Honour Among Men

by Barbara Fradkin

  The perfect poster boy for the new military, thought Sullivan. He combined a soldier’s discipline with an intelligence and sensitivity that allowed him to navigate the diplomatic minefield of international affairs. He’d been married twice and now lived with his second wife in a home just outside Petawawa on the Ottawa River. Gibbs had provided the address, but Sullivan figured that in the middle of a work day he’d have more luck finding the man at his campaign headquarters. Besides, he wanted a crack at Roger Atkinson as well. Perhaps even more, for as Green had pointed out, Atkinson may have been the one Patricia Ross was after.

  Gibbs had had less luck tracing Atkinson’s background, probably because the man was not nearly such a public figure. Reporters were all over Blakeley, but no one seemed interested in the man planning the battle strategy behind the scenes. Roger Atkinson had been born in Sheet Harbour, Nova Scotia in 1970 and had a short stint in personnel with Halifax City Hall before picking up stakes and moving to Pembroke, Petawawa’s neighbouring town, in 1996. Although details were sketchy, he’d worked first in personnel and later in public relations for various transport or supply firms in Eastern Ontario. His involvement with politics seemed to start when he did some lobbying of a prominent Ottawa MP, which led to working in the man’s constituency office and later on his campaign. As far as Sullivan could see, Atkinson was a nobody from nowhere who had parlayed a small pencil-pushing job into a major source of influence, with the potential to make or break party fortunes.

  The two detectives found the campaign office without difficulty. It was a nondescript storefront that took up almost half of a small strip mall on Petawawa’s main road, but Blakeley’s workers had livened it up by emblazoning his name across the entire outside facade in massive red letters. Nice touch, Atkinson, Sullivan thought as he pushed open the glass door. Inside was a large rectangular room filled with volunteers who were hunched over lists at makeshift desks, working the phones. Lawn signs, posters, leaflets, T-shirts and party hats were stacked high on shelves around the room, all with the now familiar red and white colour scheme. Sullivan scanned the room for the man in the poster. No such luck, but a couple of private offices at the rear caught his eye, so he headed that way.

  A woman leaped up to block his path. She barely reached his chest, but she faced him down like a pitbull. Her blue eyes challenged his. “Are you a new volunteer?”

  Sullivan suppressed a smile. With his linebacker bulk and his frank stare, people rarely mistook him for anything but a cop, but perhaps in this crowd he looked like an off-duty sergeant major. He debated showing his badge but wanted to save the surprise for one of the men he was after. Instead he nodded towards the back.

  “No, I’m here to see Mr. Atkinson.”

  “Oh.” She shot a glance at a partially open door. “He’s extremely busy. Perhaps I can help you? I’m the office manager, Leanne Neuss. And you gentlemen are . . . ?”

  He reached for his badge irritably. “Sergeant Brian Sullivan, Detective Leblanc of the Ottawa Police. This won’t take long.”

  Startled, the woman stepped back, and Sullivan seized the occasion to plough past her. With a perfunctory knock, he strode inside the office, waited for Leblanc to follow suit, and shut the door behind them.

  The man at the desk was on the phone. He swivelled around and stared at Sullivan through bewildered eyes. Obviously not too many got past Madame Neuss unannounced. Sullivan had the impression of blond good looks that had seen too much booze and fast times. His sandy hair was thinning, his cheeks were florid, and his hazel eyes shot through with red. A second chin had begun to form beneath his jaw, and it wobbled as he gathered his features into a frown.

  “Can I help you?”

  Sullivan sat down and introduced himself, while Leblanc took up a position in front of the door. The man’s frown transformed to alarm. He looked at the phone, which was still in his hand. “I’ll call you back,” he said and hung up. Plastering a smile across his face, he rose and extended his hand.

  “Roger Atkinson. How can I help you?”

  The man’s handshake was slick and practised, but Sullivan felt a pent-up power behind the grip. On closer inspection he could see the muscles rippling beneath the man’s crisp white shirt. For a pencil pusher, this guy was in damn good shape.

