Читать книгу Quin and Morgan Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - John Moss - Страница 10

Morgan sat on the edge of the formal pond, arranging his thoughts in a neat rhetorical design as if he were preparing to address disciples in the Athenian agora. Dogs didn’t have a vocabulary; they didn’t respond to language itself. He was sorting Griffin’s notes in his mind, trying to cope with the unaccustomed discipline of reconstructing a formal argument.

A large and purposeful German shepherd loped across the garden, circled the pool, stood for a moment with his forepaws on the elevated wall, then, with the free end of his leash in his mouth, sat directly in front of Morgan and stared at him. The handler had set the dog loose in the yard when he went back to his van and had asked Morgan to keep an eye on him. Morgan’s indifference offended the dog, who dropped his leash so that it dragged on the ground as he trotted over to the base of a Japanese maple, cocked a leg, and peed. Then, skirting the lower pond, he came back, stepped lightly up onto the wall, and nudged his reluctant custodian, who was thinking about dogs and hadn’t noticed the German shepherd’s absence.

Morgan didn’t understand dogs. In Cabbagetown they were guards and scavengers. He didn’t think of animals defining themselves by their connection with humans. Morgan edged away while the big German shepherd manoeuvred to maintain contact, then gave up and gazed wistfully into the water. The dog leaned forward until his nose touched, withdrew with a sneeze, and leaned forward again, teetering in a very fine balance, threatening to topple into his own reflection.

The end of the German shepherd’s leash dangled below the surface, and the dog growled at the fish shimmering in flight. Distracted, Morgan spoke to the dog; inconsiderately, his tone ambiguous. Sensitive by training to verbal nuance, the dog heard only a jumble of words, without the slightest inflection to indicate the required response.

Unable to resolve his confusion, the dog wagged his tail with greater and greater vigour until his entire hindquarters quivered. Then, suddenly bounding away in apparent embarrassment, he tore around the big trees, leaped over shrubs and through compost remains, sent divots of grass flying askew, and careened through the air past Morgan, over the wall of the pond, and into the water.

Morgan smiled and turned away to protect the dog’s dignity. The fish would be safe near the bottom.

The dog clawed against the side of the pool. Each time he reached up to drag himself over the stone wall, the compromised ratio of buoyancy to displacement plunged him backward and under. Each time he rose sputtering to the surface, he was closer to drowning and even more bewildered by the man who ignored him.

The handler finally appeared, reached across, grasped the dog by the scruff of the neck, and hauled him over the edge with relative ease despite his size. The dog raced away and shook vigorously, then crept back to sit directly in front of Morgan. He leaned forward and burrowed his damp head deep between Morgan’s arm and body, shivering in gratitude and affection.

“You’ve made a friend for life,” the handler said. “He thinks you’re his saviour. He could have bloody well drowned.”

“No,” said Morgan. “I was right here.”

“His pecker nearly did him in. Male dogs can’t haul themselves over stuff. Like, if they fall through the ice, they often drown when their pecker gets caught on the edge of the ice.”

“I didn’t know that. I wouldn’t have let him drown.”

“He likes you,” said the handler. “Generally, he doesn’t like men.”

Morgan decided he was partial to dogs, though his armpit was saturated and smelled like a wet sofa. If he ever got a dog, it would have to be a terrier. They weren’t so needy, he had heard. A Scottish terrier. They had interior lives of their own.

The German shepherd, its world restored by the return of his handler, and not yet being given a task, wandered away to explore. His leash was dragging, and he came back so that the handler could unclasp it from his collar. Then he resumed his peregrination, sniffing and peeing, covering unseen markers with his own scent. Periodically, he stopped and stood alert long enough to confirm his handler’s location. As a gesture of affection, the handler pretended to ignore the dog, conveying his trust that the dog wouldn’t stray beyond the radius of control they had established between them.

“Nice fish,” the handler said.

“They’re down deep right now. What’s your dog’s name?”

“Rex.”

“Did you think about Prince?”

“We’re not supposed to give them a fancy name. It’s gotta go with commands. I call him Schnitzel at home with the kids. On duty he’s Rex.”

“And what does he call himself?” asked Morgan indistinctly, not really wanting to be heard.

“Dog,” said the handler.

“What?”

“He calls himself Dog.”

Morgan looked up at the man and smiled. “My name’s Morgan.”

