"He didn't break any furniture, did he?"

"No, Chief."

"Why I don't like single officer patrols. What was he doing up there?"

"Domestic, Chief. Neighbour reported loud noises and screams. When he got there he was told by Mrs. Emery that nothing was amiss. He inquired how she had sustained a black eye. She told him to 'expletive off.'"

"Did he say if Mrs. Emery had been drinking?"

"Detected the smell of liquor, yes sir."

"She's probably a little embarra.s.sed. Give her some time to cool down. See if he can drop by later. I'll have a chat with him. And if the Queen of the Knoll calls again, I'll talk to her."

"Yes, sir."

"You have a good time last night, Staff?"

"Pa.s.sable, Chief. I still think the Avalon would have been a better pick. Pizza doesn't agree with my disposition."

Orwell put the phone back in his pocket. "Wouldn't admit to a hangover if he was at death's door." He checked himself in the bedroom mirror, made final adjustments to the knot in his new blue tie.

"Who is it you'll be talking to this afternoon?"

"Detective Crean will be. The ballet teacher. Her apartment was robbed."

"This is the Russian woman you were getting drunk with last night?"

"A slight exaggeration. But yes. She was upset. Understandably so."

"And you were easing her mind?" Erika sat at her dressing table brushing her hair. "For this you needed a red tie?"

"The tie was for Patty, and the occasion."

"Hmm." She was watching him in the mirror. "What's her problem?"

"She has bad dreams about Chernenko. He's chasing her. Or he sent people who are chasing her."

"Chernenko's gone to h.e.l.l a long time ago. She can stop dreaming about him."

"He died in 1985."

"Yes. How do you know this?"

"I went to the library yesterday. At lunch."

"You didn't eat?"

"Sometimes I skip lunch and go to the library. You know that."

"You don't lose weight by skipping lunch. You eat a sensible lunch. You skip lunch, you sneak cookies in the afternoon."

"I don't have any cookies. My night sergeant eats them when I'm not around." He bent close to her. Kissed her cheek. "I think you tell him where I hide them." They held each other's gaze in the mirror. "Maybe I'll put a mousetrap in the drawer."

"Maybe I'll warn him."

The manager of Anya Daniel's apartment building had an enormous belly and wore his shirt outside his pants. It didn't help. There was no concealing the fact that he ate too much. Mostly fried chicken and beer, Stacy figured. His coffee table held a dozen empties and a family-size bucket of bones. "I was asleep," he mumbled. His tongue was thick and his breath was bad. Stacy took a step back. The man blinked and tried to focus on the badge she held in front of him. "Watching TV," he said. "Drifted off."

"Sorry to disturb your nap," she said. "I'm Detective Crean, Dockerty Police, this is Corporal Scheider. We need you to open 405, that's Ms. Daniel's apartment."

"What? She dead?"

"Why would you think that, sir?"

"I don't know, cops pounding. What do I know?"

"Would you come with us, open her door, please?"

"You want a key? Here's a key. Wait a minute, not that one. Here's a key." He lifted the correct one from a hook beside the door. "I'm not walking in on a dead body," he said.

"Did you hear any noises? Did her neighbours say anything?"

"What do I know? She got robbed last night. Cops all over the place."

"Thank you, sir. We'll bring the key back."

By the time Thursday rolled around, her nose was blistering and she'd had enough therapeutic vacationing to last her a long time. Adele booked a dog's breakfast of red-eyes and shuttles that would get her back to Toronto Friday morning. She paid a considerable surcharge for the privilege of cancelling her holiday early and flying all night. I just hope I stayed long enough to miss Paulie's wake. Bet there weren't any bagpipes. She crammed her carry-on and vacated the room without regret. Shoot me a taxi driver if that frickin' plane leaves before we get there.

"I'm sure the taxi is on his way right now, hon."

