PREVIOUSLY IN KILLER ON THE KAME
(Stop! If you are new to the story, the best way to catch up is to read previous episodes here. Spoilers below!)
Out walking her beagle Milo, Emma Brennan comes across a crime scene—a dead body at a construction site in East Lofthill. At home, she tells her husband Matt that it’s the same man who came to their house the day before, selling insulation. Matt remembers the man acting oddly in their basement with a metal detector. On a hunch, Matt takes a sledgehammer to the basement floor and discovers a buried toolbox filled with slender gold bars worth about a million dollars. Detective Sergeant Janice Cleary and Detective Constable Trent Frayne, of the Niagara Constabulary Service, are assigned to investigate the homicide. They determine the victim’s identity: Leonard Bouchard, an ex-con with a history of thefts from construction sites. Cleary and Frayne soon determine that Bouchard had targeted only certain new homes in East Lofthill. They head out to interview Emma and Matt’s next door neighbour, Kim Stephenson, a realtor, who seems to know more than she’s saying. Likewise, when the detectives speak to Emma and Matt, they too appear to be hiding something. On a hunch, Cleary and Frayne drive west into the country to speak with another ex-con, who reveals that shortly before a planned construction site heist a few years back, one of the thieves—Carmine Rizzolo—went missing and hasn’t been seen since. Cleary and Frayne talk to detective who remembers Rizzolo going missing, a presumed suicide. But oddly, his abandoned car was found near where he worked at the time—at an East Lofthill construction site, pouring concrete for basements. Meanwhile, bored at home, realtor Kim Stephenson goes out for a drive and ends up parked near the lake in Port Robinson. On the radio she hears the new hit song by a singer that she used to date. Then her phone dings with a message from the singer—the one-time Queen of Country, Belinda Boone—urgently asking if they could meet that evening.
EPISODE 6 EVERYWHERE AND NOWHERE
As they drove through Niagara Falls, curving along the Parkway with the river, Emma remembered an article that said ninety percent of Canadians lived within a hundred miles of the US border, but it hadn’t really meant anything to her until she’d moved to Niagara and met people who thought nothing of driving to New York to buy milk and cheese and gasoline. The difference between living a hundred miles from the border and ten miles was a lot bigger than it seemed.
When Emma and Matt had first moved to Delham they got their NEXUS cards and imagined quick trips to Buffalo to see concerts, the Finger Lakes, and Corning to see the Museum of Glass, since Emma had lately gotten interested in all things mid-century modern.
They’d made two trips—a jujitsu tournament for Matt and a weekend in East Aurora—and then the border closed. It was shocking when it happened. Even closing the border for a week or two seemed unbelievable at the time and then it somehow dragged out to months and then a couple of years. They never bothered to download the government’s travel app, since they had no interest in crossing over to the Yankee Doodle crazy once the pandemic started.
Now at the Whirlpool Bridge under the railway tracks Matt held up the two NEXUS cards to the screen and then drove slowly forward. They barely stopped at the booth on the other side and continued into the United States of America—still certifiable, but at least their midterms hadn’t gone as disastrously as predicted.
Matt checked for traffic before turning right. “Just like the good old days.”
“This Niagara Falls is a lot different than our Niagara Falls,” said Emma.
“It’s picking up,” Matt said, but there was no doubt the two cities were worlds apart. In Ontario people were upset about new casinos, new hotels, new condos, new construction of any kind, while in New York they were upset that their derelict buildings were falling down. Where both Falls managed to resemble each other most closely was with their emaciated meth-heads swaying along the sidewalks, grinding their caramel teeth, arguing with invisible companions. On a whim a few weeks after they moved to East Lofthill, Emma and Matt had driven all the way out Lundy’s Lane to a Japanese place in the heart of the tourist district. Tracing the same route back after dusk, they couldn’t believe the number of addicts staggering across intersections and sprawled in pawn shop doorways, zombie scarecrows draped in stained flannel and ragged jeans three sizes too big. It was pitiful and frightening, a hellscape which they would never forget was just a few kilometres away, on the other side of a slender moat. “They should keep these lift bridges up permanently,” said Matt as they crossed above the canal, tires humming. They hadn’t been back since.
Merging on to Interstate 190 Matt said, “We’ll come home over the Peace Bridge, so it looks like we didn’t just hit the one spot.”