“I’m McGillivery. They sent me up from College Street. Said you wanted us to sniff around. What are we looking for?”

Morgan shrugged. “I’ve gotta have something to look for. We can’t look for nothing.”

“I thought that’s what you did.”

“I take it you’re not the one who put in the request. I’ll see what we can come up with.”

“Hold on a minute,” said Morgan. He walked over to the house and disappeared through the French doors, then returned. “Work gloves are the best I can do. He wasn’t the type to leave dirty laundry around. You think you can trace where he went before he died. He was in the pond.”

“Out here? I don’t know.”

McGillivery set Rex to his task, then motioned Morgan to stay still beside him so that their own scent wouldn’t interfere. The dog moved methodically, but at times seemed confused, darting back and forth between the trellised portico and the formal pond. McGillivery reassured him. The dog circled, stopped to gaze into the depths at the fish, then walked nose to the ground in a direct line down to the larger opaque pond, to the green water’s edge. He looked around, sniffing the air as if he were trying to catch a distinct and elusive odour, then abruptly dropped his head and trotted in a straight line back to the upper pond where he came to rest at his handler’s feet.

“That’s about it,” said McGillivery. “Sorry. It seems likely the victim walked about quite a bit between the house and the fish-pond.”

“There are fish in the other one, too.”

“And he made at least one foray down to that pond. It looks kind of grim.”

“It’s just mud. There’s a natural spring. It leaches into the ravine.”

“There was something down there Rex didn’t recognize, something in the water, maybe the fish.”

“It’s sweet water, from clay.”

“He doesn’t know clay from kitty litter. Up closer to the house, the scents are untidy. Your victim came out through the back door and puttered around, then disappeared, maybe back to the house. That’s about all we can tell you, but I’m pretty sure of that much, anyway.”

Morgan admired McGillivery for his aplomb, and Rex for his capacity to recover his dignity through diligence, however unproductive.

Miranda appeared with two coffees in Styrofoam cups and a bag with gourmet sandwiches. “Sorry, McGillivery. I didn’t know you were here.”

“That’s okay. I had lunch on my way up. Rex doesn’t eat on duty.”

The dog wagged his tail and looked hungry.

“Find anything?” she asked. “No, ma’am, not much,” he answered quite formally. He had a faint Scottish burr.

McGillivery proceeded to describe the final outdoor movements of Robert Griffin in the late afternoon before he was murdered, speaking with more authority to Miranda than he had to Morgan, but with a trace of humility that might have been almost subversive. Listening to him recount the obvious, she was distracted. For Scots, proscribed from their homelands by the English, there was always an air of laconic defiance about deference — as there was irony in the voices of the Irish, who endured the unpleasantries of alien rule through a fine gift of words. Miranda recognized this in McGillivery’s voice. It made her feel Irish.

Her family had been in Waterloo County since it first opened for settlement. Some of her earliest forbears were Mennonites who had trekked up from Pennsylvania by Conestoga wagon after the revolutionary defeat, not for loyalty to the Crown but in fear of closing horizons in the new republic, a nation cobbled from wishes and dreams and given to values of enterprise and self-reliance they admired in themselves and feared in others. She was German, as well, from Bavaria, and English from Northumberland and Kent, and family lore had it that there was Mohawk blood in their veins. But she identified most with her Irish progenitors who had arrived out of famine and were thrust into agricultural wealth beyond their imagining in the lush, fertile landscape of Waterloo County, so strange from Connemara it faded out of their memories in only a few generations, but stayed deep in their hearts, that mixture of cool detachment, wild passion, and an inordinate fondness for language. McGillivery’s subversive burr made her feel oddly at home.

Being Anglican for the last couple of generations was like flying a flag of convenience, tattered as it was at this point in her life.

“What about inside?” she asked. “Did you take Rex into the house?”

“Why?” asked Morgan.

“I don’t know, she said. “Let’s take him in.”

When they opened the French doors, McGillivery released the dog without giving him a particular scent to pursue. Rex walked to the armchair, then looked back at Morgan. He walked over and sniffed Miranda, and she resisted her impulse to pat him. He seemed to be assimilating their scent, sorting them out from a complex pattern of odours. Then he paced back and forth, testing different scents that were unfamiliar but suggested only the purposeful activities of police investigators going about their business. Nothing spiked, nothing caught his attention, until he sniffed by the sofa where Eleanor Drummond had been sitting. Rex followed her scent to the chair and around and about the room, losing it in the din. He walked to the open door leading to the main floor, went back to the sofa as if he were confirming a suspicion, then walked purposefully upstairs, through the foyer, and up the next flight to the study door, which he pushed open with his nose. Standing very still, he blocked entry into the room, awaiting instructions.

