“Five bucks a pill minimum, fifteen for the expensive stuff,” Barry argued.

  “Three dollars,” she said. “And the cancer and transplant drugs are free to anyone who needs them. I won’t make a penny off them.”

  “But Ames-”

  “The higher the prices, the longer it’ll take to unload, and the more people we’ll have coming through here. I want this kept to the New Fifty group and friends we can trust to keep their mouths shut.”

  Barry agreed and went off to start making phone calls, starting with Marty Oliver.

  “Why him?” Amy asked.

  “He’s the closest thing I have to a lawyer.”

  Listening to Rich and Barry giggling in the front room now, Amy wondered, not for the first time, whether Barry’s lifestyle was finally catching up with him. All the dope he had smoked, the acid and mushrooms he had tripped on. Was he finally coming unhinged? Taking a chance like this: was it a sign that his moorings were slipping, easing him out from shore into water whose colour warned of hidden depths?

  Amy had fallen hard for Barry the first time she saw him on campus. He was studying fine arts; she was majoring in piano, unaware that her own immune system would one day turn on her so badly she’d barely be able to play Chopsticks, let alone Chopin. Barry had black hair straight down his back like a Native American in those days. He was lean; he could wear those skinny black stovepipe jeans without looking ridiculous, unlike Rich, whose pear-shaped body demanded something more forgiving even in his youth. Barry had enjoyed considerable acclaim as a student, winning a faculty award for works inspired by Frank Stella’s minimalism, discrete blocks of bold colours separated by thin lines Barry scraped across the canvas with his thumbnail. Then he’d gone post-modernist, influenced by Andy Warhol and his celebrity portraits, only Barry didn’t know any real celebrities, so his work lacked the connection between subject and style that Warhol exploited. Then it was on to Robert Rauschenberg’s emerging pop-art sensibility, Barry screening archival images onto canvas in jarring contexts, trying to confront society, as he then explained it, with society’s own face. And that was Barry, Amy eventually realized. Talented enough to soak up influences and talk the talk, but always riffing on someone else’s style rather than developing one of his own. He went only as far as his modest talent and even more modest work ethic could take him, and that had not been very far at all.

  Amy, on the other hand, had made the most of her musical gifts, always working as hard as, if not harder than, other musicians she met in schools or competitions. It wasn’t until her last year that she could see other students pulling away from the pack and realized a concert career was not to be.

  Neither Barry nor Amy wound up at the forefront of an artistic revolution, as they’d once hoped, Buffalo being several hundred miles northwest of said forefront in New York. But both found work that made good use of their skills, Barry in graphic design, Amy as a piano teacher and rehearsal accompanist for musical theatre, ballet and dance companies. They liked their jobs and lived well. They had great friends, most of whom they’d known since college. But what had it all amounted to, Amy sometimes wondered. What impression had they made on the world? They had never had children: supposedly a mutual decision but it was Barry who had never been ready, Barry who always ended the discussion, Barry who wouldn’t have unprotected sex with her unless the time was safe.

  So unlike his father. Amy had adored Norman Aiken; she found in him a warmth and unconditional love she had never felt with her own parents. He loved classical music and was as knowledgeable about it as she was. He had a baby grand in the living room and often asked her to play-something Barry would never do unless it was old Beatles songs or faux-classical crap by pretentious old buggers like Keith Emerson or Rick Wakeman. When Norman died and left them the house, Barry had wanted to sell it and bank the profits. Amy insisted otherwise. She was ready for a real life, a real house. Her arthritis was already evident and she wanted out of their semi on Franklin Street, with its thin walls and warped doors that let in the frigid air of winter. If they were going to live the rest of their lives together without children, she wanted a home that felt warm and safe and solid.

  She heard more laughter from the den and then a swell of music, the opening chords of “Let It Be” ringing like a church bell.

  “Barry?” she called. “All done.”

