“Good.”

He was about to ring off when he remembered, “Oh, and Dumfries. Could you check that out too, please?”

“Right. I forgot.”

He hung up and tapped the phone a few times with his finger. Then he went over to his computer and dialed into the Internet.

Once connected, he went to Google and typed in “Dumfries.”

* * *

“Well, that wasn’t very helpful,” said Myrna. “Is he always like that?”

They’d descended the TD Bank Tower and were standing in the lobby. Myrna was taking a moment to admire the Mies van der Rohe design. The light and height. A contrast to the closed-off, closed-in, squalid little scene they’d left on the 52nd floor.

Thomas Morrow was elegant, tall, gracious. He appeared, in many ways, an animated version of the building itself. Except there was nothing open and bright about him.

The office tower was more than it initially appeared. Thomas Morrow was less.

“Worse,” said Clara. “I think you being there made him nicer than he normally is.”

“You’re joking,” said Myrna. Their shoes rapped on the marble floor. The clock above the long marble security desk said four thirty-five. Thomas Morrow had made his sister-in-law wait twenty minutes and then had given them ten minutes of his time before moving on to more pressing issues than a missing brother.

“I’m sure Peter’s fine,” Morrow had said, a smile on his face that only managed to look condescending. “You know him. He’s gone off to paint and lost track of the time.”

Myrna said nothing, she simply observed Thomas Morrow. He was in his early sixties, she guessed. He sat with his legs splayed open, inviting the women to stare at his crotch. His suit was beautifully cut and his tie was silk. His back was to the view, which meant his visitors saw him against the backdrop of the huge black towers around him and the glittering great lake beyond.

He was like a monarch, surrounding himself with the symbols of power, hoping to disguise his own weakness.

Clara kept her temper. “I’m sure you’re right, but I’m really just interested in knowing if you saw him when he was here.”

Thomas shook his head. “But I wouldn’t expect him to get in touch. No art on my walls.”

He pointed with some pride to the bank of photographs. Not of family or friends, but of business triumphs. Golfing trophies. Famous people he’d met.

Strangers.

“He was probably going to shows and checking out galleries,” said Thomas Morrow. “Have you asked the galleries?”

“That’s a good idea,” said Clara with a tight smile. “Thank you.”

Morrow got up and walked to the door. “I’m glad I could help.”

And that was that.

“We could’ve done that over the phone,” said Myrna as they walked out into the blast furnace of the Toronto summer. The heat shimmered off the buildings and bounced off concrete and drilled into the pavement, which gave off the scent of melting asphalt in the heavy, humid air.