Morgan glanced at the stains on the floor and explained to McGillivery that Eleanor Drummond had been found here in a pool of blood.

On a command from McGillivery, Rex moved one step at a time through the room, surveyed the patterns of scent, careful to avoid the space the body had occupied, and returned to sit at the feet of his handler, pensively waiting. McGillivery snapped his fingers, and the dog turned and trotted back down to the den. Miranda, Morgan, and Rex’s handler followed, the detectives expecting a revelation of some sort, but when they caught up to him, the dog was curled on the Kurdish runner, feigning sleep.

“So what’s he telling us?” Morgan asked.

“That he’s hungry,” suggested Miranda. “How did he know where Eleanor Drummond died?”

“He recognizes violence,” said McGillivery. “Even weeks later there’s a residual smell.”

“The lingering presence of evil,” said Morgan, assuming with a name like McGillivery that the handler was a Calvinist.

As if on cue, the dog unfurled, rose to his feet, shook himself, and went to the door that led past the bathroom into the nether regions of the house. McGillivery opened it for him. He stopped at the bathroom, entered, sniffed at the drain, gazed uncertainly at the tile walls, then abruptly went out and along to the next door, which stood ajar, and plunged into the dark, subterranean maze of cellars and passageways.

“He’ll get lost in there,” said Morgan.

Miranda responded by flicking a switch that drowned out the darkness with pools of light. They saw Rex disappear around a corner and caught up with him near the wine cellar, where he seemed for a moment distracted, standing unnaturally still. Then he gathered himself, veered around them, and disappeared back down the long passage leading to the tunnel. Barking, he returned, sniffed Miranda and Morgan, as if sorting out something, then almost slunk back to the wine cellar door. He stared up toward the small window, lowered his head, and began scratching against the stone and dirt floor by the sill.

“He’s got excellent taste,” Morgan observed. “He smells what they call ‘the portion of the gods,’ the infinitesimal seepage of great wine through old cork. I think we’ll have to sample a few before it’s all gone.”

Miranda smiled. The wine fell under her jurisdiction, not his.

Rex moved on, abandoning his digging project. His focus shifted to the pump room, but when he got inside he seemed disinterested, as if it wasn’t what he had expected.

“It’s the noise,” said McGillivery. There was an audible hush of electric motors, the soft rush of water surging through enclosed spaces. “It muffles the scents. My God, is all this necessary to run a fish pond?”

“They’re koi,” said Morgan. “Highly valued. The proof is the expense you see to maintain them.”

“What do you think he thought he’d find?” said Miranda, not sure whether the word thought was appropriate.

“Rex? Hard to say. He’s picking up too much. He can’t process it all. He gets bits and pieces, but no overall pattern. He’d show me if he could —”

“Searching for the master narrative,” interjected Miranda. “The story of the stories. He’s probably getting undisturbed scents down here from generations, a hundred and fifty years or more, everything from trysts between servants to the depravity of children playing games of fear and retribution.”

“Normally called hide-and-seek,” Morgan said. “You’re in a mood.”

“Yeah,” said Miranda, surprised that it showed. She hadn’t had the opportunity to tell him about the previous night’s revelations. She was in no hurry; she had a lot to assimilate. “Let’s get back into the light. I don’t like it down here. It’s all too obsessive.”

As soon as they re-entered the passageways, Rex starting dashing about again. He went down to the tunnel door and back, then to the wine cellar door, where he lingered briefly, then back to the door into the garage, which he scratched at and abruptly abandoned, then back once more, pushing his way out into the den with the others, striding ahead of them outside into the sunlight.

Rex trotted over to the pool, rested his forepaws on the top of the raised wall, and gazed down at the koi swimming below him quite calmly, having recovered from his intrusion. He cocked his head to one side, quizzical, the observer observed, his work in the cellar already forgotten.

Morgan was puzzling over the way Rex had avoided contaminating the crime scene when they went up to the study. The dog carefully stepped around the specific area where the body had been. Did his handler give him a command, or did he just know? He asked McGillivery, and the man explained he had used the word steady, and that was all it took.

