"Mr. Frith, nice to meet you."

"Chief, I'm hoping we can get a shot of you and the Mayor together." In a series of smooth moves he steered both Orwell and Donna Lee away from the Lymans while giving a discreet signal to a young woman with two cameras slung around her neck. Orwell recognized Sam Abrams' eager young reporter, Kathy somebody. "Maybe over by these flowering bushes."

"Chaenomeles j.a.ponica," Orwell said, "flowering quince." He heard the distinct intake of a half dozen breaths from the flower ladies. "Lovely, aren't they?" A dozen women in flowered hats were nodding approvingly. The man knows his plants.

"Nice touch," whispered Mr. Frith.

"My wife has Vita Sackville-West's ghost on speed-dial."

"Oh my yes," said Donna Lee, loud enough to be overheard, "Erika's garden is becoming quite famous."

Orwell knew for a fact that Donna Lee Bricknell had never set eyes on his wife's garden, nor had she to his knowledge ever called Erika by her first name, but as a public relations move it was on target. The lines had been clearly drawn. Donna Lee Bricknell and Orwell Brennan were united.

As Orwell took his place beside the Mayor, bending his knees a bit to reduce the height differential, he spotted the Lymans on the far side of the room, near a large yucca, having a whispered conversation. "I think you won that round," he muttered through his smile.

"That was just batting practice," she whispered. "Game hasn't even started yet." She lifted her chin as the flashes went off.

The two women stood by their respective cars in the police lot, having a last word before taking off.

"Gas and mileage, I'm telling you," said Adele. "Need a bank loan to fill my tank these days." She was in a great mood.

"You got a spot at your place I can stick my car?"

"Sure. Don't waste any time getting to the big city, partner. I'll be booting it." She climbed behind the wheel. "You eat meat, Stace?"

"From time to time."

"So you're not a total f.u.c.king vegan, right?"

"Nutritional facts. Red meat is the most efficient protein delivery system."

"Definitely. Later. After we brace Serge and his pal. And they better not make us come looking for them. My blood's up." She slammed her door and peeled out of the lot.

Stacy took her time getting settled. She had no intention of trying to beat Del into the city. Not the way she'd taken off. What they had was thin, no getting around it: no witnesses, no evidence except a sapphire ring that might or might not still be in the possession of someone entirely innocent of anything other than being married to someone who's committed . . . how many murders? And still she was smiling. She buckled up and put the car in gear. Multiple murders. I mean!

Adele pounded on the door of apartment 304. "Open up, Citizen, it's the police."

There was a distinct snarl from inside, followed by loud Russian phrases that sounded unwelcoming. Yevgeni Grenkov yanked the door open. He was wearing last week's shirt. The collar was dog-eared and grubby. He pointed at Stacy. "If that woman kicks me again I will sue her for a million dollars. Ten million dollars." He limped over to the kitchen table and sat sideways. There was a bottle of vodka open. "I have brace on my knee, you know that? I have pain, I can't sleep. I'm going to sue. I have lawyer now."

"Keep yelling like that I'll f.u.c.king kick you myself," said Adele.

Stacy had a quick look around the apartment. "Where's your partner?"

"He has moved out. Good riddance. He gives me nothing but troubles." He rubbed his knee and glared at them. "What do you want?"

"We're here to arrest you and take you back up to Dockerty," said Stacy.

"For what?

"You've been identified as the man who a.s.saulted Anya Zubrovskaya Thursday night. She's sworn a formal complaint against you."

"She is a crazy person."

"Yeah, she is kinda daffy, isn't she?" Adele agreed. She sat across from him. "But she was attacked, and she says you're the a.s.shole who did it. So what choice do we have?"

"I know nothing about that crazy woman." He poured himself a shot and knocked it back in one gulp.

Stacy kept moving, checking the bedroom, opening the bathroom door, talking as she moved. "Also, Dr. Lorna Ruth has sworn out a complaint. She says you attacked her in her office. You were a busy boy last Thursday."

"Who is she, she's so important I should rob her? You know this woman? She's rich maybe?"

"You tell me."

"Better you should ask Sergei, maybe he knows who she is. I never heard of her before."

"It looked like you were trying to find something. Did you find it?"

"How could I find it if I wasn't there?"

"The two people in the other office saw you run out. They say you and your friend jumped into that little red BMW."

"Hoo ha! This is a big laugh. We don't drive red car on Thursday."

Adele smiled. "Oh. What colour was the car you drove?"

"She did not see anything."

"Really? Why? Because you blindsided her? You should have checked for mirrors. Anyway, a judge can decide how credible she is."

"Never mind. I don't say anything."

"Well, that's okay. When we get our hands on Serge, he'll probably be happy to pin it all on you."

"I don't think he has very high regard for you," Stacy said.

Grenkov poured another shot. "He has no regard for anybody except Sergei." He drank. "He owes me money. He treats me like s.h.i.t. I was hired to bodyguard, but he makes me do things I was not hired to do. And still he doesn't pay. When you catch him, do the world a big favour. Send him back to Mother Russia."

Citizen Grenkov was only too happy to direct the two women to the Distingue Lounge, where he was certain they would find his employer. The handsome young man Sergei had been chatting with skittered away when he saw their badges. Stacy and Adele sat across from Sergei and let him fume for a moment.