  Footsteps clumped down the hall and Barry and Rich joined her in the kitchen. She handed Rich two plastic shopping bags. “This one is yours,” she said. “And this is for Marty. Twenty-four hundred all together.”

  “A steal at twice the price!” Rich’s eyes looked bloodshot and his tongue was sticking to his mouth. Barry had obviously rolled the good stuff, the indoor weed he bought from a thin black guy named Crawford, who lived on Hampshire down by Grant.

  Rich pulled a thick wad of bills out of his pocket and began thumbing hundreds and twenties into a pile. When he was done, Amy recounted it, despite the rolling of Barry’s eyes, and put it into a box of Tide she had emptied out.

  They were going to need more boxes.

  “Before you go, Richard, there’s something I must show you in the den,” Barry said.

  Amy sighed. She knew what that meant: Let’s roll another joint. It was always time to roll another one. Goddamn Barry sometimes. Goddamn him and his appetites and impulsiveness. Goddamn the rut he’d gotten himself stuck in sometime between the Summer of Love and Woodstock. Guys his age still running out to smoke behind the garage, acting like eternal adolescents even as their bodies began to crumple and fail. The heroes of 9/11, the ones who brought down the plane in Pennsylvania: “ Let’s roll” had been their rallying cry. It was Barry’s too, the cry of a big gangly kid who once told her he smoked too much dope because he had never been breast-fed.

  The doorbell rang. Amy didn’t hear Barry move to open it, even though he was at the front of the house.

  “Barr?” she called. He didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t. He wouldn’t want to put off rolling his joint.

  “Jesus,” Amy sighed, and left the kitchen. At the front door, she looked out the glass panel. A delivery man stood there holding an insulated vinyl pizza-warmer.

  “Barry?” she called. “Did you order a pizza?”

  No answer. The music in the den was louder now. Some shrill rock classic: Nazareth or AC/DC.

  “Barry?”

  Of course he had ordered a pizza. That’s what arrested adolescents do when they get the munchies after a toke behind Mother’s back.

  She opened the door to a pleasant-looking young man with Cupid’s-bow lips and a face as round as the moon.

  CHAPTER 26

  Toronto: Thursday, June 29

  No morning that starts off with Percocet and a stool softener bodes well for the rest of the day. But I needed both and in equal measure.

  The mood at the office was sombre when I arrived. Clint’s office door was closed; shadows visible through a pebbled glass panel suggested he was meeting with at least two people. Throughout the workspace, colleagues were clustered in groups of three and four, asking one another about the investigation, funeral services, Franny’s family, which of his ex-wives would make the biggest scene, Vicki or Mireille.

  Jenn and Andy were in our cube patch drinking coffee. I got a subdued welcome. Andy barely looked up and whatever he said was unintelligible. Jenn smiled weakly and nodded at a third coffee on my desk. “I brought that for you just in case.”

  I thanked her and took off the lid. Wisps of steam rose briefly into the air before disappearing. I stared at Franny’s desk, at his dark computer monitor. He hated the thing. I could picture him sitting there, cursing the computer, the keyboard, the mouse, the software and the entire nerd universe that made them possible.

  At nine on the dot, Clint emerged from his office. Behind him were Detective Sergeant Katherine Hollinger and the knuckle-dragging redhead, McDonough. He smirked when he saw me. Hollinger smiled. I smiled back, only it came out more like a goofy grin. I reminded myself I was on Percocet and to mind my manners.

  Clint called for everyone’s attention and got it fast. “People, I’d like to introduce Detective Sergeant Hollinger and Detective McDonough. They’re leading the investigation into Franny’s death. I’ve asked them to give you an update, then we’ll talk about how you can help. Sergeant?”

  Hollinger stepped forward with a black notebook in hand. “I can’t give out certain details, for reasons you people understand better than most, but here’s what we know. The deceased was found in his car on Commissioners Street, behind a warehouse owned by the Erie Storage Company. Based on evidence gathered at the scene, that is where the murder took place. Not a dump site, in other words. The deceased-”

  “Franny,” someone called out behind me. “Please.” It was Darrel Mitchell, an older investigator, long divorced and one of Franny’s drinking buddies.