“Would it work for me?” asked Morgan.

“What do you mean?”

“If I gave the same command.”

“If it made sense. There would have to be something to avoid.”

“Okay, here’s where Griffin was laid out on the ground. You try it first.”

McGillivery moved so the dog would have to cross over the site where the body had been to reach him when he was summoned. On command, after the handler said “Steady,” Rex came directly to him, stepping through the phantom corpse as if nothing were there. “There must have been a groundsheet under the dead man, something to obscure the scent.”

Morgan insisted they go back to the study, while Miranda stayed by the pool.

When they returned, Morgan explained. “He wouldn’t walk across where the body was, and when I tried it, same thing. He refused to cross over. When I asked McGillivery to vary the command from ‘Steady’ and say ‘Rumpelstiltskin’ instead, Rex carefully sidestepped the spot and moved to his side. He wasn’t about to violate the crime scene.”

“Good show,” said Miranda.

McGillivery seemed amused. He walked around a bit. “Sorry, folks. We just didn’t have a grasp on what you wanted us to find.”

As dog and handler disappeared through the walkway and up the steps to street level, Morgan said, “He’s an olfactory psychic, you know. He can smell the past. It’s not his job to make any sense of it.”

“What’s this all about?” Miranda asked when she realized he wasn’t going to volunteer an explanation for testing Rex or McGillivery — she wasn’t sure which.

“What?”

“Don’t be coy, Morgan. The business about walking on bodies that aren’t there. It’s all a bit eerie.”

“I was just wondering. It’s something I’ve been reading.”

“You’ve been reading?”

“Griffin’s notes. The dog grasped the situation, but the words were irrelevant. He obeyed ‘Rumpelstiltskin,’ he obeyed me. It wasn’t the words. He smelled death. He knew from his training not to intrude.”

“And?”

“Griffin was right.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

“He’s a nice guy,” Miranda said, meaning McGillivery. “Nice dog. Why would you name a dog Rex? What about Lassie or Rin Tin Tin? What about Prince?”

“I said that.”

“What?”

“Prince. Seventeen percent of American dogs are called Prince. That’s thirty-four percent of the males.”

“Did you make that up?”

“Nope. Eleven percent are called Rex, six percent are called Rusty. Of the males.”

“What’s the most popular name for a bitch? Ellen?”

“Six percent. Did you know that forty-seven and a half percent of statistics are bogus. His real name is Schnitzel.”

“Who?”

“Rex. That’s what they call him at home.”

“Schnitzel? I wonder what his registered name is?”

“Schwangau’s Baron von Schnitzelgruber. He calls himself Dog.”

“How do you know that?”

“We communed. Some dogs have four names. Fish and cats only have three. I took him for a swim in the pool.”

“You didn’t.”

“His idea. And in the process of nearly drowning he told me his name was Dog. That was his final message to the world. Did you know males can’t climb over ice ledges or walls? Their penises get caught.”

“I didn’t know that. I’m lucky. I don’t have a penis.”

“You’re not a dog.”

“Dogs, oh. Told you I’m lucky.”

They sat on the low retaining wall, and Miranda produced the gourmet sandwiches. The coffee was cold, but the sandwiches, which cost more than dinner for six at McDonald’s, were crumpled, with roast beef and bean sprouts and crusty whole-wheat bread and horseradish mustard from a family recipe passed down through millennia.

“I bought the sandwiches at the Robber Barons. As long as we’re hanging out in Rosedale, we might as well take advantage.” She fished around in her purse, withdrew a wrinkled bag, and announced, “Petit pain au chocolat for dessert.”

They spread out their lunch on the stone between them, amused by the fish that converged at the surface, begging for crumbs.

“Did you feed them?” she asked.

“Yeah, when I got here.”

“I called Mr. Nishimura.”

“Who?”

“Your friend from the koi place. He’s on his way down.”

While they ate, she told him about Jill. She had informed Children’s Services but insisted she would take responsibility herself, for the time being, as long as Victoria, the live-in, was there. Jill trusted Victoria. The girl asked about a funeral. She knew there had to be arrangements. She wasn’t sure how to do it. She didn’t think anyone would come to a funeral. She was on record as Elizabeth Jill Bray. She was born in Toronto. No father listed, no next of kin. Molly Bray was born in a crossroads village up past Elora. Detzler’s Landing. A general store, a mill, and a post office at the back of a service station. Miranda had driven by but never stopped in, cutting north from Waterloo County to cottage country to visit friends.