  On the drive up, Sullivan had tried to plan his questions, but the truth was he was walking into the interview virtually blind. Despite Gibbs’s research, he knew almost nothing useful about the man or his possible connection to Patricia Ross, which gave him no leverage in confronting him. And Atkinson didn’t look like he was easy to push around, either. Flattery might be the best way to go.

  “One of our detectives was assaulted up here yesterday,” Sullivan said. “We’re looking for all the help we can get.”

  The man pulled a sympathetic face. “Of course. Detective Peters. How is she?”

  “Touch and go. She was investigating the recent murder of Patricia Ross. I understand you knew her.”

  Atkinson’s jaw dropped then snapped shut. He made a show of searching his memory before arranging a puzzled frown on his face. “Should I? The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “You’re both from Nova Scotia.”

  Atkinson gave a dry chuckle. “Nova Scotians have invaded everywhere, Sergeant. Even I can’t know them all.”

  “She came up here to see you last week.”

  “What the devil makes you think that?”

  Sullivan said nothing. In the silence, Atkinson groped for his tie, which wasn’t there. Finally, he shrugged. “That’s certainly news to me. We didn’t connect. I’m sorry I can’t help you more.”

  Sullivan reached into his pocket and unfolded the fax of the newspaper article. “This appeared in the Halifax Herald on April 9th. It’s the reason Patricia Ross left Halifax to come here.”

  Atkinson reached for the newspaper and dropped it on his desk, but not before Sullivan caught the tremor in his hand. He pored over the article long enough to have read it three times over.

  “Nice plug for us,” he said eventually. “Seems fairly straightforward, though. I can’t imagine why it would bring her all the way up here.”

  “To see you,” Sullivan said. “You’ve come a long way from your heavy drinking days at the Lighthouse Tavern, Roger, but she remembered you.”

  Atkinson’s jaw dropped again, but this time he forgot to snap it shut. He stared at Sullivan a full five seconds before his eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, my God. Daniel Oliver’s girl.”

  Nice save, Sullivan thought. “You were at the table with them the night he was killed.”

  Atkinson lowered his gaze ruefully. “In another life. My misspent youth. I was so tanked I don’t remember a thing.”

  “That’s not what the bartender says.”

  “The bartender? The place was hopping. I’m surprised he had time to notice a thing.”

  “He says you bragged it was a military man from their Yugoslavian mission who killed him.”

  Atkinson rolled his eyes. “If I had a dollar for all the bullshit I’ve dished out in bars over the years . . .”

  “Yet right after that, you landed this cushy job near the major military base of Petawawa, and it’s been nothing but upwards ever since.”

  The sheepish smile disappeared and the hazel eyes grew cold. “I don’t think I like your implication, Sergeant. Like most men with an ounce of ambition, I wanted to go where the jobs were, and I used my contacts to land a job. Army folks move all over, which was very handy.”

  “Then it was just a lucky contact that landed you a job as right hand man to a future Liberal Party star?”

  The man’s double chin quivered in outrage. “I’ve worked damn hard to get where I am and I’m good at it. That’s what landed me this job. And by the way, Blakeley is not just a Liberal Party star. When the Liberals win, he’ll be in line for a cabinet post. The Liberal leader himself pressed his nomination, as much as promised him Defence if he could take the riding from the Co
nservatives. My God, do you know what that would mean to our military and to the country? To have a guy running the country’s defence policy who’s actually walked the walk, and knows one end of a tank from the other?”

  Sullivan glanced around the room at the dozens of framed photos and press clippings that covered the walls. “He’s that impressive, is he?”

  “He’s that important.”

  Sullivan rose and began to peruse the display while he planned his next move. So far, as he’d feared, Atkinson had given him nothing. Most of the clippings trumpeted the missions Blakeley had led or the famous people he’d met. Blakeley’s stern, clear gaze dominated all the photos, whether as an officer surrounded by his men or as a political hopeful shaking hands with the Liberal leader. One picture in particular caught his eye. Blakeley stood in the middle of a semi-circle of men, all in formal dress and smiling broadly for the camera. Atkinson was visible to one side, looking smug. And at the back, barely discernible was a face that rang a vaguely familiar bell. It had been among the many faces Green had shown him earlier in the day. But the name eluded him.

