Spiked

by Randall Denley

  “Now, if Champagne were some normal guy, I’d be knocking on his door, but the way things stand, that’s just not going to happen. Anything you can do there?”

  “Maybe,” I said, thinking of Gail Rakic and her veiled comments about Champagne. It was another avenue to pursue with her, although what Gail had to say might have nothing to do with this.

  “So what’s happening on your end?” Reilly asked.

  “They’ve brought Suzy in on the story. She’s supposed to be pursuing RCMP and national security angles.”

  “If Suzy is pursuing them, she will probably get them. You’ve got to hate that.”

  I shrugged. Of course I hated it, but I wasn’t certain I could share a confidence with Reilly where Suzy was concerned.

  “Suzy going to feed that stuff back to you?”

  “That’s what she says.”

  Reilly smiled. “So it probably means she will keep anything good for herself. You, of course, will do the same. What are they thinking, putting you both on the same story?”

  “It’s a complicated situation.”

  Reilly nodded and said, “There is one other thing.” He reached back into his photo file. “This is probably nothing, but it’s just setting off that feeling I get when something’s not quite right. You know what I mean?”

  “Sure.”

  “Now this guy shows up at the building at about 9 o’clock on the morning Mae goes flying off the roof. We see him again leaving the building just after she lands on the fence. The weird part is that, while everyone is going ape shit, except you, this guy just strolls out of the building and walks calmly away like nothing is going on.”

  He passed me the picture. It showed a good-looking, well-built man with a short beard, jeans, a ball cap, tan jacket and sunglasses. He seemed vaguely familiar, and then I remembered.

  “Holy crap. He was waiting for the elevator the morning she was killed. If I hadn’t been in such a rush, I might have ridden down with him. You think this is the killer?”

  I shivered at the thought.

  “Person of interest,” Reilly said. “He doesn’t show up in any other CCTV footage. Just that morning.”

  “But he could be anyone.”

  “Could be, but I think you’d better keep your head up.”

  He put the pictures back in his briefcase, then reconsidered and gave me a copy of the man from the elevator. “Just in case you see him again,” he said.

  “I think I’d recognize him, but I hope I don’t run into him.”

  “If you do, just back off and call me, all right? I know it’s not like you, but it would be the smart thing to do.”

  Reilly rubbed Ranger’s ears, then stood and said, “I’ve got to get back. Still some paperwork to be done on another case. I’ll call you if I hear more.”

  I watched as Reilly headed down the Queen Elizabeth Driveway, walking back to the police station. I had felt safe when he was there, despite the information he had given me about the guy in the elevator. Now, with him gone, I looked around, trying to see if anyone was watching me. When I thought about it, the elevator guy had pretty much been wearing a disguise. The sunglasses and beard were a common look, but only one step down from a mask. Who knew what he looked like normally?

  When I had decided to dive into the Mae Wang story, I hadn’t thought much about my own safety, but that was the way I had always been. If some bastard tries to take you down, give it back to him twice as hard. That was what my Uncle Martin had taught me in the brief moments when he contributed to my upbringing. I decided not to dwell on how the advice had worked for him.

  Should I warn Suzy, or would Reilly do that? I should have asked. Whoever was behind Mae Wang’s murder wasn’t going to take kindly to nosy journalists snooping around. Suzy would have to keep her head up, too.

  I wasn’t sure what to do with the Luc Champagne angle. Presumably he was getting a weekly piece from Mae. That didn’t exactly make him a murder suspect, unless he thought she was going to blow the whistle on him. Had it been blackmail? If Mae really was working for the Chinese, surely they would have wanted to play the long game, given Champagne’s political position. Imagine having that kind of leverage over a senior cabinet minister.

  So if the guy in the elevator was working for someone, who was it? Maybe Champagne, but it was hard to see a Canadian cabinet minister ordering a murder. But then, I had hardly been able to believe it when the people I dealt with in the Adirondacks last summer were willing to kill for political gain. No doubt it was much easier if you could outsource the work.

