“On what charge?” said Miranda.
“Committing an indignity on human remains,” said Eeyore Stritch.
“We don’t know if the rest of the guy’s dead,” said Morgan. “Maybe he gave it to her. Chopped it off as a keepsake.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll want to know where she is,” said Spivak. “Don’t lose her.”
“She’s not with us, she’s not ours,” said Morgan.
“She is now.”
“We’re running the prints on the hand,” said Eeyore Stritch. “So far, nothing local, not in Canada. We’re running a DNA comparison, too, to see if there’s any connection with your guy, Miranda.”
“Which one?” said Miranda.
Morgan said, “What about her prints?”
“We’re running them as well.”
“And the gun?” said Miranda.
“No, well, we should hold her on that,” said Spivak. He hacked repeatedly into a handkerchief then continued. “It’s illegal, carrying a discharged weapon, concealed.”
“It wasn’t concealed,” said Miranda.
“It was in her purse.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s concealed.”
“Debatable,” said Miranda. “What about prints? Were there bullets?”
“On the gun? No prints —”
“Why would she wipe it clean, then put it back in her purse?”
“And no bullets, it was empty.”
“You don’t even know how recently it was fired.”
“She’s not licensed.”
“You don’t know that,” said Miranda. “Her ID is missing.”
“It’s not registered.”
“So the gun is illegal, she’s not. You saw her wrists, somebody duct taped her wrists. She was a victim.”
“Detective,” said Spivak, “we’re not charging her with anything yet. You two keep an eye on her. Morgan’s still on the force —”
“I’m suspended, not fired.”
“We’ll come back for her,” said Morgan.
“Whatever. Keep in touch.” Spivak nodded to Eeyore Stritch and the two of them sauntered down a corridor leading to the elevator, leaving Morgan and Miranda facing each other in silence.
After a time, Miranda got up and paced around the room, then returned to sit beside Morgan.
“Why didn’t you call in last night?”
He shrugged.
“Why not? What were you thinking?”
He grinned. “You needed rest.”
“Why, really?”
“I’m not sure.” He stretched awkwardly against the hospital settee so that he could reach into a side pocket of his pants. He pulled something out, clutched in his fist. Holding his hand out toward her, he slowly unclenched his fingers. Lying in his palm was the massive gold ring. Slowly he closed his fingers over it and started to slide it back into his pocket, then changed his mind and held it out to Miranda. She held it in her cupped fingers, hefted it as if testing for weight, then dropped it into her purse.
4
The Winery
Morgan signed out a car but Miranda was driving. They sped along the Queen Elizabeth Way. Traffic was light; it was early afternoon. Morgan leaned around from the passenger seat, straining his safety belt to address the blond woman in the back.
“You remember me, do you?” he said. “From last night.”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “You were at Miranda’s place.”
“And what about you, why were you at Miranda’s place?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know how I know her name.”
“How did you get there?”
“I don’t know. Where are we going?”
“Do you recognize where we are?”
“Yes, sure. We’re on the QEW on the way to Niagara.”
Morgan glanced over at Miranda, who registered with a rise of her eyebrows that the woman calling herself Michelle did not say Hamilton but Niagara. Most people would say Hamilton; Niagara was down the escarpment, the landscape leading to the Falls. Only someone familiar with the area would call the highway the QEW and see it as the route to Niagara.
Morgan had waited in the car outside the hospital while Miranda went in to take charge of the young woman. They did not want to intimidate her, but when she got in the car she casually acknowledged him and settled back comfortably, prepared to be driven wherever her custodians might take her. Her blue eyes seemed clear and very dark inside the car; her pupils dilated to bring the interior into focus.
When she looked out the window to take inventory, her eyes became lighter, the colour of chicory by the roadside. She was hauntingly beautiful, Morgan thought. But she did not seem to have nightmares bottled inside; rather, she seemed almost empty.
“You sure you’re all right to drive?” he said, turning to Miranda. “I don’t mind.”
“Morgan, I’m fine. Where are we going?”
“I told you I talked to Millennium Wines in Rochester last night. I called back this morning and got Forrest Sherwood, the owner. Seriously, that’s his name. He buys the Châteauneuf from a wholesaler in Buffalo. The wholesaler told me he buys only from reputable importers. But in this case he has a numbered company to deal with. Turns out it’s registered in the Bahamas. Dead end to the paper trail. Only when I told the Buffalo wholesaler I was a homicide cop, we leapfrogged into real memory — he recalled having seen the guy who usually drives delivery. Unmarked truck, that’s not uncommon. A jobber. But he said the driver works for Bonnydoon, a boutique winery near Niagara-on-the-Lake.”
“That’s a boutique town,” said Michelle from behind them. “It’s cute, like a life-sized miniature.”
“Yeah,” said Morgan, “so I hear.”
“And we’re on our way to check out Bonnydoon?” Miranda asked.
“We are.”
“Is Sherwood Forrest going to change the name of his store?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Millennium Wines. Now that 2001 is here, even the mathematical purists have to admit we’re in a new millennium.”
“Did you ever see the movie?”
“What, Kubrick’s 2001? Yes, I had a crush on Keir Dullea, no, on Hal, on the disembodied voice. I found it very erotic.”
“You are strange,” said Morgan and turned to the woman in the back seat.
“Why Michelle?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not your name, why Michelle?”
“How do you know?”
“You split the syllables. If it was your real name, it’d be worn, you’d slur it together.”
“Really? Then what is my name?”
“Why