"I think you're both kind of cute, huddling over that plan. What's going in this year, an olive grove?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Orwell wouldn't have been surprised. Last year it was a nuttery. "This year we will have a pond."

"With fish?"

"Of course with fish."

"Fish we can eat, or fancy j.a.panese goldfish?"

"Not an ornamental pond, a real one, big enough so you can row a boat across, with frogs, turtles, ducks . . ."

"If you dig it, they will come."

Three days without her morning run and she could feel it. Doesn't take long, she thought. Only on her third klick and her thighs were already complaining about the pace. The rhythm of her breathing was breaking up, ragged around the edges. Not good. Don't let it happen again. She thudded across the wooden bridge at the east end of the locks and turned for home. The familiar black Labradoodle chased her enthusiastically for the usual hundred metres before acknowledging a sharp whistle. She had never seen the owner. Don't you even think about slowing down, Stacy told herself, work through it, there's serenity on the other side of the pain.

Three days. Fun while it lasted, no doubt about it, it was a rush, but the job was complicated down there, easy to blow your routines, she'd have to fight for her alone time if she ever got to work in Metro.

Yeah, like that was going to happen. Maybe it's better to be the top investigator in a six-investigator town. After all, things had been pretty interesting in Dockerty lately. Not that a person could count on that much excitement every month, but no doubt about it, this case had been . . . stimulating.

But not finished. Well, maybe her end was finished, there wasn't much more she could contribute from up here - talk to Dr. Ruth again maybe, push the Zubrovskaya woman a little harder - but what good would that do? And what would she be looking for? What part of the case was still unresolved? The murder of Viktor Nimchuk in a motel on the Queensway in Toronto. The Queensway. In Toronto. Definitely not up here, and most definitely not her case. Not any more.

Almost home. Quick shower, a protein shake, find something to wear, verbal report to Lieutenant Paynter, another one to the Chief, then write it up, wait for orders.

She stopped running at her front gate, but kept moving, pacing the perimeter of the little front lawn, cooling down, around and around the three rowan trees Joe Greenway had given her last year. One male and two female. Hope those babies made it through the winter. Their trunks were wrapped in burlap and chicken wire. At least the wild things hadn't wounded them. If Joe said they'd be happy there, they'd probably be happy. Trees, he knew about. Staying in touch? Not so much.

"Chief? Captain Rosebart on line one."

"I'm picking up, Dorrie, thanks. Brennan here."

"Chief? emile Rosebart."

"How do you do, Captain? What can I do for you?"

"Giving you a heads-up, Chief."

Orwell was alert. "Appreciate it," he said.

"We let those two Russians go."

"Really? "

"Right, we've got nothing to charge them with."

"Stolen handgun?"

"No evidence he stole it. Says he bought it from the p.a.w.nbroker. Plus he turned it over to a police officer."

"In exchange for stolen property."

"Which was offered by the officer. In any case, he didn't actually receive the stolen property."

"Well then, thanks for letting me know."

"Something else. There's likely to be some fallout over the arrest. The Russian who was taken into custody by your detective got a dislocated kneecap in the process. Says he's going to sue her for a.s.sault. Claims she crippled him for life. Police Services is going to have to look into it."

"I understood that he was resisting arrest."

"His lawyer's going to claim she didn't have jurisdiction to make an arrest."

"She was helping out a fellow cop."

"I know. I know. We'll sort it out. Right now Detective Moen's . . . taking some time off."

"She's not suspended, is she?"

"Lord no. She lost her partner. Hit her pretty hard. She's grieving."

"Plus you're investigating the man."

"Plus. And yeah, she's staying clear of that."

"Anything you can tell me about how it's going?"

"Nope."

"Fair enough, Captain. This Grenkov still in the city?"

"Far as I know."

"Good. Detective Crean can come down there and arrest him again."

"Say what?"

"Well, he's wanted for a.s.sault and breaking and entering up here. Wait a minute, make that two a.s.saults, and two B&Es. I don't see why he can't pursue his lawsuit at the same time he's being tried in Dockerty. If you folks are done with him, I think we should get him up here to answer the charges."

Rosebart had the good grace to laugh at that. "Say the word, we'll pick him up for you."

"Thanks. I'll let you know."

"Might save his other kneecap." Still chuckling.

"Might at that. Crean's a good one, Captain. For future reference."

"I take your meaning, Chief. Big difference, working down here. A lot to learn."

"Steep curve, I'm sure, but if anyone could handle it, she'd be the one."

"Wouldn't happen overnight, Chief."

"I hope not."

A familiar shape was visible behind an open car door on the far side of the police parking lot and even from the back Stacy recognized the square shoulders and sharp elbows. She pulled into an open spot. "Just can't stay away, can you?" she said as she got out.

Adele Moen turned. "I am definitely putting in for gas and mileage," she said.

"Something come up?"

