Spiked

by Randall Denley

  “Have you got a shovel?” he asked, as Ranger pawed awkwardly at his legs, reminding him that I wasn’t the only one who wanted treats.

  “Sorry. I don’t have time to house clean. The guy I work for drives me like a slave.”

  I could have afforded a housekeeper but someone else having a key to my place and the freedom to root around made that a nonstarter. The apartment was my sanctuary, or so it had seemed until death went flying by the window. The only person granted access was Colin, and even that was somewhat grudging.

  Colin’s own condo on the edge of the Byward Market was just the opposite of my place. Everything was new and either black or white. It had been a mess, too, when I lived there, but since I moved out, Colin had restored the antiseptic order one found in a high-end hotel room. I had been back only once, to pick up a few things I had forgotten.

  My apartment featured Persian rugs on creaky, uneven hardwood floors, old, baggy couches paired with expensive leather chairs, and walls covered in original art. None of it was mine, of course. It had all come with the apartment when I had sublet it. The only personal things were two family photographs arrayed on the white mantelpiece that framed a small gas fireplace meant to look like the original coal model. They showed my mother and father on their wedding day, smiling optimistically, unaware of what the future held. My father had huge sideburns, long dark hair and a checked suit that might have been in style back then. My mother wore a wedding dress that she had made herself, a simple white cotton affair, and she carried a bouquet of yellow roses. The other photograph showed them with my sister Kathy and myself, back when I was about six. We were standing in front of an Adirondack fishing cabin that my grandfather used to own, and Dad was holding up a string of brook trout. In happier times, as newspaper photo captions often said.

  As I watched Colin clean up my mess, I reflected on how complicated things were between us after all we had been through in my wrongheaded quest to solve the murder of my sister. You couldn’t just break up with a man who had saved your life and nearly lost his own doing it, but I couldn’t live with him, either. So now we were in this awkward spot, with me trying to gracefully wind down our relationship and Colin hoping to reignite it.

  I had to admit that I was still attracted to him. Colin’s smile was his best feature. He had good teeth, for an Englishman, and smiling turned the creases that age had added to his face into a positive. He was tall, a couple of inches over six feet, and even though he’d grown a bit heavier with middle age, he was still an impressive man. His grey hair, which he wore swept back, gave him a look of distinction that was accentuated by his inevitable dark suits, handmade in London. He looked the way a newspaper editor should look, but seldom did.

  It wasn’t a complete mystery why I had fallen for him back in Toronto, even though I knew an affair with the boss seldom ended well. It was something I hadn’t given enough thought to at the time, a typically impetuous decision that had gotten worse when Colin had been appointed editor in Ottawa and had insisted I come along as part of the “package,” as he called it. I thought this reduced me to the level of a perk, like a company car, but Colin hadn’t seen that, of course.

  He cleared space on the counter for the bag of Indian food, then delicately picked up the container that held the chicken remains. “You really ought to give this a decent burial. I’ll bin this stuff for you. Where do you keep your bags?”

  I wondered if I still had any. Shopping was another thing that didn’t really fit into my agenda. “Try under the counter,” I said.

  I was relieved when Colin found a whole package of green garbage bags. They might have belonged to Caroline, but at least their presence allowed me to look somewhat less than completely incompetent.

  I settled into one of the couches, a down-filled affair with a soft green cover that reminded me of a child’s blanket. It was my favourite spot. Ranger soon joined me, rolling over so I would scratch his belly.

  “Wine’s in the fridge,” I said, anticipating Colin’s next question. I had a nice Niagara gewurtztraminer that would be good with the Asian food. Wine was the one staple item of which I never ran out. I should be drinking less, but life was short.

  “Hell of a thing with that jumper,” Colin said, sweeping the debris from the counter top into a garbage bag. “Nice job, by the way. The photos you filed were our top gallery today.”

  Colin was trying to say something nice, but you didn’t compliment a writer by talking about pictures. I decided not to share that observation.

