“Not on Gruber,” he said. “But Cobourg just called.”

“Well?”

“They found Hutchinson. Or at least, they found what was left of him. Up north. He blew most of his head off with a hunting rifle.”

“Goddamit,” said Sanders. “Goddamit to hell. I wanted that man. If he was up north where they could find him why didn’t they do it before he blew his head off? How did they find him anyway?”

“His father finally got worried about not hearing from him and told them he had a little cabin up on Lake Kashagawigamog. That was where he was. The O.P.P. found him. He left a note. They need it for the inquest but they’re willing to send it down afterwards if we think we want it.”

“I don’t suppose you went so far as to find out what was in the note, did you, Dubinsky?”

His partner ignored the heavy sarcasm in his tone. “Yeah. I’ve got it here. You want to hear it?” Sanders repressed the reply that rose to his lips and merely nodded. “Okay. Here it is.” Dubinsky stared down at his notebook. “Dated Tuesday, April 17. ‘Dear Dad. I’m sorry about this but after Jane I can’t face any more. I should have had more understanding about the fix she was in. It was my fault she died, I know it. Try to explain to Mum, and you should let Bill have my share in the store, he hates his job. Say goodbye to Elaine. Your loving son, Mike.’ That’s it.”

“What does he mean it’s his fault she died? Are you sure that’s what’s in the note?”

“That’s exactly what they said. And I guess maybe he’s saying he killed her. Which wraps that one up.”

“It’s a pretty funny way of putting it, if that’s what he meant. Who in hell are Bill and Elaine?”

“Elaine’s his sister. Bill’s her husband.” Dubinsky shrugged.

“She must have told him she was pregnant. What other ‘fix’ could he mean? And does that make him the father—or an old friend you tell your troubles to? What a mess,” said Sanders, his voice hollow with fatigue and depression. “Get in touch with Cobourg again and ask them to let us have everything they can, will you? Coroner’s report, ballistics, blood type, and anything they can get out of the family about him. Are they sure it’s all genuine? The note, the set-up?”

“So far. But they’re poking around a bit still.”

Sanders yawned again and blinked in an effort to clear his head. “I’m going off to grab a couple of hours’ sleep. Call me if anything else exciting happens. Then maybe we can start chasing down some of Gruber’s pals. Get me a list of everyone he’s worked with since he started, then go home. I’ll take over later.”

Sanders woke up with his mouth dry and his heart pounding, his body tensed to defend itself; he lifted himself halfway to a sitting position and then collapsed again as he recovered a sense of his surroundings. With a muffled groan he looked at his watch. 6:30. a.m. or p.m.? The way he felt it could have been either. The soft light filtering into his bedroom didn’t give much of a clue; he flipped on the radio and listened for a minute. p.m. He flipped it off and reached for the phone.

The ringing came to Eleanor from far, far away. She shrugged irritably and tried to brush it off, but its pestering insistence continued. She reached over and picked up the receiver. “Oh, hi. It’s you.” She yawned for the hundredth time that day. “I know I told you to call me—I never said I’d be awake when you did, though. God, I feel awful.”

“Then how about feeling awful together for a while,” he suggested. The warm tangle of his bedclothes increased his desire to transport her bodily at once to his side. “Why don’t you come over?”

“Mmmm,” said Eleanor. “I’m thinking about it. Let me take a shower and see how things are around here. What time is it?” She picked up her watch and peered at it. “Say in an hour and a half? Is there any place safe to park around that place you live in?”

“Take a cab. I’ll drive you back.” He placed the receiver gently on its cradle and headed for the shower.

Eleanor looked at Sanders over a large bowl of Armenian black bean soup with a doubtful cast to her eye. “Are you sure this is really what I need?”

“Believe me. When you’re a cop you spend too many days and nights without any sleep, and you learn to cope. This stuff is worth bottles of pep pills and tranquilizers. I live here when things get really tense.”

The light was dim, the music very soft, and vaguely Middle Eastern, the waitress a quiet, slow-moving motherly type. Eleanor took a cautious spoonful of the dark, strange-looking liquid. It was hot, savoury, and fiery. Her mouth and throat burned, but the butterflies in her stomach quivered once or twice more and settled down to sleep. She smothered the fire in her mouth and throat with a large swallow of beer, and suddenly felt as if she could now proceed with her life. “You’re right,” she conceded. “It works.” She nibbled on a piece of warm pita. “Is everything all right now? Have you heard anything new on Amanda? I couldn’t reach Kate before I left.”

“As far as I know, she’s okay. They’re all probably still over at the hospital,” he said, gesturing in that direction with his soup spoon. “This whole thing worries me, though. We’re really not much further along, and I don’t like the look of it so far. I can’t see a clown like Gruber organizing to that extent just to kidnap a girl like Amanda. Her family isn’t rich—not rich enough to tempt someone like him—and they aren’t famous—no one should even have heard of her. Usually when a girl like that gets abducted it’s a straight rape case or some kind of demented boyfriend—the marry-me-or-I’ll-kill-us-both kind—but according to her, they seemed to have planned on getting rid of her from the start.”

“Isn’t it more likely that it’s connected with Jane Conway?” Eleanor leaned forward to make her point. “I mean, that’s the only connection that Amanda has had with anything criminal that I can see.”

“Yes, but how? Is someone going around mopping up all her students? That doesn’t seem likely. And there is very big money in this somewhere. Someone has been paying Gruber a lot—his apartment looks like a pimp’s delight, he’s driving a Corvette, he’s had money to burn. But the Griffiths kid seems too young—and clean—to be mixed up in anything.” He went back to his soup.

“Mixed up in something? What sort of something?”

“You know—drugs, prostitution, anything that’s organized by the big boys. She doesn’t have any connections that I can see. I mean, her father isn’t involved in manufacturing stuff, is he? He does work in a lab.”

“I doubt it. From Kate’s description, it wouldn’t seem to be the right kind of lab.”

“Anyway, killing his daughter is a pretty drastic way of warning him off. It doesn’t smell right.” He pushed aside his plate. “And that leaves only the Conway case. But the connection escapes me. Conway’s boyfriend from the country killed himself, you know. And left a note saying that it was all his fault.”

“You mean that he killed her?”

“No, that her death was his fault. Does that sound to you as if he killed her? Dubinsky is inclined to think it does, but he’s a lazy bastard most of time.”

Eleanor shook her head. “It sounds as though he forgot to do something—you know, didn’t get the car brakes fixed and she drove into a truck—something he blames himself for. Funny way to put it. I wonder what he meant? But let’s get back to something more important. Is Amanda safe now?”

“Until we find Gruber, and this guy Jimmy who was with him, and figure out why they snatched her, no, she isn’t. But there are people on at the hospital keeping an eye out for her. She should be okay.”

“But what if someone you put on to guard her is another one of them? I mean, how can you tell?”

“Don’t worry. I’ve handpicked them all. They all have wives and kids, frayed collars, and big mortgages. They’re safe.” He wished he felt as confident as he sounded.