"You'd better not make us come looking for you again, Serge, or I'll f.u.c.king tie you to a tree until I'm done with you."

"I refuse to spend any more time in the company of that animal."

"He's your animal."

"He has not changed his shirt in a week."

"Yeah, yeah, he's a brute. Not our problem."

"You've got a few problems though, haven't you, Mr. Siziva?" said Stacy.

"I have no problems. I have been released. No charges against me."

"That's in Toronto. We have other priorities in my town. Two breaking and entering charges, plus two a.s.saults, both committed in Dockerty last Thursday."

"I a.s.sault no one!"

"Your partner may have actually done the a.s.saulting but you were working together, and that makes you equally culpable."

"You can't prove any of these."

"Truth, Mr. Siziva?" Stacy leaned across the table, her face close to his, her expression hostile. "I don't really care. You'll be charged. You'll be given an appearance date. And while that's happening, Immigration Canada will send someone to look into your situation. After that, you'll be their problem."

"What situation?"

"You tell me. The story I heard was that you returned home to what was then the Soviet Union in 1982." She checked her notebook. "Do I have that right? And then you came back some years later." She closed the notebook and gave him a chilly smile. "Problem is, we can't find any record of you going back to Moscow, and no record of you reentering Canada. As far as we can figure out, you never left. Can you explain that?"

He held his face with in both hands and took a deep breath. "What is it you're looking for?" he asked. "Really. Because it isn't any silly burglary attempt. And it isn't my status as a refugee."

"Refugee? Is that what you're calling yourself?"

"I think maybe you want something else."

"Tell you what, Serge," Adele took over. "Why don't you try to figure out what that might be."

"I think I have things you need to know."

"Good. Let's start with this: you had my partner's gun in your possession. I need to know how you got your hands on it. You told them downtown you bought it from some street kid, didn't know his name, never saw him before."

"I would need protection. And some guarantees."

"Who will you need protection from, Serge?" She took the photograph out of the envelope and smoothed it out on the table in front of him. "Depends on who scares you the most, I guess."

They ate steak. Stacy had a six-ounce New York strip, rare, and enough salad to stock a manger. Adele opted for the twelve-ounce bone-in rib-eye, medium, baked potato with sour cream and chives, stuffed portobello mushroom, a basket of rolls (extra b.u.t.ter was required), a big gla.s.s of Chianti, coffee (cream and sugar) and something called "Chocolate Intemperance." When she had cleaned her plate she sat back, wiped her lips and emitted a ladylike burp. Stacy was looking at her with awe.

"What? First thing I've eaten since that protein thingy you made this morning."

"I'm impressed is all. You don't look like you have any body fat."

"Metabolism," Adele said. "Nervous energy. Plus I need fuel, we've got stuff to do." She checked her watch - 9:30 - and signalled for a coffee refill.

"I'm good," Stacy told the server.

Adele helped herself to cream and sugar, stirred and then leaned back as plates were cleared. "Okay. Got your notes handy?"

"Always."

"So what have we got?"

Stacy turned to the appropriate pages. "Not enough to make an arrest. Not yet anyway. Let's see - questionable witnesses supplying hearsay evidence from mostly dead sources, a weapon and a sack of stolen jewels neither of which we can connect in any way to the man we're after."

"Christ! We're doing great, ain't we? Thieves, thugs, illegal immigrants and registered crazies. And those are the ones on our side."

"On the bright side, it's looking less and less like your partner committed murder." Stacy leaned back and shook her head with something like admiration. "So she was there after all. Cool customer our little dancer. Give her that."

"I get the feeling she's been jerking us around all the time. You?"

"I think she's been playing a dangerous game. See it from her side: who can she trust?"

"Better not be playing me."

"Feeding us information in neat little pieces."

"Yeah, well one of these days maybe I'll sit her down and sweat the whole story out of her."

"I'd buy a ticket to that."

Adele finished her coffee and signalled for the check. "This one's on me," she said.

"I should hope so."

"So. What's the drill when you visit a drunk?"

"You bring a bottle."

"Any idea what he drinks these days?"

"I don't think it matters," Stacy said.

"We'll get him a bottle of Canadian Club. He'll think he's died and gone to f.u.c.king heaven."

"A small one," Stacy said. "We want his tongue lubricated, not numb."

It was dark. Lights on inside the store. Sign on the door: "Close until firther notice." Figure moving around inside. Knock. Loud voice, crabby. "Closed!" More knocking, less polite this time, brought forth a shambling figure. Darryl looked shaky, rheumy-eyed, unkempt. Stacy and Adele held their badges against the window. He opened the door partway. "Now what?"

"Mr. Grova?"

"Louie's dead. Didn't you get the news?"

"Yes, your father," Stacy said.

"Stepfather. My name's Kamen."

"Oh, fine. Sorry. Mr. Kamen. Would it be all right if we talked to you for a few minutes? Just clearing up some things."

Darryl left the door open and shuffled back to the counter. "He married my mother. That's the connection. That's the only f.u.c.kin' connection." He slumped in his chair behind the gla.s.s-front case. On top were an empty paper coffee cup and a torn bag of ripple chips.

Stacy looked at the display; watches, cameras, pens, cigarette cases, rings, all of it dusty, jumbled. "So you were his stepson. But you've lived here quite a few years, haven't you?"