They took it slowly. The road was basically clear, but a few patches of black ice remained. It was south Buffalo and beyond that had really been hammered by the previous weekend’s blizzard. But even here it was like driving through a canyon, enormous white walls of snow on either side that the plows had pushed past the shoulders.
Emma was surprised at how nervous she was. “Maybe we should buy something, just to have something to declare. Wegmans, maybe? Turkeys will be on sale.”
Americans and their Thanksgiving poultry. Throw in a couple of cans of cranberry sauce.
“No,” Matt said, making it sound like the decision was final.
She figured he was nervous too, so she let it go. They’d worked out their cover story, they were going to visit the Martin House, the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed home in Buffalo that had been completely restored. Because of new “Health and Safety Guidelines”—no one wanted to say Covid— they had to book their tour in advance, which worked perfectly for them. It left a paper trail as to why they’d crossed the border and what they were doing for a couple of hours. Emma was actually interested in the tour, it was something she’d wanted to do before the border closed, and she was glad the house was open again after the weekend’s storm.
Matt didn’t want to book the full tour that included the conservatory, the carriage house, and the landscaping, but he did agree to the two-hour option instead of just the one-hour.
What he didn’t agree to do was enjoy himself, and he didn’t. He sulked, and tried to rush through while Emma wanted to linger in each room, taking in the craftsmanship. Matt kept whispering, “We can come back another time, you can blow five hundred bucks on the private tour,” and Emma kept saying, “But we’re here now.”
She’d enjoyed the film they showed before the tour, the story of Darwin Martin and his wife Isobel, and Frank Lloyd Wright going so much over budget, as usual. Emma thought the Martins’ story was fascinating.
At the end she asked the tour guide about Graycliffe, on Lake Erie, the Martins’ summer home that Wright also designed for them. She joined Matt where he waited outside.
“Imagine having a cottage only a half hour away.”
“Probably took a lot longer to get there on horses,” said Matt, fishing the car keys from his pocket.
“Darwin Martin was one of the first to get a car, remember? They said halfway through construction they changed the stables into garages, weren’t you listening?”
Matt pressed the remote and the locks popped up. “Come on, let’s do the thing now.”
They drove in silence through Buffalo. Both nervous about The Thing, as they were calling it. Matt had researched coin dealers and pawn shops and people claiming to buy and sell gold and they’d finally settled on AAA Pawn. At least it was one thing they’d managed to agree on. As they drove further in, the buildings became progressively shabbier. Many were boarded-up. A half-deflated Thanksgiving cornucopia balloon swayed above the entrance to a non-chain convenience store. There were no banks, no grocery stores. They were in red-lined territory.
Emma took in the grey slush and paint peeling from fire hydrants. “Are you sure this is the right neighbourbood? It looked different in Google.”
“I don’t know, I’m just following the GPS.” Matt nodded. “There it is.”
He edged into a space a couple of doors down from the pawn shop, its neon sign a cautionary amber even at midday. Abandon all hope ye who barter here.
As they approached the door Emma said, “Do you think he buys gold?”
Matt snapped at her, “What? Of course, after all the research I did?” Then he caught her joke. The windows were plastered with cracked vinyl lettering repeating “We Buy Gold” in various sizes and angles. Matt gave an irritated head shake.
The door shutting with a clunk, Emma was startled by the guns.
In a glass case, two shelves of pistols, a tiny price tag tied to each. Behind a long counter ran an entire wall of rifles and shotguns, hanging heavy on hooks jammed into flaking pegboard. Boxes of ammunition were stacked in pyramids underneath. Welcome to America, all right.
The shop, in fact, was bigger than it seemed from the narrow storefront. It ran deep, way back into an uncertain darkness, a sour, old suitcase odour in the air. So much stuff. Musical instruments suspended on more pegboard, tables piled with electronic gadgets and twenty-year-old laptops, and in one long glass case a low mountain range of cell phones, watches, jewelry, coins, each its own jagged peak.
Some of the stuff looked new but a lot looked like it had been there since 56K modems were cutting-edge.
Matt stepped up to the counter and said, “Hey.”
The guy didn’t look up, just grunted a, “Hey,” back.
Matt waited a beat and then said, “Are you Derek Hackett?”
He still didn’t look up.
“Who wants to know.”