  “I’m sorry,” Hollinger said. “Franny had multiple gunshot wounds in the head, face and neck from a smaller-calibre weapon, probably a. 22 with a sound suppressor, which is why it attracted no attention until this morning. Preliminary time of death is between midnight and two a.m. Obviously we need to know what the deceased-what Franny was doing at the warehouse. Was he meeting someone? Was it in regard to a case? We’re tracing the owner of the warehouse, obviously, but it’s a numbered company and we haven’t yet tracked down an actual person. We’re canvassing the area, speaking to watchmen who were on duty last night. Asking for video footage from neighbouring companies with security cameras. We hope to pin down the exact time Franny drove down Commissioners, and see who preceded or followed.

  “We’re going to speak to everyone here who knew him. We’re counting on you to provide us with leads. There might be questions you don’t like. Did he gamble, was he a doper, was he seeing someone’s wife? But you know we need to ask them and you need to answer. We’ll look into his ongoing cases and any enemies he might have made in the past.”

  “Start with his ex-wives,” Darrel said, and got a good laugh, easing some of the tension in the room.

  “We’ll be using the conference room for interviews,” Clint said. “Stay at your workstations, please, until we call you. If you need to leave for any reason, let someone know where you’re going and keep your cell or pager on. No exceptions. Jonah?”

  I looked up.

  “We’ll start with you.”

  The four of us sat at a rectangular cherry wood conference table, McDonough and Clint at the heads, Hollinger and I across from each other. She wore an olive-coloured pantsuit today, with a white blouse underneath. Her hair was bunched at the back of her neck and held there by some combination of leather and chopsticks. No jewellery again, save for her ear studs. Definitely no wedding ring or tan line showing she had worn one any time recently.

  Not that I had the urge to observe McDonough that closely.

  Whoa, boy, I told myself. The Percocet has clouded your judgment and lowered your inhibitions-a deadly combination in the male of our species. I told myself I was in the presence of a woman who not only might prove immune to my charms but was armed and trained in the use of deadly force. Then I hoped I had told myself this silently.

  “If it isn’t the cupcake,” McDonough said.

  “You know each other?” Clint asked.

  “We met yesterday,” I said.

  “Regarding?”

  “A case we’re working,” McDonough said. “Your man was asking about a victim named Kenneth Page.”

  “Why?” Clint asked. “I thought you were helping Franny with his nursing home inquiry.”

  “Just a long shot I was checking out for him,” I said. “Nothing came of it.”

  “Big surprise,” McDonough said. “So, come on, cupcake, show us your highly tuned powers of observation. Crack the case open. Drop it in my lap like they do on TV.”

  “All right,” Clint said. “There’s no need for that.”

  “Sure,” McDonough said with a mirthless smile.

  Hollinger said, “Tell us about the case you were helping the victim with.”

  I told them what I knew about Meadowvale and the Vista Mar Care Group, starting with the Boyko interview and ending with a much abridged version of the melee that took place at the end of our visit.

  “Let me get this straight,” McDonough said. “These scuzzballs are stealing pills from old ladies so they can turn around and sell them elsewhere?”

  “I can’t prove it, but that’s what I think. Jenn will agree.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll talk to her next.”

  “What part of the case was Franny working?” Hollinger asked.

  Man, how to answer that one? As far as I knew he hadn’t done a damn thing other than entertain LaReine.

  “Jonah?”

  It was Clint who had called my name. “What part was Franny handling?” he asked.

  “He was… um, looking at the big picture while I was checking facts on the ground.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” McDonough barked.

  “That he doesn’t want to answer the question,” Hollinger said.

  “Out with it, cupcake,” McDonough said.

  Clint said, “Anything you know, Jonah, anything at all.”

