Blood Wine (26 page)

“Why are we here?”

“In Cambridge? Or is that an existential question.”

“In Cambridge.”

“To see an old professor of mine.”

“An old professor? You went to Cambridge?”

“Yes.”

“You never mentioned it.”

“Why would I?”

“Usually, people who went to Cambridge let you know. Same as people who went to Harvard. It comes up.”

“Well, I did go to Cambridge. I even graduated.”

“And then you travelled the world and learned about guns and wine.”

“I learned about wine right here. Most of the colleges have wonderful cellars. This professor I want to see, he was my mentor. He is a Muslim but paradoxically he is a great connoisseur of fine wines.”

Morgan looked into her deep blue eyes then let his gaze run over the length of her long blond hair. He took in the fine regularity of her Scandinavian features. He had a hunch.

“In your travels …”

“In my travels?”

“Did you ever go to Israel?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I spent some time in Israel.”

“It's interesting. You say Israh-el.”

“Do I? As I said, I spent some time there.”

“Elke, you carry a Swedish passport. But you are an Israeli. You are Mossad. You are an agent working for Israeli intelligence. You have been trained to kill. You killed the man in the train. One shot. You killed the man under the bridge. Six shots to make it look like panic, calculated for our benefit, because you needed us.”

He paused.

She said nothing.

“I just don't understand why.”

“Milk?”

“What?”

“Sugar?”

“I take it clear.”

“And so do I.”

Miranda and Clancy slept in. They had not left Walden Pond until four in the afternoon, after having a swim in homage to Thoreau, and it was midnight by the time they crossed the Thousand Islands Bridge into Canada. It was 4 a.m. when they pulled in front of Miranda's condo on Isabella Street, and the sun was broaching the horizon by the time they got to sleep.

After breakfast in the Starbucks where College meets Carleton at Yonge, Miranda took him up to the office to introduce him around. No one was more surprised to see him than the superintendent. Like most of their colleagues, he could not imagine her with anyone but Morgan, even though he was fairly sure they were professional partners only.

“Business or pleasure?” asked Alex Rufalo, immediately embarrassed by the implication.

“Just being a tourist,” said Clancy. “I've never been to Canada before.”

“And what do you think so far?”

“So far, so good, as the man says.”

“Which man?” said Eeyore Stritch, who had been listening from the edge.

“It's an expression,” said Spivak, who was trying not to show his provincialism by being impressed at talking to an NYPD Captain of Detectives. “You know, Eeyore, ‘the man.'” He broke into a hacking cough.

“Are you telling me it's black slang?” Eeyore whispered. “How am I supposed to know that?”

“No,” Spivak wheezed with barely stifled condescension. “I mean, the man, a person, someone — jeez, Eeyore, it's a saying.”

Spivak looked around and realized the others were listening. “So, what are you doing in our jurisdiction?” he said to Clancy in a tone that was both collegial and challenging.

“Like I said, I'm a tourist.”

“You heard what the man said,” said Stritch, allying himself with the American.

“You ought to quit smoking,” said Clancy to Spivak.

“I did. Two days ago. Lungs haven't recovered from the shock.”

“Perhaps we could talk in my office,” said the superintendent, implicitly inviting Miranda and Clancy, excluding Spivak and Stritch.

Once they got settled, he addressed Clancy, making it clear this was business. “You people know things we need to know.”

“And vice versa,” said Clancy.

“You should know, first, another body's turned up. In Buffalo. The guy was an illegal, a Frenchman.”

“Let me guess,” said Miranda. “He was a master wine blender.”

“Yeah, something like that. The Americans are sending the file through to us once they get it together.”

“The Americans?” said Clancy.

“The FBI. The guy was dropped from a plane.”

They spent the next hour exchanging information, and when they were finished, neither the Canadians nor the American knew more than they had started with.

“Okay,” said Miranda. “I think the problem here is we don't know the right questions to ask. We've got gangsters and wine, killings, contract murders, explosions, and betrayals. What's missing? I'd say there have to be drugs in the scenario, big time, to make it all worthwhile.”