  He turned back to Atkinson. “After we’re done here, I’d like a word with Mr. Blakeley too.”

  Atkinson’s proud smile disappeared. “That’s not possible. He’s in Ottawa.”

  “Oh, does he live there most of the time?”

  “Oh no, no. He lives here, but his business with the defence department often brings him into the city for long periods.”

  “What business?”

  “Consulting on peacekeeping operations, helping to draft new policies.”

  “I thought he was retired.”

  “He is. But all that expertise . . . His advice is quite invaluable.”

  Sullivan returned to the chair. “Who was your army friend who got you the first job here?”

  Atkinson blinked at the sudden change of topic. “I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.”

  “Humour me. Was it Blakeley?”

  “Of course not. I’ve only known him a year. It was just an old drinking buddy. No one important.”

  “Patricia Ross thought it had something to do with shutting you up. You say it was just a lucky contact. It would be nice to be able to verify that, and get you off my list of suspects.”

  Atkinson flushed and clenched his fists involuntarily.

  “Before the opposition parties get wind of it,” Sullivan added, to help him along.

  Atkinson sputtered a protest. He cast about as if looking for an escape route, but found none. Slowly he deflated. “I don’t want any trouble for him. He was just a friend, a noncom in logistical support. He tipped me off to a job with a company that was going to re-outfit the 2CMBG.”

  “2CMBG?”

  “Second Canadian Mechanized Brigade Group—that’s the group based in Petawawa.” He pulled on his nose awkwardly. “It wasn’t really illegal but they aren’t supposed to use their knowledge or influence . . . He put in a good word for me.”

  “Why?”

  Atkinson shrugged. “I fixed something for him in Halifax. Lost some paperwork at City Hall. It was nothing, but it could have hurt his career.”

  “A name, Atkinson.”

  “Terry Lawlor.”

  “And I can find him here on the base?”

  “Oh, not now. This was years ago. He’s retired now, and I have no idea where he is.”

  Sullivan swore inwardly. More names, more fucking twists in the trail. He leaned forward on the desk and stared the man down. “Don’t fuck with me now, Roger. The truth. Did you tell Detective Peters about any of this?”

  Atkinson whipped his head back and forth, scrambling to recover his shattered cool. “On my grandmother’s grave, no. I never even spoke to the woman.”

  July 22. Some shithole in Sector South, Croatia.

  Our new assignment. It’s hotter than hell here, nothing is moving and we’re waiting it out while Command finds us a suitable camp. It looks like the moon. Villages torched, big mortar holes in the ground, no trees or crops. The belligerents have tanks down here and they’ve dug professional trenches.

  The Hammer says we’re waiting for the politicians and UN bigshots to work out a withdrawal agreement, and then we’re supposed to enforce it. Apparently this used to be a Serb area protected by French peacekeepers, but the Croats think it’s part of Croatia, so they grabbed a bridge and a dam right under the French noses. Anyway, the Serbs were some pissed at the French, so in come the Canadians again to do the job right.

  This is war, our CO says, and we’re sitting right in the middle of it, so keep your head down. And by the way, watch where you step and shake out your clothes and shoes before you put them on. Lots of snakes and scorpions. I say bring the suckers on. It’ll be my pleasure to kill them.

  SEVENTEEN

  Sullivan stood in the parking lot outside the campaign office, scanning the street for a place to eat. He’d been up since before six o’clock, and it was now almost three in the afternoon. In the distance he spotted the familiar red script of a Tim Hortons.

  “Do you suppose he was telling the truth about Sue Peters, Luc?” he asked as he yanked open the car door.

  Leblanc looked across at him in surprise. “I don’t know much about the case, sir, so it’s hard to judge.”

  “On the contrary, it may give you an advantage. You have nothing to go on but his behaviour.”

  Leblanc was silent, gazing out at the street ahead as he considered his answer. Sullivan remembered what he had always liked about the detective; Leblanc never rushed into anything. “I think he was hiding something,” he said eventually. “He avoided eye contact, he fiddled with his hands.”

