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figure slumped in the front seat. Three bullet holes in the passenger side window were clearly visible.
    “Trinchera’s body was found yesterday afternoon on Coral Way not far from his home in Coral Gables. He had been shot three times. Police don’t have any suspects. We reached Canadian crime specialist and author James Devereaux in Montreal.”
    A blond-haired professorial-looking man appeared on the screen. The news anchor said, “Thanks for speaking to us this morning. We appreciate it. Tell us about this Vic Trinchera.”
    Devereaux arranged an expression on his face that one adopts for television—an expression that says you know what you are talking about. “Trinchera had recently been involved in a feud with his rival, Johnny Rizzo, known as Johnny Bravo,” Devereaux said. “You have to believe this hit is related to their feud. If that’s the case, you may not have seen the last of Canadian gangster violence in Miami.”
    “Jim, we don’t usually think of gangsters when we think of Canada. What gives, anyway?”
    “We’ve got bad guys here, just like you,” Devereaux said. “Montreal has a particularly rich history of organized crime, not just the Mafia but biker gangs, too.”
    “Now they’re coming down here?”
    “Gangsters are like most Canadians, they like the Florida weather in winter. What’s a bit surprising is that they’ve started to kill each other down there.”
    The anchor turned to his female co-anchor, a woman with shimmering blond hair. The anchor said, “Isn’t that great, Merilee? As if we didn’t have enough trouble with our own gangsters right here in Miami, now we’ve got the Canadians shooting one another.”
    “I thought Canadians were polite, ate peameal bacon, and watched hockey,” Merilee said. Then she announced to the camera: “Canadian bad guys stay home.” She smiled, displaying the world’s whitest teeth. “Only kidding. We love Canadians, of course!”
    “Except the ones with guns,” the young anchor said. “And what’s peameal bacon?”
    “I’m not sure, but Canadians eat it,” said Merilee.
    Terrific, Tree thought. He had gotten himself mixed up with a Canadian gangster—a dead Canadian gangster. What was Edith thinking?
    The anchors did not linger on peameal bacon or bad news. The weather was a more reliable topic on local newscasts. A hot, sunny weekend was in the offing. Whatever bad things happened, they would happen in the sunshine.
    Clinton bounced up onto the sofa and eased himself down beside Tree, laying his head on Tree’s lap. “Are you a Mafia dog, Clinton?” Tree asked. “Is that what you are? What kind of trouble have you landed me in?”
    If Clinton could answer, Tree reasoned, the dog might point out that he hadn’t landed Tree in trouble. Tree had done that all by himself.
    As usual.
    “Can you even say Mafia anymore?” he said to Clinton. “Is that politically correct? Maybe I should not use the word Mafia. Maybe you are an organized-crime dog.”
    Clinton regarded him with baleful eyes—the long-suffering organized-crime dog in need of affection. Tree gave him a pat. Clinton once again began playfully biting at the ends of his ears.
    He thought about phoning Edith back, and then decided against it. As much as he wanted to ask her what she was doing mixed up with a Canadian gangster, he didn’t want to tell her any more lies than he already had. He was supposed to be out of the business of lying. He hadn’t lasted a day before he was right back at it.
    His phone sounded. Fearing it was Edith, he pulled the phone from his pocket and checked the readout. It wasn’t Edith, but he didn’t recognize the number.
    “Is this Walter Tremain Callister?” An official-sounding female voice.
    “Who is this?”
    “Yes, well, is this Walter Tremain Callister?” The female voice sounded less certain of itself.
    “Yes,” Tree said. “Who’s calling?”
    “Good, so you are Mr. Callister.” A pause. “Mr. Callister, I’m