Depth of Field. Michael Blair

      We acknowledge the support of The Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.

      Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

       J. Kirk Howard, President

      Printed and bound in Canada.

      Printed on recycled paper.

      www.dundurn.com

      For Pamela …

       Author’s Note

      Many of the locations in this book — Granville Island, Sea Village, Bridges Restaurant, and various marinas — are real, although not necessarily as portrayed. All events and characters, however, are entirely fictional and any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead or undecided, is purely coincidental.

       chapter one

      It was Tuesday, a little past nine in the morning. The fog outside my third floor office window was so thick you could scoop it up with a shovel and cart it away in a wheelbarrow. Unusual for Vancouver in June — virtually unheard of, in fact — but given the winter we’d just been through, nothing would have surprised me weather-wise. The environmentalists blamed it on global warming. The conspiracy theorists blamed it on scalar weaponry run amok. I just groused.

      I was alone in the studio, feet up — definitely not unheard of — coffee cup nestled in my lap, wondering where the hell everyone was, when I heard the elevator rattle to a stop and the door bang open. I dropped my feet to the floor, startling Bodger, who’d been cat-napping on the sagging leather sofa against the opposite wall, tattered ears twitching as he dreamed of fat, complacent mice — or the cat treats I kept in my desk drawer, which were a lot easier to catch.

      “Well, it’s about bloody time,” I said, as I went into the outer office.

      “Pardon me?”

      “Oops,” I said, looking at a shapely blonde. “Sorry. I was expecting my associates.”

      “That’s quite all right,” she said.

      The top of her head was level with the tip of my nose. She had sharp, emerald-green eyes, nice cheekbones, and a wide, generous mouth painted the colour of cherry Jell-O. I guessed she was thirty-five, give or take.

      “Can I help you?” I asked hopefully.

      “I’m looking for Thomas McCall,” she said, surveying the chaos. We were relocating on the weekend and the studio looked as though a giant child had thrown his toys about in a fit of temper.

      “You’ve found him,” I replied. “What can I do for you?”

      “I’d like to hire you,” she said. Her voice was light and slightly scratchy, as if her throat were lined with fine sandpaper. A smoker, I thought, although she didn’t smell of tobacco. In fact, her scent was faintly reminiscent of marshmallow, simultaneously sweet and musky and powdery.

      “I’d like to be hired,” I said. “Never mind all this. We’re in the throes of moving to a new location. Come into my office. Would you like some coffee?”

      “No, thank you,” she said.

      “Don’t sit there,” I said, as she looked down at the sofa and Bodger looked up at her. “You’ll get cat hair on your skirt.”

      She was wearing a three-quarter-length black leather coat, narrow at the waist, flared at the hip, and an above-the-knee black skirt. Her patent leather lace-up boots, also black, had long, pointy toes and three-inch stiletto heels. I placed a straight-backed chair in front of my desk, held it for her as she sat down. She crossed her legs with a whisper of nylon. She had very nice knees.

      “You’re sure you wouldn’t like a cup of coffee?” I asked again, as she unfastened her coat, revealing, I couldn’t help but notice, a very impressive superstructure.

      “I’m sure, thank you,” she said.

      I went around my desk and sat down. “So, how can I help you, Miss …?”

      “Waverley,” she said in her scratchy voice. “Anna Waverley. And it’s missus. Or at least it will be until my divorce becomes final.”

      “Miz, then,” I said.

      She smiled. She had a very nice smile, revealing near-perfect teeth, except for one slightly crooked upper incisor, to go with the nice knees and impressive superstructure. Her complexion was clear and smooth, no telltale crow’s feet around her eyes and mouth. I revised her age downwards half a decade, and wondered why she wore her hair and dressed in a

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