  And who was Mr. Thursday? It was plausible that the relationship between Mae and Champagne was some kind of romance, or something that would seem like romance to a person in Mae’s position. But the schlump in the fur -hat? That was something else, for sure.

  Maybe Gail would be willing to make sense of all of this. I opened my purse and took out her business card. She had said to call, although she hadn’t made any promise to pick up.

  Gail answered after one ring, her voice low. “Who is this?” she said.

  “Kris.”

  “Do you think we’re on a first-name basis?”

  “You said to call.”

  “Sure, but I didn’t say I would tell you anything.”

  “I’ve found out some things about Luc Champagne. Interesting things.”

  “I’ll bet you have. Luc Champagne is an interesting guy. Lot going on there.”

  “It’s his personal life that’s especially interesting.”

  “Isn’t it, though?”

  Was this one of those parallel conversations, where both parties were talking about different things?

  “Should we be more specific?” I asked.

  “Not on the phone.”

  “Should we meet?”

  “It’s not convenient.”

  “I’m going to go out on a limb here and say Luc Champagne had your husband set up because he was a political rival.”

  “If you can prove that, you’ve got a good story, but Luc Champagne doesn’t leave fingerprints.”

  “When we spoke earlier, you implied that maybe you could connect some dots for me.”

  “Maybe I can, but I’m going to have to think about it. Sonny is my priority right now.”

  I considered telling Gail about the connection between Champagne and Mae Wang, but we didn’t have anything like that level of trust yet. Besides, I didn’t want to give up something that good without getting something better in return.

  “So Champagne falls under phase two, revenge?”

  Gail gave a tight laugh. “That’s always the best part, don’t you think?”

  That depended on what the act of revenge turned you into, I thought, but I said, “Absolutely. And always glad to help.”

  “Let’s leave it at that, for now.”

  “OK, see you in court tomorrow.”

  It was a start. I had at least planted the idea that I could be a tool in Gail Rakic’s planned revenge. Maybe Champagne had better keep his head up, too.

  EIGHTEEN

  With all that was buzzing in my head about Mae Wang and her killer, the Sandhu trial felt like a distraction, but at least this morning’s session promised to be entertaining. Unless Faulkner had some other trick in her bag, this would be Ben Bernstein’s first attempt to undermine her case. I was anticipating a lively cross-examination of Vikram Gill. It was one thing to be led gently through Gill’s version of the truth by the Crown, quite another to have every word that was already uttered sliced and diced by a tough defence lawyer.

  I was betting that Gill would look as ragged as the cheap suit I had seen him wearing in the waiting area outside the courtroom. Today’s effort was grey with a blue tie and blue shirt. Better colour sense, but there was something black on Gill’s right sleeve. Maybe he had been oiling someone’s wheel.

  I was anticipating a column that would do quite a job on Gill, with Bernstein providing all the heavy lifting. It would be lively and readable and,
as a bonus, Gail Rakic would like it quite a bit.

  I felt like I was making some progress with Gail, but it was also clear she was a woman who was used to being in charge. She would do what she thought would benefit her and her husband, at the time she thought most appropriate. I would need to draw her slowly in my direction, not push her.

  Gill was called and again shuffled towards the stand, as if something was wrong with him. Maybe it was more migraines or just the stress of trying to keep his dodgy story straight. You’d think that would be a basic skill for a con man, but even I wouldn’t have looked forward to being cross-examined by Ben Bernstein.

  “So, Mr. Gill. Let’s dive right in, shall we?” Bernstein said. “Yesterday, you told the court that you have a background in engineering and mentioned the Delhi Technological University. Are you in fact a graduate of that institution?”

  “I attended there, yes.”

  “That’s not what I am asking, Mr. Gill. Did you graduate?”

  “I did not complete all of my course work, no.”

  “So, in fact, you are not an engineer are you?”

