Thursday, March 17 Orwell was one Irishman who disliked St. Patrick's Day and all the nonsense that went with it - green beer and ridiculous hats. He did allow for a decorous measure of emerald trim in the station, provided the place was kept leprechaun-free. All shamrocks and harps had to be promptly removed by the morning of the 18th.

"Morning, Staff. Harold Ruth show up yet?"

"No, Chief. They've still got him. He could be en route, but I have no official . . ."

"Dorrie, Captain Rosebart. Right away."

"I'll get him for you, Chief."

"They'd better be handling him with kid gloves." Orwell stormed into his office, slamming the door behind him. He was back in three seconds, jacket half off, hat still on his head. "Well?"

"Trying to locate him, Chief."

"How can that be hard, on a workday morning? This isn't the first time they've pulled this nonsense. Tramping all over my town like we don't matter, kidnapping suspects. That's right: kidnapping. Dorrie?"

"Still can't locate him, Chief."

"All I can say is Mr. Ruth better look as fresh as a newborn babe when he shows up. And he'd better by G.o.d show up soon or heads will roll. Heads will roll!"

This time Orwell's office door stayed slammed.

Stacy enjoyed it when the Chief got all oratorical. From the far side of the big room she could hear the Voice booming inside his office. She couldn't tell whether he was yelling into a phone or holding court. "What, no one knows where she is? I find that hard to . . . yes, would you do that for me, please?" It was a phone call. She heard him hang up, heard his tone turn rhetorical, perhaps addressing the world in general. He did that sometimes. "No problem? Is that what pa.s.ses for polite discourse these days? No problem?" Brennan was in a mood. No doubt about it. "Of course it's no problem. It's your job." She saw the Chief appear at his office door and scan the room, perhaps looking for anyone who might disagree with him about something. "Dorrie, according to Detective Laka-whatever . . ."

"Lacsamana," Dorrie corrected.

". . . who has been giving me the runaround for the past ten minutes."

Dorrie handed the Chief a piece of paper. "I wrote it down."

Orwell glanced at the paper, crumpled it and jammed it in his pocket. "With any luck I'll never be forced to speak to the man again. According to . . . him, Detective Moen is taking some personal time and is unavailable. Un-available. Nonetheless, would you keep trying her number at regular intervals?" The Chief pointed at Stacy. "Detective Crean? Are you available?"

The Chief wasn't alone in his office. Staff Sergeant Rawluck was at parade rest, with his hands behind his back, his shiny boots shoulder width apart. Stacy's immediate boss, Lieutenant Emmett Paynter, recently promoted from detective sergeant, was sitting by the window wearing his usual shapeless grey suit. The Owl, they called him - round gla.s.ses, feathery hair, very slow blinks. Emmett wasn't a bad boss. Stacy had no problem with him. He was organized, had a sense of humour (if you liked fart jokes), knew the town, used his small force effectively and wasn't blind to the fact that his most productive investigator was a woman.

"Grab a chair," said the Chief.

"Thank you, sir." She nodded at the other men. "Good morning, Lieutenant. Staff Sergeant." She looked around for the designated chair. It was facing the Chief, but Stacy got the impression that it was Emmett's show, at least for the moment.

"You'll be at Billy Meyer's going away bash tonight?" Emmett asked. It wasn't really a question.

"Yes, Lieutenant. I'll certainly put in an appearance."

"Good, good, glad to hear it. Irish House."

"Can I put you down as a designated driver, Detective Crean?" Roy Rawluck wanted to know.

"Yes, Staff Sergeant," she said. Stacy didn't drink. "Happy to."

"Fine. Some of the lads might overdo the auld lang syne if you take my meaning."

Stacy waited quietly. She knew Billy Meyer's retirement party wasn't the reason she'd been called into the Chief's office.

Emmett shifted in his chair, blinked slowly. "So. Randy Vogt's going to be on his own, come, oh I guess Monday morning."

Had to happen. Might as well get it over with. "You're partnering me with Detective Vogt?"

"Yes, well, that was the plan. I don't have a lot of options." She saw Emmett and the Chief exchange a look.

"Sir? Was the plan?"

"Still is, still is, in the long run. But Detective Vogt has some vacation time coming, couple of weeks, and I think we can wait until he gets back to finalize things. That okay with you?"

"Yes, sir, certainly."