No way the Commissioner showed up. Well? Why the h.e.l.l would he? It's not like he died in the line of duty, saving a pregnant mother from a roving band of crack dealers. Oh no, not my Paulie. Shot by a cuckolded spouse in a cheesy motel room. In the middle of nowhere. Wearing one red sock for Chrissake. She caught sight of herself in the lobby mirror, full length, all the better to thoroughly appreciate the benefits of her run to the sun - burnt knees, freckled shoulders, a pale mask where her sungla.s.ses sat on her peeling nose. No doubt about it, a raving beauty.

"Taxi's here, hon."

There was no such thing as a smoking car on trains in this country. Not any longer. The social engineers had seen to that. The GO train between Oshawa and Toronto was strictly a commuter special, no more than a convoy of double-decker buses all hooked together. Once in a while, between the factories, malls and housing developments, she caught a brief glimpse of open water, never long enough to let her feel that this was an outing. There were no baskets of wrapped sandwiches or bottles of wine, no chattering friends and attentive suitors, and no music, no music whatsoever, unless you counted the incessant percussive hiss escaping from the earplugs of the sullen lout taking up three seats across from her. Manners have completely disappeared, she thought. No, that was not it, conductors have disappeared. There was no one marching down the aisle to make the young man lift his sneakers and turn down his entertainment system. And there were no purveyors of sweets or reading material. And she was not on her way to Dubrovnik for a weekend at the seash.o.r.e.

Where was she going, exactly? What was she planning? Did it matter? It was time to bring them out of the shadows. All of them. No more running.

She would start with Grova. He would be easy to handle. And he could pull Sergei into the open. Sergei would be close. He was on a mission. At least, he was in the beginning. Who knows what it was now? As many years invested for him as for her. Can a man stay on the scent that long? Perhaps only someone as narrow and dogged as Sergei Siziva. He'd found his true metier as a bloodhound. Perhaps even wolf. We are all so old. By now, we all should have fallen by the wayside.

Who was first to go?

Ludmilla. Poor Ludi. Pretty girl, nimble fingers, sew fresh ribbons on your shoes in a twinkling. Sweet Ludi. She of the wicked laugh, deep, like a man's laugh, with her clapping hands and happy bouncing up and down when times were good, and the company was touring, and the hotel room was better than she expected - terrycloth robes provided, room service in the middle of the night. How that made her happy, to order a hamburger at three in the morning after she and Va.s.sili had made love.

Gone now. Dead in Montreal so many years ago, the Chief had told her. No surprise. No shock. Just a wave of sadness. She had always known Ludi was dead. It did not matter who killed her. If Viktor did not do it personally, he was nonetheless responsible. He was responsible for everything bad that happened. He had made them all fugitives. They could not go back. What about their relatives? Ludmilla had a son in the army. What about him? Va.s.sili had a wife. What about her? While they were on tour Ludi and Va.s.si were lovers, but in Russia they had families. Their lives were ruined because of him.

Viktor said it was too late for those arguments. They accomplished nothing. They must deal with what is, not with things that cannot be changed. They had stolen property, stolen from an important man who would want it back, who would kill to get it back. How many people has this man killed, or had killed? You cannot count that high. Lives are meaningless to these people. It is now necessary to decide what to do.

We can't sell it as it is, he said, it is too well known.

Viktor knew people. Of course he did. There was a man in Montreal, Grova was his name, and there was another one in Detroit named Padillo who did business across the river in Windsor sometimes. Those were the two connections he had in Canada. Viktor said he would take the stones to Montreal, to Grova. Ludmilla and Va.s.sili said no. They didn't trust him. He could take some of the stones to Montreal, and if he got a good price, he could bring the money back and they would share, and he could make another run.

You were gone such a long time that first trip, Viktor. Three weeks. And when you came back you did not have the diamonds, and you did not have much money. But you had a lot of stories. You were cheated, you were robbed, swindled, mugged, someone reported you to the police and you had to run before you got paid.

Va.s.sili called you a liar.

Ludmilla wanted to kill you. "You took forty thousand dollars in diamonds to Montreal and you come back with eight hundred dollars and a load of bulls.h.i.t. Now you want another forty thousand? Go to h.e.l.l!"