"Oh yeah. Did you know you can tell how old a diamond is by how it was cut?" She pulled a brown envelope out of her jacket pocket. "You can tell where it came from, too."

"You've been talking to an expert."

"In this case, I've been talking to the expert." She pulled the photograph out of the envelope and handed it to Stacy. "Recognize anything?"

"That's not a diamond."

"No, that is one of the Seven Sisters. Except now there are only four sisters, the other three are somewhere in England, probably hanging around some d.u.c.h.ess's neck."

"And whose finger is it on?"

"Exactly."

Orwell was happy to see the pair of them. The sight appealed to him, although he couldn't say why exactly except that they seemed to complement each other. "Detective Moen, welcome back. Your captain tells me you're on compa.s.sionate leave. And grieving."

"Yeah, well I grieve better when I stay busy." She put the photograph on his desk.

"What am I looking at?" he asked.

"Christmas party, maybe ten, twelve years ago. Paul and his wife at the time, Jenny, and his partner at the time, Dylan O'Grady. That's Dylan's wife, Keasha."

"Very attractive," said Orwell.

"Check out the rock on her third finger, left hand."

"I see it."

"We recovered one just like it on Sat.u.r.day," said Stacy.

"You think this gem is stolen."

"Not sure enough to walk in and bust the happy couple just yet," Adele said, "but I have it on good authority that we're looking at a five-and-a-half carat Kashmiri sapphire worth at least forty-thousand dollars, maybe a lot more, part of the missing trinket behind a s.h.i.tload of dead bodies."

"How good an authority?"

"The best."

"You'd put this person on the stand?"

"In a second. And he says that the sapphire she's wearing is part of what they've all been chasing. I think it's a reasonable a.s.sumption that she got it from her husband. Probably a guilt gift. Caught him with his d.i.c.k someplace it wasn't supposed to be."

"This man is a cop?"

"Was a cop. Paulie's ex-partner. Now a city councillor running for a vacant federal seat."

"Curiouser and curiouser."

"And before he was a cop, he played football for the Argonauts and - here I'm making an educated guess - had business dealings in Montreal with both Viktor Nimchuk, deceased, and Louie Grova, likewise deceased, and possibly Ludmilla Dolgushin, also deceased, and, in a bizarre twist of fate or a f.u.c.king huge coincidence, some years later was one half of the team investigating the freshly deceased Va.s.sili Abramov, also one of the smugglers."

"Mercy! Up to his neck, isn't he?" Orwell said.

"Circ.u.mstantially," said Stacy.

"And only if we can prove it," said Adele.

"Prove what?" Orwell wondered.

"Who the f.u.c.k knows?"

The three cops were silent for a short while, each one focused in a different direction - Adele looking at the creased photograph in her hand, Stacy at the window watching the traffic go by, Orwell, as was his habit when looking for answers to tough questions, scanning the aerial map on the far side of his office. "By the way, they're letting the two Russians walk."

"What kind of bulls.h.i.t is that?" Adele was livid. "What do they want, signed confessions?"

"Your boss is under some scrutiny, given recent events. He's treading lightly." He swung around to face Stacy. "Rosebart tells me that Grenkov character is going to sue you for crippling him."

"f.u.c.k, I wish I'd seen that," said Adele.

"I told him I might send you down there to arrest him again."

"Dibs on the other kneecap," Adele said.

Orwell stood up and rubbed his big hands together briskly as if preparing to do physical labour. "Dang! I expected us to be swamped with outside troops by now," he said. "These people are awfully slow off the mark, don't you think? So far, nothing from Montreal, nothing from Ottawa, nothing from the Russian emba.s.sy. We should have officials from all over h.e.l.l's half acre showing up, don't you think? We've got jewel thieves, murders going back twenty-five years, what does it take to get their attention?"

"I'm sure they'll saddle up any day now, Chief," Stacy said.

"I mean, this is . . . international."

"They've got a lot to sort out."

"Yes. Yes. And no doubt a joint Russo-Canadian task force is ma.s.sing on our borders." He stopped pacing and made a few minute adjustments to the piles of forms, files and printouts on a side table. Stacy and Adele waited for him. "But it seems we're to be on our own a little while longer," he said at last. "Now, what we could do, probably should do, is wait until the duly authorized get their acts together and come in here to take over."

"Is that what we're doing, Chief?" Stacy asked.

Orwell went back to his desk, rubbed his hand across his dome, picked up the photograph. "Okay, just for the h.e.l.l of it, let's say your man O'Grady got his hands on this particular stone back when he was playing football."

"Louie Grova's brother says Louie was selling stones to football players," Adele started. "Argos are playing in Montreal. Somehow Louie Grova meets Dylan, or knows him from before, offers him a deal on a rock. Dylan buys it. Okay, not a hundred percent kosher, but, long time ago, doesn't tie him to anything."

"Players," said Stacy.

"What?"