Spiked

by Randall Denley

  First, Colin had put her on this so-called spy story and expected her to work with Kris Redner, which was annoying enough. Now, the assistant city editor, Melinda Khoury, was telling her to plow through the police budget while she was at it. She wondered if Colin even wanted her on the Mae Wang story, or if it had just been a hollow gesture to make her feel better when Kris swooped down, yet again, to sink her talons into a prime crime story. If it was one. Suzy had her doubts. She had wasted two hours with Pierre Lacroix, who had seemed far less interested in this supposed national security issue than he had been in the length of her skirt, which admittedly was short. He had given her the company line. Chinese national, looked like a tragic suicide, etc. Yes, it was true that someone from the embassy had shown up and made a fuss at the morgue. He understood Global Affairs would be following up. When she told him that she knew for sure there was a homicide investigation and the RCMP were involved, he had said, “Well then, you should talk to Ottawa police about that. I’ve heard nothing at all on our end. Can’t imagine it would get much attention from us. Probably just a chance to show how we can co-operate with the locals.”

  Suzy could usually tell when Pierre was lying. He had a habit of licking his lips nervously. Wasn’t happening last night. Just because he didn’t know what was going on didn’t mean that there wasn’t anything, but he was her best contact.

  She had heard nothing yet from Vanessa. That wasn’t good, either. If there was something juicy to tell, Vanessa would be sharing pretty quickly. Then Suzy’s cell rang, and she saw it was Vanessa. Maybe things were about to pick up. “Hey,” she said, “anything new?”

  “Yes. Derek Hall is an asshole.”

  That was probably news only to Vanessa, Suzy thought. The young political assistant sounded like she was somewhere between rage and tears. Badly timed lovers’ quarrel?

  “Sorry to hear that,” Suzy said, trying to muster some sympathy. “I’ve worked for a few of those myself.”

  “So I ask him about that thing we were talking about, thinking I am doing him a favour by bringing him something more important than his goddamned coffee. And he goes, ‘I know all about that, and there’s nothing there. It’s a suicide. The Chinese were acting crazy like they do. The police are investigating just to keep the Chinese happy.’

  “I might have known. Big Derek Hall. There is nothing in the whole freaking world that he doesn’t know before anyone else does. He blows me off like I am some kind of idiot, then it gets worse. He starts to give me shit for talking about it with someone outside the office.

  “So I tell him, the information came from outside the office. How am I supposed to know about it if I don’t talk to someone from outside the office? Then he gets all squirrelly about where I got the information from.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “No. Fuck him. Let him figure it out for himself.”

  Hall wouldn’t exactly have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that the information came from the media. The witch hunt was probably already under way. Maybe they would zero in on Kris. That would be sweet.

  “OK, good. Thanks for keeping me out of it. I appreciate it when someone sticks to a deal. Derek does sound like a bit of a prick.”

  “You’re telling me. I thought he was a really nice guy. And now I have to keep working for him. It’s a big deal being in the PMO, you know. If that doesn’t work out, I’ll end up back in the Department of Agriculture or some other cobwebby, godforsaken place.”

  “Look, I appreciate you trying. Don’t worry about Derek. Guys like that are all bluster. It will blow over. If it doesn’t, just mention sexual harassment. That scares the shit out of them every time.”

  “Well, there hasn’t been anything like that,” Vanessa said, maybe a little too quickly.

  “There has been if you say there was. All it takes is an accusation. I wouldn’t play that card unless you have to, though.”

  “No, I don’t see myself doing that. No one would hire me again.”

  Good point, Suzy thought. From what she heard, a lot of the big guys on the Hill thought sexual harassment was just part of the job description for their female assistants. They were typically young, attractive, available and unlikely to complain. For a politician a long way from home, it was the magic formula.

  “Plus, I am supporting my mom, who has cancer. I don’t suppose you want to hear about that.”

  Suzy really, really didn’t, but she said, “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. That’s terrible.”

