"It's on the tape," Heatley said. "Where he says about the diamonds. What, eight years ago?"

"Before my time, Dale. Check Paulie's files."

"I'm checking the files. Can't find a report."

"Still an open case, right? I don't think they made an arrest. Paulie might have copied me in after O'Grady left. Have you checked with him?"

"Yeah. Sort of," said Dale. "Talked to his campaign manager. He'll come in 'as soon as he can make room in his schedule.' Frickin' politicians."

"Maybe I can track down Paulie's paperwork."

"Yeah, well, we need to get into Paul's place."

"Knock yourselves out. Give you the spare key."

"To have a look around."

"Do what you have to do," she said. She pulled the spare off her keychain and fished around in her drawer. "You've got everything I found so far, but there's still a lot of s.h.i.t to go through." She found a piece of string. "Fair warning."

"It's his gun," Dale said.

"Yeah, I know." She hung the key on the string and tied a big bow.

"I mean in the Nimchuk thing," Pete said.

"You got a match?"

"Nothing that'll hold up. Slugs all bent to s.h.i.t. All they know is it was a Smith, Magnum, .357.

"Dead end."

"Except this is his weapon. And he showed up in Dockerty without it."

"Far as I know."

"Next thing, this Russian dude has it."

"Look guys. I don't want to know. It's all yours. If Paulie comes up dirty, it'll be because he was. And if there's a different way it went down, I know you guys will keep an open mind as much as you can. I'm taking some time off." She handed Dale the key.

Not Jamaica this time. Maybe just check into a nice hotel for a week. Room service, spa, swimming pool, good bartender, did she mention room service? Forget about packing up Paulie's stuff. Let Lacsamana and Heatley have a week to go through the place with sniffer dogs if they wanted. They had everything she'd found and if there was any more, they could find it for themselves. And she'd stay away from her place as well, except to pack a bag. Wouldn't need much, credit cards, maybe she'd do some shopping, buy something, just to be buying something. Mostly just sleep a lot and get ma.s.sages and watch movies. Sounding better and better.

"You want to come out and get drunk?"

"I don't drink," Stacy said.

"You want to come out and watch me get drunk?"

"Sure."

"You can have the couch - it folds out if you want, but it works okay as is. I'd offer you the bed, but I don't think I've made it up for a month and there may be socks hidden under the blankets. Or worse."

"This will do fine," Stacy said.

"I'd apologize for the mess except that it usually looks like this and I'd really be apologizing for what I am. Which is a slob."

"It's not dirty, just disorganized."

"Right. Exact opposite of Paulie. His house, organized; his life, a mess."

"Your house disorganized, your life . . ."

"Okay, not the exact opposite. But when it comes to the job. Notes, reports, details. I've got that s.h.i.t covered." She checked the refrigerator. "There's a Red Bull, a Yoplait and a bottle of water." She yanked the cork out of a mostly full bottle of Spanish red. "I'll be drinking wine. Lots of wine."

"I'm okay for now." Stacy shifted a stack of newspapers and magazines and sat on the couch.

Adele grabbed a tall water gla.s.s decorated with flowers, filled it, had a big slurp and topped it up. She sat across from Stacy and the two women stared at opposite walls for a long moment. "I have a couple of pictures I should probably hang. Spruce up the place."

"Pictures of what?" Stacy had trouble with the words.

"Oh s.h.i.t, I don't know. Scenery." She had another drink. "They came with the last joint." They were both laughing. "Getting there," she said. "You don't drink at all?"

"My parents were boozers. Both of them. It was a cautionary childhood."

"My parents were Christers. Probably why I say f.u.c.k so much. But I still pray. Sometimes I do both at the same time." She drained the gla.s.s, studied the flowers for a moment. "Grova died of a heart attack, possibly brought on by 'enhanced interrogation,' but no direct connection. No prints, no weapon."

"So no murder charge."

"ME says he died around 03:30, give or take. The Russians have an alibi."

"What about the dancer?"

"She has an alibi, too, not quite so solid, but it hasn't fallen apart yet."

"They turning her loose?"

"Tomorrow. If they don't charge her. Why? You want her?"

"I figured I'd give her a lift home."

"Why not?" She stood up. "Sure you don't want something? We could send out. There's a Chinese place a block away."

"Maybe later."

Adele came back from the kitchen with the bottle and refilled her gla.s.s. There were wine-red brackets beside her upper lip. "Stupid motherf.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I couldn't count the number of times I told him to shape up. Fat lot of good that was, save my f.u.c.king breath."

"He must have had some good qualities."

"Oh yeah. He was a prince." She slumped in her chair. "Never met a rule he couldn't bend. Or break." She sat with the gla.s.s at her mouth for a while. "Got my brother off a drug charge a couple of years back. Claimed he was a confidential informant. He didn't have to do that. Could've got his a.s.s in a sling for it."

"Did it for you."

"He brought Jamie here and gave him the lecture. Yada yada, you're going to wind up dead or doing time and the only person on the planet who gives a s.h.i.t whether you live or die gave up on your sorry a.s.s a long time ago, yada yada."

"Did it work?"

