, only faintly. He rolled his pant legs above his knees and waded into the water several feet beyond the groove. "f.u.c.king freezing," he muttered. With the sun at his back he framed several more shots; the V was now more apparent.

Vertesi looked down at his feet in the water, all greeny blue, the minnows racing around him. He was losing the feeling in his toes. He waded a few yards over, parallel to the sh.o.r.e, then came out of the water. Up and down the beach in either direction there was no sign of life, and other than a sail going by on the horizon, there was no sign of life on the water. He thought it weird, but then, considering it was a weekday in the middle of June, maybe not.

He sat on the stairs to let his feet dry and made his notes-all of his observations and random thoughts, just as MacNeice had taught him-before wiping the sand off his feet, putting his socks and shoes on and climbing the stairs. Stankovics was dozing at the wheel of the patrol car. Too many doughnuts Too many doughnuts, Vertesi thought to himself, as he got in the car and drove off towards the next cottage down the lake.

SEVEN.

DRIVING ALONG K KING, which ran west parallel to Main, MacNeice thought about the statement that this killing made. In an age of bombs, a.s.sault rifles, IEDs and an endless variety of automatic pistols, who'd go to the trouble of creating a syringe and then use something as crude as battery acid to erase someone's brain...and why? That was it, he realized. Lydia Petrescu had been erased, just like wiping out a computer's hard drive-the sh.e.l.l still intact but the device empty and useless. Who was this message intended for?

He'd spent the rest of the afternoon fielding telephone calls, the first of which was from DC Wallace, wanting to know if there was anything new to report. He told him about the tentative identification of Lydia Petrescu and about her father and the weapon. Following that conversation, his phone began ringing with requests from the media for interviews. He could hear in the reporters' voices the familiar frenzy that always surrounded a homicide, but he reminded them that Deputy Chief Wallace was the media contact; he had no information to report beyond what they'd been given by his senior officer.

Slipping the Chevy into the spot reserved for Marcello's father behind his old friend's restaurant, MacNeice looked at the time on the dash-6:23 p.m. He turned off the ignition but left the switch on Auxiliary, as he needed to decompress before he ate. He reached over to the glove compartment and took out the wallet of CDs, flipping through till he found Lush Life Lush Life. Slipping the CD into the player, he put the case back in the glove compartment; as he did so he remembered the c.u.mmings. He lifted the place-marker ribbon and opened the book to the page he knew was waiting like an old friend, or a pusher of pain-over time it had been both. He looked down and spoke the words that greeted him there: "I carry your heart, I carry it in my heart."

No one could remove Kate from him, no one could erase her. Lydia Petrescu had undoubtedly left memories with her family as well as the voice-mail message with her playing in the background, but something made his insides ache at the thought of her being erased from within in an instant. The idea that the attack had obliterated her talent-the thing that he imagined she loved doing most of all-seemed the point of her death. She was beautiful, but the killer hadn't splashed her face with battery acid, hadn't taken away her physical beauty. Instead he'd taken the thing that gave her life meaning, then laid her out as if the crime scene were a shoot for a fashion magazine.

Realizing how miserable he was becoming, sitting in a parking lot with Strayhorn's phantoms playing in his ears and a poem he knew by heart in his hands, MacNeice closed the book, put it back in the glove compartment, turned off the CD, grabbed his keys and went inside.

Marcello's back door, available to staff, family and only a few friends, led straight into the kitchen, where his wife, Chris, was the chef. Amid the clattering of dishes and the hum of exhaust fans, the happy chatter, laughter and occasional singing, MacNeice always felt at home. Usually as he pa.s.sed through, Chris would tell him what to order and remind him that if he didn't like it, he should just send it back and she'd make something else. This last was always delivered with a smile; for the decade that Chris had been feeding him, MacNeice had never sent anything back.

As he eased onto his stool at the bar, Marcello himself, a pocket-bull of a man with a ready grin and an endless supply of jokes, wandered over, looking somewhat conspiratorial. "I've got something new for you," he said. "Chamomile grappa." Seeing MacNeice's eyebrows rise, he added, "Trust me, it wakes you up before it puts you to sleep." Then he cracked up, slapped MacNeice on the shoulder and turned towards the shelf for the bottle.

