Free Erasing Memory by Scott Thornley

whereabouts today as promised.”
    “No problem, Michael. I’d given you a lot to do.”
    “Well, here’s the thing—I just got home and I’m downloading the images from my camera. They’re not exactly
Time
magazine but you can clearly see a groove in the sand. I shot it every way from Sunday and marked it with a stick, but if the wind is up tomorrow it may all be gone.”
    “Not bad for a dark-horse theory. What did you find out about the troller?”
    “That’s the thing—no one heard the boat. And everyone I talked to said they’d look if they heard a boat out at night, ’cause I guess that’s what they do. One did suggest that if the breeze was coming down the lake, like towards the scene, and apparently it was, there’s a likelihood they wouldn’t hear it at all if it was revving low for trolling.”
    “And the marinas?”
    “The first had shut down for the night, but the guy who works on the motors at the second one was still there. He says he thought they did rent out a runabout, a cedar-strip job that he didn’t see come back. When he walks me around to its berth, which is empty, he says, ‘No way that was an overnighter, since it has no running lights on it at all.’ He scratches his head and says, ‘Some of the day trippers up here are city-stupid, though.’ Even with a moon, the lake can be tricky at night—a lot of shoals and rocks. He figured maybe the guy ran aground and took off without letting them know.
    “So then I’m walking to my car when he calls, ‘Chief, check this out.’ I go back to him and he points to a beat-up Dodgepickup. ‘That’s been sittin’ here for two days. It must be the guy who rented the runabout. Can’t think of anyone else who owns it.’ And so I call in the plate and it turns out it’s a guy I know—Ronnie Ruvola, a twenty-eight-year-old from the west end with a record ranging from B and E to dope dealing.”
    “Don’t know him. Is he a serious player?”
    “I don’t think so, but I’ll find out. I got the mechanic to take me to the marina’s tuck shop and office. The owner, John Gibbs, wasn’t there, but the mechanic pulls up the receipt from the credit card. The card says ‘Robert Raymond Walters,’ but he gives me a description that matches Ronnie. He also rented a tackle box and fishing pole and even added live bait to the credit card. Gibbs was apparently pissed because that boat had been rented for the following day to some day fisher. He had to upgrade him to a Boston Whaler. I’ve had the pickup taken in to the pound and I’ll go back to interview Gibbs.”
    “A good day’s work, Michael. Aziz and I have news too, but not to be discussed, as she says, over a cellphone. I’ll see you in the morning.”
    Marcello came over, martini shaker in hand. “Anytime I see you on your cell here, I’m concerned. Everything okay?”
    “The soup’s terrific and, yes, all’s well. Say, March, before the place gets into all that thumpa-thumpa stuff, can I hear ‘Nun Ti Lassu’?”
    “No problem. Chris’ll love it too. But one of these days I’m gonna teach you that not all Sicilian songs are sad.”

EIGHT
—
    S ATURDAY MORNING CAME EARLY at the lake. Tim Bookner and his four-year-old son Aidan were sitting on the rear deck of Tim’s handsome twenty-four-foot Limestone,
Book’s Boat
, designed for heavy weather on Georgian Bay. Anchored fore and aft, the boat bobbed gently in the breeze coming off Billings Island. Tim had been fishing on this lake since he was Aidan’s age. He knew where the pickerel and bass were, and he was proud to be introducing his son to his heritage.
    For the first half-hour Aidan ate animal crackers. When he was full, he threw one towards a gull that was hovering over the boat. The small cookie barely had time to hit the surface before the gull swept it up and banked high overhead before returning for more. Excited, Aidan pointed up at the bird, calling out in his high-pitched outside voice, “Dad, the bird