"Oh yeah. For a while. Jamie was clean for a year, more than a year. He wound up dead anyway." Her gla.s.s was empty. The bottle was empty. "I'm over it now. You have to get past things like that." She was holding the empty gla.s.s in one hand and the empty bottle in the other. "Paulie didn't have to do it. But he did it. I can't hate him." She put the empties on the coffee table. "Question is . . ."

"Is?"

"Do we go out, or do I try to sleep?"

"Long day."

"Yep. Long day."

The bar was dimly lit and spa.r.s.ely populated and within walking distance. The bartender recognized Adele. "Hey, Del. Where's the big guy?"

"Oh, you know, probably chasing something blonde. Give me a half of the house red and a Perrier for my driver." She led the way to a table in a quiet corner. "I don't want to get into it tonight," she said. "I'll tell him some other time."

Stacy had a careful look around. "This a cop bar?"

"s.h.i.t no, hookers and dart players. Hate cop bars. Nothing but cops."

"Don't like cops tonight?"

"I like working with cops, most cops; don't like drinking with them. Cop talk. Tonight they'll be cop-talking about you-know-who and how he f.u.c.ked up and maybe shot somebody and stole some jewels, got his head blown off, and I'd wind up getting into a fight with some a.s.shole."

The server put the wine and water on the table and Stacy handed her a twenty. Adele couldn't locate her wallet. "This is mine," Stacy said.

"Okey dokey," said Adele. She lifted the carafe and slopped some on the table. Stacy took it from her, filled her gla.s.s neatly and wiped the table with a napkin. "I'm getting there," Adele said.

"You've probably worked it out for yourself, you don't need me rubbing it in."

"Go ahead."

"If I was building a case, if I wasn't teamed up with you and getting involved in your version, if I was coming into this cold, I'd be looking at Paul."

"Yeah. Me, too."

"He had the gems, his gun might be the murder weapon, he was at the Beaches crime scene. He took diamonds from there."

"All that. I see all that. Only thing in his favour, he wasn't in Montreal in 1982 because in 1982 he was playing college basketball in Syracuse."

"Right. Good place to start. When did Paul and Dylan team up?"

"Dylan quit football in 1982, broken toe I think. Went to the police academy. Got his shield twelve years later. '94. His first partner retired in '96. In January '97, Dylan is teamed up with Paulie in the homicide unit.

"They called them the 'Jock Squad.' Basketball star, six eight, two hundred pounds; Argos defensive tackle, six five, two seventy. I saw them in action a few times when I was in uniform. Impressive team. The kind of d.i.c.ks you really don't want going through your laundry and bothering your customers. And you definitely didn't want to p.i.s.s them off."

"Scarier than you and me?"

"Not as polite. n.o.body f.u.c.ked with them."

"They got along?"

"Closed a lot of cases. Paul didn't talk too much about it. I know he had to cover for Dylan a few times. Par for the course, right? I was always covering Paulie's a.s.s. But I got the impression it was more than that. Paulie wouldn't rat out his partner, but there were plenty of rumours around the division. Things went missing, defence witnesses didn't show up when they were supposed to, not everything got turned in. Once in a while Paulie would let something slip, like some guy we busted who had a suitcase full of cash. Paulie said, 'Put Dil's twenty percent in a separate bag.' It was a joke, but later he said, 'Forget I said that.'"

"How about when you were with Paul? Was he straight arrow?"

"See, that's the weird part. We were together five years and seven months, and he never once made a sleazy move. He was always bending the rules in his favour, and he got raked over the coals plenty for how he got results, but I never saw him take a bribe, or a free lunch, or even hint that we could get something extra if we wanted to." Adele picked up the carafe and swished it back and forth a couple of times. She put it down without refilling her gla.s.s. "Possession of stolen jewels? Out of character."

Stacy leaned closer. "So I'm thinking, if the Russians didn't mess up the p.a.w.nbroker and likely cause his heart to explode, and if his son didn't do it, and if the dancer lady didn't do it . . ."

Adele took a moment to work her way through what Stacy was talking about. "There's somebody else out there. Who we missing?"

"There's the brother. The other Grova."

"Montreal Grova? Nope. They called him at home. He's pushing eighty. He'll be here tomorrow to collect the ashes."

"Releasing the body already?"

"They hurried it up. The Grovas are Jews. They don't leave dead bodies around if they can help it."

"That's nice. You should talk to him anyway."

"Not my case. I'm staying clear." She looked at the empty gla.s.s. "What's he going to tell us?"

"Who knows? Maybe who else might be involved. They were doing stolen jewels in Montreal, too."

"That they were. But what, twenty-five years ago?"

"Which is when the first smuggler got herself killed." Stacy pulled out her notebook. "Ludmilla Dolgushin. That's one dead body your partner didn't have anything to do with. Then there's the second dead smuggler."

"Nimchuk. The jury's still out on that one."

"Not him." She turned a page. "That would be . . . Va.s.sili Abramov. He's the dead guy in the Beaches with the diamonds in his pocket. Eight years ago. Another one your partner didn't kill."

"Probably."

"I'd say pretty sure. So add it up, somebody has been knocking off the smugglers one by one, and you can't stick it all at your partner's door. Because if he didn't do the other two, if he just did Nimchuk, then that's a really big coincidence."

"Seriously."

Seven.