It was perhaps the smoothest and certainly the sweetest grappa he'd ever had. Before he could say anything his eyes had not already expressed, Marcello whispered, "I've got two bottles for you. Give me your keys and I'll put them in your trunk."

"You read my mind, March. Grazie Grazie. Put it on my bill."

"You got it. Sparkling water, and I've got a nice Shiraz."

"Sounds perfect."

Before he turned away to pour the drinks, Marcello put the daily paper in front of him. MacNeice scanned the front page without interest before pushing it aside and looking up at the television, where a hockey game was in progress.

"A rerun from last week," Marcello said. "Tonight, though, the Leafs play Chicago. That's always a great game."

Marcello and his father both loved hockey. Before he got married, March had been a decent goalie. The position of the television, high up and angled towards the espresso machine, made it a bit difficult for anyone but the bartender to watch it without getting a stiff neck. MacNeice's bar stool afforded the next best view in the house.

Neither of them took his eyes off the screen, but MacNeice had already begun to drift back to Lydia, or more specifically, to her father. While he was obliged to inform him of his daughter's death as quickly as possible, MacNeice decided that he and Aziz would not pay the man a visit until the morning. Apart from Betty's identification, which could not be considered irrefutable, the girl's ident.i.ty was officially still a mystery. Things would be better for everyone if it was done in the morning.

A bell sounded in the kitchen and one of Marcello's cadre of beautiful, bright young wait staff went to retrieve his first course, zuppa di pesce zuppa di pesce. Placing it in front of MacNeice with flirty efficiency, she asked, "Pepper, Mac?"

"Does it want it?"

The waitress and he both looked to Marcello, who drew down the sides of his mouth in consideration. "Naw, not this one. Go without."

As MacNeice was finishing the soup, his cell rang. It was Vertesi. "Well, sir, n.o.body knows the guy who owns the cottage...." Vertesi paused, maybe because of the music, the background noise of the place, or maybe it was MacNeice's greeting, a kind of throaty "mm-huh."

"You're at Marcello's. Cool-say ciao ciao to him for me. Yeah, so they know the name of the doctor but nothing about him. And sorry, Mac, I didn't nail his whereabouts today as promised." to him for me. Yeah, so they know the name of the doctor but nothing about him. And sorry, Mac, I didn't nail his whereabouts today as promised."

"No problem, Michael. I'd given you a lot to do."

"Well, here's the thing-I just got home and I'm downloading the images from my camera. They're not exactly Time Time magazine but you can clearly see a groove in the sand. I shot it every way from Sunday and marked it with a stick, but if the wind is up tomorrow it may all be gone." magazine but you can clearly see a groove in the sand. I shot it every way from Sunday and marked it with a stick, but if the wind is up tomorrow it may all be gone."

"Not bad for a dark-horse theory. What did you find out about the troller?"

"That's the thing-no one heard the boat. And everyone I talked to said they'd look if they heard a boat out at night, 'cause I guess that's what they do. One did suggest that if the breeze was coming down the lake, like towards the scene, and apparently it was, there's a likelihood they wouldn't hear it at all if it was revving low for trolling."

"And the marinas?"

"The first had shut down for the night, but the guy who works on the motors at the second one was still there. He says he thought they did rent out a runabout, a cedar-strip job that he didn't see come back. When he walks me around to its berth, which is empty, he says, 'No way that was an overnighter, since it has no running lights on it at all.' He scratches his head and says, 'Some of the day trippers up here are city-stupid, though.' Even with a moon, the lake can be tricky at night-a lot of shoals and rocks. He figured maybe the guy ran aground and took off without letting them know.

"So then I'm walking to my car when he calls, 'Chief, check this out.' I go back to him and he points to a beat-up Dodge pickup. 'That's been sittin' here for two days. It must be the guy who rented the runabout. Can't think of anyone else who owns it.' And so I call in the plate and it turns out it's a guy I know-Ronnie Ruvola, a twenty-eight-year-old from the west end with a record ranging from B and E to dope dealing."

"Don't know him. Is he a serious player?"

