"For killing people?"

"For anything violent."

"No. He's a gentle person." She turned slowly to survey the disarray. "I have to move." She sounded annoyed at the inconvenience. She kicked an empty box out of her way and went into her private office.

Stacy watched her from the open doorway. "Leave this building, or leave town?"

"I gave my receptionist two weeks' severance pay. That's the best I could do. She's been with me four years. I hated to let her go." She sat heavily at her desk, almost hidden behind the stacks. "My husband is probably going to jail for a very long long time. How can I stay here? My . . . lapse of moral judgement cost a man his life."

"They'll want you here for the trial."

"Oh yes. I'll be stuck here for a while. Removing myself from this town, from this life, won't happen overnight. I have patients. Some of them have cancelled, but some rely on me."

"What about Anya Daniel? Does she rely on you?"

"I don't know. Yes. Certainly."

"She is why Detective Delisle came to see you. Can you tell me what he was asking? That wouldn't violate anything, would it?"

"We talked about jazz. He told me he played piano. I told him I once met Oscar Peterson. That was about it. We arranged to meet. After that we didn't talk all that much."

"Did he mention a Russian man who was found dead in Toronto last week?"

"No, I'm sorry. We didn't talk about his cases. Except for questions about my patient, which I couldn't answer."

"And the questions about your patient? What did he want to know?"

"He wanted to know if she was delusional."

"Why didn't you stay at the restaurant? Was there someone you knew?"

"There's always someone. I was an idiot to think we'd be invisible." She wiped her hand across her mouth as if to remove a lingering taste of something bitter. "I just wanted a little romantic interlude. The first time I'd ever done anything remotely like that."

"I was just wondering if it was someone who might have told your husband."

"No. Just some people who could have recognized me." She opened another drawer. Closed it sharply. "I was very stupid. Very stupid."

"Can you tell me anything about Mr. Delisle's weapon? Did he take it off at any point?"

"I told him I hated guns. He put it in his suitcase. Is it important?"

"Probably not." Stacy made a note. "Your patient, Anya Daniel, I know you can't tell me anything about your private communication, and I wouldn't want you to, but I'm trying to determine if there is any connection between Ms. Daniel and the dead Russian. I don't suppose there's anything you could help me with there, without breaking the doctor/patient restriction?"

"Not really. She talks about Russia in very general terms. Her years with the ballet. Evidently she was destined to be a big star back there, but for some reason she had to defect. She won't go into that."

"What year are we talking about? That she had to defect?"

"In 1981. She was touring in the United States and Canada."

"Did something bad happen at home?"

"As far as I can make out, there was some political upheaval going on. New people coming into power. I'm afraid I don't know much about Russian political history."

"That makes two of us."

"She does say that they were all thieves back there. The big shots. She seems to have a special hate for someone named Chernenko. Do you know who that is?"

"I think he's dead," Stacy said.

"Not to hear her talk about him."

"I see. I'll let you get back to your packing then."

"I feel a deep sense of responsibility for what happened. If I hadn't been so stupid that man would be alive."

Stacy couldn't argue that point. "Try not to beat yourself up too much, Doctor," she said.

No, she wouldn't be beating herself up. Not over something so completely preposterous. Harold in the role of killer, of jealous vengeful murderer, was beyond preposterous - it was inconceivable, it went against anything rational. What happened to the red-haired detective was a horrible mistake, a grotesque aberration. She had other things to beat herself up over, sloppy session work, taking too long to do what she should have done a long time ago. But not this. This was not her fault. But it was a catastrophe. This could ruin all her good work.

There was the knocking again. That woman was back.

"Ms. Daniel? Dockerty Police. I'm Detective Crean. Like to talk to you for a few minutes."

She'll go away after a while. Just sit still. There's no need to open the door. If she wants in badly enough she can kick it down the way they like to do.

"Ms. Daniel. I know you're in there, I can smell the cigarette smoke. I'm not here to arrest you. I just have a few questions. Please open the door."

"What do you think?" she asked the cat. "Should we talk to her?" She raised her voice. "What questions?"

"Please open the door."

"Why do you not kick it down?"

"I don't think that's necessary, do you?"

"Do police need a reason?" Anya found herself crossing the room to the door. "Are you alone, or do you have an armed escort?"

"It's just me."

"Because I am a dangerous fugitive, you know? Were you aware of that?"

"No, ma'am. I wasn't aware."

"Oh yes," Anya said. "Most dangerous." She opened the door. The woman in the hall looked the way she sounded, strong, self-a.s.sured, intelligent. "You do not look like the police." She left the door open and went back to the settee where her cigarette waited in an ashtray. A big orange tomcat looked up briefly. Stacy closed the door.

"How do police look?"

"Ha!" Anya's laugh was harsh. "Ugly men with ugly ties and bad breath from too many hamburgers."

Much of the room was bare wood floor. Windows met mirrors at one corner. At the other side was a screened changing area, a small upright piano with a CD player perched on top, and the spa.r.s.ely furnished corner where the woman and the cat waited.

"I can make more tea, if you like."

"No. But thank you," Stacy said.

"Sit down then. Ask your questions."