  “Yes it is. She’s only 50, but she has brain tumours. Without me working, and living with her, there wouldn’t be anyone to look after her. My Dad has already passed.”

  Suzy glanced at her watch. She really had never been that interested in other people’s woes, unless there was a story in it. She wondered if it was a character defect.

  Suzy was almost relieved when Vanessa said, “Did you find out anything more about the Chinese girl?”

  Suzy felt a little alarm bell go off. What if Vanessa’s slagging of her boss was just a diversion and her real mission was to find out what else Suzy knew? Better to play it safe.

  “No, nothing. I think what Derek told you is probably right. The Chinese were just making a fuss to try to score diplomatic points. They’ve got me working on something about the police budget now.”

  “Too bad. It was kind of fun to think about a Chinese spy here in Ottawa. It’s like something out of a movie.”

  “Right, well I’m sure there are Chinese spies, but it doesn’t look like she was one of them.”

  “Well, OK then. Got to go. See you at the gym soon,” Vanessa said, and hung up.

  It sounded as if Vanessa had returned to her usual cheerful self again. Pretty quick transformation.

  It didn’t matter whether Derek Hall really had flipped out or whether he had just asked Vanessa to see what she could get out of Suzy. Either way, it meant that there was something there he didn’t want a reporter to know about.

  Suzy closed the police budget file on her screen. That could wait. She really should update Kris, but that could wait, too. There was one more source she could try.

  TWENTY

  I had just snapped open a Corona when I heard the knock on my door. That just never happened. Was it Colin? It wasn’t his usual habit to just show up without calling, but maybe he had brought dinner. I hoped so. Almost anything would be an upgrade on the aging pizza I had in the fridge.

  The knock came again, harder. Definitely not Colin. His style was a quiet double rap, polite and patient. I debated whether to answer. It had better not be a bloody Jehovah’s Witness.

  Then I thought about the guy from the elevator, and Reilly’s advice to keep my head up. Truthfully, I had been thinking about him ever since Reilly implied the bearded man might be the killer. The building did have front door security, but there was always some idiot who would buzz anyone in.

  I put the beer down and pulled my largest butcher knife from the block on the counter. I was probably just being paranoid, but it wasn’t like people hadn’t tried to kill me in the past, and pretty recently, too. I wished I had installed one of those little peepholes, even if it meant messing with Caroline’s door.

  Belatedly realizing that he had a role to play, Ranger started barking aggressively. He didn’t sound like a dog that could do anything more than nip an ankle, but the person on the other side of the door couldn’t know for sure.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “Police. Open up.”

  Fucking Reilly. I swung open the door, pissed that he had rattled me.

  “Whoa, guess you’re not glad to see me.”

  I looked down at the knife in my hand. “A guy I know said I needed to watch out.”

  “Glad to see you’ve taken the advice.”

  “I was just going to have a beer. Want one?”

  “Still sort of on duty,” he said, reaching down to pay attention to Ranger, who had rolled over on his back and was looking to get his belly scratched
. Some watchdog.

  “I think it’s time I had an informal chat with your super. Want to tag along?”

  I had only ever had one encounter with the building manager, as he liked to call himself, and that was about the clogged drain in the kitchen sink. Mr. Mo hailed from one of the sandier countries where women were supposed to walk 10 feet behind the men and wear veils. I wasn’t sure which one, but they were only different by degree. Mr. Mo himself favoured black track suits and gold chains, although he was certainly no athlete. When he’d gotten under the sink with his wrench, I’d seen a lot more of his hairy belly than I wanted. The worst part was the way he had stared at my chest, not that there was much to look at. I had been tempted to ask him if he wanted a magnifying glass. After that, I had paid for my own repairs.

  “The guy’s a dick. You think he knows something?”

  “Only one way to find out. The least we can do is spoil his day.”

  “I’m down with that.”

