“If this is as you say, we’re not going to be welcome at Twenty-one much longer.”

“That’s why we need Toles onside and Ilunga in the dark.”

27

They drove to the bus terminal on Bay Street and Hazel bought Martha a one-way ticket to Port Dundas. Her daughter didn’t argue at all. “I’ll call your father to pick you up,” she said. “He’ll be happy to see you.”

“What makes you think this guy won’t show up in Port Dundas?”

“He’s not leaving Toronto while I’m still here.”

“How does he know you’re still here?”

“He just does,” she said.

They waited until the bus moved out onto Edward Street and made its turn south toward the expressway. “Let’s see if Toles feels like having a coffee,” she said.

Toles met them in the Tim’s. He’d brought Lana Baichwell’s file, like she asked him to. “You been here the whole time?” he asked. “I didn’t realize you guys were from Quebec,” he said, smiling.

“Uhh?” said Hazel.

“A two-hour lunch? I just figure you must be French.”

“Well, actually,” said Hazel, “something interesting came up.” She lowered her voice. “I think we found our girl.”

Toles reached carefully into a small black portfolio and drew out the file. “This one, eh?”

Hazel took the file and opened it. “She went over the side of the Ongiara on July 10, 2002. We’ve come across some evidence that she might have been pushed.”

“Really. Like what?”

She nodded to Wingate, who produced the sweater. She took it from him and handed it over to Toles. “We can’t talk about our source yet, but if you can get that down to your lab and there’s the wood or varnish we expect to find on it, then I think we’re going to want to establish some kind of joint force to carry forward. And you’re already attached, Detective.”

“I hear you.”

“It might be a way of getting in good.”

Toles looked thoughtful, running his tongue around the inside of his bottom lip. “I went to school with one of the girls in the hair and fibres department at CFS. I could talk to her this afternoon.”

“How well do you know her, Danny?” asked Hazel.

“What do you mean?”

“Would she rush a job just for you?”

He smiled, happy to have his other charms noted. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask.” He held up the evidence bag. “Why don’t you two keep having your lunch. I’ll see what my girl can do for us.”

They hadn’t actually had a first lunch, and they were both starving. Wingate knew a decent sandwich shop over on Adelaide Street, and they ordered and sat in the window looking over the sidewalk.

Hazel tore off a piece of her club sandwich. If she lived in Toronto, she could have bacon every day and her mother would never know. “You have a good talk with Superintendent Ilunga?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It was good to catch up.”

“I get the feeling they really care for you down here.”

“Yeah,” he said. That wall of his was going up again. She decided to plow through it.

“I didn’t realize you’d been down here for less than two years. I thought it had been longer.”

“I did the exam in January 2003. I’d been in Etobicoke since the academy; they thought I had promise for CIB.”

“You do.”

“I guess so.”

The sandwich shop was almost empty: people ate and worked on a strict schedule in this part of town. He wasn’t taking on the unasked question and she was going to have to ask it. “So, James. You left. Why did you leave? Why did you get as far away from here as you could?”

He kept his eye on the world beyond the window. “The superintendent wanted to know if I’d consider coming back.”

“That’s what he wanted to talk to you about?”

“He was wondering if I thought enough time has passed.” She put her hand on his forearm to bring him back into the room with her and he looked down at her hand. “I lost my partner,” he said. “Just over a year ago, in fact. April 12 last year.”

“God… I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“Did it happen on the job?”

“No,” he said, and he glanced at her. His eyes were shining. “He wasn’t a police, Hazel. That’s not the kind of partner I’m talking about.”

The blood left her face. “Oh shit,” she said. “Oh god, James, I didn’t know -”

He nodded. “His name was David. They beat the hell out of him on the boardwalk in front of Queen’s Quay at one in the morning. A Wednesday night. He was walking our dog. We lived in one of the condos across from Harbourfront. There were witnesses, but they didn’t do anything. They were too scared, I guess. Six guys swarmed him, they hit him with everything they could get their hands on: bottles, a couple of chairs from one of the patios, they kicked his ear into his skull. Then they toed him over the walkway and into the lake. They killed Grace – the dog – too, as if she could have identified them.” He slid his eyes over hers and then looked back out the window, toward the lake. “When I learned this whole case was going to focus on the lake here, I just wanted to get in my car and drive. As far away as I could. Again.”

“James.”

He coughed into his hand. “This detail about the Cameron case, the water in her lungs, it, you know…”

“What?”

“It just makes me want to die.”

She could feel the heat radiating off him, as if finally telling her his secret had set him on fire.

“Did they catch them?”

“One of them.” He was far away now, and strangely calm. “Brought him in, put him in one of the holding cells downstairs after they booked him. They told me where he was. There was no one at intake, but there was a key on the desk. I took off my gun and my stick and left them on the table.”

“What happened?”

“He lived. Then he went to prison. Second degree. He’ll be paroled in four more years, the rest of them are out there somewhere.”

He hadn’t taken his eyes off the passing show, but that was all he was going to say. She was trying to get more experience showing the people she cared for that she really did love them, but even at Martha’s apartment, despite her fear for the girl’s life, it had taken an effort. That was who she was: her love stayed inside her too much. She was nothing like Brenda Cameron, nothing like that dead girl’s mother. The hot core of another person had always frightened her. She preferred relationships that didn’t have to be plumbed, that could be resolved in guilt or innocence. This was neither, these crimes James Wingate had just described to her, a murder and an assault, and she didn’t know what to say.

So she said, “You wanted to know what Ray Greene was doing at the station house.”

“Sure,” he said, as if he was going to sleep.

“He’s coming back.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Probably it will be. He’s going to be CO.”

“And you?”

“They want to give me the gold watch.”

“Will you take it?”

What she’d told Greene had been calculated to cause maximum discomfort. But now she told Wingate the truth: “I don’t know.”

He pushed his plate away. He’d taken two bites of his tuna sandwich. She wasn’t hungry anymore, either. “I hope you won’t,” he said.

They paid and left. When they were outside on the sidewalk, turning back toward the police station, she put her hand on Wingate’s shoulder and turned him to face her again. “James, look, I’m no good with the comforting word, but honestly, I feel sick right now. I just wish I could -”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m glad I told you. But I can’t talk about it anymore. If you’re worried I’m tempted to come back here, I’m not. I’m never coming back.”

She had been worried, and she was glad she didn’t have to ask.

As soon as they entered Twenty-one, the desk sergeant stood and waved them over. He looked at his watch. “Nice lunch?” he asked.