“How on earth do you know these places?” Morgan asked. “I’ve never heard of Detzler’s Landing. Must be on a river, on its own little lake with a name like that. I’m city. I know Canada from one end of Toronto to the other.”

Morgan waited for a laugh, and she complied. She had heard it before.

“Old Sunnyside in the west to the Beach down east,” he continued. “Everyone calls it the Beaches, but it was always the Beach. North to Steeles Avenue. Yonge Street, the longest street in the world. And to the south the lake — no, the United States. That’s where the world was real.”

He still had her attention. Now that they were alone she wanted to talk, but needed even more to listen to his familiar words, his voice. She didn’t want to talk until she was ready.

“Living here,” he said, “it was like being a smudge on a giant balloon, and inside the balloon was the United States of America, and we couldn’t get in. We could peer through from the surface, but we couldn’t get in. So when I finished university, did I go to the States? No, I went to Europe, and do you know why?”

“Because you couldn’t get in without bursting the bubble?”

“I have no idea why. I am not American, but I needed to get away. I am American, and I needed to get away.”

“You were reading too much Samuel Beckett.”

“They don’t know they’re inside the bubble-balloon.”

“I’ve never felt very Canadian,” she said. “No patriot fervour, no national angst. Nationalism is like a bad dye job. It’s probably better if your roots are showing.”

“And I felt badly for stretching a metaphor! Let’s take a run up to Detzler’s Landing tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s take the Jag.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s … okay, let’s take the Jag.”

“Okay.”

“Do you think I’m going grey?”

“Let’s see. No, some lovely pale highlights.” He tousled her hair.

They ate for a while, quietly, old friends having a picnic. Morgan watched her watching the fish. He felt he had been unfaithful. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her, he wanted to be “masculine” and protect her, and he knew if he tried she would laugh at the cliché and say he was the one who needed looking after. Then he would laugh and say something about women who nurtured, and they would both sputter into embarrassed silence.

So he said nothing and she, feeling she would love to lean against him in the midday sun, said nothing. She felt strong with him; the revelations of the previous night were gradually integrating into a coherent emotional pattern.

He felt sad, not for what he had done, but for the distance between them, and for the closeness, and for how the two didn’t seem to resolve.

As if she were reading his mind, she asked, “Did you go home with Ellen last night.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I thought she might —”

“What?”

“Take you home.”

“Take me home! What am I — some kind of door prize? I got a ride as far as her place.”

“You don’t have to tell me about it.”

“You asked. What am I supposed to do? Say no, I’ll walk?”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t care what?”

“You can sleep with whoever you want.”

“Thank you.”

“She’s a slut. You want to be careful.”

“She’s your friend.”

“My friend is a slut.”

“You ever sleep with her?”

“I’m a woman, for God’s sake.”

“So?”

“No. If I had, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“So you might have?”

“No, Morgan. She’s aggressively heterosexual.”

“And what about you?”

“Not aggressively. You’re a jerk.”

“I didn’t sleep with her. I just went in for a drink.”

“I don’t care — why not?”

“What? Because.”

“Because why?”

“Miranda …”

“I don’t care.’

“I didn’t.”

“Good.”

“Well, it’s been a relief getting this off my chest — the fact that I didn’t sleep with your former best friend.”

“She was never my best friend. Adults don’t have ‘best’ friends.”

“Former not-best friend.”

“Lost your sex drive?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“It’s about delayed gratification, Miranda. At my age patience is an aphrodisiac.”

“Or an excuse.”

He looked at her. Her smile was enigmatic, flirtatious, or derisive. It could go either way. “Miranda …” he said with wary affection. “Miranda …”

“You could do better than her, Morgan. Do you want the rest of your croissant?”

A voice called from the walkway, and a man emerged out of the shadows. He walked toward the pond, his eyes intent on penetrating the surface reflection.

“Hello, it is Mr. Nishimura,” he said without looking at either of them. “My goodness, Detective Morgan, you are right. They are nishikigoi, very wonderful.” Reluctantly, he turned to Miranda. “I am Mr. Nishimura. We talked on the telephone.”

She stood, took his proffered hand, and bowed slightly from the waist. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Nishimura.”

He bowed deeply. “It is a most honourable occasion.”

