“Yes, I do. Of course, you’d better check it out. Send someone back there. And put out that license number just in case.” Sanders yawned and reached over to pick up the little green notebook still sitting where he had left it on his desk.

The first page had been ruled off to accommodate a week and was covered with familiar neat handwriting; it was headed “January 1984,” and there was a date sitting precisely in the upper left-hand corner of each segment. It had all been done by hand. Sunday the first had one entry; “20 degrees, cloudy, 4-1/2 miles.” January 2, in addition to weather and mileage, had a note: “Paul, 4:30.” Each page followed that pattern. Some appointments were identified merely by initials; many were with Paul, although those became less frequent as February progressed into March. Once or twice a week there would be a “J.” and a time. In the back of the book were pages of names and addresses, two letters of the alphabet per page. “It looks like Conway’s missing address book,” said Sanders. “Why would Wilcox be hanging on to it?”

“So we wouldn’t, I suppose,” said Dubinsky sleepily.

“And when did he get it? And how?” As he talked, Sanders pulled a folded note from a pocket in the back cover. A small silver key dropped out with a clatter on the desk. “What does that look like to you, Ed?” he said, staring down at it.

Dubinsky yawned. “A safety deposit box key. Can’t do much about it until tomorrow morning when the banks open, though. Unless you want to start dragging bankers out of bed.” There was a slightly plaintive note in his last remark. “What’s on the paper?”

“It’s from Betty, thanking her for the lovely towels.”

A harsh jangle interrupted them. Dubinsky leaned over and plucked the ringing phone off its cradle. He made a few indecipherable noises into the receiver and turned to Sanders with the ghost of a smile on his face. “They got Wilcox at the airport with a suitcase full of cash. They’re bringing him right down. Does this mean we can get some sleep tonight?”

Constables Joe Williams and Andy Pelletier were sitting morosely in their car, guarding the approach to Highway 401. They were parked in Hogg’s Hollow, just to the south of York Mills Road, within smelling distance of a cheerful roadhouse. Pelletier sneezed for the fifth time and blew his streaming nose pathetically. “Christ, but I’ll be glad,” he was saying, when news suddenly came through that the search was over.

“Great,” said Williams. “I could use some coffee right now.” He started the engine and pulled out onto Yonge Street, heading north.

“Hey,” said Pelletier. “Whereya’ going? Let’s go down to the Northern.” Andy was currently in pursuit of a girl who was temporarily employed at that place. Williams patiently turned right onto York Mills in order to turn around.

“It’s okay with me,” he said, “but I hope she’s working tonight. Their coffee is lousy and the doughnuts are stale.”

Pelletier was raising his head gratefully from his handkerchief to answer when he noticed it. “Whaddya know?” he said. “Another brown van. I’ve been seeing those goddamn things in my sleep.” He looked more closely. Even dulled by a cold, Pelletier’s eyesight and memory were enviable. “Wait a second,” he breathed to Williams. “That’s the license number that just came through.” The van was parked halfway up the hill, facing the main street, between the subway exit and the first large houses, beside a park. Its engine was running, its parking lights were on, and it looked quite unremarkable. The police car was a couple of hundred yards away, about to make a U-turn. Pelletier nodded at Williams, and began to report their find as he accelerated into a sweep up the hill and in front of the van. The ensuing events were a trifle confused. As Williams started to brake, the van slipped into gear and surged forward. They met on an angle, demonstrating an interesting problem in physics for those who enjoy such things. The accelerating van spun the police car around and sent it limping up on the sidewalk facing the way it came, but the effort required flipped the van over on its side, where it lay, wheels spinning helplessly. Pelletier and Williams were out and running before their car came to a halt. The distant wail of sirens mingled with the sound of the van’s blaring horn.

Fifteen minutes later, the partners stood in meditative silence and watched the ambulance driver and his mate carefully deposit the unconscious Glenn Morrison into the back of their vehicle and speed off. “So that’s that,” said Williams. “I wonder if he’s the right guy?” Pelletier shrugged. Right now he didn’t care. “Did someone call for the tow truck for this thing?”

“Yeah,” said Pelletier, and sneezed. “One of the guys over there.” He pointed at a patrol car that was preparing to leave.

“We’d better have a look inside, you know,” said Williams, who had been visited by an unpleasant thought. “There could be something—or somebody—in there.”

Pelletier scowled, walked over to the toppled van, leaned over the roof, reached in with a martyred sigh and took the keys out of the ignition. “Come on,” he said. “The truck’ll be here in a minute.” He walked around, tried one key in the back door, then another. The second one turned smoothly. “Come on, Joe,” he complained. “Give me a hand to hold this door up.” Williams lifted up the top door as Pelletier reached down and freed the latch on the bottom one, then shone his flashlight inside.

“Jesus,” said Williams. “Look at that! The whole goddamn thing is lined with broadloom, even the ceiling. Gold, with brown patterns.” Then he looked again.

“That’s not a pattern,” said Pelletier, turning even paler. The floor and sides of the insulated, padded, carpeted interior were soaked in dark splashes of dried blood.

Sanders’ head had scarcely hit his pillow when something jerked him back to consciousness again. He groaned as the light of real morning stabbed his tentatively opened eyes. To hell with it. He wasn’t getting up yet. But his tired muscles twitched and quivered as he tried to compose them for sleep again. It was hopeless. Until he took care of whatever was keeping him awake, he could kiss sleep goodbye. It was the good old Puritan mentality he had inherited from a long line of conscientious forebears. What in hell was bothering him? He dragged himself out of bed and into the shower, hoping for inspiration from the pounding of water on his head.

At 7:15 he was opening the door to Grant Keswick’s apartment. He had already been into the file and stared at Cassidy and Rheaume’s neat list, but couldn’t decide whether it was comprehensive or merely contained items they had considered interesting. More likely the latter, since it would have taken them days and reams of paper to do an inventory of the possessions of a well-heeled cocky bastard like that. There was everything in the living room that he would have expected—flashy audio equipment, white and beige furniture and rugs, plants, paintings and wall hangings lending splashes of discreet and irritatingly trendy colour. The kitchen was the same. Plants, blond wood, copper and red enamel pots. It had a static and unused quality; if anyone had done more than fry an egg in here he’d be very surprised. The bedroom had almost as much closet space as floor space—king-sized bed, everything else modular or built-in, a cosy chocolate rug with a vaguely South-East Asian pattern. He went carefully through the drawers, the closets, the bathroom cabinets, the contents of the clothes hamper. Somehow the pattern of Grant Keswick as anything but a small-time operator didn’t add up to anything he was happy with.

He brooded over his coffee and raisin roll at the small French café on the edges of Rosedale while he waited until it would be a reasonable hour to ring the expensive doorbell at Wilcox’s solidly impressive house. Nothing trendy there—just old money, well spent. At least now he knew what he was looking for. He glanced impatiently at his watch for the fifth time, put the morning paper back on the rack unread, and tried to inject a note of cordiality into his goodbye to the girl behind the cash.