"Well, get her in here. I'll have no conspiracies."

Dorrie put a finger to her lips.

Stacy found her boss standing by the window, staring out at the street.

"I'll have my report ready for you in ten minutes, Chief. Just have to print it up."

"Fine, fine, no rush. Sit down."

"Yes, sir. Something come up?"

"There's a man in town, from the Russian Ministry of Culture wants to talk to you. And to Ms. Zubrovskaya of course. She on her way back?"

"I think she took an early train. I can pick her up."

"If she's around I want to talk to her. And Dr. Ruth, too. I want both of them, separately or side by each, I don't care, see what you can do, will you?"

"Right away."

"Good." He turned his head. Dorrie had the Chief's coffee and newspaper and a jelly donut on a paper napkin. "What's this?" he asked suspiciously.

"We took up a collection," she said with a straight face.

He pointed at Stacy. "Both of them. As soon as."

"On it," she said. As she left she caught a glimpse of him wiping a drop of raspberry jelly off his bottom lip.

Adele had no such constraints on what she was allowed to eat for breakfast, or lunch, but she had no appet.i.te this morning. Her last substantial intake had been a handful of macaroons followed by most of a bottle of Spanish red and she was experiencing a certain level of internal discomfort. She might also be carrying the plague judging by the wide berth her colleagues were giving her this morning. Or maybe she needed to change her deodorant. Or it could have something to do with the black cloud hanging over her head. She could feel it pressing down, almost see its dark shadow as she walked. Her mother would have said the Angel of Death was hovering near. That was how she talked: angels of death, ends of days, wages of sin, she loved saying the words, her mouth would curl into a mean smile as she p.r.o.nounced upon Adele's head the swift and sure retribution of a vengeful . . . f.u.c.k, long after the hag was dead and buried and her preaching silenced, those images continued to plague her. Out of my head, you old witch. I'm doing my job.

"Moen, get in here!"

"Captain?"

"We've got a situation."

"What's up?"

Rosebart had the drawn look of a man who had spent far too many hours parrying blows and some of the shots were getting through his weary defences. "G.o.dd.a.m.n! O'Grady has two bullet holes."

Adele's stomach lurched and she sat down heavily. "I'm gonna take a wild guess that he didn't shoot himself twice."

"Or even once. The ME says he's got a big hole going in, two holes coming out. Looks like somebody shot him, put the gun in his hand and pulled the trigger over the same hole. Only they didn't line it up just right. Second shot came out half an inch higher than the first one."

"Holy Jesus!"

"You got that right."

"His gun?"

"Oh yeah. His service piece. Looks like he checked it out as soon as he checked it in. I'll be wanting some answers from whoever screwed up down there."

"Where do you want me?"

"Good question, Detective." Rosebart rubbed his face. He hadn't shaved very well, probably used the crummy electric he kept in his desk. His sigh sounded a trifle melodramatic, but the pain in his eyes was genuine. "Goo-ood question. If I had half a brain I'd chain you to your desk so you couldn't bring me any more grief."

"But."

"Yeah, right, but. But maybe you should get your a.s.s back up to Dockerville . . ."

"Dockerty."

"Whatever . . . and find out what that loopy dancer lady was up to last night, because as I have it in one of your reports," he waved a stack of papers at her, "which I'm reading far too frickin' many of these days, she likes to sneak out of her hotel room in the middle of the night."

"She was in plain sight when Dilly took off."

"Was she in plain sight at 03:00 when, according to the ME, he popped his clogs?"

"I don't see it."

"I don't give a c.r.a.p. According to you, she was on O'Grady's case all day yesterday." He swivelled his chair around to show her his back. His shirt had a dark sweat stain down the spine. "And that other Russkie. Serge? Track that a.s.shole down, too. Find out if he can account for his actions all night. Do that forthwith."

"Yes, sir, forthwith."

He waved the back of his hand at her. "With any luck it'll get you out of my sight for the day, and that's not a small thing."

"Yes, sir."

"And don't talk to any G.o.dd.a.m.n reporters, hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

"b.u.g.g.e.r off."

"Yes, sir."

Stacy had no luck at either Anya's apartment or her studio. Likewise with Dr. Ruth, whose office was locked and house empty. She checked the bus schedule. The first bus from Whitby had pulled in an hour ago. She checked the Timmies at the mini-mall on Vankleek and took a slow cruise from the bus stop and back to the apartment building, then made a return trip to Dr. Ruth's locations as well. Nothing.