"Right then." He looked at her. A smile might have twitched the corner of his mouth, but she couldn't be certain. "Until things get sorted out you can work solo, a while longer."

Some days you get a reprieve. "Certainly, Lieutenant."

"Chief Brennan here asked if I could free you up to look into a few things for him."

"And your boss has generously offered to lend me your services for a little while." The Chief stood, signalling that the meeting was over, for some of the partic.i.p.ants at any rate. Emmett stood, she stood, Roy Rawluck came to attention.

"What did we wind up getting him, sir?" she asked.

"Retirement gift? I think it's a . . ."

"A Kitchen-Aid mixer," Roy said. "Has all the attachments."

". . . right," Emmett finished. "He's going to take cooking lessons, I hear." He looked dubious. "Well, leave you to it then." He nodded at the Chief, headed for the door. "Irish House. Any time after eight."

"Looking forward to it," Orwell said.

The Chief motioned Stacy to resume her seat. She heard the door close. She was on her own.

"Cooking lessons," Orwell said. He sat, rubbed his big hands together as if preparing to dine. "Well, comes to us all, I suppose."

"Cooking lessons, Chief?"

"Retirement, Detective Crean. Hobbies, diversions, avocations. Fancy chickens."

Stacy allowed the Chief a moment to contemplate the inevitable, then got back to business. "What things would I be looking into, sir?"

"Well, for starters, the late Detective Paul Delisle's service weapon, a .357 Smith & Wesson revolver, is still missing. Lorna Ruth says he did have a gun, but Detective Moen believes it was his backup piece, a .32. So far, the .357 hasn't turned up among the dead detective's possessions." The Chief stood, motioned to her to stay where she was. He wanted to widen his range. "Now, there's nothing to suggest that the gun is anywhere around here, and there's nothing to suggest that it isn't simply in Delisle's apartment, or with a gunsmith for repairs, or any one of a hundred innocent explanations, so I'm not sending up any red flags, but can we all at least admit that there's a gun floating around somewhere?"

"Yes, sir."

He turned to the window. "Really coming down out there," he said. The rain was steady, he could almost see Armoury Park growing greener under the shower. His voice turned conspiratorial. "And while you're nosing around, ostensibly looking for a missing revolver - which evidently is no problem to anyone else - you might have a discreet chat with the dance instructor, Ms. Daniel, and with Dr. Ruth."

"Yes, sir. Anything specific I'd be looking for?"

"Wish I could help you there, Detective. You're the investigator. Go investigate."

"Yes, sir," she said. "No problem."

He swung around to glare at her. She was grinning.

Discreet nosing around. That's what he wanted. I suppose I could go back over the little Omemee junket, talk to the bartender, waitresses, liquor store manager, whatever. Just see if anybody saw the thing. Adele said he wore it under his jacket, right side, in a black Jordan spring clip,maybe the jacket was open when he paid his check, maybe somebody b.u.mped into him.

Discreet nosing around for, but not limited to, Delisle's missing revolver. Why discreet? No red flags fine, let's not unduly upset the populace about a wandering handgun. But what else are we looking for?

Adele Moen was in Jamaica. It took Stacy three phone calls to get the information. She knew a few cops in the GTA. Even Dorrie was impressed. But where in Jamaica was still up for grabs. Wouldn't mind going over a few things with her. There it was again, "go over a few things." What things? All right, she had notes from the first investigation. There was a reference to the shooting of some Russian man on the Queensway. Peel Division. Worth a call.

"Staff Sergeant Hurst? Hi there, this is Detective Stacy Crean, Dockerty Police Department, trying to get some information on a case you're working down there. Russian man shot in a motel room on the Queensway last week."

"You got a date?"

"No. A detective from Metro was up here checking a few things regarding that one. He just mentioned the basic facts . . ."

"This Delisle we're talking about?"

"That's correct."

"He said the guy was shot when?"

"He didn't say exactly, he said a week ago."

"Technically, I guess. Probably late Sat.u.r.day night. When did he show up in your town? Monday?"

"Monday morning."

"The Queensway vic was found DOA Sunday morning. Four a.m."

"This is the same case?"

"I know this is a tough town, Detective, but one dead Russian a week is about our quota."

"He said there was material in the man's wallet that connected him to Dockerty in some way."

"There was no wallet. We wouldn't know anything about the dude except he had his union card in his pants pocket."