Matt’s voice tightened. “I have some gold to sell.”
“Yeah?” The guy took his time tightening the back of a watch, turned it over to see if the fix had worked, then slowly looked from Emma to Matt.
They stared at each other as a passing truck rattled the front windows.
“Yeah,” said Matt. “Maybe quite a bit.”
The guy put down the watch. “Okay.” He had a puffy face with random blemishes. Like a kicked-around volleyball, thought Emma. Black hair, dully shining from some sort of product, probably classic Brylcreem. What was that called, hair creeping down the forehead. She remembered: a widow’s peak.
Matt stood there and Emma could tell he wasn’t sure what to do next.
“It’s bars,” she said.
Matt glanced at her.
“We buy bars.” The guy was looking at Emma.
She said, “They’re one ounce.”
“Pretty common,” Brylcreem said. “I know them.”
Matt said, “Are you Derek Hackett?”
“That’s my father, he’s not here now.” He looked from Matt to Emma. “I can buy your gold.”
Matt pulled a bar from his jacket and put it on the counter. A tenuous clunk.
“Okay, so, um, like this.”
The guy picked it up, turned it over. “Canadian.”
“That’s the beauty of gold,” Matt said, “it’s the same everywhere.”
A vague whumpa-whumpa of automotive bass moved from far away to right outside the pawn shop in just a few seconds, this time the windows really rattling. Emma recognized the beat. It was a rap song her nephew liked, the skinniest twelve-year-old in Oakville. He’d made her watch the video. Talk about a lot of gold.
“I can give you two hundred for that.”
Matt raised his voice over the racket. “Two hundred?”
“American.”
“It’s worth two thousand.”
“Not in here.”
The bass cut out. A heavy car door slammed and they heard men greeting each other on the sidewalk, muffled but clear enough to catch the swagger.
The door opened. In walked a middle-aged, very confident, very large black guy.
Brylcreem’s Adam’s apple did a little jig.
He slid a newspaper over the gold bar. Buffalo News, sports section. Emma read the score upside down. Bills over the Browns, 31-23. A spider scuttled from under the paper.
Emma’s heart started to pound.
Matt left the house with the gold bar in his jacket. She’d left with a miniature canister of bear spray, unknown to Matt. She gripped it now, in her jacket pocket, quietly trying to twist off the safety.
Brylcreem turned his full attention to the guy. “Hey Von.”
“Good afternoon, Mitch.”
Brylcreem Mitch pushed off his stool and walked a little too quickly, it seemed to Emma, down to where the guy had come to the other end of the counter.
Matt extracted the gold bar from under the newspaper and put it back in his coat.
Giant Von reached into his leather jacket. Was that a holster? Emma gripped the bear spray tighter, the safety finally off. He pulled out a cylindrical package, wrapped in brown paper, and pushed it toward Mitch.
“This is what I was telling you about, I’m looking for an appraisal.”
Mitch unpeeled the wrapping and rolled out a piece of fabric. It was lace, all delicate flowers and buds. He swallowed, hard. You didn’t need to be a blackjack dealer to see that he knew he was holding an unbeatable hand.
Von noticed too.
“So I’m right, it’s Leavers.”
Mitch let the fabric dangle from his fingers. Emma thought it just looked like a doily. Matt stood rock still.
“How much of this do you have.”
Von tilted his head. “Lots. My nana was a collector. A credenza-full that I’ve found so far.”
Emma thought Mitch wobbled a little, and then she caught herself—saw herself—and not very successfully stifled a giggle.
“What’s so funny” hissed Matt.
Emma thought they’d walked into some combo of The Sopranos and The Wire, but it was actually The Simpsons. It was Comic Book Guy haggling with Dr. Hibbert over lace doilies. It wasn’t a holster, it was a leather fanny pack. And the guns on the wall just made it funnier. She covered her mouth.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” said Matt.
“What?”
“Come on, let’s go.”
“We just got here.”
“We’re going, come on.” Matt turned and walked out.
Emma waited a moment and then followed, but at the door she looked back and saw Mitch watching her. He nodded slightly, and she nodded back.
Getting in the car Matt was pissed. “Two hundred bucks, can you believe that shit?”
“American,” Emma said.
“Like that makes any difference, come on!”
She realized she shouldn’t have tried another joke but she didn’t want to drive home with Matt pissed off the whole way.