She bowed again, wondering how far political correctness had to go.

The man remained upright and grinned. “Eugene Nishimura,” he said in a voice cadenced in irony.

She laughed. “Well, Mr. Eugene Nishimura. Do you even speak Japanese? Where are you from?”

“Your Mr. Morgan saw through me immediately yesterday. People who pay great sums for fish want all the trimmings. I’d dress like a geisha if it sold koi.”

“And your life history, Mister Nishimura?”

“Toronto, like Detective Morgan. Parents both born in an Alberta internment camp. Keep calling me mister and we’ll leave that in the past. My grandparents were from British Columbia, same town, all four of them — Tofino. They fished before the war. On a clear day they imagined they could see their ancestral homeland across the Pacific. My great-grandparents were, or some of them were, from Niigata Province. Thus, I have a genetic link to the koi ponds of Japan. And what about you?”

“Small-town Ontario. Waldron — in Waterloo County.” Turning toward the koi, she asked, “What do you think?”

“These are some of the best I’ve seen. I buy in Japan once a year. I do speak Japanese a little. I learned at Berlitz, and from my wife. I’ve seldom seen better fish even there. Better, but not a lot better. There’s the Doitsu Showa you brought to me, Detective Morgan. In here he doesn’t stand out. This is an amazing collection, amazing. He must be one of the smallest. The Budo Goromo is smaller. There’s nothing else less than twenty inches. We should do an inventory. Look at that Matsuba — the Gin Matsuba.”

He pronounced the g hard, as in go. Morgan had been saying the g as in gin, like the drink.

“Which one is that?” asked Miranda.

“The purist might find him vulgar,” Nishimura explained, pointing to a fish hovering just below the surface, about two feet long, a deep lacquer red with reticulated scales edged in black. “He’s a living gem, a huge oriental pine cone transformed into the finest jewellery. He seems to radiate soft light from inside — a perfect example. My goodness, you have to love these fish. What a collection! Most people specialize in one or two varieties. He’s got a gorgeous cross-section, the best of everything. Look at that dragonfish. Look at that Tancho.”

Nishimura was ecstatic, as if he had discovered a treasure hidden from the world. “Tancho,” he explained to Miranda, “see the red disk on the head? The rest of the fish is white and black. See how crisp the colour is? Asymmetrical but perfectly balanced. It’s black with white, not white with black. Except for the red on its head. Look, a perfect blood moon with a bolt of black running down onto the nose. My golly, what am I doing prattling on?”

“Don’t stop,” said Miranda.

“I think the Tancho Showa is the single most outstanding fish here. That old-style Showa is stunning. It must be pushing three feet. I’ve never seen such a big koi outside Japan. There was one in England that died at a show — legendary, a new style, more white. There might be a few in the southern states this size —”

He interrupted himself to look around. “See those stanchions in the ground?” He indicated low concrete posts nestled unobtrusively into the landscape near the pond walls. “You wouldn’t get fish this size if the pool wasn’t heated in winter. He’s had someone bring the walls in to make a giant cocoon, and warm water pumped through from the house, maybe a heater to heat the air, no expense spared. If you want me to manage these guys, I’ll do it. His winterization people don’t know about fish. You know, you can’t have fish like this without word getting out unless you’re obsessively private. Obsessive compulsive. And rich. Fish people like to compare notes. You should read some of the chat lines on the Net. Fish people are gregarious. This guy’s an exception.”

“His name was Robert Griffin,” said Miranda.

“Never heard of him,” said Nishimura with a trace of admiration.

“So what do you think it’s all worth?” asked Morgan.

Nishimura shrugged.

“C’mon, Eugene. A hundred thousand?”

“Yeah.”

“More?”

“A lot more. I’ll do a complete inventory. Look at that Sushui!” He pointed at a striking fish with a dark zipper down its back set against pale blue, and large mirror scales along the sides, with a brilliant orange belly that only showed as it carved the water in slow, complementary arcs in response to another blue fish, also with a flashing red belly, and scales edged in darker gunmetal blue so that its entire back resembled articulated armour.

“The Sushui, swimming with the Asagi?” asked Morgan tentatively. He felt unsure of his authority in the presence of a master. The master deferred. Morgan was inordinately pleased with himself. “They move in response to each other,” Morgan said to Miranda. “And look at the Ogans. They’re like synchronized swimmers.”

