Blood Wine by John Moss Page A

told me the man with Philip was wearing a gold ring, very ostentatious, an eye-popper.”
    â€œSo …?”
    â€œWell, this ring,” said Morgan, cocking his head towards the ring on the table, “it might have been, how would you say this, on the hand that came in by itself.”
    â€œMy hand?” exclaimed Elke.
    â€œNot yours exactly,” said Morgan. “The one in your Monica Lewinsky handbag.”
    â€œIt’s a knock-off.”
    â€œWhat the hell are you talking about, Morgan? You saying this ring was on the dead guy’s finger?”
    â€œOn his severed hand, not the one still attached. The guy in the vat and the guy at the Royal York are one and the same. And the hand in the bag, it was obviously his.”
    â€œFor Christ’s sake, Morgan. You took a ring off a dead man’s hand, you gave it to your partner for a keepsake. What! What’s going on here? You’re both sick.”
    â€œA severed hand. We didn’t know for sure he was dead,” said Morgan. “It was a connection. We thought sooner or later it might give us a lead. Apparently it’s not going to.”
    â€œI thought we were in this together,” said Spivak.
    â€œYeah,” said Morgan. “Sorry. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
    â€œJesus, Jesus, Morgan.”
    â€œExpletive,” said Miranda to Morgan. “Not prayer.”
    â€œWhat the hell am I going to do with you two! Lady,” he turned to Elke, “do you know who you are yet? That would be helpful.”
    â€œI seem to have been abducted.”
    â€œNo shit,” he said. “Do you know who the hell you are? Where do you come from?”
    â€œShe does,” said Morgan. “But not how she got to Toronto.”
    â€œDoes anyone?” said Eeyore Stritch.
    â€œWhat?” demanded Spivak, wheeling on him. “What?”
    â€œKnow how they end up in Toronto …” Whatever wit there might have been in his comment dissipated like unacknowledged flatulence. He chuckled to himself. Miranda liked him for that.
    â€œOkay,” said Spivak. “Either we’re working together or we’re not working together.”
    â€œWe’re working together,” said Eeyore Stritch, who thought Spivak was addressing him.
    â€œYeah,” said Morgan. “Sorry, I thought — recovered memory syndrome. If she held onto it, maybe she’d remember things.”
    â€œAnd I do,” said Miranda. They waited.
    Miranda shut her eyes for an uncomfortably long period, then flashed them open. “His face, in the wine tank, that was the man with the ring. Philip met me in the lobby of the Royal York. He was there first, reading a paper. We didn’t have reservations. We never made reservations. We went in for dinner. Halfway through, the man, the other man, joined us. He didn’t eat. Philip ordered a bottle of Dom Pérignon. The two men, they weren’t friends. They knew each other, and they were keyed up about something. Maybe they quarrelled.”
    â€œNow we’re getting somewhere,” said Spivak, who seemed to have forgotten the purloined ring.
    â€œWas there any evidence of her door being jimmied?” Morgan asked.
    â€œHer apartment door? Miranda’s? No,” said Stritch. “But a pro wouldn’t leave any marks.”
    â€œSo here’s what happened,” said Morgan. “The ring-man doctors Miranda’s drink. Philip thinks it’s the Dom Pérignon, he walks her out of the dining room with as little fuss as possible. They get her to a car, a taxi. Have we checked taxis? Philip takes her home. The other man disappears.”
    â€œHow do you know?” said Miranda.
    â€œThe semen, it wasn’t his. Now let’s say Philip takes you home. You make love … correction, he has sex. Remember, he doesn’t know you’re drugged. He just thinks you’ve had too much champagne. You pass