"Viktor, this is bad," she said. "This is very bad."

"Look at it, Nanya, hold it in your hands, never in your life will you hold anything as perfect as this is in your hands."

"I do not want to hold it in my hands," she said. "This is death. Take it away and do not bring it near me again."

"It's too late."

He had been right about that. It was too late. For all of them.

By the time he reached the station it was raining heavily. There was still a puddle where he parked his car (although he didn't have to park exactly in that spot) and some late night dog-walker had failed to pick up after their beast befouled the struggling gra.s.s near the flagpole. Although, Orwell noted, Alastair Argyle's bronze relief was polished to a fare-thee-well, thus encapsulating, to Orwell's thinking, the priorities of the Department.

There was an unmistakable hush as he clomped through the outer office. Heads turned away. He put it down to people recognizing that he wasn't to be trifled with this morning. "We may be exceeding the shamrock quotient, Staff Sergeant," he said loudly.

"I'll start cutting back forthwith," said Roy Rawluck. There were three shamrocks dangling on the bulletin board. Roy chided himself. One of them was supposed to be a harp. He'd missed it. Leprechauns were, of course, verboten.

Dorrie (who wasn't the least afraid of her boss no matter what his mood) handed him the morning's Register with more solicitude than was customary.

"No bank robberies overnight? No riots?"

"Not yet anyway," she said. "I'll wait until you've read the paper."

"Anything in particular I should be reading?

"You'll find it, Chief. It's on the front page."

Orwell located his reading gla.s.ses in the third pocket he checked. He spread the paper on his desk blotter and hung up his wet coat and hat before catching the headline: "Lyman Calls for a 'New Order,'" under a photograph of candidate Gregg Lyman, caught in dramatic mid-gesture. "Where was this?" Orwell shouted through the open door.

Dorrie appeared with her boss's morning coffee and a sheaf of the usual paperwork and messages. "A 'Lyman for Mayor' rally," she said. "The Granite Club."

"Of course. He'd be preaching to the choir up there." He accepted the coffee with a curt nod of thanks and dribbled a few spots onto Lyman's image.

"Mr. Abrams wonders if you'd care to issue a statement."

"Statement about what?"

"Second paragraph."

Orwell concentrated on the paper. His fist hit the desk. "What the h.e.l.l?!" he bellowed.

"I'll leave you to it," she said.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute, when was this?"

"Last night."

Dorrie backed out of the room. The Chief bent over the paper, deliberately setting his cup down on Lyman's mug. He read aloud, his voice level increasing with each sentence: ". . . growing atmosphere of lawlessness?? . . . general laxity in police performance?? . . . a new sense of order is demanded??" Lyman's face was disappearing in a spreading puddle of coffee. "Who the h.e.l.l does he think . . . ?"

"Chief?" Dorrie's voice on the intercom was soothing. "Sam Abrams on one, Mayor Bricknell on two."

"I'll talk to the Mayor first. Tell Sam I'll get back to him."

"Yes sir."

"And I spilled my coffee."

"Yes sir."

"Mayor Bricknell. And what can I do for you on this fine sunny morning?"

"I take it you haven't seen the paper yet."

"Why of course I have. In fact I'm using it to wipe off my desk blotter as we speak." Orwell stood aside as Dorrie bustled in and attended to the ruined newspaper and the spilled coffee. "Takes a good picture, doesn't he?"

"I trust you'll have a statement for tomorrow's edition."

"I'm not at all sure a statement from me is in order."

"You can't be serious, Chief Brennan. The man as much as accused you of incompetence."

"Really? I'll have to read it more carefully." He bent over and pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk. "It sounded to me like more of a comment on the state of society as a whole. d.a.m.n!" There were only three shortbread cookies in the carefully folded bag. Orwell was certain there had been five when he left work the previous day. "I'm going to put a mousetrap in here," he muttered.

"I'm sure a statement will be much more effective," said Donna Lee.

"Will the Mayor's office be issuing one?"

"I'll be making my own campaign speeches over the next month. I'll deal with it then."

"So you agree it's a campaign issue?" Orwell sat back down. His desk blotter was clear, a fresh coffee was waiting. "Dorrie, would you care for a shortbread?"