“He’s just negotiating, lowballing us. Let’s wait till Dr. Hibbert leaves and go back.”
“Who? What, no.” Matt started the car and pulled sharply away from the curb, almost getting rear-ended by a city bus that laid on its horn.
“Matt!”
“That place gave off bad vibes, didn’t you feel it?”
She did, and then she didn’t, and now she was mentally calculating how much of her fear was flat-out racist, but she wanted to keep the peace. She said, “Yeah, bad vibes.”
“We can find another place to sell it,” Matt said. “Maybe we’ll go to Detroit.”
“Sure,” Emma said, “that’s a good idea.
But she didn’t think it was.
Detective Constable Trent Frayne’s stomach rumbled as he took another bite. “How did you know this place was even here? Montreal bagels in the middle of nowhere.”
He and Detective Sergeant Janice Cleary were sitting in the Bagel Babes parking lot. The place sold soup and sandwiches but just for take-out.
Cleary waved her hand vaguely at the windshield, at the acres of snow-covered dried corn on one side of the roadway, at the industrial park on the other. “Thorold,” she said. “It’s everywhere and nowhere at the same time.”
“This is really good, I’ve never had this before. What kind of bread is it?”
“Challah. You’re supposed to know all this,” Cleary said. “You’re the street-smart, young cop, right.”
“I am?”
This was the third Major Crime investigation Frayne had worked with Cleary. After the first one ended, with the arrest of a homeless man for killing another homeless man, the other young cops told Frayne he wouldn’t have to work with Cleary again, as if he’d passed some kind of initiation. It wasn’t that they didn’t like Cleary— she kept to herself so much that none of them knew her well enough to dislike her— it was just that they saw working with her as not good for career advancement.
But Frayne liked it. And he liked her.
He didn’t think much about his career—too much effort, all that scheming and ass-kissing— and he liked the way Cleary did what she wanted, like this “poking around” they were doing now, going to talk to an old friend of Carmine Rizzolo’s, the missing person, the guy who worked construction in East Lofthill, pouring foundations, who just disappeared. Cleary had looked through the case files and the interview statements with his mother and brother, but then she’d dug a little deeper and found someone she said might be worth talking to.
Frayne swallowed another bite of his sandwich. “I think there’s a course on baked goods street smarts I can take online, I’ll look into it.”
“I appreciate your jokes, Constable, but I do feel I should warn you that many won’t. Especially those of a higher rank.”
“Gotcha.”
Cleary crumpled up the wrapper that her smoked meat on poppy seed bagel had come in. “I don’t want to be responsible for your career turning out like mine.”
Frayne was thinking he wouldn’t mind that at all but he said, “No, of course not.” He started the car. “We’re still going to be early.”
“Yeah, well. Where’s he going to go.”
***
Four minutes later Frayne pulled into the parking lot of the Peninsula Detention Centre.
The all-concrete Brutalist building was designed to hold about a hundred and twenty-five inmates but usually had closer to two-fifty and sometimes over three hundred. Habitat 67 with bars, minus the balconies.
Cleary and Frayne checked in and were led to a small meeting room. A few minutes later the door opened and a guard and an inmate stepped in.
The inmate stopped. “I’m not telling you shit.”
Cleary looked at him. “You don’t even know what we want to talk about.”
The guy looked at the guard and then back at Cleary. “I’m not saying nothing.”
He walked to the table and sat opposite Cleary. Frayne stood against the wall, his arms crossed.
Cleary made a show of reading her notes. “You’re Michael DeLuca, you went to St. Paul High School.”
He shrugged.
“You were friends with Carmine Rizzolo.”
“Damn, you find his body?”
“What makes you think we didn’t find him alive?”
“You just said ‘were friends.’ Plus, if the dude was alive he would’ve been at his mum’s for dinner every Sunday.”
“Do you think he killed himself?”
Back to shrugging. “Who knows.”
“You were friends with him for a long time,” Cleary said. “You stayed close.”
“I knew the guy.”
“You grew up with the guy. Then you worked construction with the guy.”
“Around here, yeah, I never went to Toronto.”
“I get that. When he came back to Niagara did he move back into the B and Es with you?”
DeLuca tried to look shocked. “B and Es? What are you talking about?”
“You guys started breaking into houses when you were in Grade 8.”