  “Okay. He met a woman on Sunday named LaReine. Don’t ask me where. The only thing he told me was she’s black and built. It seems they hit it off and we didn’t see much of him after that.”

  “You have her contact information?” Hollinger asked.

  “Check his cellphone. Her number should be one of his recent calls.”

  “So anything we need to know about his case we have to get from you?” McDonough said.

  “Guess so.”

  He said, “Terrific,” yet I doubted his sincerity.

  “Why would he have gone to that warehouse?” Hollinger asked.

  “No idea.”

  “Would he have known it from a previous case?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “What exactly are you aware of?” McDonough asked.

  “From what you told us earlier,” Hollinger said, “you were doing all the work on this case while Mr. Paradis was seeing a new girlfriend.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You might have to explain what a girlfriend is,” said McDonough.

  Hollinger made eye contact with me. I’m pretty sure her eyes rolled a little. “Gregg?” she said sweetly. “Mind getting us some coffee?”

  McDonough glared at her. He was either seriously ticked or they were running an above-average good cop/bad cop routine.

  I said to him, “Just a dollop of milk for me. No sugar.”

  His face turned red like a match head about to ignite. Definitely ticked.

  “I’ll show you where it is,” Clint said, leading him out and closing the door.

  “So,” Hollinger said. “You were doing Franny’s work while he was romping around. Were you annoyed?”

  “Of course.”

  “How annoyed, Mr. Geller?”

  “Please. Call me Jonah.”

  “Are those his knuckle marks on your face, Jonah?”

  You have to love a question like that, especially when delivered with a fetching smile. “No, these are not Franny’s knuckles.”

  “Whose then?”

  “An unrelated dispute. A misunderstanding that got out of hand.”

  “And into your face.”

  I shrugged.

  “Your side too? Take one in the ribs?”

  “Why?”

  “The way you’ve been moving in your chair. You’re hurting there.”

  “I hadn’t noticed you noticing.”

  “You never will. What started you looking into Kenneth Page? What led from the nursing home to him?”

  “I told you, it was a long shot that didn’t pan out.”

  “Let’s hear it anyway. And don’t hold anything back.”

  I batted my eyelashes and said, “Would I hold anything back from you?” Oh, God, Geller, you Percocet-addled puppy, shut up. And stay shut.

  “Come on,” she said. “Meadowvale. Page. What’s the connection?”

  “Places like Meadowvale get their drugs from somewhere. Often a pharmacy with a wholesale licence.”

  “Which Page had?”

  “Yes. He could get large quantities from manufacturers without questions, and the doctor who runs the home, Bader, could write phony scripts until his hand cramped up.”

  “And sell them to whom?”

  “The most lucrative market seems to be the States.”

  “And who’s taking receipt there?”

  “No idea,” I said. “Not yet.”

  I never did get a coffee out of McDonough. He returned with one for Hollinger and one for himself. Clint had gone back to his office to take a call from Franny’s mother, Dorothee, in Ottawa. I went over everything again with McDonough in the room. He perked up at the thought that Franny might have punched me out, but Hollinger reminded him that Franny’s autopsy showed no bruising or other marks on his hands to suggest he had recently hit anyone.

  Which she had known when she asked me about it. Katherine Hollinger was a girl who liked to have fun. Definitely not your average homicide sarge.

  After I got back to my desk, Jenn was called in. Andy stayed focused on his research. He didn’t like to talk at the best of times, and this was anything but. I went to the men’s room, where I ensconced myself in a stall to check my wound. I untucked my shirt and held it up with my chin. The adhesive strips holding the gauze dressing in place came away easily but the pad itself stuck to the gash. I winced and sucked air and pulled until it came free. The wound itself looked good: red around the edges but no pus or other sign of infection; the gash itself warm and tender but not hot. I put the dressing back- Dr. Klein had warned me against changing it myself-and washed down two more Percocet and another stool softener. The stalemate between them was continuing apace. There’d be a reckoning at some point. Like an economy heading toward recession, maybe the best I could hope for was a soft landing.