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mean … ?” Jake began.
    The kitchen door swung open. “Sandwiches, Gentlemen.” Addie swept through, carrying a large circular tray laden with three-year-old cheddar cheese sandwiches; not the two-bite, triangular, green-dyed cocktail specimens, but solid, two-handed specials made with thick slices of whole wheat bread that she had baked the same morning. A dish of strong onions and pickles stood on the side. Addie stopped abruptly. “I mean, unless you’re still talking shop.”
    â€œNo, Addie,” Tretheway said. “We’re all finished.”
    Addie put the heavy tray in the centre of the card table. Everyone dug in. Two students returned and split one sandwich. Fred had half of Jake’s. Addie and Wan Ho enjoyed their share, but Tretheway ate more than anyone. In his hands, the sandwiches appeared regular sized. The tray emptied quickly.
    Tretheway brushed the last bread crumbs from his chest onto his stomach. “Now let’s play some real cards,” he said.
    â€œBut you said …” Addie began.
    â€œI think it’s your deal,” Tretheway said.
    Addie started shuffling the cards. She frowned across the table at Wan Ho.
    â€œJake,” Tretheway said. “Just nip out to the kitchen and get me a brew.”
    Jake pushed away from the table. He smiled. Tretheway was back in the game.

    At the end of the evening, Tretheway walked Wan Ho to the front door while Jake and Addie attacked the post-euchre clutter of the common room. Wan Ho was mumbling to himself; phrases like ‘bad run of cards’, Tucky splits’. He and Addie had lost five quick consecutive games with Tretheway holding four lone hands.
    â€œThere’ll be another day,” Tretheway said. He helped the grumbling detective on with his coat.
    Wan Ho pushed his feet into an open pair of galoshes. He looked around at Tretheway. The muted bantering of Jake and Addie floated down the hall.
    â€œYou said something about number three,” Wan Ho said.
    Tretheway nodded.
    â€œYou think there’ll be another one?”
    â€œMaybe not. It’s hard to tell. One is just an event. Two could be a coincidence. But three changes the picture. That’s a series. A pattern.”
    â€œMeaning?”
    â€œThat there could eventually be a number four. And a five. Six. And so on.”
    Wan Ho pulled on his gloves. “Anything we can do about it?”
    â€œI think not. It depends on which movie our Fan sees. And if it gives him an idea. As I said before, there are just too many movies. If he can find a Laurel and Hardy sinister, then …” Tretheway shrugged.
    Wan Ho nodded. “And really, a derby on a horse and an escaped bird are nothing to lose sleep over.”
    â€œThat’s right.” Tretheway reached out and pulled the lapels of Wan Ho’s overcoat snugly together. “As far as I’m concerned, they’re just two interesting but petty unrelated incidents.”
    â€œNot a series?” Wan Ho smiled.
    â€œNot a series.” Tretheway smiled back. “See you at the movies.” He opened the door. Arctic air rushed into the hall. They both shivered.
    After
The Wizard of Oz
a pattern was formed, a series began.

Chapter
4
    O ne of the first things Tretheway did in 1937 when he became the youngest inspector (traffic or otherwise) on the FYPD was to organize a children’s safety club. It started innocently enough. A first grade teacher from the local George R. Allan Public School approached Tretheway with the strong opinion that her pupils were not sufficiently aware of traffic rules and regulations. And could the police do anything about it.
    Tretheway thought so. He began one slow Monday morning by giving her class of six-to-seven-year-olds a short talk on road safety. The school invited him back. Addie typed up membership cards. A student could join by filling out the card (no charge) and memorizing a half-dozen traffic safety