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"Oh." A slight twist of the lips. "The Muskokas."
"The Kawarthas, actually."
"What can I do for you, Miss..."
"Bowles. Call me Liz."
Not likely, his eyes said with another glance at my midriff.
I beamed a small-town smile. "Not a big fan of black-fly country, I take it?"
He rewarded my smile by picking up a sheaf of papers from his desk, turning to the filing cabinet, and presenting me with a lovely view of his back. He then proceeded to file as if I'd already left.
"You should get up our way sometime," I continued. "This time of year, it's absolutely gorgeous. We have some great vacation getaway deals, too."
I watched his body language for any reaction, any tensing of the muscles. Instead, he gave a soft snort. "I'm sure it's beautiful, but I've already taken my spring vacation. To Venice." He glanced at me. " Italy."
"Wow. I bet it was gorgeous."
McDermott turned to nod, and I detected the faintest thaw in his cold front.
"It was quite nice, yes," he said. "Of course, one really should see Venice in June, but my fiancee had a photo shoot, so we had to settle for April."
"She's a model? Wow. You must have just got back home."
"This week."
"That must be tough. Coming back here after a week in Venice."
"Three weeks."
I widened my eyes. "Wow. Our readers are going to flip. A Bancroft boy, dating a supermodel, and jetting off to Venice."
McDermott's brows arched. "Bancroft?"
"You're from Bancroft, aren't you?"
He snorted. "Hardly. Born and raised right here in Toronto, thankfully."
"Oh, my God. I am so sorry, Mr. McDermott. I'm looking for a Jordan McDermott, son of John and Hazel from Bancroft. He's supposed to be a photographer in Toronto and someone gave me this address."
"I see," McDermott said, cooling fast. "Well, then I would suggest you double-check your sources. I have work to do."
Every once in a while, you get lucky and everything goes smoothly. Of course, I guess if things had gone really well, McDermott would have been moonlighting as a hitman and confessed to killing Sammi, but nothing's ever that simple.
If Sammi had tried to double-check the information, she'd have discovered that a man named Jordan really did work for Pfeiffer Photography in Toronto. Had she attempted to contact him, she would have learned he was on vacation.
Whoever had taken those pictures had put a lot of effort into his story. Exactly the kind of attention to detail you'd expect from a professional killer.
As we drove, I told Jack what we'd found. Then I tried Denise Noyes again. She answered on the third ring.
"I'm calling about Deanna Macy," I said. "I got your name off one of the missing-persons Web sites."
"Yes?"
Noyes invested the single word with such joy that I winced.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't have any news for you."
