“But what about no witnesses to a suicide?”

“If she wanted to do it, there are ways to slip over quietly. But you’d think someone would have heard the screaming if someone was pushing her.”

Hazel looked more closely at the file. “It happened on the last ferry of the night. Eleven-fifteen from the city. How many people could have been on the boat?”

He nodded. “Okay. Well, put her with the bathtub then.”

The next one had stolen a rowboat from one of the docks on the island side, out of her skull on Ativan and alcohol, a bad combination at the best of times. They’d found the boat bumping up against the south shore of Centre Island and her body in two feet of water at the edge of one of the island channels. Brenda Cameron, age twenty-nine, been brought in many times on drug charges in the four years before her death; she’d been a regular in the part of town known as the Corridor. Fined a bunch of times for drug misdemeanours – most for crack, but a few pot busts too – and, as the file said, “known to police.” History of depression.

“What do you think?” said Wingate.

“Possible,” said Hazel, “but she sounds like a suicide waiting to happen.” She flipped through the folder. The coroner had found a mark in the middle of her forehead where he figured she struck it on the edge of the boat, but the skin hadn’t even been split. Hazel could picture the girl, completely blotto, trying to get one leg over the rim of the tilting boat and then the other and barking her head on the gunwale.

“What’s the tox report like?”

“A recipe for disaster.” She turned to the last page. “Marijuana, blood alcohol of.19 -”

“- Jesus, and she could row a boat?”

“Evidently not… pot, lorazepam too, good level of that. I guess she didn’t want to feel it.”

“I guess not.” He considered the victim for a moment. “How do they know there was a boat involved? It sounds like she could have been dumped.”

Hazel scanned the rest of the report. “They found a rowboat drifting in the harbour with one of her earrings in it.”

They put her with Mrs. Marten and turned to the last file.

“But not least,” said Hazel. “Let’s hope this one has suspicious written all over it.” However, the last file was a clear misadventure: a sailboat mishap. Two drownings, in fact, one of which was one of the two men they’d set aside. Theresa Dowling. The boyfriend went down with her. Two amateurs out on a gorgeous August day. “How about Eldwin hired the boyfriend to knock her overboard and the guy screwed up and got himself killed too?”

Wingate just looked at her.

“That’s what I thought,” she said, laying the file aside. She swept the three possibles back down toward the edge of the table. “Janis Culpepper, Lana Baichwell, and Brenda Cameron. Well, ladies? Were any of you murdered?”

The three faces stared up from the front pages of the files. Cameron had been a slim-faced woman with bright, happy eyes set far apart and a wide nose. She might have had some East Indian blood in her, but it was a black-and-white photo, and sometimes that changed a person’s skin colour subtly. The morgue photo showed a tragically bloated face-they’d estimated she’d been in the water for more than thirty hours-but Hazel could still make out the impression on the woman’s head from her pre-drowning tumble from the boat. Culpepper had been fifty-five at the time of her death and she looked well acquainted with the bottle. Her skin was edemic, mottled, her eyes unhappy. Suicide seemed a realistic diagnosis, if not an expectation. The other woman’s face was rounder, blanker. The expression suggested she didn’t want to be photographed. Lana Baichwell. What had happened on that ferry? There was no morgue photo of the face: they’d found Baichwell hidden, pinned between freighters at the Redpath sugar factory just east of the ferry docks and the boats rising and falling at the water’s edge had worn most of the skin off her face. Unless that kind of damage had been done premortem? Hazel put her hand on Baichwell’s file, and at the very same moment, Wingate put his on Cameron’s.

“Cameron,” he said. “The name was on Constable Childress’s list.”

Hazel released Baichwell’s file. “You mean Brenda was one of the renters?”

“No…” He fell silent a moment and then got out his cell. “It was another name.”

“Hold on-did it start with a J?”

“Joanne,” said Wingate, remembering immediately. “You saw it on Childress’s fax, right?”

“No… I saw it…” She got out her PNB and opened it to the most recent page. Her hand was tingling. She turned the notebook to him where she’d written down the names on the tenant list at 32 Washington Avenue. He marked the J. Cameron she’d written there, and then lifted his eyes to meet hers.

“Joanne Cameron.”

“We are the same,” she said.

“Paritas is Brenda Cameron’s mother.”

“Oh my God, James. She’s renting the same apartment Eldwin was in for those eight months under the name Clarence Earles. She’s living at the scene of the crime.”

“What she thinks is a crime scene,” Wingate said.

“‘Eternal cry here,’” said Hazel, and he looked at her strangely. “ Cherry Tree Lane was an anagram. Andrew worked it out. This is it, James. Brenda Cameron is the one we’re looking for.”

“Okay… okay, I buy that. So we know who Paritas is then.”

“Yes.”

“But who is Belloque?”

“He’s the boyfriend.”

“Are we sure?”

“I don’t know. But the man I met in Gilmore seemed to care a lot for her. Maybe he wants to prove his worth?”

“Kidnapping and torture is a pretty extreme way to show you’re boyfriend material. Whatever happened to chocolate and roses?”

“Shows what you know about modern courtship.”

He scanned Cameron’s postmortem report again. “Well, I think our next step is to have a discreet conversation with this investigating detective.” He ran his finger across the names at the top of the file. “Detective Dana Goodman caught the case. You want me to see if Toles can track her down for us?”

Hazel put her hand over the cell he was getting ready to dial. “Hold on a second. Did you know this Goodman?”

“Never heard of her, actually. I didn’t make detective until the spring of 2003. That’s when I got my placement at Twenty-one. But there was no Goodman here then.”

“What if she wasn’t here because she blew this very investigation? Paritas-I mean Cameron-and Bellocque obviously feel it was a cock-up. I think we keep this Goodman out of the loop unless we absolutely need her. In fact, I don’t think we should talk to anyone yet.”

“This isn’t our house, Hazel.”

“We’re so close, James. But there’s still something missing, something we need before we can be sure we’re safe talking to the people here.”

“You think there was a cover-up?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ilunga’s a hard-ass, but I don’t think he’s -”

“Do you feel strongly enough about him that you’d go to him right now with what we have? You’re that sure he wouldn’t show you the wrong side of his door?”

He thought about that for a moment. “Well, you’re not sure, and you’re my commanding officer. But what are we doing then?”

She was staring at the Cameron report, flipping pages. “Maybe now that we have a name, we expand the canvass. Start talking to other Camerons. Where’s the father, for instance?”

“If he’s not totally in the dark, then I doubt contacting him will do anything but blow our cover.”

“Fine. Maybe we can get Toles to dig some more for us.”

“For what, though?”

“Find out what happened to Goodman. How the investigation went. Maybe there’s something internal, something that got hushed up -”

“If that’s where this is all leading, we’ve got more on our hands than a misfiled suicide.”

“Do you have the stomach for it if we do?”

“We’ve come this far,” he said.

“That’s what I…” She frowned. “That’s…”