Across town, the phone’s high-pitched demand for attention penetrated Rhona Simpson’s sleep. Her cat, Opie, sensitive to the noise, moved off the pillow and none-too-gently batted Rhona’s ear.

      “Okay, okay. I’m answering.” She pushed the cat to one side, groped for the phone and then for her glasses before she squinted at the clock radio. Nine on Sunday morning. Zack would never call her this early. It had to be the shop.

      After her immediate superior, Detective Charlie O’Connor, identified himself he said, “Reverend Paul Robertson, the activist for gay causes, was stabbed and killed at the starting line of the National Capital Marathon. Hard to believe, but apparently it was such a mob scene, no one witnessed the stabbing. The marathon began at Carleton. How soon can you get there?”

      “Inside of fifteen minutes.”

      Why hadn’t she told the chief she was through? She’d spent Saturday afternoon drafting her resignation and had planned to speak with him first thing tomorrow, Monday.

      It wasn’t the work she hated: being a cop would be great if it weren’t for some of the men on the force. My God, they were dinosaurs, misogynists, racists. When were they going to face reality; women, even ethnic women, had been a police fact for years. And having Zack, the love of her life, in Toronto wasn’t helping one little bit. She’d been ready, yesterday, to throw in the towel, to apply to the Toronto Police, forget police work altogether and take up a trade where her coworkers felt like team players, not adversaries, where everyone wasn’t waiting for her to screw up.

      Why hadn’t she said anything before accepting this case? Obviously she wasn’t quite ready to make the big decision. Maybe because it would make her feel like a quitter. She’d think about it later. If she succeeded in this high-profile case and applied in Toronto, it would help her and, if she still wanted to give up police work, she’d depart with the satisfaction of leaving in a blaze of glory.

      In the bathroom, she zoomed her electric toothbrush over her teeth, splashed water on her face and replaced her oversize tortoise-shell glasses. Perched on her nose, they allowed her to monitor the transformation from wan dishevellment to competent professionalism. She rolled her long dark hair, a gift from her Cree grandmother, into a tidy French twist, deftly applied black eyeliner, brown eyeshadow, rose lipstick and blush. After fastening gold stud earrings in place, she contemplated the clothes hanging in her cupboard. Dressing had been a whole lot easier when she’d worn a uniform.

      Ever since she’d read an article in a woman’s magazine advising short women to wear one colour to appear taller and a dark colour to seem thinner, she’d followed the advice. She pulled on flat-fronted chocolate brown cords, a deeper brown cotton shirt and reached for her cowboy boots, acknowledging that her love of cowboy boots had a lot to do with the fact that she stood five foot three. If the Ottawa Police hadn’t lowered the height requirement, she wouldn’t even be a cop. Peering into her oversize black leather shoulder bag, which doubled as a briefcase, she checked that her notebook, cell phone, disposable latex gloves, plastic bags and wallet along with her card case and keys nestled in their respective pockets.

      Dressed, she ran downstairs, opened a can of Meow Tuna Treats for Opie and filled his water bowl. Instead of the waffles and bacon she’d planned for Sunday breakfast, she grabbed two MacIntosh apples, her consumer’s bow to nationalism, and hurried out the door. With the stereo blasting an aria from Madame Butterfly, and her secondhand red Mazda Miata exceeding the speed limit, she arrived at Carleton at nine twenty. The marathon was less than two hours old. Enough time for a couple of constables to rope off the scene and prevent an ambulance crew from making off with Robertson’s body. On past occasions, overzealous ambulance staff, worried they might be accused of negligence, had rushed clearly dead victims to hospital. Only something as discernably fatal as a severed head or advanced rigor mortis deterred them.

      Two constables, Gregor and Featherstone, awaited her. She’d worked with George Gregor before when she’d been a rookie. He’d given her a hard time. One of the dinosaurs, he referred frequently to “the good old days” and left her in no doubt that in those days there were no women on the force. She’d also heard him use the word “squaws” but had chosen to pretend she hadn’t, since she knew he’d complain that some women were “too damn sensitive” to be cops. A plump, square-faced man of middle years, he lacked imagination but performed his routine tasks competently. Sheila Featherstone, a rookie, had asked Rhona to mentor her. Because she was unsure of her own feelings about the force and about the viability of police work as a long-term career for women, Rhona had been reluctant to accept the role.

      At the murder site, Rhona inspected the body. Covered with a green tarp, it lay isolated from the milling crowd by a cordon of yellow tape.

      “We’ve interviewed some of the spectators,” Constable Featherstone said.

      “And?”

      “Nothing so far. The victim’s wife was also running the race. She’s over at the medical tent with the doctor who attended the victim.”

      “I’ll talk to her next. Both of you remain here. Finish with the spectators. The ident team will arrive soon. I’ll arrange for an interview room in the gym.”

      “Interviews?” Constable Gregor said.

      “For the moment, we’ll assume Reverend Robertson was killed by one of the runners. It’s our job to sort them out. Many probably knew him. It’s an out-and-back race that ends on the other side of the campus. I’ll meet with the out-of-towners when they finish. If we talk to them now, it’ll save them or us from making a trip later on. When you’re finished here, you,” she nodded to Constable Gregor, “move to the finish line, take some of the officers with you, and tell the out-of-towners who knew Robertson to change and be at the gym by one thirty.”

      “You organize the interviews,” Rhona said to Constable Featherstone. “I’ll do them after the marathon finishes.”

      Rhona checked the time. “It amazed me, when I watched the Olympics, to see the top runners finishing in a little over two hours. The first ones whip across the line shortly after eleven. Where’s the medical tent?”

      “Over by the finish line.”

      “I’m off to see the widow.”

      Two

      A short, stocky woman dressed in brown and wearing cowboy boots strode purposefully toward Kas and Hollis as they sat side by side on a cot in the medical tent.

      “Mrs. Robertson, I’m Rhona Simpson, the detective in charge of the case.”

      “It’s Grant, Hollis Grant.”

      “Reverend Robertson’s wife?”

      “That’s right.”

      “I’ll wait outside,” Kas said.

      Simpson lowered