“You can’t bring up juvie records.”
Frayne looked sideways at Cleary and held back a smile. When they’d found out that DeLuca and Rizzolo had known each other as kids she’d said they probably had juvenile records, and they’d be sealed. But, she said, it didn’t mean they couldn’t use it to bluff.
“We don’t care about that now. And to answer your question, no, we haven’t found his body, he’s still missing. But you think he’s dead.”
DeLuca shrugged again. “I don’t know if he’s alive or dead.”
“You think he’s dead. Who do you think killed him?”
“Well, see, thing is, only you cops think he killed himself, and you only say that so you can call it case closed. Then you don’t have to do shit looking for him.”
Cleary thought that was probably about right, but she said, “I’m looking for him now.”
“Four years later.”
“You weren’t in jail then.”
“Me? I didn’t have nothing to do with it.”
“You only got picked up last year, sentenced to two years. You’ll be out in a couple of months. If you’re good and don’t get in any fights.” Cleary did an invisible doodle on the table. “Fights. Fights are bad. Fights get you some bonus time added on, isn’t that right, Constable?”
Frayne looked at his fingernails. “That’s been my understanding, Sergeant. Sometimes considerable time. Fights are unfortunate in that regard. Doesn’t matter who starts them, these fights.”
DeLuca looked right at Cleary. “This has nothing to do with me, don’t screw with me.”
“Who was he hanging out with when he went missing?”
“You should have asked when it went down.”
“I’m asking now. He was back in Niagara working construction, right?”
DeLuca leaned back in the plastic chair and looked around the room. “Yeah, he was.”
“He was working for Meyers,” Cleary said. “Pouring foundations.”
“That’s right.”
“And he just disappeared?”
“That’s the word.”
“And you weren’t the last person to see him?”
“Me? Not a chance.” DeLuca leaned forward. “I’ll tell you something. I did see him a few days before he disappeared and he was happy. He was making plans.”
“What kind of plans?”
“I don’t know, plans. Big talk. Gonna get a new car, gonna buy his mum a nice house. But then he’s gone, and there was all this crap about killing himself. I never bought that.”
“So what do you think happened?”
“Not a clue, but he didn’t off himself. You talk to his Toronto buddies?”
Cleary tapped at her phone then held it up. “Do you know this guy?”
The look on DeLuca’s face said he did, and he didn’t like it, then he got it under control. “No, never seen him.”
Cleary looked at Frayne. “Constable, do you have any questions?”
Frayne sighed. “No, I do not.”
DeLuca pushed back from the table. “No offense, but I hope I never see yous again.”
“You’ll see us if we want you to,” Cleary said. “You could be here for a while.”
Walking to the car Frayne put on his sunglasses. “Okay, so DeLuca definitely knew Leonard Bouchard.”
Cleary opened the door and looked over the roof at Frayne. “He said he’d never seen him.”
“The look on his face,” Frayne said. “He might as well have said he’d never seen his own mother.”
They got into the car. Cleary pulled out her notebook. “So these three guys knew each other four years ago. They were all involved in the theft of construction equipment and probably other thefts, too. So, did our dead guy Bouchard kill Carmine Rizzolo back then, and bury him on that East Lofthill job site, maybe with DeLuca’s help?
“Not exactly Jimmy Hoffa buried under Giants stadium.”
“Rizzolo wasn’t president of the Teamsters.”
Frayne rubbed his face. “Are we going to have to tell someone there’s a body buried in their basement?”
“I hope not.”
“It is a pretty good place to stash a corpse—fresh concrete, three, four feet deep.”
“It is,” Cleary said. “So if these cases are connected—Rizzolo and Bouchard— why did they bury Rizzolo but leave Bouchard’s body out in the open this time?”
“Maybe it really was a message for rival gang.”
“Could be,” Cleary said. “That’s what the task force big shots want to believe, for sure.”
Cleary looked across the parking lot. A squirrel picked its way along the top of a chain link fence. She sighed.
“I guess we type this up and send it in to them. They probably have someone working undercover, infiltrating these gangs and they won’t want us getting in the way.”
Frayne was disappointed but he understood. He really didn’t want to hand over what they’d managed to find, he wanted to keep poking around, as Cleary called it, but procedure was procedure.
