LITMIR.BIZ

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. petrach . . . Help me out here, expert.”

      He rolled a tongue around his cheek in mockery. “A kindergartner knows the drill. Except that sometimes petechial hemorrhages appear for other reasons.”

      “No prints, though. Right?”

      “Fingerprints can show up on skin with hi-tech fuming devices, but you have to get them fast. With whisper-thin latex gloves, it can be marginally possible to retrieve prints, too.”

      “Latex? Then rule out everyone with an allergy.”

      “Very funny. You might get hired as our departmental joker.”

      She was on a roll. “Trace evidence turned up by your forensics folk in white spacesuits? That theory that you take something and leave something—”

      “Actually, the suits are black. You’re talking about Locard’s Principle of Exchange. If it were one hundred per cent true, few murders would go unsolved.”

      “I haven’t heard anything about rape. Are you holding that back?”

      “No more leaks.” He stroked his jaw, the noon shadow beginning to shade his bronze face. “I should get out of this sorry business, except that I don’t seem to have any other talents. The price of life’s so cheap. A few thousand in portable property.”

      “You told me drugs were behind most crimes. Supporting a habit. Look how many times the Dairy Queen gets hit. What about the Hock Shop? Have you—”

      They were interrupted by the loud guffaws and table slapping at the next booth, one coneheaded bald man with a pyramid of maple cream doughnuts, the other with a Godzilla hunk of coffee cake. Both wore hearing aids. “Friggin’ idjits. Whatta we pay them for, anyways? Couldn’t find their arsehole with their own thumb. There’s a squad car at every Tim’s.”

      Steve winced. “Glad I walked. I’d better hustle back to the station. We have another task force meeting this afternoon. Some hot shot profiler flew up from the Big Smoke.”

      “Let me guess the result. Male. Loner. Twenty to thirty-five. Hated Mommy Dearest. Works at a min-wage job.” She looked around at the staff, mostly earnest women, but what about the kitchen help? “Maybe twenty feet away operating a deep-fat fryer.”

      “Not any more. The doughnuts come pre-cooked.” Finally he smiled, tapping her cheap watch, well-worn with a cracked crystal. “I’ll pass on your theory to the chief. But don’t buy a Rolex on the expectations.”

      “One other thing. I had a nasty note from some Junior Crime Stopper. I suppose those in charge will give me some privacy baloney if I complain. Can you ask around and see if they have an overambitious kid on the roster in my area, maybe in Skead? A bike could do it in less than an hour.” She explained the wiper incident.

      “Everything is routed through Toronto, but I know our liaison sergeant, Rick Cooper.” He pointed across the street to the Ukrainian Seniors’ Centre next to Ray Hnatyshyn Park. “Crime Stoppers could have used more eyes over there in June. Kids painted swastikas on the back wall near the garden. Makes me sick.”

      “That’s low. I saw some graffiti on my way in, but it was rather artistic.”

      “Graffiti’s no trivial issue.” He let out a slow breath in mute comment at her naïveté. “There was a dramatic increase over the summer. Over eleven thousand dollars in removal costs around the city. Besides that, it creates an environment that appears unsafe.”

      “True enough. Reminds me of L.A. streets in that movie Colors. It’ll taper off soon. Spray paint doesn’t work at -30°C,” she said, coaxing a smile from his classic, chiselled lips.

      As they parted company outside, she watched him stop momentarily to eyeball the stragglers in a crossover area between Tim’s and the LCBO. Booze it up and then sober up. This volatile combination with the nearby bus station attracted drifters. He fished in his pocket for loose change and passed it to a tall, thin man who gave a theatrical bow, sweeping his Peter Pan hat to the ground, a rare character in the staid mining town.

      Later that afternoon, she pointed the van down Paris and turned left on John Street, high on a hill, overlooking the jewel of Lake Ramsey. On one side was the venerable St. Joseph Health Centre with its helipad, beyond that, the snowflake shapes of Science North, then Laurentian, the new megahospital with parking lots far enough from the entrance to weed out the more fragile heart patients. Then came Shield University with its gleaming towers, where the new medical college was breaking ground. At last the doctor-poor North could train its own.

      She didn’t need to double-check the address. Parked in the circular, bricked drive was a brown, black and yellow Ford Focus, customized to resemble a bee. Its rear was striped, a sharpened, centralized exhaust pipe serving as stinger, with trompe l’oeil folded gossamer wings and black legs on the body, protruding from the hood a plastic proboscis and antennae. The bakery logo was stencilled on both doors. Great tax deduction.

      Bea’s handsome home was constructed of massive grey stone blocks with cream mortar. A pristine slate roof and seamless eavestroughing bore witness to careful upkeep. It had two chimneys, a large wraparound porch with white Doric columns, a turret room and an attached garage, probably a later addition. One absent pleasure after leaving Toronto was the time travel through its varied neighbourhoods as far back as the Georgian period. Gently she touched the cool stone steps, slightly concave from nearly a century of use. Despite its charms, Cayuga House might be replaced by a blocky, cantilevered monstrosity. She hoped it would put up a stubborn fight against the monster backhoe.

      Pulling out a small notebook to jot observations, Belle noticed an array of lilac bushes, skeleton pods of their Victoria Day splendour. The ivory hydrangea masses wore a blush of copper frost. Mature maples and ash offered shade and privacy. Caragana hedges were trimmed to perfection. Anyone with sense would kill for the landscaping.

      She twirled the quaint bell chime and heard a muted response inside. “Hello.”

      “It’s Belle Palmer.”

      “Hello, hello,” replied the voice, oddly modulated, as if affected by a stroke. Did Bea have an older relative living with her? She tried the handle and found it unlocked. Hesitantly, she moved into the foyer, noting the wide plank floors and Aubusson runners.

      “Bea? Where are you?” she called.

      “Hello, hello,” repeated the voice, sharper now, almost petulant. Belle was reminded of seniors at her father’s nursing home who sometimes used double language. Unwilling to maintain the senseless conversation, she decided to look around.

      After passing an empty living room, she came to a closed door. From behind it came a piercing shriek. Despite her misgivings, she opened it and found a parrot swinging from a brass stand, its food bowl empty. Beady coal eyes fixed upon her with a strange wisdom, as if it read her thoughts. “Oreo! Oreo!” it croaked, cocking its head and moving back and forth in rhythm. Pinfeathers floated in the air.

      A very large woman in her early forties, with a friendly bulldog face, blunt lips, heavy brows and a streak of flour still in her riotous brown hair, slipped up behind her to deposit sunflower seeds into a metal cup. She carried a long, thin marble pastry roller which reminded Belle of the drill cores left in the field in mining operations. Her handshake was supple and strong. The resemblance to an unnamed comedienne which Miriam had flagged bothered her as well, but she couldn’t pin down the identity.

      “Meet Mackenzie King. He’s having a time-out for being a bad boy, spilling his water, aren’t you?” She leaned toward him, and he nuzzled her pouted lips. Belle winced. That beak could crack walnuts.

      “What kind is he?” Belle would have been surprised to find more than a parakeet in the North, but since the advent of PetSmart, exotic birds selling for as much as two thousand had entered the local market.

      “Amazon blue-fronted, which seems strange with that yellow on top. Would you believe he’s over sixty years old?”

      “They live quite long, I

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