"I don't think so, but I'll find out. I got the mechanic to take me to the marina's tuck shop and office. The owner, John Gibbs, wasn't there, but the mechanic pulls up the receipt from the credit card. The card says 'Robert Raymond Walters,' but he gives me a description that matches Ronnie. He also rented a tackle box and fishing pole and even added live bait to the credit card. Gibbs was apparently p.i.s.sed because that boat had been rented for the following day to some day fisher. He had to upgrade him to a Boston Whaler. I've had the pickup taken in to the pound and I'll go back to interview Gibbs."

"A good day's work, Michael. Aziz and I have news too, but not to be discussed, as she says, over a cellphone. I'll see you in the morning."

Marcello came over, martini shaker in hand. "Anytime I see you on your cell here, I'm concerned. Everything okay?"

"The soup's terrific and, yes, all's well. Say, March, before the place gets into all that thumpa-thumpa stuff, can I hear 'Nun Ti La.s.su'?"

"No problem. Chris'll love it too. But one of these days I'm gonna teach you that not all Sicilian songs are sad."

EIGHT.

SAt.u.r.dAY MORNING CAME EARLY at the lake. Tim Bookner and his four-year-old son Aidan were sitting on the rear deck of Tim's handsome twenty-four-foot Limestone, at the lake. Tim Bookner and his four-year-old son Aidan were sitting on the rear deck of Tim's handsome twenty-four-foot Limestone, Book's Boat Book's Boat, designed for heavy weather on Georgian Bay. Anch.o.r.ed fore and aft, the boat bobbed gently in the breeze coming off Billings Island. Tim had been fishing on this lake since he was Aidan's age. He knew where the pickerel and ba.s.s were, and he was proud to be introducing his son to his heritage.

For the first half-hour Aidan ate animal crackers. When he was full, he threw one towards a gull that was hovering over the boat. The small cookie barely had time to hit the surface before the gull swept it up and banked high overhead before returning for more. Excited, Aidan pointed up at the bird, calling out in his high-pitched outside voice, "Dad, the bird just ate a lion! A lion!" lion!" Father and son howled with laughter, and they kept howling as one by one Aidan tossed up the remaining lions, monkeys, giraffes and elephants. In less than five minutes he'd fed half a box of safari wildlife to five gulls and was spent from laughing. Father and son howled with laughter, and they kept howling as one by one Aidan tossed up the remaining lions, monkeys, giraffes and elephants. In less than five minutes he'd fed half a box of safari wildlife to five gulls and was spent from laughing.

Though they both had lines overboard, Aidan was more interested in looking over the side, hoping to catch the moment when a fish would grab hold of his orange and yellow rubber wiggly. His life jacket was tethered to the rail surrounding the engine housing, so there was no chance he could fall over.

"There's someone looking at me, Dad." The boy was staring directly down.

His father turned slightly towards him and said, "Where?"

"Waving at me-down there, in the water." Aidan waved his small pink hand, hesitantly at first but then vigorously up and down, the way he did when he was glad to see someone.

"Maybe it's a mermaid. Does she have a fishy tail?" Tim kept his attention on the end of his rod, waiting for any movement that would indicate the big moment he was looking forward to-when he and Aidan would land tonight's dinner and return home triumphantly.

"No. His hair's like mine, only longer. Dad, he keeps waving at me."

"Maybe you're seeing your own reflection, like in your mirror at home."

"No, Dad. He's in a boat."

There followed a silence that made Tim uneasy. He looked over at his son, who was still waving, slowly now, hesitatingly, downward. Tim put his rod in the white vinyl tube and went to sit on the cushioned bench beside Aidan, who turned to his father and said, "See, Dad? See him there-he's waving at me."

Tim looked down. "Oh f.u.c.k! Sorry, son. Oh my f.u.c.king Christ-oh sorry, Aidan, sorry Daddy's swearing. Oh s.h.i.t, oh s.h.i.t!"

Tim covered his mouth, then grabbed at his hair. He quickly undid his son's tether, took Aidan by the arm and put him in the wheelhouse seat, snapping his shoulder and seat belts on. Aidan had no idea what was going on but was awestruck to see his father so excited by the man in the boat. Tim went back and leaned over the side again. "Oh f.u.c.k. Oh s.h.i.t-sorry, Aidan, Daddy's bad language." He retrieved both rods and tucked them into the hull rails.

