Old City Hall (44 page)

“Where does that leave us?” he asked finally.

“Nowhere, really,” Greene said. He looked at the highway again. There was still no break in the traffic. “McGill’s hand mark on Torn’s arm, three fingers or not, by itself isn’t enough to prove anything. We need more. If we can show she was there every week, that she misled us about that, well, it might be something.”

“What’s our next step?”

“I take you to the airport, and you go to Italy. Tomorrow morning I’ll drive down to Brace’s old apartment. With luck, the new residents will let me in to snoop around. With even better luck, they’ll still have all those Toronto Maple Leafs glasses. If McGill’s prints come up on a bunch of them, we’re one step closer.”

“What if the glasses are gone?” Kennicott asked.

“Kennicott, sometimes you have to live with thinking you know something but not being able to prove it.”

“We just forget about it?”

“If you and I have one thing in common, it’s that we never forget. We’ll drive back up here once in a while.”

“And eat McGill’s homemade bread,” Kennicott said.

Greene looked over his shoulder. “The only thing we know for sure is that Brace never stopped loving McGill. Always thought she was beautiful.”

“How do we know that?”

“Because he told Mr. Singh every day.”

Kennicott smiled as he remembered the notes he had taken the very first day. “You mean: ‘Mr. Kevin, how is your wife?’ ‘More beautiful than ever, Mr. Singh. Thank you so much for asking.’”

“That’s the one. I bet she stood behind that door every Monday morning so she could hear him say it,” Greene said. “You know, my father wondered why he never married Katherine Torn. Now we know.”

“He did love two women.”

“And he almost got away with it.”

They both laughed.

Greene spotted a gap in the traffic. He gunned the Olds. There was a spray of gravel under the wheels as the car took off with surprising speed and they were quickly on the highway. Kennicott swiveled to take one last look at the diving tower. The girl began to shake on the ladder. Suddenly she grabbed the rung above her and yanked her body upward. Without hesitation she charged across the platform and flung herself over the edge. Greene’s big car began to accelerate, and though Kennicott craned his neck to look, the lake was out of sight before he could see her hit the water.

M
r. Singh particularly enjoyed the long days of late spring and early summer in Canada. It reminded him of back home, where at this time of year he was accustomed to waking up to the light at 4:13 in the morning and then seeing that the sky was still bright well past 9:30 in the evening. It did make his work more pleasant.

And he had pleasant news this morning, Mr. Singh thought as he cut open his bundles in the lobby of the Market Place Tower with his penknife. He’d received notice that deliveries were to recommence at Suite 12A. Who, he wondered, would be his new client—the one to take his last delivery of the day?

After Mr. Kevin’s trial, Ms. Wingate in 12B had put her condominium up for sale, and the new owners took the
Toronto Star
, not
The Globe
. It was only yesterday that Mr. Singh learned that the new residents of 12A were
Globe
subscribers, which meant that once again he had reason to return to the twelfth floor.

The Market Place Tower was a well-maintained building. The air-conditioning was most effective, so Mr. Singh felt quite cool as he exited the lift on the top floor. He turned to his right, taking his once familiar route again down to 12A.

He was not halfway down the hall when he saw that the door was open. A hopeful sign. As he approached, he heard a voice. It was male, quite young.

“Hon, I’ve loaded up the dishwasher with all those Toronto Maple Leafs glasses.”

“Fantastic. Let’s run it while we’re out.” This voice was female and young as well. Friendly-sounding. “We can give them all away to the Salvation Army.”

Mr. Singh walked slowly. He could see the front door. The old metal numbers for 12A had been replaced by a white plaque with elaborate blue lettering.

Mr. Singh heard the man say, “I’ve just got to tie up my laces,” and then he heard the swishing sound of the cycle changing in the dishwasher. A pair of footsteps approached the door, and suddenly it swung all the way open. In an instant a young-looking couple were in front of him. They wore matching thin aqua-blue T-shirts, black shorts, and bright white running shoes.

“Oh, hi,” the young man said, stopping in his tracks. His hair was quite blond. He smiled and showed strong white teeth.

“Good morning, sir.” Mr. Singh turned to the woman. “Good morning, ma’am.” He had the last newspaper of the day in his hand.