  “Not technically, no.”

  “You either are or you aren’t, Mr. Gill. Which is it?”

  “No, I am not an engineer.”

  “And do you have any experience in wind energy at all?”

  “I have read much online, but this was my first wind project.”

  “I see. You read about it online. Now, when you met Mr. Sandhu to discuss this project, did you hold out to him that you were an engineer and an expert on wind energy?”

  This was what I had expected from Bernstein. He liked to work quickly and pace was important. It kept the witness from having a lot of time to think about his answers or to deduce where Bernstein was headed.

  Gill looked toward Faulkner, as if seeking help. He was having a hard time with Bernstein’s aggressive approach and they were just getting started. Faulkner made a point of not looking up from her notes.

  “Don’t look at her Mr. Gill. My question is for you. Did you tell Mr. Sandhu that you were an engineer and wind power expert?”

  As if finally remembering his lines, Gill said, “I don’t recollect that at this time.”

  “Come on now, Mr. Gill. You are here as one of the two principal witnesses against my client. I’m sure you have made your accusations repeatedly to the police and the Crown. Are you telling the court now that you have memory issues?”

  Faulkner had heard enough. “Objection, your honour. Mr. Gill’s academic achievements are not what’s at issue here.”

  “No, but his credibility is,” Bernstein shot back.

  “Continue Mr. Bernstein, but remember that there is no jury here,” the judge said.

  “Let’s try again Mr. Gill. Do you remember telling Mr. Sandhu that you were an engineer and wind power expert?”

  “I probably did,” Gill admitted. “Not all knowledge is acquired in school.”

  “All right, let’s move on. You told the court yesterday that Mr. Sandhu had never asked you for any money until you approached him about the wind project, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  Bernstein walked over to the defence table and picked up a few pieces of paper. Turning and walking back toward Gill, he said, “Now, Mr. Gill, I’m going to ask you to look at these three pieces of correspondence. Do you recognize them?”

  Gill removed a pair of eyeglasses from the inside pocket of his suit, put them on and examined the papers.

  “Do these look familiar Mr. Gill?”

  “They are addressed to me, yes, but I receive a great many pieces of correspondence.”

  “Did you received these three particular pieces, Mr. Gill?”

  Gill rubbed his chin and made a show of concentrating. Buying time while he decided whether he could get away with a lie or whether Bernstein was setting a trap, I would bet.

  “These are letters from Mr. Sandhu seeking campaign contributions in each of the three years prior to your meeting with him, correct?”

  “That is what they say.”

  “Once again, Mr. Gill, did you receive them?”

  “They look familiar now. I must have, yes.”

  “Thank you Mr. Gill. Now we’re getting somewhere. Your honour, we have copies for the court and we would like to enter them as the first exhibit for the defence.” Bernstein passed the copies to the clerk, who passed them to the judge.

  “So wouldn’t that make you reconsider your earlier statement, that Mr. Sandhu had never sought your financial help before? In fact, wasn’t seeking that help a routine thing, not some kind of special deal?”

  “I am not expert on political fundraising, but these letters look like the kind I receive from all parties.”

  “You mentioned that you receive such letters from all parties, Mr. Gill, but you are a card-carrying member of the Conservative Party, are you not?”

  “Yes, very proudly so, and for many years.”

  “So there would be nothing unusual about Mr. Sandhu reaching out to you for a donation, would there? I’m sure your name is on a list.”

  “I suppose it must be.”

  “In your earlier testimony, you said that you and Mr. Sandhu had agreed to ‘itch each other’s backs,’ as you put it. Now, were those words ever said, Mr. Gill, or was that just a thought in your mind?”

  “Not said in so many words, but it was clear that was the arrangement.”

  “And you assumed that because Mr. Sandhu is Indo-Canadian, like yourself?”

  “It is a perhaps regrettable part of our culture.”

  “But you are aware that Mr. Sandhu was born and educated in Canada.”