He turned the key with the happy-face float fob and the powerful Swedish diesel rumbled to life, sending two small clouds of black smoke out of the stern's twin exhaust pipes. Running forward, he pulled up the anchor and stowed it haphazardly on the deck. As the boat began to drift, he hauled up the stern anchor, laying it and its line across the blue vinyl bench. In the wheelhouse he threw the transmission into reverse and powered the craft backwards with such force that the water crested over the swimming deck at the stern. He spun the wheel hard to starboard and swung the boat around, shifting back to neutral, then dropped the red ball gearshift down. The bow lifted so dramatically that Aidan wasn't sure whether to be filled with fear or glee. He chose the latter and started squealing as if this was the best day of his life. The deep V of the hull settled down as the boat gathered speed, scattering the gulls that had been resting on the water as they digested their crackers.

Turning around for a moment to watch the white wake breaking the stillness of the lake, Tim picked up his radio microphone and called, "Book's Boat "Book's Boat to Hangdog Marina." Clicking off, he waited, but only static came back. to Hangdog Marina." Clicking off, he waited, but only static came back. "Book's Boat "Book's Boat to Hangdog. Come in, Hangdog." to Hangdog. Come in, Hangdog."

"Hangdog. What's up, Tim? We're just getting started here. Over." It was Kathy Doolittle, who ran the tuck shop.

"There's a f.u.c.king awful problem out here, Kath. You need to get the marine unit on it right f.u.c.king now. Over." Tim dropped his speed to ten knots, but he couldn't drop his heart rate. Suddenly he thought, What the f.u.c.k, I can hardly breathe. What if I have a f.u.c.king heart attack out here and I'm plowing ahead with Aidan wondering what the f.u.c.k! What the f.u.c.k, I can hardly breathe. What if I have a f.u.c.king heart attack out here and I'm plowing ahead with Aidan wondering what the f.u.c.k!

"Ah, Tim, don't be messing with me now. I've got Walter here and I don't want any guff-or foul language-from you. Over."

"No guff, for chrissakes, Kath! Walter, get a unit out here-just off the leeside near the end of Billings Island. Look down, twenty feet. There's a guy in a f.u.c.kin' boat! Over." Looking over to his son he mouthed another apology for the swearing. The boy had never heard these words before, so the apology was somewhat lost on him.

"You mean on the bottom? Over."

"I mean he's lying in a cedar-strip, one of Gibbs's, I think. It's got a tank, a freakin' motor-and this guy. He's waving his right arm, waving! Over." Tim slowed to six knots.

"Walter here. I've radioed the marine unit, but you'd better not be messing around, Tim. This is some serious s.h.i.t. They'll charge you and me with mischief and I could lose my licence. Over."

"Do me a favour, Walt. Call my wife, tell her we're coming in. Ask her if her mother could come over this afternoon and take Aidan to the movies. Over."

Hearing this confirmed it-Aidan was was having the best day of his life. He began his happy chant: "Oh yay, oh yay, oh yay." having the best day of his life. He began his happy chant: "Oh yay, oh yay, oh yay."

"HANGDOG TO Book's Boat Book's Boat. Over." It was Walter again, sounding more sober than Tim had ever heard him.

"It's me, Walter. Over."

"Well, there'll be a uniform waiting for you when you dock. I let your wife know. She wanted to know what was wrong. I didn't say. She's on her way over too. Over."

"I'm fine with that, Walter. See you soon. Ask Kath to grab an Eskimo Pie out of the freezer for Aidan. Actually, I'll take one too. Oh, and last thing, maybe call Old Man Gibbs and ask him if he's missing a runabout. Over."

"Roger that, Book. Over and out."

The marina's slips were coming into view on the port side. Tim looked back but could no longer see the island, and he began to breathe easier. He reached over and tousled his son's hair just to hear the practised big-boy response, "Dad...stop!"

Aidan couldn't believe his luck. Usually he had to beg for an Eskimo Pie. "Did you ask Mr. Doolittle for Eskimo Pies?"

"Yep. After all, we've run out of animal crackers." As Tim reduced his speed for the no-wake zone, they both focused on the marina directly ahead, for different reasons.