The woman stepped forward. She had short black hair and most striking features. “
The Globe
’s started. Fantastic,” she said, taking the newspaper from Mr. Singh with confident ease. “Cal, we can pick up some lattes after our run and read it on the porch.”

“Great,” the man named Cal said. He held out his hand to Mr. Singh. “Cal Whiteholme.”

“Welcome,” Mr. Singh said. “I am Mr. Gurdial Singh, your newspaper delivery person.”

“This is my beautiful wife, Constance,” the man named Cal said, touching her arm.

The woman named Constance, who was already reading the paper, looked up at Mr. Singh. She had remarkably blue eyes. “Hi,” she said with a big smile.

“The bank just sent us back home after two years in Paris,” the man said. “And I’ll tell you, a fully furnished apartment, the little things like kitchen garbage disposals, getting a paper delivered, and being able to actually run on the grass in the parks are just wonderful.”

“We jog every morning before work,” the woman said, looking up again. Beaming. “It’s fantastic that you come so early.”

“I make my delivery to 12A each day at exactly five thirty a.m.,” Mr. Singh said. “I am formerly a chief engineer for Indian Railways, so one becomes accustomed to punctuality.”

“That’s great,” the man named Cal said.

Mr. Singh smiled.

There was an awkward silence.

For a moment Mr. Singh considered informing the young couple that Indian Railways was the largest transportation company in the world. Then he noticed the woman named Constance jiggling a set of keys in her hand, and he decided to forgo the conversation.

It’s a particularly warm day in Toronto, made all the warmer because I’m sitting in the lawyers’ lounge at Old City Hall, a building with no central air conditioning and plenty of overheated people within its stone walls. It feels like an appropriate place for the daunting task of thanking some of those who’ve helped get this book into print.

During my magazine years, Robert Sarner brought me to Paris and taught me how to edit. Carey Diamond lived a lifetime with me as my partner in our own publishing venture. The talented writers David Bezmozgis, Michelle Berry, and Antanas Sileika have been of immeasurable assistance.

I can’t imagine practicing criminal law without my associate of so many years, Alvin Shidlowski. Jacob Jesin, the newest member of our firm, has liberated me for this and new books to come. Dr. Jim Cairns and other physicians gave generously of their time and expertise. Tom Klatt, homicide detective turned private investigator, and Debra Klatt, fingerprint expert extraordinaire, were endlessly patient and resourceful.

My great friend and most insightful critic, the writer Douglas Preston, helped beyond measure.

All writers think their agent is the best, but none can compare with Victoria Skurnick. She’s been my partner every step of the way, exceeding the call of duty on a daily basis. Lucky me.

When I chose Sarah Crichton as my editor, she told me, “My name will be on your book.” I couldn’t be happier.

Special mention, among so many who gave of their time, to Katherine McDonald, Howard Lichtman, Nancy Davis, Tina Urman, Lori Burak, Marvin Kurz, Selene Preston, Ricki Wortzman, Alan Bardikoff, Corinne LeBalme, Lee-Anne Boudreau, Alison McCabe, Valerie Hussey, Avrum Jacobson, Mark, Marsha and Bob Davis, Helen and Will Tator, Cheryl Goldhart, Glen Gaston, Ellen Kachuk, David Israelson, Denise Sawney, Kate Parkin, Susan Gleason, Kevin Hanson, Elizabeth Fischer, Alison Clarke, Cailey Hall, and my three tremendous brothers, Lawrence, David, and Matthew Rotenberg.

That my mother, Gertrude Rotenberg, isn’t here to share this with all of us is the toughest part. When I held the hand of my eighty-seven-year-old father, Dr. Cyril Rotenberg, and said, “Dad, our family name will be known all over the world,” that moment made it all worthwhile.

Seventeen years ago, when my wife and I started having children, I finally got down to writing in earnest. It’s counterintuitive, of course. Time, always at a premium, became a scarcer resource with their arrival. Peter, Ethan, and Helen, this shows the depth to which you inspire me every day. I’m more thankful than you’ll ever know. (My kids would never forgive me if I didn’t also save a pat on the head for our little dog Fudge, my constant 5:00 a.m. companion.)

More than she will ever know, my wife, Vaune Davis, is the reason for this book. After almost twenty-five years together, she continues to amaze me. That this novel is dedicated to her, and her alone, says it all.

Toronto, September 2008