I owe a large part of that to my older brother. As a child, Brad had set his sights on an acting career. Every time our family entertained guests, he’d practiced his craft with a live performance. Being his only sibling meant being recruited into these plays and given multiple roles, so he could concentrate on the lead. He’d even bullied me into taking acting classes and joining the school drama club so my ineptitude wouldn’t ruin his performances. All this ended in ninth grade, when I got a role in the annual school play, and Brad got a place in the chorus. After that, Brad declared himself too mature for home dramas, and Mom declared my acting lessons a waste of money.

I found the bar easily enough. It was what I expected: a dark, decrepit pub with little to recommend it except that its unrelenting dinginess ensured the BMW and Prada crowd was unlikely to wander in and start ordering martinis. And, really, when it comes to a good cop bar, that’s the only qualification that counts.

When I stepped inside, I paused to let my eyes adjust to the semidark. A blond, beefy rookie at the bar was telling a story loud enough to drown out the television, earning him a few glowers from other patrons, but nothing more, as if they still remembered the day when they’d been up there relaying the tale of their first big takedown. The bar smelled of sweat, aftershave and fried food, with the faint scent of cigarette smoke wafting from the side hall, probably the bathroom—though in a place like this, it was just as likely to be coming from the kitchen.

I walked to the bar and ordered a beer from a grizzled, mustached bartender. A few sets of eyes followed me, more curious than anything. Lacking the requisite blue eye shadow and gelled-to-the-rafters hairdo, I was unlikely to be mistaken for a groupie but, to avoid any lingering misconceptions, I met each look with a polite, professional nod and took my beer to a booth alongside the bar. Then I pulled a law enforcement magazine from my purse, laid it on the table and began to read.

I flipped through the magazine, glancing up now and then. Approachable, but not screaming for attention. A trio of fortyish men stood at the bar. Detectives, judging by the department-store suit jackets draped over the back of their stools. When I caught them looking, I favored them with a polite smile. It took only a few minutes before they appeared at my booth.

The first one, a beefy redhead, gestured at the magazine. “What force?”

He injected a healthy dose of friendly curiosity in the question, but I knew it was more test than interest.

“OPP,” I said, closing the magazine. “Ontario Provincial Police.”