Stacy sat across from her. "I'm sure you went over all this with the Toronto detectives earlier in the week."

"Yes. The Toothbrush and the Pimple."

Stacy laughed. "That's them," she said. "I spoke to Dr. Ruth."

"I fired her."

"She didn't break any confidences."

"That is good to know. Nevertheless . . . Are you leaving?" Stacy thought for a second that the question was directed at her, but the cat was stretching, jumping to the floor. Anya b.u.t.ted her cigarette, then escorted the cat behind the piano. "Nice of you to visit," she said. The cat took his time. Anya waited patiently until he was on the fire escape, then relocked the window. She looked at Stacy. "The ideal houseguest," she said. "Stays for an hour, does not steal the silver."

"The policeman who was murdered Monday night, did you have a name for him?"

"Beautiful hands," she said. "That was not a name, just an observation. I did not get to know him well enough to give him a name. He was different. You saw him?"

Stacy said, "Not at his best." The woman's lips tightened for a second. "He was in town because of you."

"So I have been told," said Anya. She sat on the piano bench, ran her fingers across the black keys, too lightly to produce notes. "And yet he never came. I am sorry about that."

"Do you know why he wanted to see you?"

"I expect he would have told me, had he lived long enough."

"It seems there was another man shot, in Toronto, two nights before. This man had some connection to you as well." There was a moment of silence. Anya's hand froze in the air above the keyboard. "Your picture was in his wallet."

She played a minor triad, gave a bitter smile. "A fan perhaps?"

"His name was," Stacy consulted her notebook, "Nimchuk." She looked directly at Anya, gauging her reaction. "Viktor Nimchuk." She saw the woman's shoulders sag, her left hand flattened on the piano keys to produce a dissonant chord that hung in the air, unresolved.

Her voice, when finally she spoke, was a weary whisper. "Then that is the last of them," she said.

"The last of who?" Stacy asked.

"The little band of smugglers," Anya said. "There were four. Viktor and Sergei and Va.s.sili and Ludmilla, who were involved with each other for a long time." She looked up. "And me," she said. "Sometimes."

"You?"

"Once in a while I brought something in, took something out. Nothing important."

"You were a smuggler?"

"No, Detective. I was a dancer." She hit the keys, both hands, fingers splayed like blunt hammers. A booming major chord echoed for a moment. "I was destined to be a dancer as soon as my mother examined my arches. My mother wanted to dance, but she had flat feet. You know when you apply to the ballet school, the Vaganova, they measure everything. My arches were perfect. In the womb I was stamped."

"The other four, the smugglers." Stacy wanted to keep her on the subject.

"In some cultures smuggling is an honourable profession, do you know?"

"What did they smuggle?"

"Out of Russia? Cheap stuff, some fakes, ikons, furs, nothing of historical importance, nothing of great value, a few hundred here, a thousand there. A little more, a little less, depending."

"And in?"

"Dollars. American dollars. Mostly. It was not uncommon."

"Then what happened?"

"Viktor got lucky, or he thought so. He stole something very big. He stole it from an even bigger thief."

"What was it?"

"A big piece, covered in gems. Worth a lot of money, too much money for little gypsy smugglers, but Viktor did not know how much it was worth when he stole it."

"What happened to it?"

"They broke it into pieces, sold it over the years. It never gave them what they hoped it would."

"How about you? Did you get any of the jewels?"

Anya spread her arms. "All I have is what you see around you. Some fading photographs, a tea kettle, a rented piano."

"It's all gone?"

"Viktor had the last of it. If they killed him, they have whatever he had left."

"If who killed him?"

"Who knows? He was dealing with some bad people over the years. He thought he was so clever. Bad people from Montreal, from the United States, receivers of stolen jewels."

"You have any names, any descriptions, anything you can help me with?"

"I stayed away from him, Detective. As far as I could. I did not want any part of it. I did not want to defect, I was ready to rejoin the Kirov. I was ready to take back the career that was rightfully mine. Because of Viktor I had to run."

"But why, if you had no part in it?"

"Sometimes the niceties of a situation can be lost on people. You know what I mean? The people Viktor stole from were not nice people. They would not make the distinction."

The policewoman left her card, asked if Anya had plans to leave the city. Anya thought that was funny, but she didn't laugh. "If I decide to go anywhere, Detective, I will inform you," she said. "My whereabouts are never secret for long." After locking the door, she went to the window to see if anyone was taking note of the woman's departure. Nothing. Of course he would not be seen. Being invisible was not hard. Staying invisible was the difficult part. Was it not, Viktor?

Ah Viktor. You should have been the first to go. It would have saved so much trouble if you had been killed. During one of your little Montreal excursions perhaps. That might have made things simpler. Or best of all, back in Moscow, the day you bought the suitcase from that junkie friend of yours. If they had caught you right away, none of this would have happened. Caught you and killed you on the spot. Pretty Ludi would still be alive, sewing costumes, fussing over feathers and sequins. And Va.s.si would still be alive, painting forest scenery, fussing over pretty Ludmilla. And Sergei? What about you, Sergei? Are you out there? Sitting in a parked car, pretending to drink coffee in the cafe across the street? You have done pretty well for yourself, haven't you?