On her way back to the station the complexion of the day changed significantly. Adele called from the city with the news that Dylan O'Grady hadn't departed this life without help. Adele said she was coming up. She needed to talk to Anya Zubrovskaya. She also wanted to know where the f.u.c.k "Serge" was since as far as she could determine, he too had left the city. Citizen Grenkov had no idea where Sergei might have gone, and as far as he was concerned it was immaterial as long as Sergei stayed far away from him.

"He says Serge came by in the middle of the night and packed his stuff, so who knows, he might be on the run."

"Dang. And our little dancer's gone missing, too."

"Be there about two o'clock, give or take. I'll call when I hit town."

Dorrie directed her to go right in. Stacy found the Chief in a meeting with a very small man whose eyes lit up when he caught sight of her. When the man got up to shake her hand, it had the odd effect of making him shorter than when he was seated, but it was a courtesy he would have insisted upon under any circ.u.mstance. "Detective Crean," he p.r.o.nounced perfectly, "it is a pleasure." When he shook her hand she noted that his hand was almost as big as the Chief's. "I am Mikhael Tomashevsky," he said. "Chief Brennan has been singing your praises for the past fifteen minutes."

"How do you do, sir," she said.

"Grab a seat, Stacy," Orwell said. "Any luck?"

Tomashevsky waited until she was seated before he took his chair again. The smile he gave her confirmed that his size had no bearing on his capacity to appreciate an attractive woman.

"I just got a call from Detective Moen," she began. "Dylan O'Grady didn't kill himself. Someone shot him and tried to make it look like a suicide."

"Good Lord," said Orwell. He shook his head.

"And the other parties can't be accounted for. Anya Zubrovskaya and Sergei Siziva are also missing."

"Siziva," said Mikhael. "He has been seen?"

"Yes, sir," said Stacy. "We've interviewed him a number of times."

"That is most interesting."

"You know the man?" Orwell asked.

"Oh yes. I'd very much like a chance to talk to him myself."

"What about Dr. Ruth?" Orwell asked.

"She's nowhere in town," Stacy said. "Her house looks empty."

Mikhael gripped the arm of his chair and leaned forward. "Dr. Ruth, did you say?"

"Ruth," Orwell said. "Dr. Lorna Ruth."

"She is a medical doctor?"

"I'm not sure. She's either a psychiatrist, or a psychologist."

"And what is her connection?"

"Anya Zubrovskaya was her patient."

"Really? You wouldn't have a photograph of her anywhere, would you?"

"Sorry," said Orwell.

"Yes we do, Chief," Stacy said. "We've got her on tape. The security tape from the liquor store. If it's still around."

It took Roy Rawluck all of ten minutes to locate the old VCR machine and monitor, find the tape and cue it up. Mikhael Tomashevsky stared at the frozen image of Dr. Lorna Ruth for a long moment, all the while shaking his big head slowly from side to side. "That is her," he said at last. "Lorena Wisneski. Dr. Lorena Wisneski."

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Lower your guard for just a moment and the world will bite you on the a.s.s. What was it her grandfather used to say? "It is not only the shadows you need to be wary of, sunlight too can blind you." Today the sun was shining, birds were singing, Lorna Ruth wore a bright smile when she slowed her car as Anya came out of the bus station. "Anya, can I give you a ride?" So easy. Never a second thought. A bit weary, heavy suitcase, legs a little tired from two days taking care of business in the city.

"Why not?" And in the car, and buckle up, and away they went. But not in the direction of home. And the seatbelt was jammed so it would not unlatch. And Lorna was not alone, Sergei was lying down on the back seat under a blanket and they were on the highway heading to the end of the earth. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"You have to talk to me, Anya. We're running out of time."

"You perhaps. I have all the time in the world."

"We have to take care of this. Too many things have happened."

"Yes, and too many people have been killed. I do not wish to join their number."

"You won't. I promise. Just give me what I want. It's no good to you. It doesn't belong to you."

"Why not? Who does it belong to?"