"What was his name?"

"Nimchuk. Viktor."

"Nimchuk," Stacy was writing it down. "I think that's Ukrainian."

"Ukrainian, Russian, Uzbek, doesn't really matter. Guy was a Soviet citizen until he defected back in '81."

"Have you made an arrest?"

"We don't have anything yet. In fact, the most interesting thing about the guy is you saying how much interest Delisle had in him."

"Find a weapon?"

"No weapon."

"Got a slug?"

"Well, yeah, got a bullet. Pretty mashed up."

"And?"

"Looks like it might be a .357."

"Smith?"

"Far as we can tell."

"That figures," Stacy said.

The cat was on the fire escape, looking in at her. Wet. Impa.s.sive. An unneutered tomcat, tiger-striped, orange and white, built the way mature tomcats get, heavy neck and shoulders, skinny a.s.s, big b.a.l.l.s. He never sprayed inside the studio. The first time he showed up at her window, she told him that the minute he lifted his tail inside her workplace, he would be banished for eternity. They had an understanding. She hadn't named him. She didn't feed him. Once, a few years ago, she left a dish of canned tuna out for him. He wouldn't touch it.

She opened the window enough to let him inside. He took his time, a.s.suring himself that she was alone before stepping across the sill and dropping to the floor. He paused for a long moment and looked to be studying himself in the wall mirror.

"What do you see?" she asked out loud.

This is how one should live, she thought. This creature has no fear. He has no allegiance. All places are the same to him. He comes here when it suits him. Who can say how many other fire escapes, laneways, back porches he knows? Sometimes he goes away for weeks. Sometimes he stays for a while. Sometimes when he's bitten and b.l.o.o.d.y and hurt, he comes here to get better. Then he stays for a while.

"I think maybe you will have to find another fire escape," she said. "I may have to find another escape myself." She lit a smoke, deliberately closed the window and locked it. The cat jumped onto the settee under the photographs of her sad career, inspected the area carefully before settling himself. "You hear me?" she asked him. "Do not get too comfortable. That is the golden rule, is it not? Do not get too comfortable. The situation will be changing pretty soon, I think." She shook the tea kettle. Good. She wouldn't have to go down the hall to fill it. She plugged it in. In the photograph above the tea canister, she was wearing black feathers. She shuddered involuntarily. "Have you ever killed a crow?" The cat didn't move an ear. "They are like elephants, you know, they never forget."

And it wasn't even her fault. She was a child.

The crows near her home in Sosnovy Bor stole constantly. They took silverware off the picnic table, they took her father's medal off his coat while it hung in the yard, and they took her tiara when she was five years old. It wasn't a real tiara, it was a thing her grandfather made for her to wear with the tutu her mother had sewn. The jewels were paste and beads and pieces of coloured gla.s.s. It was pretty and she loved it. And a crow swiped it right off her head while she was dancing in the gra.s.s, swooped down and s.n.a.t.c.hed it neat as you please, the way an eagle takes a fish from the ocean, took it and flew away to a tree and laughed at her, proud of what he'd done.

As soon as her grandfather picked up his shotgun, the crow took wing and the shot missed. But the tiara was left dangling on the branch. And against all reason save greed, or willfulness, the bird turned back to reclaim his pickings. The shotgun had two barrels.

What a racket. All the crows in the neighbourhood that day had something to say about the incident. Screaming and cawing and circling overhead. It didn't sound like grieving to Anya, crows lack the ability to sound bereaved, it isn't in their register. Whatever they might be feeling, it sounded accusatory, they were marking her as the villain.

The tiara had drops of blood on it. Her grandfather wiped it clean, but she never wore it again.

She made a single cup of tea. Irish Breakfast, with three sugar cubes, no milk, carried it to the front window and looked down at Vankleek Street, smoking, sipping, watching the normal people hurrying by in the rain. Lucky people.

Dr. Lorna Ruth was a pretty woman, or would have been if not for the numb expression, and the distracted way she was going about her work - shifting piles of papers, opening and closing drawers without looking inside. Cardboard boxes, empty and filled, were cluttering the outer office. She stared at the crammed bookcases and her shoulders slumped. "Have they brought my husband back yet?" Her voice was frayed, her att.i.tude distant.

Stacy said, "He's supposed to be on his way."

"Will he get bail?"

"Probably. He doesn't have prior convictions, does he?"