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de Gier said, looking over his shoulder. "Just look at her go. A Guzzi. I used to ride BMWs. They never went that fast."
    Grijpstra slowed down and aimed for the breakdown lane. The motorcycle parked and the cop walked toward the car, slowly and at ease, pulling a notebook from the side pocket of his white leather coat.
    Grijpstra dropped a window.
    "Would you please get out?" the cop asked. "On the other side? The lane is rather narrow. Any idea how fast you were going?"
    De Gier had gotten out already. Grijpstra slid across the front seats and joined the sergeant. Together they looked down on the cop, who seemed rather slender and had painted lips, mascaraed eyelashes, and varnished fingernails.
    "You're a woman," Grijpstra said.
    The cop studied the adjutant's identification.
    "Adjutant?" the cop asked, and offered Grijpstra her hand. "Corporal Hilarius. What's your hurry?"
    Grijpstra looked out over the Inland Sea, where swans bobbed on the waves, fluffing their feathers and slowly moving their slender necks. Beyond the birds floated a fishing boat with a yellow-coated crew bending over the railing, lifting an eel trap. "How nice," Grypstra said. "I could watch this forever."
    "But we're hard at work," de Gier said helpfully. "Destination Dingjum, a most serious matter. Murder, I'll have you know. We're hot on the trail."
    "Murder in Friesland?" Corporal Hilarius asked, pulling off her helmet and freeing flowing golden curls. The helmet was orange. Grijpstra began to tremble. The yellow of the fishermen's coats, the helmet's bright orange, and the resplendent shade of the girl's hair—were they not contrasts, completing each other? The corporal's low, hoarse voice became a part of the moment. Moments sometimes inspired Grypstra. He wondered whether he would be able to show the sudden abstract harmony in one of his Sunday paintings. Can a sound be shown in color?
    "The murder was at our end," de Gier said, "but the corpse lived on yours. We follow indications that will take us to your province. We're about to interview the dead man's wife."
    Policewoman Hilarius knew about the burning dory, that was front-page news. So was cattle plague.
    "The dike is blocked farther along, you can't see it from here. There's a line of traffic, stalled for a few miles. The disease is rampant in the south, and we're trying to keep it from killing our cows. All trucks and vans are being checked to make sure they don't transport animals. You'll never get through."
    "We are in a hurry," de Gier said. "Maybe you can guide us along."
    A black dot buzzed down out of a cloud. The motorcycle's radio came alive. "Seventeen? Over."
    The corporal grabbed the microphone from the Guzzi. "Seventeen here."
    "What are you doing there?" the helicopter asked. "Give the Citroen a ticket and make your way to the north end of the dike. Maybe you can get something moving. Please?"
    "We're in a bit of a hurry," de Gier said, smiling with perfect strong white teeth. His soft brown eyes glowed pleadingly. His muscular torso bent toward the girl. "Our commissaris's instructions. He wants us to get through with this, the quicker the better."
    The commissaris," Grijpstra said, "who was interviewed " in the Police Gazette last week. The top sleuth who never fails. That's our commissaris."
    The corporal stepped aside and spoke into her microphone.
    "Understood," the loudspeaker on the Guzzi answered. "Park the Citroen against the dike, beyond the bicycle path. Over and out."
    Corporal Hilarius stopped the traffic with an imperative gesture, and de Gier drove across four lanes and parked in the manner requested from above. The helicopter grew in size. Grijpstra and de Gier ran toward the blue-and-white egg, now setting down gently. A little door slid aside, and a leather-clad arm beckoned invitingly.
    "Heights frighten me," Grijpstra said, "and we aren't really in all that much of a hurry."
    But the pilot's arm pulled, and de Gier and the corporal pushed. De Gier thanked