  “It was a pretty bizarre way to start the day. That poor woman was like a rag doll someone had spiked onto the fence.” I considered telling Colin how affected I had been by her death but decided against it. He worried too much about my mental health as it was.

  “A suicide, I presume,” he said.

  “Police aren’t sure yet. Mike Reilly came by the courthouse at the end of the day to ask me some more questions. Apparently the woman doesn’t live in the building.”

  “Rather odd, don’t you think?” Colin said, tying up the bag.

  “I do think it’s odd. And I’m sure that Reilly isn’t telling me everything either. He said there were ‘a few complications.’ I think it’s worth looking into.”

  “Agreed. I’ll have Suzy Morin pursue it further.”

  “I meant worth my looking into. This is my story. I’m the one who experienced it. That adds something that Suzy just couldn’t duplicate.”

  “You thinking a first-person piece?”

  “God no. I don’t want to be part of the story, but there’s something off about all of this. I can feel it.”

  “I agree, but what about the Sandhu trial?”

  “Tomorrow’s Friday. Court isn’t sitting.”

  “Yes, but aren’t we counting on a weekend piece wrapping up the developments so far?”

  “Maybe you are, but we’ve only had one day of sitting and they didn’t even get to the first witness. I put everything I had into today’s column.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose the thing to do is look ahead, the upcoming witnesses and so forth.”

  “A perfect assignment for Cunningham,” Kris said. Tyler Cunningham was the young court reporter who had been covering the news side. He was still in the eager-to-please phase of his career.

  “I guess that would work,” Colin said. He was looking in the cupboard for clean plates. “You know Kris, you really ought to get a housekeeper. I can give you the name of mine.”

  “I don’t think so. Maybe I should just stock up on paper plates.”

  Colin was already using the dishrag and soapy water to clean two of the least dirty plates.

  “You could always come to my place from time to time.”

  I let that one lie.

  Colin inspected the two plates, wiped them dry with paper towel and then began serving the food. “You hungry?” he asked.

  “Starving. I had a part of a crappy sandwich for lunch.”

  “You really should take some fruit with you.”

  Ever since I nearly died last summer, Colin had been mothering me. It was as if he had a whole new personality. If he had been that good to his four former wives, he might still be married to one of them.

  “Yes, dear,” I said.

  Colin looked up, just for a second hoping that the remark wasn’t delivered with my usual sarcasm.

  “Right then. So tell me, how do you think the Sandhu trial is going to shape up? We’ve built it up as the political trial of the century.”

  “That’s probably true, but the century is still young. I think the testimony of Sandhu’s former business connections will be interesting. And Sandhu himself, of course, if he takes the stand.”

  “Bernstein tipping his cards there?”

  “Not at all. I don’t think he’ll call Sandhu unless he has to. Too risky. All the Crown would have to do is trap him in a couple of contradictions and his credibility would be shot. Maybe if there had been a jury. Sandhu could probably have charme
d them, but I doubt the judge will be so easy to impress.”

  “If history’s a guide,” Colin said. “People loathe politicians, even judges.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” I said, then paused to sample the butter chicken right out of the container, before it got cold. It was aromatic and subtly flavourful. Indian takeout had been one of our staple dishes when we lived together, along with Colin’s other favourites, fish and chips and pot pies. No wonder I had lost weight once I moved.

  “There is one other angle I’m working. The wife, Gail Rakic, is an interesting story in herself. Her father, Dragan, is a big developer and Tory bagman in southern Ontario. You can tell she’s seething at the way the party has turned on Sandhu, given all that her family has done for the Conservatives. It must be hell sitting there beside her husband, knowing that most people think he’s a sleazy crook.”

  “Do you think she will stick by him?”

  “At least for the duration of the trial. I expect Sandhu will face sentencing in the court of Gail regardless of the outcome in the real court. Unless he’s innocent, of course.”

  “Any chance of that?”

  “I haven’t seen many accused who are truly innocent. It’s more a case of how guilty they are, and how much can be proven.”