"It will be different this time," Viktor promised. "I know my way around now."

"I'm coming with you," Ludmilla said.

This time when he came back he had even less cash, and no Ludmilla. "She took the money and she ran off," Viktor said. "Fifty thousand dollars."

Va.s.sili hit him. Hard. In the face. "What did you do to her?"

"Nothing! She met someone. A musician. An American. She fell in love. They're going to California. She said you can keep what's left, she just wanted enough to start a new life with her musician in California."

"You are a liar. She wouldn't do that!"

"She did it, Va.s.si. Don't pretend you two were crazy for each other - you were just convenient."

"That's it? She didn't write a note? She can't tell me on the phone at least?"

"She was in a hurry. The musician was leaving."

"How can she get back across the border?"

"She bought some identification. It wasn't hard. They're going first to Reno, and they'll get married, and then she'll be an American citizen. In California. Be happy for her. She found a new life."

Va.s.sili wasn't happy for her. He was angry, and suspicious, and lonely. "I never should have let her go with you," he said.

"If you had come, maybe you would have met an American, too, and you'd be going to Reno to get married."

"I am married," Va.s.sili said.

"They give divorces in Reno, too."

"What's the name of this musician?"

"Why torture yourself? She's gone. She's happier. We still have the best stones."

"I want to know his name."

"I don't know his name. He's a black. A big black man. I wouldn't trouble him. He looks dangerous."

"I don't care. I don't like this. I don't trust you, Viktor. I'm not giving you any more stones to sell in Montreal. I will find somebody here."

"You'll be caught. You don't know your way around."

"And you do? You took diamonds to Montreal and brought back nothing! You took Ludmilla to Montreal, and she's gone. What good are you?"

After the celebratory breakfast, the family went off about its divers business: Gary, the travelling veterinarian, down the road to check on cows, horses and other quadrupeds; Patty and Erika on their way to Peterborough in search of "necessary items" that they did not care to enumerate, but which were somehow vital to the upcoming nuptials; and Diana, ferrying Leda and her father into Dockerty.

"Didn't drive yourself home last night, did you, Oldad?"

"I left Bozo in the police lot. I had a designated driver. "

"So did I."

"I know, sweetie. Twenty-three dollars worth. I'm sorry."

"You're forgiven. I had a good time waiting."

"What's his name?" Diana asked.

"Peter."

"This the young man with the odd hair and the black leather jacket?" Orwell asked.

"You know it," she said. "Don't get all fatherly now, Father. Perfectly innocent. We were rehearsing."

"I'll bet you were," said Diana. "He good looking?"

"He's okay."

"That good, eh?"

"He has a strange haircut," said Orwell.

"He'll be cutting it for the role, Oldad."

"If I had that much hair I'd do things with it, too," he said. "Drop me here, gorgeous. I'll walk the rest of the way."

"Sure," said Diana, with a knowing smile. They were right outside Laurette's Baked Goods, the door was open and seductive aromas were wafting.

Orwell waited until his daughters had driven off before stepping inside. He made a show of checking the selection in the gla.s.s case, but he was only there for one reason.

"Shortbread, Chief?" Laurette asked. Orwell thought she looked like a dumpling, round and warm.

"You know me too well, Mrs. Munch. Shortbread is my weakness. And pie."

"I have a very nice key lime pie, Chief."

He smiled. "Won't fit in my desk drawer," he said. In truth, Orwell considered Laurette's pies a clear notch below his exacting standard and not nearly as good as the ones at the Kawartha Kountry Kitchen. Her shortbread, on the other hand, was exemplary. "A dozen should do nicely," he said. "Just a bag, please." Laurette's white boxes with the pink and purple lettering were too identifiable to be carried discreetly into the office.

His pocket began vibrating as he was paying for his treats. He stepped onto the sidewalk before answering. "Brennan," he said.

"Stacy, Chief. Ms. Daniel's gone."