Chateau D’Issan, and D’Issan is valued higher than the chateau next to that.”
“Just so, Detective Morgan,” said Nishimura. Drawing the conversation back to the matter at hand, he continued. “Only their skill in choosing what’s best from tens of thousands of fingerlings is more important. The owner of this breathtaking Kohaku whose simplicity is infinitely complex, who has the shape of perfection —”
“Mr. Nishimura,” said Morgan, “the name of the breeder?”
“His entire business is based on this fish. She is thriving, he assured my informant, in the opaque waters of his largest pond, high in the hills of Niigata. He can’t afford to acknowledge otherwise.”
“Do you think he knows she’s in Toronto?”
“Yes, he does. Otherwise he would have claimed insurance, either that or a national outpouring of sympathy. He knows exactly what’s in his ponds. But he doesn’t need her anymore.”
“He doesn’t?”
“Likely the breeder has a fix on her line. With a few generations of her offspring selected, she was no longer essential for his breeding program, so he sold her to someone with no need to broadcast his divine acquisition.”
“An ignominious outcome for the Champion of Champions.”
“I doubt she cares.”
“And you think Robert Griffin bought her legally?”
“More or less. It would be preferable for the breed-er’s reputation if the koi world assumed she was still in Niigata. Mr. Griffin was the ideal customer because he was discreet to the point of obsession.”
Morgan was fascinated by the contradictory notion of keeping a treasure concealed. He tried to connect the compulsive hoarding of beauty with the psyche of a rapacious voyeur.
“I doubt very much that he declared her true worth when she was processed through customs,” Nishimura continued. “I would say she came in with some of the lesser Kohaku. He probably brought some of these other prizewinners in the same way.”
Humility made Morgan uneasy: these were the Kohaku he and Miranda had proclaimed the best of the lot. “Do you think he was wheeling and dealing?”
“Selling for a profit? No. An unequivocal no. Otherwise I would have heard about him. I know the koi world. I would have known if he had sold even one really good fish. This man had money, so why bother with crime? He was an obsessive, reclusive collector. I mean, this guy was clinical. He was pathological.”
“I think you’re right, though I’m not sure we’ll ever know the full extent of his pathology.”
Morgan realized Nishimura had no idea about Griffin’s deviant behavior. He knew him only as a dead recluse found floating among fish of astonishing worth. The Japanese koi expert shrugged and asked to be let into the house.
“My partner has the keys,” Morgan felt compelled to explain. The house was open. Then he asked as they walked through the French doors, “Have you heard from her, Eugene? I haven’t been able to track her down for a couple of days.”
“She should be here right now. I told her I’d report back on my clandestine, um, inquiry.”
Now that wasn’t a word people used in real life, Morgan thought. He realized Nishimura was enjoying his part in a police investigation, especially one that combined murder with koi. Clandestine implied furtive. Appropriate perhaps, but it also suggested treachery. He should have said covert if he wanted to raise the level of intrigue.
“When did you talk to her?” Morgan asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe Saturday morning. I’ve got to clean out the vortex filters. I’ll let you know if she calls. I have my cell phone.”
Nishimura walked off toward the cellars, and Morgan settled into in his wingback chair. Why wasn’t Miranda carrying her cell phone? The green Jaguar was parked in the garage. Perhaps her phone was in the car.
He walked through the stone passageway past the wine cellar door to the garage. The car was locked. He peered through the windows. From the passenger side he could see a small corner of her handbag protruding from under the driver’s seat. The convertible top must have been lowered and then raised again, or she would have stashed it in the well behind her.
Even though he had been looking for the bag, he was disconcerted to find it. She suddenly seemed more vulnerable. He hoped she had her semi-automatic Glock with her, that she hadn’t turned it in while on leave, that it wasn’t locked in this car. With her wallet and phone! The bag had been there at least since Saturday. Reason struggled against panic, asserting that this was a spare and she was carrying another bag wherever she was.
It struck him that if the convertible top had been down since he had last seen her she would have been in a playful mood and distracted. It had to be Jill Bray. He guessed they had driven around together. Morgan knew Miranda was going over to Wychwood Park on Friday after dropping him off. He wished he had his own cell phone. He could at least call her number and see if hers was inside the car.
Morgan didn’t want to break in. That would seem irrationally preemptive, especially when she turned up safe and sound. If she was with the girl, with Jill, she was all right. If she had entered a sanctuary, a refuge of some sort, a secular retreat, or a spa … Maybe it didn’t seem necessary to let him know where she was. She was only his work partner and was officially on leave. It worried him that he fretted so much, as if his anxiety might cause bad things to happen.
Walking up the ramp and around the side of the house, he treaded a fine line between petulance and fear as he went back inside and called Molly Bray’s number. Victoria answered. He introduced himself and asked if Jill was home for lunch.
“She didn’t go to school yesterday or today, Detective,” Victoria explained, pleased to have the opportunity to speak to an adult. “I think her momma’s death has finally sunk in. She’s worse after talking to Miss Quin than before. She mostly just stays in her room, mostly sleeping, I guess. She keeps the door locked. I have a key, but I don’t want to disturb her grieving. Sometimes it’s better to grieve by yourself, even when you’re only fourteen.”
“You’ve seen my partner then?”
“She was here on Friday. And she was here again Saturday morning.”
“Saturday?” Morgan knew what Victoria would say next.
“Yes, sir. She and Jill went off together. Miss Bray without a proper jacket — these kids will catch their death of cold — and she came back around three.”
“Miranda and Jill?”
“No, sir, just Jill. She said Miss Quin dropped her off up the way, by the gates.”
“Could I speak to Jill?”
“I’ll see what I can do. I don’t think she’s talking to nobody right now. She’s so distressed.”
After what seemed like an interminable delay, a girl’s voice whispered, “Hello?”
“Jill?”
“Yes.”
