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Behind her, Louis sipped his wine—and it really was his. He’d brought his own bottle, slipping ten dollars to the kid at the drinks table to ensure it was kept for private consumption. Louis had been at Portland exhibition openings before and wasn’t about to have his taste buds violated if it could be avoided. He wore a light brown tweed jacket over a near-matching vest and rust-colored trousers, finished off by a box-fresh white shirt and brown brogues. He looked like he ought to be hunting foxes or whipping a footman.

“I like the piece,” he said. “Not eight thousand dollars’ worth, maybe, but I do like it. The rest, not so much.”

Beside him, his own Angel said: “You don’t even like me eight thousand dollars’ worth.”

“True,” said Louis, “but at least the art will age better.”

Angel had dressed up for the occasion, which meant a strict no-sneakers policy and passing acquaintance with an iron. He, too, was drinking Louis’s wine. We all were. Out of solidarity with the masses, I’d tried what was on offer, but it was too sweet for my liking. It would have been too sweet for a kiddie alcoholic.

Macy squinted at Louis. Small and dark, she had long since recognized that the advantages of being underestimated because of her appearance and gender far outweighed the disadvantages—not that anyone in Maine police circles had any illusions about her abilities. Macy acted as liaison, official and otherwise, between the Portland PD and external agencies, including the AG’s office, the state police, and the FBI, but was far from being a suit. As a rookie, she’d been blooded in a gun battle out on Sanctuary Island that left a lot of people deador missing. Some of the bodies were never found, but then Sanctuary was an odd place and always had been. Macy rarely spoke of what had happened there, not even to me. I knew enough about Sanctuary to be grateful for her discretion.

“What?” asked Louis, as she continued to give him the stink eye.

“You’re mean,” said Macy.

“Is that my wine you’re drinking?”

“Maybe.”

“How is it?”

“Perfectly palatable.”

“Do you want to keep drinking it, or would you prefer to take your chances with the stuff in the box?”

Macy turned to Angel.

“You’re on your own,” she said.

Only in recent months had Macy begun to socialize with Angel and Louis. In fact, only lately had Macy and I let it be known around Portland that we were an item. I wasn’t well-loved in the law enforcement community, local or national, and Macy’s involvement with me, a serving detective in the Portland PD, brought complications. As for Louis and Angel, they preferred to keep their distance from police in any shape or form but had, for my sake, made an exception for Macy. In turn, she appeared to have bonded particularly with Louis, who rarely bonded with anyone. Each seemed to have discovered something of theirself in the other, which I regarded as worrying.

I watched Zetta Nadeau circulate. I’d known her since she was a kid and wished her well, which was why we were here. She was shepherded by an older man who kept her supplied with sparkling water. From the way they touched, I thought they might be intimate. I hadn’t seen him around before.

“Who’s the guy?” Macy asked.

“I’m guessing a new boyfriend,” I said. “He’s got some city miles on him.”

“Huh,” said Macy.

She and Louis exchanged a glance.

“You too?” said Louis.

“Yeah, me too,” said Macy.

“What am I missing?” I asked.

“The new boyfriend, if that’s what he is—” said Macy.

“Is on edge,” finished Louis.

“He’s been watching the guests enter and leave,” said Macy, “checking faces, sizing people up, only showing his back to the ones he doesn’t regard as a threat.”

“He gets close to anyone he’s worried about,” said Louis, “so he can brush against them.”

“Looking for weapons,” said Macy. “He’s pretty good, knows what he’s doing.”

“It could explain why he’s wearing that jacket despite the heat in here,” said Louis. “He may be carrying.”