Ollie’s directions took us to Sunnyvale Court, a horseshoe of tiny bungalows on tiny lots. While a few were reasonably well maintained, most were in disrepair, and several were boarded up and abandoned. I guessed it had been a while since the court had lived up to its name.

Twiller’s address was at the far end, on the north side of the curve. The place needed paint, new screens, and a bucket of weed killer. Maybe a bulldozer. Twiller’s next-door neighbor had two garbage pails on his stoop and a car on cinder blocks in the drive.

We arrived to the usual hubbub of activity. The front door of Twiller’s house was open, and every indoor and outdoor bulb was blazing. Blue and yellow Evi Lites dotted the lawn, marking the locations of trace evidence, perhaps bits of Castain.

A sheet-covered body lay on a walk leading to a porch enclosed by a rusty iron railing. Crime scene tape triangled between the railing and two stunted pines in the yard. Portable halogens were focused on it.

More tape paralleled the curb on the opposite side of the culde-sac, a restraint for gawkers out for a glimpse of someone else’s misery. Possibly members of the media.

Ryan was right. It seemed every conceivable member of law enforcement had turned out. I saw cruisers from the RCMP and MED, a hearse, a panel van, and at least a dozen unmarked cars and pickups. Most had flashing lights on their roofs or dashboards. Radios added staticky sputter to the tumult of voices calling back and forth.

Ollie was off to one side, talking to a woman whose dress was too short and too tight for her heavy thighs and the rolls of fat outlining her bra. I assumed this was Merilee Twiller.

Ryan pulled to the end of the line of parked vehicles. An RCMP corporal approached his door. Ryan badged us in. We got out and walked toward Ollie.

As we drew close, I could see that Twiller was in her forties, trying hard not to look it. Despite an overload of makeup, I noted puffy lower lids, networks of deep lines, and starbursts of capillaries on either side of her nose.

Ollie didn’t explain us to Twiller. “You take a look at him?”

Ryan answered for both of us. “Not yet. What have you got so far?”

“Around seven Castain dropped in for a little poontang with the love of his life here.” Ollie flicked a thumb at Twiller.

“You’re a real dick,” she said.

“Castain left around eight. Never made it to the property line.”

“Any witnesses?” Ryan asked.

“The grieving girlfriend says she heard shots, then squealing tires. Didn’t get a look at the shooter or the car.”

“That’s how it went down.” Defensive.

“Where was lover boy going from here?”

“We’ve been over this.” Twiller kept her angry rainbow eyes on Ollie.

“I’m slow. Explain it again.”