“Yamabuki Ogans,” Nishimura explained. “Beautiful and bland.”

“Identical twins,” said Miranda. “Golden reflections of each other.”

“I like the way those other two relate — the Asagi and the Sushui,” Morgan said.

“Like us,” said Miranda.

The hint of a blush rose to Morgan’s cheek, and he scowled. She smiled.

“If we really want a true evaluation,” Nishimura said, “I’d suggest trying to get Peter Waddington over from England.”

“He wrote Koi Kichi,” said Morgan. “There’s a copy inside.”

“He knows more about koi than just about anybody.”

“I’ve read some of his diatribes on the Web. Bit of a diamond in the rough.”

“Genius has its privileges,” said Nishimura. “He’s our man.”

“Do you know him?” asked Miranda. “I’ve seen him at shows, crossed paths with him in Niigata a couple of times,” Nishimura said. “The man exudes expertise.”

“I thought he was into Kohaku and Sanke,” Morgan said.

“There’s no koi lover in the world who wouldn’t revel in this wonderful collection, for goodness’ sake.”

“Okay,” said Miranda. “Will you try to reach him?”

“Absolutely,” said Nishimura, “but it’ll cost you big bucks.”

“Eugene,” said Morgan, “let me show you the setup inside.”

“Sure, but where’s the Chagoi? I need to commune with a Chagoi.”

“We’ve saved the best for last,” Morgan said. “He’s down in the lower pond with some absolutely exquisite Kohaku.”

“You’re in for a treat,” said Miranda. “We figure the real collection is down there. The other’s a major distraction, just for show.”

“I put the Chagoi in to bring them up for viewing,” Morgan said. “These, they’re very special Kohaku he keeps hidden from himself.”

Eugene Nishimura squatted by the lower pool’s edge. “Bentonite clay. They must have trucked in tons of the stuff.”

“Around the turn of the last century, late 1800s,” said Morgan, “a son and heir built the place next door and put in the fish ponds, the two lower ones. There’s another over there. They’re probably connected. It’s got koi in it, too. The formal pool came later, maybe put in by the last of the line. Would have been for goldfish back then, prize goldfish. There’s a pipe running down from the pumphouse …”

“But they’re spring fed!” Nishimura said. “Natural water flow, clay-lined, they’d never freeze over. Ideal conditions.” He paused, then stood back. “Call your fish, Detective Morgan. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Miranda glanced at Morgan. How did you call a fish? But limpid eyes in a massive bronze head were already watching them, responding to their voices. Morgan took some feed from his pocket and hunched close to the pond edge. He reached over and let the Chagoi snarfle a mound of feed from his palm. Suddenly, there were Kohaku swarming like a tangle of kites, mouthing the air for food.

The fish in this pond were used to gathering natural nutrients from their forest-garden setting — insect larvae and algae and small creatures that swam through the green haze. So food pellets were a wondrous treat. But only the Chagoi had been conditioned to associate food with human voices, most recently with Morgan’s voice.

“There are some beauties there,” Morgan said.

“Indeed, Mr. Morgan. There are some very nice fish. Quality nishikigoi. Very collectible.”

“But?” asked Miranda.

Nishimura frowned. “These are no better than the fish in the other pond. How many? Two dozen. Perhaps not quite as good. No, not so good.”

The trio gazed into the shifting pattern of white and red awash in the opaque green as it slowly resolved into separate shadows and the water closed over until only the Chagoi was left, still grasping at the air with its lips, eyes fixed above the water level on Morgan.

Miranda and Morgan were disappointed by what Nishimura had said. Morgan, especially, felt a little betrayed. They had wanted this to be a treasure trove and a key to their investigation. Neither was excessively bothered that their knowledge of koi was imperfect, but each felt that their forensic skills had been somehow found wanting.

“There was something …” Nishimura seemed hesitant. He had stepped away from the clay edge, but moved closer again. “He’s got such a collection. Why these —” He interrupted himself, nodding at the wall and the de Cuchilleros property. “Are the fish in the pond over there the same?”

“I think they can get back and forth,” said Morgan. “A diver went in. There’s a grate near the bottom. She couldn’t feel a current but thought there must be an open flow. It wasn’t blocked with silt.”

“A grate?”

“She said the gaps were big enough. She could almost get through herself except for the scuba gear.”

