“Will he be charged with Scar’s murder?”

“Rainwater’s talking with the crown prosecutor.”

“Where’s Ollie?”

“Catching heat from K Division.”

“Why?”

“Not heat. They just want him to wrap it up. Guess he’ll be booking a flight out tonight.”

“Really?”

“Though Scar’s from Edmonton, he bought it on G Division turf. So did Castain and Ruben. Shithead’s boss is calling him home.”

“Ollie’s good with that?”

“He and I just don’t talk like we used to.”

I waited.

“He looks livid.”

“What about us?” I asked.

“We could try counseling.”

“Are we heading out?”

“Ruben killed babies on my patch. That’s a felony.” All levity gone. “Someone helped her flee the jurisdiction. That person is an accessory.”

“Meaning you plan to continue the case.”

“I do. Where are you?”

I told him about Skipper and Tyne. “Ryan, I think there could be more than one thing operating here.”

“Enlighten me.”

“The locals, Ollie, you—everyone thinks these murders stem from Scar’s attempt to usurp Unka’s control of the drug trade up here. Maybe that thinking is overly simplistic.”

“What are you suggesting?”

What was I suggesting? “Maybe there’s no one single motive. One single set of killers.”

“Go on.”

“There’s so much disconnect. Your informant fingering Scar and Unka but denying knowledge of Ruben. This guy wants to stay out of jail. Why hold back? The more he knows, the better his bargaining position. Why not offer everything he’s got?”

I heard Ryan exhale through his nose.

“Binny says word on the street is Ruben is different. Why make that up?”

“The kid likes pastry.”

Despite the sarcasm, I knew Ryan was listening. So was King.

“The ballistics. Ruben and Beck were shot with a hunting rifle, Scar and Castain with nine-millimeter handguns.”

“Maybe relevant, maybe not.”

“Daryl Beck was killed in 2008. There’s no indication he was involved in the drug trade.”

Ryan started to speak. I cut him off.

“A drug war can take a high toll. I get that. But maybe everyone’s making the mistake of trying to fit the evidence into a preconceived model. A model that’s wrong. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Piece of advice while you’re with Tyne?”

“What?” Wary.

“Eyes off the squeeters.”

“Aargh!” I jammed the phone into my purse.

“What?” King asked.

“Ryan thinks he’s George freakin’ Carlin.”

“Most men do.”

*  *  *

Tyne took his time answering the door. Today he was wearing a poncho with some sort of logo and jeans. And a look that said he was not thrilled to see us.

“You remember me, Mr. Tyne? We spoke on Friday about Annaliese Ruben,” I said.

“I’ve got to get to work.”

“I’m happy you found employment.”

“Weekend security. Pay’s shit.”

“This is Maureen King. The deputy chief coroner.”

Tyne’s eyes went empty as glass. “Someone croak?”

“Annaliese Ruben.”