"Everyone. No one. How do you think the Tsar got it? Legitimately, you think? The poor man in Mandalay who found it two centuries ago. Did he hold on to it for long? The Mogul who held it for a year. And then there was a Persian, and a Turk, and two brothers from India stole it, one killed the other, then another thief killed him, and a bigger thief killed that one, and then one of the biggest thieves of all took it to the Metropolitan of Moscow who p.r.o.nounced it holy and declared it sacred and from there it went to St. Petersburg to be part of the great Romanov treasure. So, Anya Ivanova Zubrovskaya, who do you think it belongs to now?"

"Whoever is holding it, I suppose."

"Exactly. Where is it?"

"You searched my studio, you searched my home. Did it look like I was holding the biggest treasure in the world?"

"It's a process of elimination. Va.s.sili didn't have it, Viktor didn't have it. The last person who is known to have held it is you. So. Where is it?"

"I am so sorry for you, Doctor. You have been terribly misled all these years. Do you not know? It is not real. It is a big fake. Years ago I took that ugly red thing to a man who showed me, most conclusively, that it was just a piece of gla.s.s. Nice red Venetian gla.s.s, blown, cut and polished by a fine gla.s.smaker and made to look quite legitimate. But only gla.s.s."

"So where is the gla.s.s?"

"It is in ten thousand red pieces. I used a hammer. It is no more. It was the only way to be rid of it. If you are looking for the real ruby, I would start with Uncle Joe. That little devil Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili, known as Stalin, was quite the thief. He robbed banks before he started robbing royalty. I hear he got a hundred thousand rubles from that bank in Tbilisi. I hope he got more for the Ember. We poor gypsy smugglers got a piece of gla.s.s. It is tragic, is it not? So many lives wasted over a fake. And laughable, too. If not for so many deaths it might be the funniest joke in the world."

"I don't believe you," said Sergei from behind her. "You are too good a liar."

According to Mikhael Tomashevsky, Dr. Lorena Wisneski did have a doctorate in psychiatric medicine from Vienna, although since psychiatry was still held in low regard by many bureaucrats in Moscow, it was not listed as part of her credentials at the Ministry of Culture. Dr. Wisneski explained that an understanding of the criminal mind was a useful weapon in her a.r.s.enal, along with her doctorates in art history, archeology, certificates in gemology, restoration and her command of six languages. Until 2003 she had been one of the most respected reclamation operatives in the field, responsible for the return of hundreds of items looted during the Second World War. And then she disappeared.

"She appears to have done it again."

"So it would seem, Chief Brennan."

"And at the time she disappeared she was on the trail of this ruby specifically?"

"Well, initially of course she was searching for the missing cross of the Empress Feodorovna. Among its most valuable components were the four large Kashmiri sapphires, three of which I believe have been accounted for, a large number of diamonds, most of them sold or lost over the years and, of course, a ninety-seven-carat stone worth as much as anyone who l.u.s.ts after such things would be willing to pay. Ten million, twenty, thirty, it doesn't matter. It would be worth it to a government that believed it had a justifiable claim to the ruby."

"Who would that be?"

"I can think of at least three. India, Pakistan, Iran. But one might get bids from Myanmar, China, who knows? Perhaps even England, although I'm not sure they'd care to spend that much money. The stone has pa.s.sed through so many hands in its travels, and since it was usually stolen before it made its next stop, a claim could be made and even substantiated by a number of governments. And they wouldn't have to hide it. They could proudly declare that one of their great treasures had been successfully recovered."

"And the person who recovered it?"

"Would have done a great service, would be handsomely rewarded and no doubt set for life in a very comfortable sanctuary."

Adele drove into Dockerty from the east end, just for the h.e.l.l of it, and because she wanted the extra ten minutes that avoiding 35 and coming up 11 added to the trip. Not that the extra time was going to answer any questions about O'Grady's murder, but it did give her a chance to finish the sack of Twizzlers she had in her glove compartment before showing up in "Dockerville." Hey, what d'ya know, there's the 7-Eleven. How lame is that? I'm visiting this burg so much I'm starting to know my way around. f.u.c.k gas and mileage, cheaper to just move here. Her cellphone started jangling. She swallowed the last wad of red rubbery goodness before answering. "Yeah, what? I'm here, Stace, I'm turning the corner right now."

Stacy was waiting outside the station. She waved Adele to the curb and climbed in. "Make a U-turn. Got a break and enter."