“A Glock 9mm,” said Hank, glancing at the handgun. Rhonda looked at the case. It had a specially cut black foam-rubber inlay, just the right size to hold an Intertec Tec-9 carbine, a nasty beast — essentially a submachine gun — about the length of a man’s forearm. Possession of the handgun was illegal in Canada, but more disturbing was that Falsey and Ewell had left it behind, opting for the Tec-9 instead, a weapon banned now even in the U.S. because of its thirty-two-round clip. Rhonda put her hands on her hips and slowly surveyed the room. There were two ashtrays; it was a smoking room. It had data jacks for hooking up a modem, but there was no sign of a portable computer. She stepped into the bathroom. Two straight razors and a can of foam. Two toothbrushes, one of them badly chewed.
Back in the main room, she noticed a black-covered Bible sitting on one of the night tables.
“Probable cause?” said Rhonda to her partner.
“I’d say,” said Hank.
Kalipedes was looking at them. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” said Rhonda, “there’s enough superficial evidence to indicate that a crime has been or is about to be committed to allow us to thoroughly search this room without first obtaining a warrant. You’re welcome to remain and watch in fact, we encourage you to do so.” The department had been sued more than once by people who had claimed that valuables had disappeared during a search.
Kalipedes nodded, but he turned to the chambermaid. “Back to work,” he said. She scurried out the door.
Rhonda pulled out a handkerchief and used it held between two fingers to open the drawer in one of the night tables. It had another Bible in it, this one bound in red — typical Gideon issue. She crossed over to the other night table. She pulled a pen out of her pocket and used it to flip open the cover of the black bible. It wasn’t a Gideon one, and on the inside front cover it said “C. Falsey” in red ink. She glanced at the submachine-gun case. “Our Bible boy needs to reread the part about swords into plowshares, I think.”
Hank grunted in response as he used his own pen to fan out the papers on the dresser. “Look at this,” he said, after a moment.
Rhonda came over. Hank had revealed an unfolded city map of Toronto. Taking care to handle only the edges, Hank turned it over and pointed to the segment that would have been the cover had the map been folded up. It had a Barnes and Noble price sticker on it — an American bookstore chain, with no outlets in Canada. Falsey and Ewell had presumably brought the map with them from Arkansas. Hank gingerly flipped it over again. It was a full-color map with all sorts of symbols and markings. It took a moment before Rhonda noticed the simple circle drawn in ballpoint pen at Kipling and Homer, less than two kilometers from the spot they were currently at.
“Mr. Kalipedes,” called Rhonda. She motioned for him to come over, and he did so. “This is your neighborhood, sir. Can you tell me what’s at the intersection of Kipling and Homer?”
He scratched his chin with its grizzled stubble. “A Mac’s Milk, a Mr. Submarine, a dry cleaner’s. Oh yeah — and that clinic that was blown up a while ago.”
Rhonda and Hank exchanged glances. “Are you sure?” asked Rhonda.
“Of course,” said Kalipedes.
“Jesus Christ,” said Hank, realizing the magnitude of it all. “Jesus Christ.”
They hurriedly scanned the map, looking for any other markings. There were three more. One was a circle drawn in pencil around a building shown by a red rectangle on Bloor Street. Rhonda didn’t have to ask anyone what that was. It was typeset in italics right on the map: Royal Ont. Museum.
Also circled were the SkyDome — the stadium where the Blue Jays play — and the CBC Broadcasting Centre, a few blocks north of the SkyDome.
“Tourist attractions,” said Rhonda.
“Except they took a semiautomatic weapon,” said Hank.
“The Jays playing today?”
“Yup. Milwaukee is in town.”
“Anything happening at the CBC?”
“On a Sunday? I know they do a live show from the lobby there in the mornings; I’m not sure about the afternoons.” Hank looked at the map. “Besides, maybe they went somewhere other than these places. They didn’t take the map with them, after all.”
“Still . . .”
Hank didn’t need the consequences spelled out. “Yeah.”
“We’ll take the ROM — they’ve got that alien visiting there,” said Rhonda.
“It’s not really there,” said Hank. “It’s just a transmission from the mothership.”
Rhonda snorted, conveying that she knew that. She pulled a cellular phone out of her jacket pocket. “I’ll get teams sent to the CBC and SkyDome, and I’ll call for a couple of uniforms to wait here in case Falsey and Ewell return.”
Susan gave me a lift to Downsview subway station about three-thirty in the afternoon; it was cloudy, the sky bruised, a storm threatening. Ricky was spending the rest of the day with the Nguyens — my young son was developing quite a taste for Vietnamese food.
The subways were slow and infrequent on Sundays; I’d save time on my trip downtown by starting at Downsview at the north end of the Spadina line rather than at North York Centre. I gave my wife a kiss goodbye — and she held the kiss for a long time. I smiled at her. And she smiled back.
I then took the paper bag with the sandwiches she’d packed for me and headed into the station, riding the long escalator down into the subterranean world.
Rhonda Weir and Hank Li had got descriptions of Falsey and Ewell from Kalipedes. Kalipedes didn’t know which was which, but one was mid-twenties, blond, scrawny, maybe five-eight, with an overbite and a crew cut; the other was mid-thirties, three or four inches taller, narrow face, and had brown hair. Both had accents from the southern States. And, of course, one of them might well be carrying a Tec-9 submachine gun, perhaps hidden under a coat. Although the museum was crowded on Sundays — it was a favorite place for divorced fathers to take their kids — there was still a good chance that Rhonda or Hank would be able to spot them.
They parked their car in the small lot at the Bora Laskin Law Library, on the south side of the planetarium building, then walked over to the ROM, entering through the main doors and making their way over to Raghubir Singh.
Rhonda flashed her badge and described whom she and Hank were looking for.
“They were here before,” said Raghubir. “A few days ago. Two Americans with southern accents. I remember them because one of them called the Burgess Shale ‘the Bogus Shale.’ I told my wife about that when I got home — she got quite a kick out of it.”
Rhonda sighed. “Well, it’s unlikely that they’re back, then. Still, it’s the only lead we’ve got. We’ll look around, if that’s okay.”
“Of course,” said Raghubir. He radioed the other security guards, getting them to join in the search.
Rhonda pulled out her cellular again. “Weir,” she said. “The suspects were here at the ROM last week; still we’re going to have a look around on the off chance that they’ve come back, but I’d concentrate our forces at SkyDome and the CBC.”
I arrived at the museum about 4:30 P.M., entered through the staff entrance, and made my way up to the Burgess Shale exhibition, just to have a final look around, to make sure everything was okay before the arrival of Hollus and company.
Rhonda Weir, Hank Li, and Raghubir Singh met up in the Rotunda at 4:45. “No luck,” said Rhonda. “You?”
Hank shook his head. “I’d forgotten how big this place was. Even if they had come back here, they could be anywhere.”
“None of my people found them, either,” said Raghubir. “A lot of patrons carry their coats in the museum. We used to have a free coat check, but that was before the cutbacks.” He shrugged. “People don’t like having to pay.”
Rhonda looked at her watch. “It’s almost closing time.”