"No thanks, Chief. Want another newspaper?"

"I've seen it," he said. "Thank you. My apologies, Mayor. You caught me in the middle of my morning's clutter."

"I think you should seriously consider issuing a statement," Donna Lee said. "Something to the effect that Dockerty is one of the safest, most well-ordered communities of its size in the province."

"Now that would be a splendid fact to mention in your speeches, Your Honour."

Orwell bid the Mayor a polite good morning and took a deep breath. He arranged two of the three remaining shortbread beside the coffee cup and put away the bag, not as neatly folded, in a different drawer.

"Chief?"

"Dorrie?"

"Mr. Abrams?"

"Did I get a call from Detective Moen?"

"Were you expecting one, Chief?"

"I've been expecting one for a week."

"She only left town yesterday, Chief."

"Seems longer. See if you can track her down for me, would you?"

"Forthwith, Chief."

"Definitely. Forthwith. And Dorrie?"

"Still here, Chief."

"I need to talk to Detective Lackawana's . . ."

"Lacsamana."

"Lord! Why can't I remember his name?"

"You didn't like him."

"No I didn't, you're right, that's probably it. Nonetheless and even so, I need his boss, whoever he is. And find Adele Moen. And Lacka-whatever."

"Lacsamana," she said gently.

"Fine. Good. Find me someone to talk to."

"Right Chief."

Orwell dipped a shortbread into his coffee. A mousetrap, he thought. Must remember to bring one. "First get Sam for me would you please?"

"He's waiting on two."

"Oh. Fine. Hi, Sam? You want some response to what Mr. Lyman said last night, is that right?"

"If you'd care to make one, Chief."

"You can say that 'the Dockerty Police Department doesn't involve itself in civic elections.' Please quote me exactly, Sam. You know how I hate it when you paraphrase me."

"I trim sometimes, Chief."

"I count . . . ten words, Sam. Shouldn't require much pruning."

"That's it?"

"We are now officially off the record, Sam. Gregg Lyman can say any d.a.m.n thing he wants while he's running for office. Should he get elected and make the same statement while wearing his mayor's hat, I would definitely have a response, but as long as he's on a soapbox he's free to speechify as he pleases."

"I like the second quote much better."

"I wasn't speaking."

"I know, I know. Wouldn't even have to trim it."

"Goodbye, Sam."

"Much."

"Goodbye, Sam."

Captain emile Rosebart of Metro's homicide unit sounded, to Orwell, as if he was reading a prepared statement. "Detectives Warner Hong and Thomas Siffert, in a misplaced but perhaps understandable excess of zeal brought on by the death of their valued comrade, unwisely brought the accused into Toronto for questioning. He has not yet been charged."

"They bringing him back here?"

"We're making arrangements to return him to Dockerty forthwith."

"Yes of course, 'forthwith,'" said Orwell. "Was he given access to a lawyer?"

"He didn't ask for one."

"Did he get his phone call?"

"I'll copy you into everything that transpired, Chief. I'm sorry about this. It shouldn't have happened."

"They bringing him up? Tong and the other guy?"

"Hong. And Siffert. No. They've been relieved of duty until SIU has a look at what happened. There may be disciplinary action taken."

"I should think there might." Orwell was doodling jagged lines on his legal pad around the names Tong and Hong and Siffert. "So how's this going to work? He's being delivered here and then what?"

"Under the circ.u.mstances, we've decided to hand him over to the OPP and they can deal with it."

"They'd better get him a bail hearing in a hurry," said Orwell. "He's been held incommunicado for, by my watch, 37 hours without seeing a judge. Harold Ruth's lawyer, once he's given the opportunity of speaking to one, is likely to make our lives miserable over this. Who's handling the evidence? Who's got his Winchester, wait, no, it's a Savage 30-30, who's checking that?"

"All we have we'll turn over to the OPP."

"That chain of evidence better be solid."

"Chief, I am at least as p.i.s.sed as you are. They screwed up. They know it, they'll have to pay for it, it'll cost them, pay, maybe grade, I don't know."

"Ship the accused home, Captain. Sooner the better."

Four.