  “Any hope the wife will talk to you?”

  “She already has, a little bit. I’m trying to gain her confidence, take it slow. Her story would be a great exclusive, if I could get it.”

  “Well done,” said Colin, handing me a plate of food and a glass of wine. He seated himself in an overstuffed armchair with a muted red paisley pattern.

  “The wife says I’m supposed to check out what Luc Champagne has been up to.”

  “That’s awfully vague.”

  “Yes, and I don’t pay much attention to those people. I know who Champagne is, of course, and I see his picture on the society page. He must attend every event in town, always with a different woman on his arm. I think he races cars, too.”

  “You read the society page?” Colin asked, clearly amused.

  “Only when it runs opposite the sports scores.”

  “I’ve met Champagne a few times. Charming chap, in a Gallic sort of way. Bit of a swordsman, according to what I hear. No harm there, of course. He’s a single man. Rather like Pierre Trudeau, I suppose, although not as bright.”

  I always smiled at how men inflated their credentials with terms like “swordsman.” Typically more like a paring knife in my experience.

  “It’s interesting how the Sandhu mess doesn’t seem to be sticking to Champagne,” I said. “Gail Rakic certainly implied that he’s the one who blew the whistle.”

  “Ah, the unheralded hero of the piece then. I can see why Champagne would want to keep that up his sleeve. Nothing to be gained by getting tangled up with Sandhu, but if it does get sticky, he can show he has high ethical standards. He’s positioned himself rather well.”

  “The thing I don’t get is why the party has been so quick to dump Sandhu. They’ve been chasing the ethnic vote since they came to power. Then they expelled their most prominent ethnic star from caucus at the first rumour of an investigation.”

  “Yes, it is odd, unless the party is absolutely convinced he’s guilty. One would have expected a brown chappie like Sandhu to be untouchable, unless he did something like bugger a goat. Even then, it wouldn’t be a problem unless it was on YouTube.”

  Sometimes Colin reminded me of Prince Philip, but not in a good way. “He doesn’t strike me as the goat buggering type,” I said. “The real question is why a smart guy like Sandhu would get involved with some shady scheme, just to get $25,000 under the table. His wife is loaded.”

  “Greed,” Colin said, shrugging. “Chaps who have money usually want more, especially if it’s free. Maybe he got tired of having to ask his wife for an allowance.”

  “An allowance? MPs make a shitload of money, and he was a parliamentary secretary when this was supposed to have happened. He must have been making 180 grand.”

  “Not an inconsequential sum, but I’m sure he has quite a lifestyle. From what you tell me, it would be worth digging a little deeper into the connection between Champagne and Sandhu. There has to be more at play there than the fact that one was the other’s assistant.”

  “You’re right. I’ll look into it.”

  But not before I spent a little more time on the jumper. The Sandhu trial was expected to run for three to four more weeks. There was plenty of time to explore Gail Rakic’s vague comment about Champagne. I planned to squeeze her a little harder before I went on a wild goose chase.

  The jumper intrigued me more. There was something there, some connection I couldn’t quite make. It was as if I had seen the woman somewhere before, although it seemed unlikely since she didn’t even live in the building. Reilly had been uncharacteristically cagey, though. Something was up. I intended to find out what.

  “So, an early start in the morning then?” Colin asked.

  I knew what he really meant. I’d bet that he had a new toothbrush in his coat pocket on the off chance that I would invite him to stay over. The idea wasn’t entirely unattractive, but it would be a mixed message that would just take us in the wrong direction.

  “Yes. It’s been an exhausting day. I should turn in early.”

  Colin nodded and said, “Of course. I understand. Let’s try to find something short on Netflix, then.”

  The new Colin was too damned understanding. Maybe he really had changed. He clearly thought that if he were patient, I would come around. For just a moment, I wondered if he was right.

