"Why?"

"Because I f.u.c.king love it."

He looked at Stacy. "You love it too, Crean?"

"I have enjoyed being part of it, Captain."

"Your boss send you down here again?"

"I have his blessing."

"Keeps throwing you at me, like I'm supposed to do something about it." He turned to Adele. "All right, let's hear it, and keep the F-bombs to a minimum, if you please."

"Certainly, sir. Paulie's off the hook for the Nimchuk murder."

"Okay, I don't hate that part. How'd you pull that off?"

"It wasn't his gun."

"You can prove that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Lay it on me."

"We've got tapes you need to hear, things to look at, we've got statements, interviews." She nodded in Stacy's direction. "We're building a case."

"A case against anybody in particular?"

"This is the part you might hate a little."

"Because . . ."

"Because we think that a former detective with this squad, who is now running real hard for a vacant federal seat, is responsible for three, make that four, deaths."

"Oh f.u.c.k," said Rosebart.

Rosebart wasn't a man easy to convince. Their case was built mostly on hearsay and speculation and riddled with holes, and while he had to admit they told a great story, it was his job to point out exactly how flimsy it was.

"You're not rousting some pickpocket here, Detective. You'd be dragging in a very high profile local politician about ten days away from getting himself elected to Parliament. He's polling about forty-seven percent, which is pretty d.a.m.n high. The next candidate is at nineteen."

"What's the big deal? Dilly's always dropping in here. He showed up at Paulie's wake. He was here last week nosing around. He still thinks he's got privileges."

"That's a five-minute drop-by. You're going to want his b.u.t.t in a chair a bit longer than that. He brings his campaign manager who let's say turns out to be a hotshot lawyer and Dylan says I'm outta here, what are you planning on holding him with?"

"We've got Sergei. He'll testify that he brokered a meeting between Dylan and Viktor."

"Was he at the meeting? No. Is he credible? Let's see, he's been arrested twice in the past week, he's an illegal immigrant, he's been hiding out in this country for thirty years doing who knows what. This guy is your big weapon?"

"Dylan's wife is in possession of a sapphire that was previously in the possession of a murder victim."

"What we have is a ten-year-old picture of her wearing what could be a sapphire, that maybe was once in the possession of some Russian woman thirty years ago, although we only have your loony dancer lady's word for that."

"I don't think she's loony, Captain," said Stacy.

"Given her past history, any defence lawyer makes her look like a raving lunatic inside ten minutes. Anyway, she wasn't in Montreal when it happened. And the two other men allegedly involved are both conveniently dead."

"Both of them can be connected to Dylan," said Adele.

"Says who? The dancer who wasn't there? The illegal Russian who's trying to stay in the country? The dead p.a.w.nbroker? His drunken son?"

"You're not buying any of this?"

He looked at them both, one to the other, smiled. "I'm buying it, Detective Moen, Detective Crean, I'm buying it. But. I'm buying it on the installment plan. You haven't got enough. Not yet. Go back to work."

Stacy munched toast and honey. Adele wasn't hungry. She was sitting in front of a perfectly respectable BLT with mayo, on whole grain toast (Stacy's suggestion), and had yet to take a bite. The diner was on Queen Street, east of Yonge, the sketchier part, not far from the Sally Ann and within sight of the Sherbourne intersection where men with nothing to do but wait waited.

"We f.u.c.k this up, that's where I'll be next week: busting a.s.sholes on that corner."

"The murder weapon's still out there," Stacy said.

"Who knows? Maybe Dylan 'liberated' his old service piece. He was always 'visiting,' showing up, slapping hands. Dropping in on Paulie at his desk. Being extra smooth to me, like he wanted us to be real good pals." She picked up half the sandwich and examined it carefully.

Stacy stuck with it. "It's somewhere to start. Check storage to see if any weapons are missing, check on what happened to Dylan's piece after he retired."

"That oughta be a load of laughs." Adele dropped the sandwich, still intact. "What's the difference? The slug's so f.u.c.ked up we couldn't get a match anyway." She pushed the BLT away from her. "I'm cool with that. We got Paulie off the hook."

"Your blood sugar's low. Eat the sandwich before you curl up and die on me." Stacy's cellphone began buzzing. "That's probably the Chief letting me know Mounties just showed up and it's time to come home. h.e.l.lo?"

The voice on the other end was familiar. "Detective Crean. I think you are in the city, yes?" She sounded pleased with herself. "You spent the night as well, did you?"

"Anya? Where are you?"

"I am following a politician on his daily campaign rounds. Right now he is kissing babies and shaking hands and having his picture taken as many times as he can."

"Where?"

"Many places. I have his itinerary right here. I believe next we are going to plant a tree. A bit early in the year, no?"

"Plant a tree where?"

"You should pick up a copy of his schedule at his campaign office. He has a full afternoon and evening planned."