  “I was not, but cultural values run deep.”

  “Indeed,” Bernstein said. “Now let me take you back to your thinking when you first chose to contact Mr. Sandhu about this wind energy grant. Were you reaching out to him because you thought he was an Indo-Canadian backscratcher, or simply because he was your MP?”

  “Well, yes, he was my MP. So, a person I should talk to.”

  “Just something business people and community leaders do in every riding of the country, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Objection,” Faulkner said. “Mr. Gill is not an expert on every riding in the country.”

  “Withdrawn. Mr. Gill, you said in your earlier testimony that the wheels of government turn slowly. No dispute there. Wouldn’t you say that part of an MP’s job is to make those wheels go a little faster, when he has been persuaded that a project is in the public interest?”

  “I suppose so, yes.”

  “Very good, Mr. Gill,” Bernstein said, as if finally approving of Gill’s performance. “Now, let’s move on to the wind project itself. Did it go ahead?”

  Gill gave the world-weary shrug that was becoming his signature gesture. “Alas, there proved to be many, many complications. Provincial rules, setback regulations, noise issues.”

  “I see, so the proposed wind turbines were not erected, then?”

  “’Regrettably not.”

  “And what of the subdivision proposal itself? Did it proceed?”

  “Oh yes. Competing developer had pulled out by the time the unfortunate decision about the wind power had to be made. Council was very pleased to approve my backup plan.”

  Bernstein nodded, as if in understanding, then said, “Mr. Gill, are you familiar with the term bait and switch?”

  “Does it have to do with fishing?”

  “In a way, yes. Now, this is the last thing I wanted to ask you about Mr. Gill. We’re almost there. What about the federal program grant, the $1.5 million?”

  “Well, we did not receive that, as the project did not go ahead.”

  “So in the end, you didn’t get any federal money at all, right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Excellent. Nothing further for this witness.”

  Not a bad job. Bernstein was obviously going to be working hard to establish the idea that Sandhu had done n
o more than any good MP would to help out a constituent and speed up those famous wheels of bureaucracy. Surely the Crown had a bomb or two to drop, though. I figured it would have to do with where the $25,000 had gone.

  Faulkner was back on her feet, trying to look unruffled by the working over one of her two star witnesses had just experienced.

  “Your honour, at this point I would like to request a short break, then return to re-examine Mr. Gill.”

  “Very well. Thirty-minute recess.”

  As Gail Rakic walked up the aisle, a couple of steps in front of her husband, she shot me a quick look. It was difficult to read. I thought Gail might have afforded at least a small smile. Her side was having a good day.

  I decided to get to work on my column while monitoring the rest of the day’s proceedings from the media room. Faulkner would try to undermine Bernstein’s cross-examination of Vikram Gill, but I thought she was unlikely to succeed, and Bernstein had given me plenty of ammunition for my column. Gill’s testimony certainly left the impression that he had never even wanted the green energy grant, that the whole thing was a gimmick to get his subdivision approved. The question was, did Sandhu know the project was a scam, or was he a dupe?

  NINETEEN

  Suzy scrolled through the police budget again, trying to make sense of the impenetrable jargon and the massive columns of numbers. If a police reporter couldn’t understand this thing, how did they expect the public to? But then, that was probably the point.

  At least there weren’t any distractions. The newsroom was a morgue since the latest round of layoffs and buyouts.

  The thing Suzy didn’t get was why she had to waste her time on a budget story. She certainly understood that people were pissed off with the idea that a constable was being paid $100K to drive around in a cruiser, but this would inevitably be a story full of numbers and university professors who had never even been on a ride along trying to pass themselves off as experts. No real cop was likely to discuss it, and she couldn’t blame them.

  “Excuse me officer, do you think you’re way overpaid?” Jesus.

  It was the kind of story on which she just hated to put her byline. Really, if someone wasn’t dead, or at least bleeding seriously, why should the public even care?