"That's it? Gone?"

"Just gone, sir. I'm standing in her apartment. Corporal Scheider and a uniform are questioning the other tenants. No one saw her leave."

"Signs of struggle?"

"No, sir. The place is tidier than it was last night. Clothes in the closets, toiletries in the bathroom. The bathroom window is wide open."

"You think she went out the bathroom window?"

"I guess you could make it over to the next building if you wanted to chance it." Stacy leaned out, calculating the distance, visualizing how it might be done. The gap between the buildings wasn't impossible, but the drop to the concrete below was scary. "Not a jump I'd do unless I had to."

"She can fly. That's what she told me."

"She might have done it that way. Or just walked out the front door. It's not like we had her under observation full time."

"Darn it," she heard him say. "Okay, Detective. I'm almost at the office. Get back here. We'll start tracking her down."

"Yes, sir." Stacy clicked off. She took another look at the walkway four floors down, caught a fleeting mental image of how big a splat a human body might make. She shook her head. "Have to be pretty sure of yourself," she said.

"What say, Stace?" Corporal Scheider was coming down the hall, looking into the bathroom.

"Talking to myself, Dutch," she said. She motioned him to clear the way and started prowling the apartment, opening closets, drawers, refrigerator. "Anything from the neighbours?"

"Nada. Not exactly a close-knit community. She left her studio around 08:30." He flipped open the top of an empty box, ran a fingertip across a trace of sugar. "Stopped off at Timmies on the way, came back here with coffee and a donut." He licked his finger. "Honey-glazed."

"Okay, let's pack it in here. I'm going to check her studio. Who knows? She might be back there. Giving flying lessons."

Adele landed early Friday, no luggage, a carry-on and a shoulder bag. Took a cab straight to the shop. Well where else? Home? What am I going to do there? Might as well grind my teeth at my desk.

She checked in, made a call to her counsellor to let her know that she was feeling much better. The emotions weren't as close to the surface now, not moderated exactly, more like suppressed. The counsellor suggested she take more time off. She thanked her for the advice.

She didn't want to take time off. She sat at her desk, pawing through Paul's notes and files, they were no help. There was no mention whatsoever about dead Russians on the Queensway or compulsively confessing ballet dancers. Not even a mention of Dockerty. How the h.e.l.l did he know she was up there?

"You missed a pretty good wake," said the man on the other side of the desk. He cast a shadow. He was huge, very dark skin, teeth white, smile broad, voice deep and seductive. "We drank too much Jack." He gave her one of his rumbling laughs. "Thought it was appropriate. Under the circ.u.mstances."

"Hi Dylan," she said. "Sorry I missed it."

Dylan O'Grady sat, uninvited, as though he still belonged there. "It was just a few of the old crew, and that girl from Licenses he dated for a year, you remember her?"

"Betty."

"That's her. She took it hard."

"Few more out there I bet." She leaned back in her chair. "Who's the jug-eared baldy in the pinstripes?"

On the far side of the room a tall, pale man was standing by the door, blatantly checking his watch.

"My exec a.s.sistant. Cam makes sure I get to all the bunfights on time."

"You late for one now?"

"It can wait. Just wanted to drop by, let you know how sorry I was about Paul. I know you two were close."

"You were with him longer than I was."

"We hadn't talked in a few years. But it hit me pretty hard, too. We survived some hairy sc.r.a.pes together. Always had my back."

The man by the door was fidgeting. "You'd better hit the campaign trail, Dylan. Your handler's looking twitchy."

"Twitching is what he does best. " His smile was as insincere as a campaign promise and it crossed Adele's mind that she'd never liked Dylan O'Grady very much. Even after he left the job he was always dropping by the shop, slapping shoulders, telling loud jokes, maintaining his connections, reminding people he'd been a big dog in the unit. He leaned closer and she caught a whiff of cologne. He reached for her hand, covered it, gave her a searching look. "What the h.e.l.l was he doing up there, Adele?"

She pulled her hand away. "You'll have to talk to Lacsamana. He caught the case."

"You went up there."

"Wasn't any of my business. I was just so p.i.s.sed off at him."

"Where'd he meet this woman?"

"How should I know?" She shrugged. "You know Paulie, always willing to travel for something strange."

"Long way to go to get laid. Or shot."

Someone placed a large paper bag on her desk. "Detective Moen?"

Adele looked up at the uniformed woman, a corporal, then at the bag. "What's this?" The bag was stapled shut and had a list of contents attached.

"Sign this please. Receipt for his personal effects."

"What?" She glanced at the list of contents. "Paulie's c.r.a.p? What the h.e.l.l do I want with that?"

"Got some papers for you to sign. Insurance forms, pension forms."

"What for?"

"You're down as his beneficiary."

"I'm his what? He has a kid. What about his kid?"

"I just do the paper, Detective. Sign here, please. His personal effects are in the bag, whatever was in his locker."

Adele scrawled her name on the lines indicated. She caught a glimpse of Dylan angling his head to read the list of contents. She reached out with her left hand and tore it off the bag and stuffed it in her jacket pocket. She smiled at Dylan insincerely, handed the clipboard back to the uniformed woman. "There you go."

