"Sunset Motel. Owner thinks one of the guests might be dead."

"Uniforms?"

"Dutch is there. He says he can't get in. Door's blocked or something."

"On it," she said. "Tell him to sit tight. And call the school. Tell them I can't make it." She did a smart U-turn and headed for the highway. She never liked giving lectures, anyway.

The Sunset Motel faced east and never saw a sunset, while half a klick further south on Highway 35, the windows of the Sunrise Motel faced due west. Neither operation was particularly concerned by the incongruity, nor, to anyone's knowledge, had the owners considered swapping monikers. A second patrol car was pulling into the parking lot as Stacy arrived. A uniformed officer climbed out and headed for unit fourteen. Dutch Scheider was standing by the door. Stacy recognized the new arrival, Drummond, "Drum": barrel chest, always sticking it out. The motel manager came scuttling across the lot in her direction. "You can't park there," she said. "People need to get in and out."

Stacy flashed her badge. "Who rented the room?"

"Mr. Smith," she said. "Probably not his real name."

"You think?"

"He paid cash."

"And you haven't seen him this morning?"

"Not since he checked in yesterday."

"Was he alone?"

"Far as I know."

"Okay, just wait in the office please. We'll see what's what."

"The girl can't get in to clean, I've got people coming, I don't want police all over the place all day."

"Just wait over there please, ma'am. Let us do our jobs."

"If there's a body, I don't want a big mess."

"That will depend on what's in the room, won't it?"

Dutch gave Stacy a small salute as she approached. The other uniform was leaning on the door, trying to force it. "You call for backup, Dutch?" she asked.

"Just pa.s.sing by, Detective," said the newcomer. Stuck out his chest. Yeah, that was him.

"Drummond, right? Listen, don't shove on the door any more. If that's a body in there, we don't want to smear it across the rug. Dutch, any other way in?"

"There's a bathroom window 'round back. It's kind of high up. And a tight squeeze."

She pulled on a pair of gloves. "Show me."

There was a muddy path flanked by a bank of dirty snow along the back of the cabin. The bathroom window was high and narrow, partly open. "Footprints under the window," Stacy said. "Yours?"

"I stayed back here."

"Good. Pay attention to where my feet go." She skirted the prints and edged close to the wall. "Those marks? Ladder maybe? Give me a boost."

Dutch made a stirrup of his hands and hoisted her high enough to grab the sill. She pulled herself up with arm strength and hung for a moment checking the window frame. "Some scratches under the window." She slid it all the way open and pulled herself through. She was standing in the shower stall. "Mr. Smith? Dockerty Police." There was no response. "Go around the front," she called out. "I'll open the big window."

"Right," she heard Dutch say.

She slipped off her wet boots, left them in the shower stall and checked the bathroom. The toilet seat was up. There was a towel on the floor.

The bedroom was dark, the drapes were drawn. The body of a man, naked except for boxer shorts and one red sock, was crumpled on the rug, his head and shoulders wedged against the bottom of the door. There was a lot of blood. Stacy crouched, placed two fingers against his throat. No pulse, the skin cold. She pulled back the drapes.

"Got a body in here," she said.

"Dead?"

"Oh yeah. Shot in the head, looks like. Phone it in, Dutch."

Drummond leaned in to get a look at the body. "Self-inflicted?"

"Don't see a gun yet," Stacy said. "Start knocking on doors, see if anyone heard anything, saw anything."

He stuck his chest out again. "On it," he said.

There was a red smear from the doork.n.o.b to the body, and a wad of blood in the man's hair. There was a splatter of blood and fragments of bone and tissue surrounding the bullet hole in the door jamb, higher than her head, as high as a tall man's head. She stood on her toes in front of the impact area and looked back. The line of sight went through the open bathroom door to the window above the shower stall.

Dutch reappeared. "Medical examiner on the way. Got an ID?"

A jacket and a pair of pants were draped over the back of the chair by the telephone table. She tugged a leather folder out of the jacket pocket. There was a badge and a photo ID card. "Oh c.r.a.ps," she said. "He's a cop, Dutch. Metro. Name's Delisle."

"Jesus H. Christ."

