The phone was ringing on Green’s desk when he reached his office that Tuesday morning. Fearing it was Devine with another last minute demand before her job interview, he debated letting it go to voicemail, but after a long, stuffy meeting with the Provincial Crowns, any diversion was welcome.

      A dulcet Southern drawl greeted him. “Inspector Green? Agent Jim Benoit of the FBI here.”

      The name rang no bells. “Yes, sir. How can I help you?”

      “Your department put in a search request for a David Joseph Rosenthal yesterday?”

      Green masked his surprise. There was a protocol for requesting assistance from south of the border. Had Levesque deliberately circumvented it? “Yes, he’s next of kin in a death up here. Any luck?”

      “Well, we found him for you. That is, we found his residence, and local police paid a visit to his wife. According to her, he’s out of the country on business, and she doesn’t know for how long. Do you want us to trace him?”

      “She isn’t able to contact him herself?”

      “That’s correct. According to her, that’s normal. He’s a busy man, apparently. Flies all over the world.”

      “But surely—” Green stopped himself. There was no point badgering the FBI with his skepticism. He asked for the woman’s phone number, then thanked the FBI agent and asked him to carry on the search.

      Afterwards he studied the information he had jotted down, an address in Baltimore that meant nothing to him. He dialled the number, listened for five rings, and braced for voicemail. He was thrown off-guard when the phone was snatched up.

      “Yes!”

      “This is Inspector Michael Green of the Ottawa Police. May I speak with Mrs. Rosenthal, please?”

      “Who?”

      Green repeated his introduction, as gentle and polite as she was abrupt.

      “Oh. Is this in relation to his father?”

      “Yes. We really need to get in touch with Mr. Rosenthal.”

      “It’s Dr. Rosenthal, even if his father never admitted it. Two PhDs and half an MD weren’t good enough for him. Why do you want David? Did the old man die or something?”

      Green abandoned courtesy. “Yes. That’s why I need to find him.”

      “Huh.” The woman paused. “Well, I don’t know where he is. New Dehli, Frankfurt, Tel Aviv? He doesn’t keep me informed.”

      “Does he have a cellphone or Blackberry?”

      “I don’t have those numbers.” Another pause, the sound of smoke dragging into lungs. “Look, you might as well know. He doesn’t live with us any more.”

      “Where does he live?”

      “Take your pick. He’s got six houses. Well, maybe only four or five now. He’s had to sell a couple off. But he may not be at any of them. He has his own plane, and he’s always off wheeling and dealing.”

      “Who might know how to reach him, Mrs. Rosenthal? His secretary? Executive assistant?”

      “I can give you the company number, that’s all I have.” She was silent a moment, presumably tracking down the number. When she came back, her voice sounded more excited. “I don’t suppose there’s money or...whatever involved?”

      “That’s not my area. But the sooner I can contact Dr. Rosenthal, the sooner you’ll know.”

      That little nudge proved useful. She rhymed off the number, then added as an afterthought, “I never even met his father. David hadn’t talked to him in years, but sometimes that’s the worst kind of loss, isn’t it? For what it’s worth, at this time of year, David is usually up in Canada, duck hunting. The man loves to hunt.”

      After he’d hung up, Green sighed. Duck hunting up in Canada—that really narrows it down. Hoping for more details, he dialled the number the ex-wife had given him. He got the runaround through an automated phone response system before finally snagging a real person. She passed him on, like a hot potato, to Rosenthal’s executive assistant, who was as treacly smooth as the ex-wife was blunt. But impressions could be deceiving. After oozing out the obligatory expressions of dismay, she began to stonewall.

      “I will pass on this message as soon as possible, and I’m sure he’ll contact you as soon as he’s able.”

      Able, thought Green with disbelief. What, when it reaches the top of his “to do” list? “Give me his cellphone number.”

      “I don’t believe he’s in cellphone range. But I assure you, he will call you. Is there anything else I can help you with?” She’d reverted to her script, so he thanked her and hung up. He headed off to alert Levesque and Sullivan, hoping the secretary was right. He was anxious to get his own read on David Rosenthal, who was emerging as more peculiar by the moment.