was silence on the line, air rushing between them.
When the phone clicked off, Miranda set it down gently and walked to the bedroom door. Time slowed to a drawl. The corpse in her bed. Her lover, her paramour. In her boudoir. She liked those words. She liked the word courtesan. Gallic, sensual. She could never have been a courtesan. Sex was too complicated.
Time stopped; the scene, freeze-framed. Grand Guignol.
Then she felt a surge of panic. She rushed through the bedroom, now flooded with white morning light, into the red glow of the bathroom, and threw up in the toilet. Her vomit was material evidence. She flushed.
David Morgan had been up most of the night reading about antique tribal carpets. When Miranda woke him he was slumped across his blue sofa with a large book splayed open on his chest and several more on the floor beside him. Morgan was fascinated by the astonishing and whimsical beauty of weaving done by nomadic women in Persia more than a century ago, rugs that had survived practical usage on desert sand and mountain shale and now graced the walls of expensive galleries and the pages of erudite and extravagant books. Such rugs were beyond his capacity to buy, but that only made them more thrilling to study. And that is what he did. Morgan seldom read for amusement. He studied.
He was not a scholar. His obsessive enthusiasm for arcane pursuits offered a refuge from the business of homicide and helped to distract his personal demons or to keep them at bay.
Not until he clicked off the phone did he realize he was on his feet. The book had tumbled to the floor. He stood still for a moment, struggling for clarity. Then with a long sigh he strode into the bathroom, brushed his teeth while peeing, doing a sloppy job of both, and started to strip before realizing he was already dressed. He tucked himself in as he clattered through the front door to the police car outside.
He seldom drove and never brought cars home. Last night his superintendent, Alex Rufalo, had dropped in for a few drinks and Morgan sent him home in a cab, keeping the keys.
The drive from the Annex over to Isabella Street took less than ten minutes; it was too early for traffic. Morgan ran a light crossing Yonge Street. Not until he pulled up in front of Miranda’s building on Isabella did he make the call to Headquarters. He was surprised to connect with Rufalo, who had obviously decided to sleep it off in his office rather than offend his wife with boozy apologies.
Morgan asked for an ID check on Philip Carter. Miranda never said, but Morgan assumed he was married.
Slogging up three flights after she buzzed him in, he thought it was time she moved. She had the resources. She owned a house in Waterloo County left by her mother to Miranda and her sister in Vancouver, but the sister signed off. Miranda was a single cop; her sister and husband were flourishing professionals. Although Miranda seldom visited the house, she refused to sell it.
She could afford better than this.
On the other hand, the stair-treads were worn Vermont marble, the wood trim was ancient black walnut, the fixtures were bronze. The place had an air of decadent longevity. It was not an unpleasant place to live, better than a high-rise. Especially since the apartments had been sold off as condos. Down-at-heels rental units, once privately owned, became shabby genteel.
Before he could knock, Miranda swung the door open and slumped against him.
Then she stood back, almost fiercely, and stared into his eyes.
He saw something in her he had never seen before; she was frightened.
He kissed her on the forehead — she would flinch or she would relax. But she seemed not to notice. He quietly turned her back into the living room, where they sat on the sofa.
“Tell me?”
She nodded. “In there.”
He got up and walked into the bedroom, where the corpse had been carefully covered again. He pulled the sheet back, and as his eyes made contact with the victim’s the cellphone he seldom carried beeped a shrill admonition. He let the sheet drop and turned away.
“You sure about the name?” said a voice on the other end.
“Yeah, Philip Carter. Lawyer. Just a minute.…”
He walked out into the living room.
“Miranda, where did he work?” The guy was already past tense.
“Ogilthorpe and Blackthorne, Blackburn, something like that. In one of the bank towers on King Street.”
Morgan repeated the information, then returning again to Miranda he asked, “Where’d he live?”
“Oakville. He commutes.” Present tense.
“You got that?” said Morgan into the phone. “See what you come up with.” He clicked off.
“Oakville?” he said.
“Yes,” said Miranda, “and yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, he’s married. His wife is a widow. Two daughters. Oh Jesus, Jesus Lord Christ.”
“Swearing or praying?”
“Both.”
“Did you ever run a check on him?”
“God no! He was my lover, not my investment broker.”
“So what happened?”
“I don’t know. My head’s swarming. We went out, I’m not sure, probably downtown for dinner, maybe just drinks, what time did I leave?”
“Headquarters? Six, six thirty.”
“So we must have gone out for dinner. I can’t remember.”
“Where’d you usually meet?”
“Never the same place twice.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“Didn’t that set off alarms?”
“It was just a game we played. It was just something we did. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Well, it is now. That’s your Glock by the bed?”
“Yes.”
He walked into the bedroom, leaned down over the bedside table, sniffed the gun without touching it.
“You’re sure it’s yours?” he called to her.
She came forward and stood in the doorway. Boldly. She was playing a part. Or being played by another, an actress concealing her art from the character she plays. It’s all quite illusory, she observed to herself.
“Of course,” she said in a normal tone. “Check the desk drawer.”
“It’s been fired,” he said. “Where’s the key?”
“Centre, under the