“That's a safe assumption,” said Rufalo. “There must be a drug connection.”

“Agreed,” said Clancy. “But what is it?”

“Well, there's one way to find out,” said Miranda. “We'll go straight to the horse's mouth.”

“Is that a pun?” Clancy asked.

“What?”

“The horse's mouth. H, heroin, it's called horse on the street.”

“Yeah,” said Miranda without conviction, “it was a pun.”

“So who, where?” said Rufalo.

“Why not ask the bad guys?”

“Such as?”

“Well, the Sebastianis are reorganizing right now to cover for the loss of Carlo, so I imagine we should talk to someone in the Ciccone family.”

“I don't think they'll have much to say,” said the Superintendent. “They're still dealing with Vittorio's … passing.”

“What about Frankie?” said Miranda.

“Morgan knows her? Maybe when he comes back.…”

“When is that? Has he caught up with Elke Sturmberg?”

“It would be hard to say,” said the superintendent. “Our contact in London seemed a bit addled.”

“Addled. As in, not all there in the head?”

“He was very pleasant. A secretary of some sort who put me through insisted both Morgan and a blond woman met in his office, but then he completely denied it.”

“They've gone undercover,” suggested Clancy.

“It seems likely,” said Rufalo.

“What do you mean ‘they'?” said Miranda. “I thought you sent Morgan over to haul her ass back to this side of the pond.”

“Do I sense antipathy?” said the superintendent.

“A whole lot of antipathy.” She turned to Clancy. “How did she know the Sebastianis? Tell me that!”

“Maybe she really is one of ours. If she's working on the drug angle, maybe she's a good guy.”

“Well, I don't know whose,” said Rufalo. “We've checked with the FBI, with the RCMP, New Scotland Yard, INTERPOL. Nothing comes up from prints or pictures. According to them, she doesn't exist.”

“Of course,” said Miranda, “if she is covert, whoever she's working for wouldn't claim her as theirs, not if it risked blowing her cover.”

“But why would Carlo Sebastiani want to protect her?” said Clancy. “And who from? From whom?”

“Mr. Savage,” said Miranda.

“Or she could be working
for
Savage,” said Alex Rufalo.

“In which case, she is a very, very dangerous person to be with,” said Miranda. “And she is!”

“Somebody killed Sebastiani,” said Clancy. “We can assume it was the same people who wanted to kill you and Elke. The same people who wanted Carlo to call a meeting of the bosses.”

“What meeting, what bosses?” demanded Rufalo, realizing he was missing some pieces.

“That was what got Sebastiani blown up. It was supposed to be a mob safe-house,” Miranda explained. “He was supposed to call a meeting of mob bosses.”

“With Savage?”

“We can only assume.”

“Okay, Miranda. You're back on the job. Catch up with Spivak. Good meeting you, Captain Clancy. Enjoy the rest of your stay.” With executive flair, Rufalo rose and casually backed them out through the door of his office. “Take care,” he said and closed his door behind them.

They sat down near Spivak and Stritch, Clancy at Morgan's desk, Miranda at her own, which seemed alien territory. The three men chatted about sports, but she tuned them out and started riffling through the accumulated papers on her desktop. There was a letter from the medical authorities. She was clear of HIV.
Thank God for
big
mercies
, she thought. She switched on her computer. There was an email from the Medical Examiner's office.

“I wondered when you were going to get to that,” said Ellen Ravenscroft, who had approached from behind and was reading over her shoulder. The others glanced up but kept on talking about the Jays, Leafs, Raptors, or Rock.

“Just passing by,” said Ellen. “Thought I'd check out the action. Things are dead over at the morgue, love.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Who is
he
? I want to meet him? I mean, Miranda, I
want
to meet him. Is he yours?”

“I brought him all the way from New York.” Miranda smiled coyly. “No, he's not mine.”

