"Date of purchase," Delorme whispered aloud, flipping through the unfamiliar form. "Come on, now. Date of purchase. You claim depreciation, somewhere you've got to say when you bought the damn-" She sat back on her haunches, gripping the blue-and-white form. Catherine Cardinal had bought the condo in Florida three years ago, with a down payment of forty-six thousand dollars U.S., just six weeks after the first Corbett fiasco.

Careful, now, Delorme's inner voice said. You don't know anything. You keep looking and you keep your mind open. We are in collecting mode here, not judging.

Cardinal had claimed a portion of his homeowners insurance policy as a deduction. Delorme found the file marked Insurance. The amount of the policy seemed low at first glance, but then she remembered that it was the property, not the house, that was expensive. The file contained receipts for large purchases- Cardinal's Camry, a new refrigerator, a table saw- but then Delorme came upon a receipt that made her catch her breath. It was from the Calloway Marina in Hollywood Beach, Florida, in the sum of fifty-thousand dollars for a Chris-Craft cabin cruiser. Dated October, two years ago. That would put it just two months after the second Corbett raid went bad.

Again, Delorme made an effort to calm her beating heart, told herself not to jump to conclusions. Jumping to conclusions turned you into a danger to everyone who got near you. But that amount, and on that date- well, it was damaging, no question.

At the rear of Cardinal's bottom drawer, she pulled out a file marked Yale. She scanned the contents swiftly, correspondence from Yale on expensive letterhead that confirmed what she already knew: that John Cardinal was paying a damn fortune to send his daughter to a famous school. Over twenty-five thousand a year in Canadian dollars, not including living expenses, and then there were travel costs and art supplies on top of that. Cardinal had said Kelly was in her second year of grad school, so he was looking at close to seventy-five thousand dollars and she was not even done yet.

Delorme put the papers back and closed the drawer. Stop while you're ahead, she told herself: the boat, the condo, they're more than enough to follow up.

She put Cardinal's half of the pizza in the fridge, washed her plate, and put on her coat. She switched off the light, wondering why on earth her partner would allow her to search his place when there was so much incriminating evidence around. It didn't make sense.

Driving into town, she called Malcolm Musgrave on her cell phone. "I've been looking at some very interesting receipts- large purchases right after your Corbett raids. But I can't tell you where I found them just yet."

"He's your partner, I understand that, but you're not running this investigation on your own."

"Ninety-six thousand dollars U.S. That's in addition to a kid at Yale."

"Probably our exalted commissioner makes that much, but I don't and you don't and neither does your partner."

"It looks bad, I know. But he doesn't live high. He doesn't spend a lot of cash."

"You're forgetting there's a considerable stick here as well as the carrot. Once someone like Kyle Corbett gets his pincers into you, you don't just decide you're tired of the game. You do what he wants, or he'll get you where you live. You might want to interview Nicky Bell on that subject. Oh, that's right, he's dead. Silly me." Musgrave told her to hang on a minute.

While she was waiting, she saw John Cardinal driving back out to his place. She raised her fingers off the wheel to wave, but he didn't see her. Suddenly Delorme regretted making the call. Then Musgrave came back.

"Look, I'm gonna need to know more about these receipts. We don't have time for prima donnas here, sister."

"Sorry. I don't think I can do that. Not yet, anyway."

Musgrave pressed her. Gave her his You're-playing-with-the-big-boys-now basso aria.

"Look, I'm doing my job, all right? I'm investigating the guy. That's all you have to know right now." Musgrave started in on her again, but Delorme clicked off the phone.

When she got home, she remained in her car with the motor running, leaning her head on the steering wheel. She tried not to identify the feelings that flowed inside her. Delorme had come across a lot of larcenous men in her six years with Special. And in that time she had come across motivations that rivaled the northern woods in their richness and variety. Some men steal for greed. Those are simple, and easy to nail. Then there are other men, more complex, who steal out of compulsion. Still others steal out of fear: Delorme thought those were by far the most common: the middle-aged manager who sees the specter of a penny-pinching retirement. Delorme didn't think Cardinal could be any of these. And so she wasn't dwelling on that fancy cabin cruiser, or even that Florida condo. The objects that shone clearest in her mind were the letters from Yale. She could feel the expensive weave of the stationery in her hand, the embossed seal, the enormous cost of an Ivy League education. Some men, she was realizing, might steal for love.

"John Cardinal," she said aloud. "You are such a stupid fool."

29

ERIC had brought him the soup- it was all they'd been feeding him for the past two days, despite his protests- and sat at the end of the bed to make sure he finished it. He didn't say a word, just sat and stared at Keith like a crow. Then he'd smiled that ferrety smile of his, as if they shared some secret, and left the room.

Keith went straight to the bathroom and made himself throw up. He was not bothered by nausea anymore, but he was sure they were drugging him with something that made him sleep all the time. He wanted his wits about him, now; he wanted to know what was going on.

Afterward, exhausted and hollow, he sat on the edge of the bed, listening to their voices upstairs, droning on and on. They were directly overhead, but he couldn't make out any distinct words, just the voices.

Throwing up had made his eyes water. He wiped them on the corner of the sheet, and now with his cleared vision, he saw that there was a new addition to the furniture in the room. In the corner, where the camera and tripod had once stood, was a small TV and a VCR. Christ, how long were they expecting him to stay down here? It was clothes he wanted, not a bloody television.

But his clothes were not on the back of the chair. Not under the bed. Not hanging in the bathroom. And his duffel bag was missing, too.

He tried the door, but it was locked from the other side. For the first time, a thread of fear flowed into his bloodstream. He wrapped himself in a blanket and sat for a long time, thinking. At some point, he wasn't sure when, he heard Eric and Edie go out, heard the car starting up in the drive.

His head was still not clear, but he tried to assess how much trouble he was in. The door was locked, his clothes were gone- definitely bad signs, but he simply could not assess how bad. Eric and Edie just didn't seem all that scary. Worst case, he thought, what's my worst case: They think I'm rich and they're going to hold me for ransom.

He came to a decision. Next time they opened that door he'd be out in a flash, no hesitation. I may be wrong, they may be harmless, but it doesn't matter. I'm out of here.

There was a buzzing sound from overhead. He looked up just as the single bulb flickered and burned out. The room went dark. Slats of daylight, thin and pale, framed the boarded-up window.

Darkness had never frightened Keith London before, but it did now. He switched on the television. In such utter gloom, even this cold harsh glow was welcome. There was no aerial, no cable; the reception was hopeless. On one channel the ghost of a newscaster stared earnestly out at him, but no voice penetrated the static.