  SEVEN

  When the call came at 6:30 a.m., I was in that stunned state between sleep and dreams, trying to get away from men with guns who were chasing me through woods that were too open to offer escape or cover. I called it a dream but it was more like a documentary. I reached drowsily across the bed, fumbled for my iPhone on the clutter of the night stand, then looked at the call display. Reilly? He was about the last person I would have expected to hear from at this hour. Or any hour, for that matter. The staff sergeant in charge of major crimes didn’t make a habit of phoning reporters, unless he wanted something.

  “Hey Reilly, you’re off to an early start.”

  “Yeah well, something has come up about your jumper. Can you meet me at the Corkstown footbridge in about half an hour?”

  Jumping out of bed and racing off to meet Mike Reilly wasn’t exactly how I had planned to start my day, but I could tell by his abrupt tone that his news was urgent, and surely exclusive at this time of day. How could I resist?

  “OK, where exactly?”

  “There’s a bench overlooking the canal, on the west side.”

  “Can’t we just meet in a coffee shop? I’ll be dying for caffeine.”

  “I’d rather be some place where people can’t easily eavesdrop.”

  “You want me to wear a disguise?”

  “Funny. Just meet me in half an hour.”

  Reilly hung up, and my mind began to race. The jumper was someone significant. That much was obvious. Or she didn’t jump. Either way, it was a story.

  I rolled out of bed, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and ran my fingers through my hair. I was sure I looked like shit, but there was ball cap in the hall closet. That would help. Reilly would have to take me the way I was. What could he expect, calling so early? I realized that some people were up and out the door by 6:30 but I was a start late, work late kind of girl.

  If I hurried, I’d have time to grab a cup of takeout coffee from the Bridgehead downstairs. I shoved a notebook into my purse, a bulky black canvas bag big enough to carry a small animal and still have room left over for a six pack. I clipped Ranger on to his leash, and we were off.

  It was a cool morning for May, and my T-shirt felt a bit inadequate, but the sun felt good and the takeout cup of coffee warmed my hands. Elgin wasn’t busy this early and I didn’t have to dodge the usual annoying dawdlers who would soon crowd the s
idewalk. I cut down Lisgar, going behind City Hall and around the yard of Lisgar High School to the Rideau Canal, a green-banked ribbon of water that wound through the centre of Ottawa. Even this early, the runners were out, thumping along the canal. I ran only when someone was chasing me.

  Reilly was on the bench, as promised, wearing another of his dark suits. Or maybe it was the one from the day before. He was leaning forward, forearms on his knees. I tied Ranger to a small tree and slid in quickly beside Reilly.

  “You’ve got a dog,” he said.

  “It’s just a loaner.”

  “I had a dog. It died.”

  “That gives me hope.”

  Reilly looked at me and shook his head. Not everyone got my sense of humour.

  “So, you certainly know how to grab my interest. What’s up?” I said, snapping the lid off my coffee. Too late, I realized I should have gotten him one, too.

  Reilly looked towards me, serious now. “First thing, we never met and you didn’t get any of this from me. You OK with that?”

  I wasn’t keen on off-the-record stuff unless it was likely to lead to a solid, provable story. You could spend a lot of time on things that would never make the paper. On the other hand, you had to be flexible with your sources, and Reilly could be a good one.

  “All right. Nothing came from you, but so we’re clear, if I can get this, whatever it is, from other sources, I can go with it, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said, then ran a big hand across his bristly jaw. The usually meticulous detective hadn’t shaved since the day before.

  “The jumper case has gone south. We’ve got a homicide, but it’s been taken out of my hands.”

  I could see from Reilly’s scowl that he was less than pleased with that development. “How’s that even possible?” I asked.

  “Big boys stepped in to grab it, then it got worse.”

  “You’re going to have to spell it out for me.”

  “It didn’t take the coroner long to figure out that there was more to this than a suicide. The woman had scrapes on both knees and wounds on her arms and hands. Someone attacked her on the roof, judging by the gravel imbedded in her knees. She might have been thrown off the roof, or she might have jumped to escape her attacker, or attackers. We don’t know yet.