  Sullivan nosed the cruiser into the stream of traffic on Petawawa Boulevard. “I agree. Mr Atkinson was definitely worried about something. It could just be his own butt, which would be in a sling if he brings suspicion into the camp of John Blakeley. But it’s worth a closer look. So—where to next, Luc?”

  “To check out Terry Lawlor, sir?”

  Sullivan shook his head.

  “To the King’s Arms?”

  Sullivan swung into the Drive-Thru, grinning. “Food. Never let yourself get worn down.”

  Five minutes later, loaded up with sandwiches, doughnuts and coffee, they were back on the road. “Now we check out Terry Lawlor,” Sullivan said. “Find the military police headquarters on that map.”

  Leblanc guided them onto the base and through a series of streets commemorating famous battles. The military police platoon commander was a big man with a walrus mustache and a shaved head above a bull neck. He waved them right through to his office, only too happy to help. The assault on a member of the tribe swept away miles of suspicion and red tape. He didn’t even have to consult his records.

  “I remember Terry Lawlor. Eight, maybe ten years ago? He was stationed up here in the quartermaster’s unit. Used to get into scrapes in the Sergeant’s mess pretty regular. Harmless enough but a stupid drunk with a mouth on him to swallow a tank.”

  Eight to ten years ago, Sullivan thought. That fit the time period. “Where is he now?”

  “Mustered out, enjoyed his retirement all of two months before he ploughed his car into a tree.”

  “Accident?”

  The captain nodded. “Drunk as a sailor on a two-day pass. 0200 hours on a rainy night, going about a hundred klics an hour around that bend just west of town.”

  “You said he had a mouth on him. Was he ever in trouble for anything else? Leaking information or . . . ?”

  The captain roared with laughter. “Well, he didn’t have much worth leaking. He was a bean counter in supplies. What’s he going to say? The army’s ordering a thousand new dress shirts next year?”

  That information might be useful to some, thought Sullivan. Overtly he acted the picture of ease, with his long legs stretched out and his chair tilted back. He chatted a few minutes longer, probing the captain’s opinion of Blakeley—“real stand-up guy”—and Sue Peters
’ assault—“a real shame, but we get our share of guys who take it out on women”. Finally, Sullivan thanked him and hauled himself to his feet with a show of reluctance. On the way out, Leblanc glanced at him curiously, but said nothing.

  “So what do you think about Terry Lawlor,” Sullivan asked when they reached the car.

  “It’s not much, but it seems to back up Atkinson’s story, sir.”

  “Maybe. Although it’s hard to see how this Lawlor guy would have the pull to land Atkinson a worthwhile job. He’s a pretty small fish.” Sullivan climbed into the car and revved the engine. “And that accident is damn convenient.”

  “You think it wasn’t an accident?”

  “No. Just that Lawlor makes a handy fall guy now that there’s no way to check the story with him.”

  Sullivan sat in the car, pondering his next move. He still had to touch base with the OPP, hoping to turn up Sue Peters’ missing notebook and probe their take on the local election candidates. But the picture in Atkinson’s office nagged at him. On impulse he pulled up the case file on his laptop and began flipping through photos. He sifted carefully through Oliver’s section members without finding anyone who remotely fit the bill. But when he went further up the chain of command, he hit a match on his very first try.

  Platoon commander Dick Hamm.

  Well, well, well, he thought, now there was a bigger fish. Big enough to pull a lot of strings and give a guy quite a boost up the ladder. And if there was a connection to Blakeley, who was an even bigger fish . . . Sullivan tried to dispute the suspicion that sprang to his mind, that Hamm and Blakeley were working together. Blakeley was a very popular candidate among the military. Maybe Hamm was just there as a supporter.

  And maybe pigs fly.

  “Where are we going next, sir?” Leblanc ventured once they had been sitting some time.

  “Well, I was going to pay a visit to the OPP, but Colonel Dick Hamm is beginning to look a whole lot more interesting.”

  It was well past lunch time and Green’s head felt like a pinball machine. Reports were flying in from various fronts so fast that he could barely keep track. Sue Peters had been the official file coordinator for the case, and although the task had been reassigned, Green suspected in reality he was the only person besides Gibbs who knew the whole picture.