  As they rode the elevator down to Mr. Mo’s basement apartment, Reilly said, “This is kind of on the down low, given the circumstances, so I’m not going to get any more official than I have to. You OK with that?”

  “Sure am.” I was familiar with the technique of inferring that you had knowledge or authority and letting the subject fill in the blanks.

  The basement was a dump. You’d have thought the owners could afford a real office for the super, with the rent people were paying in the Prince Albert. Upstairs, the building’s age gave it a quaint charm, but in the basement it was just old and creepy. Exposed heating pipes ran along the ceiling in the corridor and the landlord-green paint was flaking off the walls. I could smell something spicy cooking and there was high-pitched, wailing music leaking out into the hall.

  “Looks like our boy is home,” Reilly said. The door to Mr. Mo’s apartment had the words Building Manager stuck on it in those gold letters you could get at a dollar store, except that the M had fallen off manager. It did little to reduce the overall effect.

  Reilly knocked on the door and said “Police,” in his authoritative baritone, the same one he had used to screw with me upstairs.

  First the music was shut off, and then there was a loud round of shushing, presumably Mr. Mo bringing some order to Mrs. Mo and whatever little Mo’s he had stashed in the apartment.

  When the door swung open, Mr. Mo looked nervous, running a hand through his oily black hair and zipping up his black track suit in a vain attempt to contain his forest of chest hair. He was probably only about 40, but he looked shop worn. I imagined that police knocking on the door was pretty bad news where he came from.

  The building manager looked at me and sniffed, then focused on Reilly, stuck out his hand and said, “I am Mr. Mo, manager of this building. How can I be of assistance?”

  Reilly didn’t take the man’s hand, but quickly flashed his ID and said “Homicide. We need to ask you a few questions.”

  Mr. Mo was looking at me with that “where have I seen her before?” look. I hoped he wouldn’t figure it out. An officious super had infinite ways to make a tenant’s life miserable.

  “Well, my family is here and we were about to start the evening meal. Can we find a more convenient time?”

  “This time works fine for me,” Reilly said. “Just close the door.”

  Mr. Mo obeyed and stepped out into the hall. “This must be about that poor girl who killed herself.”

  “That’s right. Know her?”

  “I am not knowing her at all,” he said quickly.

  “Not a tenant, then?”

  “Certainly not. We vet our tenants very carefully.”

  “I’ll bet. I’m going to need a list of those tenants.”

  “Well, I think there must be very many issues of privacy there. I will need to consult with building ownership.”

  “And who is building ownership?”

  “A numbered company.”

  “Of course it is. Look, here’s how it’s going to work. This is a homicide investigation. I will need your complete co-operation. I can only share this with you because of your position, but it looks as if that girl might not have killed herself. I imagine that building ownership would not be pleased if it turned out that a homicide had been committed here. Imagine what that would do for the building’s reputation, ownership’s ability to rent units, and your own position.”

  “Still, I must consult with building ownership.”

  “Maybe I should consult with them myself. I would like to get ownership’s point of view on how this girl, and her killer, got onto the roof of the building. You have a key to gain access to the roof, right?”

  “Well, yes. I have such a key. I am the building manager, but I have nothing whatsoever to do with this unfortunate incident.”

  “I hope that’s true, I really do. But tell me, who else has a key to get to the roof?”

  “Only building ownership.”

  “So should I tell them that you refused to co-operate and suggested that ownership might be involved with this crime? Or maybe you negligently left the door to the roof unlocked.”

  “No, certainly not. Contacting ownership will not be necessary. I will be happy to provide you with a list of all tenants.”

  “Excellent,” Reilly said, clapping Mr. Mo on the shoulder like they were pals. “I knew I could count on your good judgment. Now, one other thing.”

  Reilly reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat and withdrew a picture of the guy who had been waiting for the elevator and walked so calmly through the crime scene. “I’d like to know a bit more about this person. Is he a tenant here?”

  Mr. Mo took the picture and extended it at arm’s length to study it.

  “Feel free to get your glasses, if that would help,” Reilly said.