"USUALLY WITH A FLOATER, they float." His thermal diving suit rolled down to the waist, the burly young firefighter from the marine unit showed no sign of being impressed, either by the orange body bag being lifted out of the large idling aluminum-hulled cruiser or by the cedar-strip runabout that swung gently from the cantilevered arm above the stern deck.

"This guy was tethered, and not just by the neck to the motor lock. His feet were tied to the oarlocks. I can't tell you whether he drowned or was strangled, but when that ten-inch hole got punched in the bottom, that boat just floated down with him in it. As for the waving that freaked out the dad, that was caused by the current coming around the island. His other arm was pinned behind him by the gas hose, or it would have been waving too." He made a crazy stop-the-train, two-arm wave to mimic what Tim and Aidan Bookner might have seen had both arms been free.

"It pretty much did the same for the diver who went down first. He's in the cabin forward, sucking up ginger ale and trying not to puke." He motioned with his head to the bag being laid on a rolling stretcher by the paramedics. "That guy had his eyes open, looking up and waving."

Vertesi closed his notebook and climbed onboard, steadied by the firefighter's grip on his arm. He walked aft and stood directly under the cedar hull. Just off the left side of the beam in the centre of the boat was a neat hole with blue sky showing through. It wasn't a bashed-out "oh s.h.i.t, we hit a rock" hole but looked as if it had been cut by a very large drill.

"What do you think made that hole?" He turned to the firefighter standing beside him, hands on his neoprene hips, squinting as he looked up at the underside of the boat.

"No f.u.c.kin' idea, pal. But it wasn't anything out there." He nodded in the direction of the lake, as if lifting his ma.s.sive arm would take too much effort. They both looked up at the hole again. "You see, it went right down through the floorboards." He pointed to the edges of the hole. "The only thing I know that could do that is a circular jig, but I've never seen one that big-other than the ones they use for ice fishing, and I've never seen one of 'em for real, only on the fishing channel."

"How can I get up there to take a picture of the edges of the cut?" Vertesi was looking around the deck and saw there was nothing to stand on. "Can you bring it down a few feet?"

"No can do. The marine cops over there can do that, but I can't. Not even for a cop." He smiled. Seeing that Vertesi was still looking for a way to get up there and that the method he'd likely choose would be to stand on the rail in his loafers, the firefighter said, "Get your camera ready, pal."

Within seconds he had grabbed Vertesi below the knees and was lifting him straight up towards the hull. Vertesi struggled to hold his balance; though he could hear laughter and wisecracks from the cops and paramedics onsh.o.r.e, he aimed his tiny camera and took several shots of the cut edges of the hole. He was close enough to see the interior ribs of the boat and to smell something stronger than cut cedar.

"Okay, that's enough." Vertesi tapped him on the shoulder and the firefighter let him down gently and stood up.

"Get what you wanted?" He smiled at Vertesi, who tried to relax his body enough to recapture his dignity.

"Yeah, and then some. Weird smells."

"Oh, for sure. The guy had been in there a day or so. He'd evacuated, he'd begun to rot, and that s.h.i.t all smells-well, like s.h.i.t."

With that the firefighter gave him a hand getting back on sh.o.r.e. Vertesi thanked him and made his way past the marine cops, who eyed him the way territorial animals do. One said as he went by, "Enjoy the ride, Detective?"

Vertesi stopped. "Yeah, actually I did. It's only ten in the morning and I've already been to the circus. Did you get anything from the guy who found him?"

"No, not really. We'll send you what we have, but basically he was just a dad out fishing with his kid."

"Was the kid freaked?"

"Anything but. I think he loved it. Apparently his father"-he looked down at his notebook-"Tim Bookner, started swearing like a b.a.s.t.a.r.d and cranked up that Limestone so he came howling around the head of the island, and the kid loved it-the swearing and the going fast."

"But did he see anything else out there?"

"Nothin'. That's him over there in the white job-Book's Boat. His wife got here just after we arrived, seriously p.i.s.sed, like he was the one who put the f.u.c.ker down there. She grabbed the kid and tore outta here spitting gravel as she went. I'm thinking, h.e.l.l, the fun never stops for this kid h.e.l.l, the fun never stops for this kid. Dad was here when they brought in the cedar-strip, but he's not showing any signs of interest. I suspect he's had enough for one day."