The woman put the signed papers inside a file folder. "I'm sorry for your loss," she said.

"Thanks."

"If you find my wrist.w.a.tch in there, you'll let me know, will you?" O'Grady said.

"Want his little black book, too?"

"Got my own," O'Grady said. He stood up. "Good to see you again, Adele. We'll see you at the funeral, right?"

"I'm not too great at sticking people in the ground," she said.

"Well, you need anything, feel like talking, you know how to get hold of me."

She nodded, distracted, happy to see him leave. His handler was happy, too.

Roy Rawluck looked none the worse for his night of revelry. Spit and polish, same as ever, automatically coming to attention. "Good day, Chief." He noted Orwell's suit and tie, nodded with approval. "What's the occasion? Lunch with the mayor?"

"My daughter's getting married."

"Today?"

"What? Oh, no. June, probably. I don't think they've decided on a date."

"Congratulations. Please convey my best wishes." He nodded at the white bag. "Wedding present?" The soul of discretion. Roy knew what was in the bag his boss was clutching.

"First of many, I expect," Orwell said. "Anything demanding my attention this fine Friday?"

"Nasty three-car over near Bobcaygeon. One dead, two injured."

"Oh Lord. From here?"

"No, sir. Two people in a van from Fenelon Falls, airlifted to Toronto. The fatality is a woman from Lindsay. Driver who caused it walked away."

"Drunk?"

"More than. Blood-alcohol was point two five."

"Christ almighty!"

"OPP says he was doing at least two-hundred klicks."

Orwell walked away, shaking his head. "Christ almighty," he said again, more quietly this time, a sad little prayer. He stood at the window staring blankly at the street below, the sunny day no longer lifting his spirits. The world was filled with horrors, he knew that, he dealt with it the way most people did, by acknowledging that there were circ.u.mstances beyond his control or understanding, and that giving them too much emotional identification was pointless. But highway fatalities cut too close to home. A drunken driver murdering an innocent woman in the middle of the night was a knife in his heart. He stepped back into the big room.

"Who was she, Staff?"

"Haven't released the name yet, Chief."

"Find out, will you?"

"Will do."

Roy looked toward the entrance where Stacy Crean was coming in, wearing last night's clothes, and looked tired and testy. "Morning, Detective," he said.

"Staff Sergeant." She walked directly past the Chief and into his office.

The Chief was about to follow her, then turned back. "Roy? See if the traffic victim has any family in town here, any help we can give."

"On it, Chief."

"Thanks, Roy." He half-closed the door, then leaned out. "Same with the two injured. Let me know how they're doing."

"Yes, sir."

Stacy was rising from a chair. Orwell motioned her to stay where she was. "Still missing?"

"Yes, Chief. The studio's locked up. Sign on the door says, 'Cla.s.ses cancelled until further notice.'"

"Anything from Dr. Ruth?"

"They wouldn't let me talk to her. Maybe later today, if she's up to it."

"You'd better get some sleep."

"I'm fine, sir. I got a couple of hours in the hospital before she started coming to." She slapped herself on the cheek. "Spent too much d.a.m.n time sitting around that hospital. I should have checked on the other one."

"None of that. I have the feeling if she wanted to skip town there wouldn't be much we could do to stop her." His phone rang and he s.n.a.t.c.hed it up before a second ring. "Brennan."

"Got a s.h.i.tload of messages on my desk, most of them from you."

"h.e.l.lo, Detective. How was Jamaica?"

"Terrific, my nose looks like bad wallpaper. Still haven't found Paul's weapon, if that's what you were calling about."

"On my mind, naturally, but other things have come up and I think you, or maybe someone looking into the Nimchuk murder, might want to come back up here."

"Nimchuk? Who's that? The Russian?"

"Sorry. Yes. The Russian. The mystery man on the Queensway. Murder weapon was quite possibly a .357 Smith." There was silence on the other end. "Doesn't mean anything, Detective. Lots of those around."

"I guess." She sounded calm, professional, dispa.s.sionate. "I don't know a lot of people who lug around a big-a.s.s six-shooter these days, but they could be making a comeback."

"Could have been stolen from a collector. That happens. Getting ahead of ourselves, anyway. Peel doesn't have much of the bullet."

More silence. Papers rustling. Finally, a loud hooting laugh and a sharp echo, as of a hand hitting a steel desk. Then, "Of course it's his gun! Who else's gun would it be? Why the f.u.c.k wouldn't it be his gun?" He heard a desk drawer slam. "Thank you, Chief. Thanks a whole lot. This is perfect." Another pause, and a sound that might have been a chuckle, or a stifled sob. "I'll get back to you. ASAP." And she hung up.

Orwell looked up at Stacy. "Didn't get to tell her about the smugglers and the jewels."

"Rocked her?"

"She thinks it'll turn out to be . . ."

"His gun," she finished for him. "Or else it's another huge coincidence."

"Entirely too many of those, wouldn't you agree? Okay, Detective Crean, what are you going to do?"