  “My vision is excellent. I do not know this gentleman. He is certainly not a tenant and I have not seen him in the building.”

  Mr. Mo sounded pretty sure of himself. He was probably telling the truth. If he could have pointed the police away from his door and toward someone else’s, he would have.

  “Is this man the suspect?” he asked.

  “Person of interest,” Reilly said. “Now what about that list?”

  “I will have to photocopy it.”

  “Great. Let’s do that now.”

  “I have in the office. Please wait here,” Mr. Mo said.

  While they waited, Reilly said, “That was pretty easy. Didn’t even have to give him my name.”

  “The way you look, if you flash a shield and say you are police, no one’s going to question it,” I said.

  It didn’t take Mr. Mo long to reappear with the photocopied list. Reilly folded it and put it in the inside pocket of his suit. When Mr. Mo scuttled back into his office/apartment, Reilly said, “That offer of a beer still on?”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Derek Hall settled in at his usual table at Leo’s. Just a couple of blocks from Parliament Hill, the steak-house was still the top spot for people in his business and he was there so often that the leather armchair had practically shaped itself to his butt. It wasn’t an entirely private location, but the table was up against a red brick wall and the heavy wooden blinds provided an acceptable level of gloom. Generous tips at the taxpayers’ expense guaranteed that the tables next to his were never occupied when he came in for his regular lunch. His glass of Aberlour was already on the table, two ice cubes as usual.

  Derek pulled out his work BlackBerry and quickly scanned his email, news sites and Twitter, hoping that nothing had burst into flames in the time it had taken him to walk down from the Hill. He needed to be on top of everything before Question Period at 2:15. The PM wouldn’t be in attendance, so that reduced Derek’s personal worry level just a bit. On the other hand, his boss’s latest parliamentary secretary was an idiot, so anything could happen. The Opposition was in full roar about the party’s fundraising practices.

  Done with work for the moment, Derek pulled out his personal
iPhone to see if Vanessa had sent him another selfie. She was an intern, sweet girl with a real sense of how to get ahead. Nothing new from her, so he scanned through her most recent shots. The one where she sat on his desk wearing considerably less than she had come to work in was his favourite.

  Derek shut his phone down, much as he would have liked to linger. Plenty of time for the real thing this weekend, as long as she wasn’t still pissed off at him. She had been pretty wound up yesterday. He looked forward to helping her relax.

  Derek shot his monogrammed cuffs and adjusted his club tie. It was a tie for some club, he was sure, but not one he belonged to. He thought it suited his young professional look, and if anyone thought it was too stodgy, he could say he was wearing it ironically. His navy wool suit was tailored to his measurements, but ordered online. He always liked to look like the best-dressed man in the room, but that didn’t mean he wanted to spend accordingly. Job security was notoriously tenuous for a prime minister’s chief of staff. Still, he’d survived 13 years on the Hill, starting out as a gofer in the PMO back at the end of the last Liberal era and working his way relentlessly to the top of the heap by what he liked to think of as a combination of hard work, intelligence and the kind of ruthlessness that politicians prized in their underlings.

  Ah, there was Sharpe now, heading across the crowded restaurant. Part of the reason people came to Leo’s was to see whom they could see, but there was only the slightest chance that Sharpe would be recognized. He had the kind of bland anonymity that was so helpful to people in his trade.

  Sharpe was past middle age, verging on old, average height, grey hair in a business cut, black suit, white shirt, blue and black striped tie, horn-rimmed eyeglasses that were trendy now, but had been Sharpe’s style for decades. He could easily pass for an accountant or mid-level bureaucrat. Certainly nothing in Sharpe’s appearance suggested that he had once been one of the most important men in government.

  Sharpe was a dinosaur, a spymaster who had served both Liberal and Conservative governments, but who now did a lot of work for international consulting companies of the greyer sort. A useful guy to know, Derek thought, but not exactly the type you’d like to invite to a party.