"Can't see his weapon." She put the ID and badge on the coffee table and stood in the middle of the room. The bedclothes were rumpled. An open leather bag was on the chair beside the bed - clean shirt, toiletries kit. There was a condom wrapper on the carpet beside the bed, a bottle of Jack Daniels on the bedside table, opened, mostly full, two gla.s.ses, both empty, one with lipstick traces. "He had female company. They had drinks. They had s.e.x." She moved carefully around the room, talking more to herself than to Dutch. "Nothing broken. Neat and tidy. Except for the body." She slid open the closet door with her hand on her weapon, half expecting to see a cowering woman. There was a Burberry trenchcoat hanging. She patted the pockets, heard keys jangling. "Find out which car is his," she said.

"Right," Dutch said.

Still no sign of his weapon.

"Cavalry's coming," said Dutch.

She could see vehicles pulling into the parking lot, the ambulance, an OPP unit, even the Chief's big 4x4. Hi folks, she thought, good luck shoving me to the sidelines this time. I'm first on the scene.

An OPP investigative unit was in place before noon, and shortly thereafter four detectives from Metro's homicide unit had arrived and taken over the case. Orwell had been introduced to at least three of them, but hadn't bothered to commit their names to memory. The four were uniformly unpleasant, behaving as though the town was complicit in the brutal murder of one of their own. Definitely herrisch behaviour, Orwell decided. He gave two of them the gist of his conversation with Delisle. The other pair grilled Stacy and then as much as told her to stay the h.e.l.l out of their way. She found a desk and attended to the paperwork demanded by the discovery of a murder victim inside the town limits, keeping any resentment well hidden. Orwell admired her composure.

The Metro cops split up, one team checking on Anya Daniel, the other pair calling on Dr. Ruth. The provincial police, and as much of the Dockerty force as they cared to use, were canva.s.sing the other motel patrons, checking Delisle's credit cards, cellphone records, working to pin down his movements since hitting town.

Orwell retreated to his office. Entirely too much excitement for one day. Everything would be taking a back seat to the homicide. Overtime, shifting shifts, interlopers taking up s.p.a.ce. Roy Rawluck would handle the details, he was good at keeping unnecessary annoyances off the Chief's back, but whenever outside police departments came to town, Orwell got the uncomfortable feeling of jabbing elbows and shoulders. It made him cranky.

"Chief. Mr. Rhem on two."

"Thank you, Dorrie. I'm taking it. h.e.l.lo, Georgie."

"Yeah, Stonewall, done some checking. We have to pet.i.tion for a hearing by the 'consent-granting authority.' Whoever they may be."

"Whoever?"

"I'm still not sure if we're talking about the Durham Region Land Division Committee or the Newry Township Acreage Preservation a.s.sembly."

"And then what?"

"Once we get a date, you show up and make your pitch. Lay on some of that irresistible Stonewall Brennan charm."

"Okay, Georgie. I'll do a dance for them."

The old lawyer chuckled. "So. How's your day?"

"You heard?"

"At least three different versions. It was a Metro detective?"

"That's right. I met him yesterday afternoon. Seemed like a nice enough guy."

"He was an a.s.shole!"

"Say what, Stonewall?"

Orwell's head snapped up. "Unexpected visitor, Georgie. I'll get back to you." Detective Adele Moen from Metro Homicide stood in his open doorway, looking ferocious. Orwell rose, held out a hand. "Under normal circ.u.mstances I'd say this was a nice surprise, Detective, but you don't look at all happy to be here."

"You've got a homicide."

"Your guys are all over it." He watched her plunk herself down across from him. A tall, rangy woman, prominent jaw and cheekbones, big hands and chopped mannish hair. Orwell liked her a lot. They had worked a big case the previous year and had stayed in touch. This obviously wasn't a social call. "Personal connection?" he asked.

"He was my partner."

"Oh dear," said Orwell. "That's bad. I'm so sorry."

She waved a hand dismissively. "I know, I know, appreciate that, but I'm not ready for condolences and s.h.i.t. I want to know what the f.u.c.k he was doing up here!"

"He said you were taking some personal time," Orwell said, "and he had some vacation coming."

