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His thick, silvery mane stuck up in wild disarray. He stared at them, but not as if he really saw them. Finally, heavy-footed and deliberate, he headed to the cupboard above the refrigerator, reached up with shaking hands and pulled out a bottle of rum. Without turning, he said, “Who wants what to drink?”
    Etienne ran to Manon, who remained beside the door as if she didn’t have the will or energy to move any further. She hugged and rocked him like a much younger child. Tears streaked her makeup. “Nothing for me,” she said.
    â€œDad, I don’t want anything either. Are you going to tell Mom, or should I?” Tomas asked. He stood with his legs apart as if to steady himself on a rolling ship’s deck.
    Curt swung around, clutching the bottle. “My God, poor Lena.” His gaze moved from one to another. “You don’t know the worst.”
    â€œWhat could be worse than Ivan’s death?” Hollis said almost to herself.
    â€œSomeone cut the brakes. Ivan was murdered.”

Two
    M idmorning —Rhona Simpson sorted through her paperwork. She surreptitiously surveyed her environment— the Homicide Division of the Toronto Police Service headquarters on College Street. A year earlier, she’d left the Ottawa police. She wouldn’t be sitting here now, the newest appointee to Homicide, had she not been a woman who knew the right people and had a Cree grandmother. Nevertheless it felt great. She’d work like hell to prove the appointment hadn’t been a mistake.
    â€œJoin me for an early lunch? I have court this afternoon.”
    She looked up and met the gaze of Zee Zee, a tall, elegant black woman who’d introduced herself several days earlier. She could have been a princess or modelled for a Modigliani painting. The combination of elongated head, cropped hair, fine features and almost breastless body created a regal image. Her voice rose at the end of each sentence, making each statement into a question.
    Food’s siren call, morning, noon or night, she could never resist. “Love to.”
    Entering the cafeteria a little later, Zee Zee said, “I’m not sure who your Homicide partner will be.”
    Again the rising voice implying a question. She made you want to provide an answer. This vocal characteristic must be useful in interrogations.
    â€œBefore he or she is assigned, I’ll fill you in on a few things you need to know,” Zee Zee explained. She led them to a cafeteria table away from other officers. “No point in having to whisper,” she said.
    Should she agree? No, it had been a statement. Rhona looked down at her tray. She’d chosen a salad, tomato juice and black coffee. When she’d moved to Toronto, she’d resolved to do something about the weight collecting around her middle. Because she was short and compact, every extra pound showed immediately. Body types resembled apples or pears when it came to excess weight distribution—she was definitely an apple.
    Zee Zee, who had selected cream of mushroom soup, an egg sandwich, apple pie and a soft drink, surveyed Rhona’s tray. “Has the boss already given you his food lecture?”
    â€œNo, what is it?”
    â€œHe’s a health food nut. Actually, Frank Braithwaite is one reason why we’re having lunch—I’m sure you want the lowdown on his major and minor fixations? I expect because he was forced to take you, he’s ready to give you a hard time. You’ll need ammunition, won’t you?”
    Should she have come? Never a big fan of gossip, she wanted to tread carefully in her new workplace. No help for it; she was here.
    â€œYou’re wondering why I’m doing this, and if you should find a reason to leave?”
    â€œEither I’m transparent, or you’re good at figuring people out.”
    â€œYou found out in Ottawa that the old boys’ police network is a powerful force?”
    Rhona