Then he frowned. “Hold on. The task force didn’t know about our Mr. DeLuca here, doing time.”
“No, they didn’t.”
“They probably don’t know that Rizzolo might be buried under one of those East Lofthill houses.”
Cleary nodded. “True, probably not, and they’re not looking there.”
“Are they looking anywhere? Or are they worried about house values, too? I mean look at what they just did with the Greenbelt. The developers really do run this province.”
Cleary chuckled. “Be that as it may, Comrade Lenin, an investigation into organized crime can go on for years. This is probably just a footnote.”
Frayne made a face, but he knew she was right.
Cleary snapped her notebook shut. “But dammit. It was a murder that happened right here. This is still our patch. Maybe just a little more poking around.”
“Yes,” Frayne said, a little too loudly. “I mean, we might as well.”
Kim Stephenson got up from the king bed and walked to the sofa facing the window but she didn’t sit down. The room was dark, lighted only by the glow from the falls down below, which were lit up in blue and yellow. Lights twinkled from the New York side. She shook her head. “It’s an incredible view.”
From the bed, Belinda Boone gave a low purr. “It sure is.”
Kim turned slowly, flushing as she smiled. A month earlier she’d been furious. It had been building since the tour was announced. For weeks after she bought tickets to Belinda’s show she imagined how it would go, taking both sides of the conversation as she replayed their break-up years before. Belinda’s star was rising and she didn’t want to come out, said her management team was against it. At the time Kim said she understood, so they saw each other on the sly. But it didn’t last, it couldn’t. After the breakup they’d mutually ghosted each other.
Belinda was the Queen of Country for a good run, then hit a dry spell. Now with her new hit she was back, headlining a tour. Headed for the States, then Europe and Japan.
In the imagined fight, Kim said she’d kept the secret this long and Belinda said, “Do you want a medal?” and Kim yelled back and stormed out.
Or she imagined Belinda pretending they were never together, or sometimes she imagined Belinda saying it was a fling and never meant anything to her.
Kim had the fight over and over again in her head, always ending with her walking out, head held high, pride intact, and Belinda crushed, crying.
Kim bought a ticket to the first show, spent the big bucks and was close to the stage. She imagined Belinda spotting her in the crowd, stumbling on the lyrics, turning away, the show falling apart.
It took three songs for Belinda to see her, and when she did she smiled. At first a big, surprised smile, and then a seductive, almost leering grin, and then she turned the song she was singing into a serenade.
None of the fights Kim imagined happened. They had drinks and reminisced for hours and decided they could be friends after all and promised to stay in touch. Very mature. Kim got home late, emotionally drained but happy.
Then this afternoon Belinda texted. Said she’d flown up from Atlanta for a couple of days—the American road crew was on their Thanksgiving break. Did Kim want to have dinner at her hotel in the Falls?
They never made it out of her suite.
Now Belinda propped herself against the headboard. “You want some room service?”
Kim ambled back to the bed. “Whatever you want.”
A new glow lit up the room, and then a flash and a muffled bang. They both turned to the window. Glittering tentacles wiggled in the sky. Another firework exploded, and then another.
Kim laughed. “That’s crazy. The regular fireworks are done for the season.”
“Maybe they knew we were up here.”
“It’s probably some billionaire giving his kid a birthday party,” said Kim.
They watched a few more explosions.
Belinda looked at Kim. “You want to go out for dinner?”
Kim couldn’t help but smile. “Like a date?”
“Exactly like a date.” Belinda was smiling, too. “But not so stressful, cause I won’t have to worry if I’m going to get you in the sack later.”
“If you play your cards right.”
Kim crawled up on the bed. She was glad they were going public.
***
A half hour later they walked up to a traditional Indian place that Kim knew, holding hands. Kim was thinking that since now there was nothing to hide, maybe she could tell that nice older lady cop and her young partner about Emma or Matt, whichever one it was, coming home in the middle of the night.
But that could wait. Paparazzi had trailed them to the restaurant, then stood gobsmacked as Belinda pulled Kim back from the door, turned to the cameras, and gave her a full-on, ten-second kiss. One guy was so dumbfounded he forgot to shoot any pictures.
“Uh, one more time?” he asked.
“My pleasure,” said Belinda, her breath white in the cold.
For the first time in years Kim was smiling like she meant it.
Part 6 of 10. Continued next week.