“His name is Clancy,” said Clancy. “Seymour Clancy.” He rose to his feet and walked around the desk. “And you are? You're not police, no, I'd say you're a lawyer, no, a doctor. And very serene in a flushed sort of way. I'd say you are a medical examiner. Am I right?”

“You have astonishing powers of deduction, Mr. Clancy.”

“I overheard your crack about the morgue.”

“You have astonishing powers of hearing, Mr. Clancy.”

Miranda's telephone rang and as she picked it up the two new friends moved away from her desk to continue in animated conversation. Ellen winked at Miranda over Clancy's shoulder. Miranda winked back.

“Is that Detective Quin?” said the voice on the phone.

“It is.”

“This is Francine Ciccone.”

“Yes, Mrs. Ciccone —”

“Francine.”

“Yes, what can I do for you?”

“I tried to reach David Morgan.”

“He's out of the country.”

“I know where he is.”

“You do?”

“I'm sorry to impose.”

“Not at all. What can I do for you?” It struck Miranda as almost comical. This seemed more like the exaggerated formality between upwardly mobile matrons soliciting each other for charities, not a gangster's widow and a detective.

“We've met.”

“Yes, briefly. What can I do for you?”

“You were very kind to my husband.”

“Please accept my condolences, but no, I was not kind. It had nothing to do with kindness, Mrs. Ciccone.”

“Frankie.”

“Yes?”

“Someone is going to kill me.”

“Mrs. Ciccone. I do not mean to be presumptuous, but I believe you have your own people. I'm not sure what it is you think I can do.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Go ahead.”

“In person.”

Miranda did not respond. For a few moments the two women listened to each other breathing.

“I can tell you about the winery.”

“Bonnydoon?”

“Yes.”

“About Château
N
euf-du-Pape?”

“The Ninth Chateau, yes.”

“Where are you?”

“At home.”

“Are you secure right now?”

“Yes, right now.”

“I'm on my way,” said Miranda.

She put down the phone. Clancy, who was obviously more comfortable flirting with Ellen Ravenscroft than talking with Spivak and Stritch, sidled over to her desk, Ellen close behind.

“What's up?” he asked.

“What's up? How do you know anything is up?”

“I have been to Walden Pond with you, I know everything you're thinking.”

“I doubt it. But how about hanging out with Ellen for a while. I've got things to do.”

“For the rest of the day?” said Ellen, hardly able to contain her glee.

“Yeah,” said Miranda. “Can you two amuse yourselves?”

“Can we amuse ourselves? Oh yes,” said Ellen, “without a doubt.”

“You need backup?” asked Clancy.

“No,” said Miranda. “Anyway, you're out of your jurisdiction. You two have fun.”

“That's like — you're telling us, have fun?” said Ellen.

“Yeah.”

“Come on, love,” she said, taking Clancy by the arm and leading him toward the elevator. “See you all later.”

Miranda was surprised by the lack of security when she passed through the walkway gate in front of the Ciccone house. She had picked up her semi-automatic from the superintendent, which had been evidence in Philip's death and then held while she was on suspension, but she did not say where she was going. She swung the large brass lion's head knocker on the door and, incongruously, could hear chimes ringing inside. After a delay and some fumbling with the latch, the door swung open.

Tony Di Michele bowed his head slightly in greeting.

“I'd shake your hand,” he said, “but one of mine seems to be missing.”

“It happens,” said Miranda. “I'm surprised to see you up and about.”

“I'm surprised to see you alive.”

“No one wants to kill me any more,” said Miranda. “Unless you do. A life for an arm? Not your style?”

“What makes you think I have style? What makes you think there aren't people out there who want you dead?” He led her toward the kitchen. “Frankie's in here.”

“Tony.” She stopped him. “Sorry about the arm.”

“Me too. But fair enough. I nearly took down your friend.”

“Why? Why kill Elke?”

“It was die or be dead. I thought she'd get me out of there. And if not, then not. You got us both out — I owe you.”

“Very cryptic.”

“So why do you think you're safe?”