"What are you doing?"

"I am smiling every time he looks in my direction, I am adding my voice to the general cheers, I am waving from the crowd when he makes his little speech. Now and then I ask a question but so far he has not acknowledged my presence."

"What sort of questions?"

"When we stopped at the deli, I asked him how the pastrami compared to Montreal smoked meat. By the library steps, I asked him if his broken toe hurt him on chilly mornings. I know my toes hurt when it is cold."

"Has he said anything?"

"There was a vigil at a public school where a young girl was run down last week by a delivery truck. Candles were lighted and flowers were laid at the intersection where it happened. There was a moment of silence. I looked at him the whole time."

"Did he look back?"

"Finally. He had to. He stared right at me. And, after a decent interval, I lifted my voice and said, 'Is it not tragic when a beautiful young life is snuffed out by a heartless monster?' People said 'Amen' all around me. They agreed. It was tragic. Even he was forced to agree. He had to nod and say something."

"What did he say?"

"Something suitably unctuous, about bad things happening to good people, and making our streets safer for our children. I did not pay much attention. I was looking at him and smiling."

"That's a dangerous game."

"I am breaking no laws. I am not even heckling him. I am being supportive and engaged and committed to his campaign. I donated a hundred dollars to his election coffers, I am wearing an O'Grady b.u.t.ton. I want him to know I will be there all the time, right up to election day. And after that if necessary. You don't have to do a thing. Consider me your cat's paw."

"Tell me where you are and we'll come and pick you up."

"Oh we have several stops to make. He is going to talk to a group of concerned citizens who think our health care system is broken, and then he is going to put in an appearance at a garden show to have his picture taken with some tulip bulbs. This evening there is to be a fundraiser. A seventy-five dollar buffet. I'm sure the food will not be worth the investment."

"I don't think this is a good idea."

"Good ideas, bad ideas, I do not much care. I have been running from dangerous men for a very long time and I have grown tired of it. Now I am the one who chases."

The line went dead.

"What?" Adele asked.

Stacy whispered. "f.u.c.k."

"Good Christ, you swore." Adele grinned. "I'm so proud of you."

"Wrap the sandwich. Our little ballerina's started poking the bear with a sharp stick. Let's at least be there when he wakes up."

Cam Gidrick was Dylan O'Grady's special a.s.sistant. It was his responsibility to make sure that the Candidate got where he was supposed to get, arrived on time, departed on time, knew the names he needed to know, shook the hands he needed to shake, thanked the donors he needed to thank and otherwise cruised through the campaign smoothly and without stumbles. Cam's job required tact, organization and the ability to deal with unforeseen developments.

Cam was a bachelor, and not by choice, for while his skills as a facilitator were valuable to campaign operations, they tended to showcase what many women viewed as a humourless and punctilious personality, lacking spontaneity, romance and s.e.xual attractiveness. This wasn't helped by the fact that he had an annoying sinus condition, was rapidly balding and possessed ears that his father once likened to a pair of "open car doors."

Nonetheless, he was very good at his job, and prided himself on having shepherded the successful campaigns of three city councillors, two MPPs and the mayor of a medium-size city. O'Grady's run for a federal seat was Cam's first shot at the big leagues and he was determined to pull it off with style and grace. Granted, the recently vacated seat was in a riding whose voting pattern hadn't changed in fifty years and was considered "safe" by the party. However, the fact that the previous office holder had been forced to resign when found in the company of someone other than his wife made it vital that the candidate picked to replace him appear stable, trustworthy and a good family man. In this respect, the choice of Dylan O'Grady seemed to be preordained. His former career as a decorated police officer, his earlier days as the member of a beloved local football team and his most recent position on Toronto City Council cast him as a man for all seasons. Add to that the fact that he had been happily married for twenty-four years to a woman who might easily be mistaken for a fashion model, and Dylan O'Grady looked like the complete package. As a man of colour, he appealed to the multicultural nature of the nation's largest city, not to mention the diverse ethnic makeup of the riding in which he was running. As a retired law enforcement professional, he wore the mantle of moral strength. And as a former athlete, he was considered by the party's strategists as likely to be attractive to both men and women.

It would seem, then, that Cam's job was already half done. His candidate was polling close to fifty percent in a three-man race, the coffers were full and the crowds were responsive. What could go wrong? By any applicable measure, the race was already won. So why should Cam be sweating like a cold beer bottle on a hot day?

Well, to start with, there was the fact that his candidate was telling him lies, and they weren't just the effortless misinformation that goes with being in politics, nor the sloppy fibs about what a hotshot cop he'd been, or how many opposing players he'd put in the hospital in his football career.

