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I gave it to Spivak.”
    â€œHe’s already checked them out,” Morgan responded. “No one recalls either of you. It’s like you were never there, like you didn’t exist.”
    â€œThat’s comforting. We were being unobtrusive, you know, too mature to flaunt our discretion .”
    â€œWhat about the last night, nothing comes back?”
    â€œNo, yes.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, no, yes?”
    â€œMorgan, in the morning, there was a smell of almonds.…”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œHand cream, there must have been hand cream in the women’s washroom. I use aloe-based moisturizers at home, this was almond.”
    â€œAnd this tells us what?”
    â€œThat we dined at an upscale restaurant. Large. The little spiffy bistros on the list have modest little bathrooms. I’d say we went to one of the major hotels. The Four Seasons, the Royal York. Almond is very old fashioned. I’d guess the Imperial Room at the Royal York.”
    Before their eyes adjusted to the midday June sunshine, they had crossed the street and descended into the glossy underworld that spreads beneath downtown Toronto like an alternate universe, where weather and seasons are residual memories, office workers are on half-hour tethers, and retail is king.
    From the Union Station subway stop they had direct access to the grand lobby of the Royal York and immediately found the maître d’ of the Imperial Room, who had just come on shift.
    â€œYes sir,” he said, directing himself to Morgan. “This lady was here a few nights ago.”
    â€œReally,” said Miranda, “how can you be so sure?”
    â€œWell, sir,” said the maître d’, still addressing Morgan, “the lady needed assistance in getting up from the table. It does not happen often, our patrons usually, ah, consume with discretion —”
    â€œHey,” said Miranda, taking him by the arm and swinging him around. “It’s me, I’m here. Talk to me.”
    â€œYes, ma’am, of course.” He turned to look at Morgan. “She was quite drunk, sir. I am sorry.”
    â€œYou’re gonna be a sorry soprano if you don’t focus,” said Miranda.
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œWhere was I sitting? Who was I with?”
    â€œOver there,” he said, nodding to a discreet table against a far wall. “You were alone with a gentleman, and then another gentleman joined you.”
    â€œThe bill,” said Morgan. “We need to see the bill.”
    â€œCould I ask what for, sir?”
    â€œYou are assisting in a murder investigation.”
    â€œReally? Well, of course.” The maître d’ was warming to his role. “If you will please come this way,” he said, and gently pulled his arm free of Miranda’s grasp. He led them into a small office and rummaged through a sheaf of receipts.
    â€œNothing,” he finally said. “There is no record.”
    â€œThere must be a bill,” said Miranda. “Perhaps we paid in cash.” As an aside, she said to Morgan, “He had credit cards, but he always used hard currency, sometimes American.”
    â€œOf course,” said the maître d’. “It happens so seldom. Yes, you are right, Detective, just so. Here we are. Giovanni was your waiter. He will be here shortly. Let me see. You had very good wines; quite memorable, in fact. A bottle of Bordeaux with dinner, very nice, Château Cos d’Estournel, 1986. Excellent choice with your boeuf bourguignon. Myself, I might have preferred a sunny Clos de Vougeot, something a little less sinister, but, well, chacun à son goût . And when your other friend arrived, Dom Pérignon. A magnum. Memorable, indeed. Yes, of course. Excellent. Still, I do not understand … unless you drank more than your share, Detective.”
    Morgan led her out into the main dining room. “Let’s get Spivak on this. He can