"That's bulls.h.i.t! I don't know what in the name of Christ he was up to, but it wasn't a vacation, and he sure as h.e.l.l didn't let me in on it."

"He said there was a man found dead in a motel room on the Queensway last week, a Russian man. Were you two working that case?"

"What Russian man? What the h.e.l.l was he talking about! Jee-zuss! You think you know somebody . . ." She stood up abruptly, paced Orwell's office looking for walls to punch, furniture to kick. "Turns out you don't know d.i.c.k." She wanted to damage something.

"Don't know anything about that homicide?"

"We don't work anywhere near the Queensway. That's Peel Division. We were working a nightclub stabbing. I had to take a couple of days off for some medical c.r.a.p that turned out to be nothing, thank Christ, and he said he'd keep working the case. We weren't getting anywhere anyway - no witnesses, too many witnesses and n.o.body saw . . . ah, who gives a c.r.a.p!" She slumped in the chair again, long legs splayed out in front of her, rubbed her eyes, red from rage. "Anyway, that's beside the point, or that is the d.a.m.n point. He was supposed to be in the city, working our case like he said he was going to." She looked directly at Orwell. "Not up here."

Orwell was at a loss. He couldn't help her. "Wish I could tell you more," he said. "I got the impression he wasn't exactly sure what he was doing. He mentioned a partner he had some years back, named O'Grady, you know him?"

"Dylan? Sure. Big Smoothie O'Grady. A natural politician. What about him?"

"He and O'Grady questioned a ballet teacher six years ago about a murder in High Park. The woman confessed, but it turned out she couldn't have done it."

"I know the one, I know the one. He told me about it. Said she was certifiable, always calling 9-1-1. So what? If she was the biggest nutbar roaming the city, I'd be out of a job."

"She moved up here, has a dance studio in town."

"So?"

"He thought there was some connection between her and the Russian man."

"What Russian man?" She was on her feet again and pacing.

"The one . . ."

"I know, I know: on the Queensway." She was impatient - with him, with puzzles, riddles, the scarcity of anything approaching rationality. "I don't know anything about any d.a.m.n Russian man. What was the connection?"

"Apparently the man had Anya Daniel's picture in his wallet."

"That's the dancer?" She waited, palms up. "That's it?"

"And he was somehow connected to the ballet."

"Oh Lord Jesus on a bicycle! This is so stupid it makes me want to puke."

"I'm sorry," Orwell said. "I really am."

She rubbed her face with both hands, pushed her hair back and held it for a moment on the top of her head, staring out at Vankleek Street. "He was such an a.s.shole," she said. "A charming, good-looking a.s.shole. He kept secrets. You're not supposed to keep secrets from your partner. I mean you can have a private life, sure, but things that are going to affect the partnership, things you should know just to be able to back each other up, cover for each other, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, you have to share."

"I agree," Orwell said.

"I had a lump." She wiped a hand across her chest as if brushing away crumbs. "Turned out to be nothing, but I was a little freaked. I told him. I didn't hide it. I said I was worried, I said I was going in to have it checked out, I made sure he knew exactly what was what." She turned from the window, spread her hands wide, asking for something unavailable, something that made sense. "Okay if I hang around for a while? I'm not supposed to be working the case, but I'd like to find out what's happening. I'll stay out of people's way."

Orwell stood, spread his arms. "My house is your house," he said. "Hey, wait a sec." He motioned her toward the door, pointed to the far side of the room. "Stacy Crean. Over by the window. You met her last year."

"Right. Dating Natty b.u.mpo. What about her?"

"First on the scene," he said. He put his hand on Adele's shoulder and gave her a gentle shove. "She found the body."

She didn't like either of the detectives. She didn't bother to remember their names. One had a moustache like a dirty toothbrush and the other one had a pimple over his left eyebrow. Their voices matched their distinguishing characteristics - Dirty Toothbrush sounded like his yap was full of bubbles, Pimple squeezed his words and breathed through his mouth. They were both big. They wanted to intimidate her. She laughed inside her head.

"He was here to talk to you."

"He did not talk to me." She lit a Players with her bra.s.s Zippo.

"Don't smoke." Pimple.

"My studio, I pay the rent, I buy the cigarettes."