No, these were the tiny, troubling lies that tended to gnaw at the back of Cam's mind and make him queasy. Small lies about why the man's cellphone had been turned off (dead battery? - one of Cam's duties was to make sure that didn't happen) or where he'd been when Cam tried to reach him in his hotel room late at night (an old friend needed a ride home? - surely he could have come up with something better than that). Worse, he'd been asked to lie, twice, to the candidate's wife: once to say he was in a meeting with some union officials when no such meeting was scheduled, and later to tell Mrs. O'Grady that they couldn't meet for a late supper because an emergency had come up when there was no emergency. It wasn't that Cam was unwilling to cover for his candidate, lying to people was part of his job; it was the fact that Dylan was lying to him. It's much harder to tell convincing lies if you don't know the truth.

Most troubling was the matter of the package he was holding on the candidate's behalf. Dylan had a.s.sured him that what was in the package was quite legal and that he had every right to own such a thing, but why was there a package at all? And why was it necessary to keep it wrapped up and hidden under the pa.s.senger seat in Cam's campaign car?

Finally, there was the matter of the small blonde woman who had spent all day following the campaign from stop to stop. She was clearly getting on the candidate's nerves, to the point where he'd whispered instructions to Cam - "Keep an eye on that one, she may be trouble," and "If she moves too close, get in her way." He refused to explain why the woman was bothering him, but there was no doubt that Dylan O'Grady was rattled by her constant presence. All of this was causing Cam's palms to sweat and his sinuses to act up.

Orwell, convinced that he could be un.o.btrusive if he wanted, slipped into the back row of the Globe Theatre and slumped as low in the seat as his dimensions would allow. Onstage, the Dockerty Players were having a technical run-through of Our Town. Leda Brennan was bathed in a pool of blue light and looking ethereal, which was entirely appropriate since at this point in the story she was the ghostly presence at her own funeral. Orwell wasn't entirely comfortable with the thought of his daughter as deceased, but since the play was being repeatedly stopped for adjustments to the lights and the position of other actors, he wasn't forced to dwell on the implications. Besides, his daughter sounded extremely healthy, so lively in fact that at one point the director was moved to remind her of her otherworldly condition and ask her to tone it down a peg.

She did look lovely. All in white, with flowers in her hair, moving about the stage in a dreamlike state, saying goodbye to her b.u.t.ternut tree, among other things.

As Orwell was un.o.btrusively dipping his hand into his jacket pocket hoping to locate a stray hard candy, he noticed another figure sitting in the back of the theatre. Un.o.btrusiveness was probably a bit easier for Mikhael Tomashevsky, whose head was barely visible. Orwell moved down a row. "Mind if I join you?" he whispered.

"Could we keep it quiet back there?" the director yelled.

Mikhael motioned Orwell to slide in beside him. "The tall girl in white is very good," he said. It wasn't audible to the director.

Orwell made a conscious effort to lower his voice. "My daughter," he said.

"We can still hear you," the director bellowed. "We're working here!"

"Quite lovely," Mikhael said. "Perhaps we should step outside."

As Orwell was squishing himself sideways into the aisle he saw his daughter shade her eyes to see who was there and then look heavenward directly into the blue light. She had recognized her father's distinctive shape. He hoped she wasn't too embarra.s.sed.

"And Ms. Brennan," the director yelled, "please try to remember that you are a dead person. Dead people don't declaim."

The Globe Theatre was on Lock Road, dead centre in the cross of a T intersection that marked the eastern terminus of Vankleek Street. To the right and slightly downhill were the locks alongside the Little Snipe, to the left, the road curved past St. Barnabus and joined a meandering series of tree-lined avenues climbing to the Knoll. The two men stood under the portico looking down Vankleek.

"My daughter too is an actor," said Mikhael. "In Moscow. She was in Uncle Vanya just last month."

"Really. You must be quite proud."

"I didn't get to see it. I was far away."

"That's too bad."

"We all give up things for our jobs, do we not?"

Orwell, who had to admit that currently his life was rather full, was at a loss for adequate words of commiseration. "This front door has been smashed at least six times since place was built. In 1923," he said, "someone comes speeding down Vankleek, can't make the turn, kaboom."

"Are we safe, standing here?" Mikhael wondered.

"Usually happens late at night." He hesitated, not sure if the man was up to strolling. "We can walk down to the locks . . . if you'd care to."

"Lovely," Mikhael said. He smiled to put the big man at ease, "I walk all the time. It is therapeutic."

"I feel the same way," Orwell said. He patted his torso. "Move it or lose it, they say. Although in my case, losing it is the point of the exercise." The two men started down the sloping sidewalk and onto the first bridge. Tomashevsky's rolling gait was surprisingly nimble and Orwell didn't have to slow his usual pace very much at all. "How'd you wind up here?" he asked.

"A Captain Rosebart in Toronto pointed me . . ."

"I mean at the theatre, this afternoon."

"Oh. Ha. Curiosity. I ran out of things to do. I couldn't find Zubrovskaya, your detective is out of town and the only other person on my list could be almost anywhere."