“Detective Morgan,” Nishimura said with unexpected authority, “get me that big net over there, and a tub. And some more food. There’s something —”

“What …” said Miranda, trying not to impose an interrogative tone.

“Something. There’s something. Sorry. I don’t mean to be inscrutable. I just don’t know.”

Morgan returned with the net and tub. He handed Nishimura a handful of food pellets. Nishimura tossed a few to the mighty Chagoi, which was still within arm’s reach. Suddenly, the undulating red-and-white mass rose into view, and separate fish peeled away, grasping for morsels floating on the surface.

“That one,” said Nishimura. “You two wade in here, over here. In you go.”

He was serious.

They kicked off their shoes and socks, and Morgan rolled up his pants above the knee. Miranda’s slacks were snug and wouldn’t roll or bunch up. Quickly, she stripped them off and tossed them onto the ground away from the pond. She looked Morgan directly in the eye. He said nothing.

“Body-by-Victoria,” she said, “lavender briefs, micro-fibre, on sale — all prices in U.S. dollars. Order number CQ 138 something. Matching bra, underwired, super-soft lining for discreet comfort, sale price $15.99, lavender blue, dilly dilly. That should keep you going for a while.”

Morgan grinned, blushed. He would like to have taken off his own pants or something silly to even out the vulnerability quotient.

“C’mon, boys and girls,” said Nishimura, who seemed to find them puzzling. “In you go. Hold that tub under, like that. I’ll bring her over the edge.”

“Who?” said Miranda as she and Morgan waded precariously into the shallows. All she could see was a shifting pattern of red and white and soylent green.

Nishimura didn’t answer but moved around on nimble feet along the shoreline, swinging the large net deftly, then slipped it into the water. Suddenly, one fish was separated from the rest, calmly allowing itself to be guided over to the tub, over the edge that dipped down below the surface of the water, and into a tranquil holding pattern, surrounded by translucent blue plastic. Nishimura leaned out and took an end from Miranda. She shifted to the side but wouldn’t let go. She was a part of this. Gently, they lifted the tub onto the clay bank.

Miranda stood straight. Her feet slid out from under her. She fell backward and disappeared into the green water. Morgan reached for her, but his feet slipped on the wet clay and he disappeared into the green, as well.

The pool was preternaturally calm for a moment, then they both came up sputtering.

Nishimura didn’t seem amused, watching as they helped each other to dry land, both of them looking sheepish, not quite laughing, not embarrassed, as if this were illicit fun.

“Well …” said Morgan, stripping off his shirt and wringing it out. Soggy as it was, he offered it to Miranda to cover herself after she took off her blouse and swung it up in the air and away as if she would never want it again. She accepted Morgan’s awkward gallantry.

“Well?” Miranda said, gazing down at their catch. “What have we here?”

Nishimura glanced up at them both, then down at the fish that now seemed opalescent in the shaft of sunlight falling into the tub. “Look!” he said, and didn’t say anything more.

The three of them bent over the fish, which seemed oblivious to being observed as it hovered gently so as not to brush against the sides of the tub.

“Look,” Nishimura said again.

“What?” asked Miranda, trying not to intrude on whatever Nishimura was experiencing. She was curious, though.

Morgan looked at Nishimura, who remained silent. Reaching across, he squeezed Miranda’s shoulder. His damp shirt bled streamlets of water on his hand, and she shuddered from the cold of wet cloth pressing against her skin but shifted her body weight slightly toward him.

“I know this fish,” said Nishimura.

“I know her.”

“Personally?” asked Morgan.

“Yes.”

They were stunned.

“You’ve never seen such white. Just look. It’s layers upon layers of the purest white over white over white, like a blessing. The red’s perfect, like continents floating on a pure white sea, like perfect wounds on a sacred relic. This fish is a holy thing.” At his own pace Nishimura tried to clarify. “It’s the Champion of All Champions, the Supreme Champion of the All-Japan Koi Show two years ago. I saw her there. I know her.”

“How?” asked Morgan.

“She was never missing. As far as anyone knows, she’s cruising peacefully in a vast clay pond in Niigata, breeding a fortune.”

“A fortune?” echoed Miranda.

“The owners were offered four million for her after the show. In U.S. dollars. They turned it down.”

“Gosh,” said Morgan.

“Holy smoke!”

“My goodness,” said Miranda, smiling.

“Indeed,” said Nishimura.

“What a fish!”