His anxiousness was a little off-putting. When I sort of hedged and danced clumsily around his questions, he gave me a baleful look before walking away.
When they finally allowed me into Bernier’s office, he was signing papers his secretary placed in front of him while giving instructions on the phone and scrolling through e-mail on his computer. I wasn’t impressed. Hell, I could simultaneously steer a boat, talk on the VHF and speculate about the price of shrimp. Finally the secretary left and Lou hung up the phone, although he didn’t take his eye off the computer screen. “Mr. Swanson, what’s up? Have you discovered anything about the story Dougie was working on?”
“Lou, what have they got on you?”
He looked at me for the first time. “I beg your pardon?”
“I had you figured for a straight guy. Dougie always spoke highly of you. Yet you’ve been leaking stuff to Ernhardt. And you killed the story Dougie wrote and lied to me that you’d never seen it.”
His poker face fell away for a split second, but he quickly regrouped. “You’ve got a nerve, Swanson. Who the hell do you think you are to question my integrity?”
I reached into my pocket and took out a piece of paper. I placed it on his desk. It was the printout of Dougie’s e-mail to Bernier, asking him what he thought of the story he’d given him in the form of a memory stick. It took Bernier three seconds to read it, and after those three seconds he was twenty years older. He sat slumped in his chair for what seemed a long time. Finally he mumbled, “Come with me” and walked out of the office.
I thought of Bernier as the enemy, but I just couldn’t think of him as posing a physical threat, so I followed him.We took an elevator down to the parking garage and Bernier led the way to an almost new Japanese sedan. He unlocked the doors and we got in, and then he reversed out of the parking stall and squealed away toward the exit. We drove for about twenty minutes in complete silence, until we reached an area of upscale shops and condos. Bernier drove into a parking garage and parked. We got out; he locked the car and then led the way toward the elevator.
Up on the tenth floor, Bernier let us into a well-appointed if somewhat sterile condo. He paused for a moment in the hallway, as if to gather strength, and then walked into the living room. I followed. Bernier stood in front of the gas fireplace and pointed to a picture hanging on the wall above it. It was an eight-by-ten, professionally done photo of a woman in early middle age. She was what used to be called a handsome woman, with strong features and dark brown hair with a bit of a wave, and she gazed out of the photo with a confident and genial expression.
“My wife,” Bernier said. “She died of breast cancer, May 17, 1996.” He went over to a sideboard, picked up a bottle of scotch and looked at me inquiringly. I nodded. He poured two tall drinks, handed me one and gestured to an armchair while he sat at one end of a matching couch.
“Breast cancer,” he said. “Sometimes I think of it as a human being, a thug like Saddam Hussein; stupid, brutal, powerful, cruel, implacable, unjust, capricious, malicious, malignant, goddamn cocksucking . . .” He stopped himself. “She was actually diagnosed in 1993. She went through a radical mastectomy, radiation treatment, and a full course of chemotherapy. Strong woman. Didn’t complain once. I’d falter occasionally and she’d comfort me. Strong woman.” He sipped his drink as he stared at something that didn’t appear to be there. “We thought we had it beat. She was in remission for two years, and then it came back. Metastasized into her lungs. There’s a lovely word for you. Metasta-fucking-sized.” He took another drink, more of a gulp this time.
“We knew it was a death sentence. For the first time in our married life, I had a hard time talking to her. It was like she was standing on the other side of a barrier. But that was me, not her. She didn’t really change. Just accepted it and decided to live the rest of her life. Strong woman. I was absolutely terrified of the lung cancer. It’s a terrible, awful way to die, not being able to breathe. We talked about ending it early but kept putting off the decision. In the end, she caught a break. The cancer spread to her brain and that’s what killed her. Died in her sleep. Caught a break there.”
I sat motionless, clasping my untouched and forgotten drink. Mercifully, Bernier didn’t seem to expect any form of response from me.
“When the cancer came back, I got a bit desperate. The doctors couldn’t do anything more than alleviate the symptoms, and they told us that. I started looking at alternative medicine, and there’s lots of it around. It all costs money, though, especially if you have to fly to Mexico to get it.”
I sat frozen, as if movement would have been a sign of disrespect, although Bernier seemed oblivious to me and just about everything else.
“Our circle of friends at the time was very supportive, and Ernhardt was one of them. The women would bring over food and the men would take me out and try to get me drunk, but I was in a fog. We kept spending money on dodgy treatments, and I knew in the back of my mind that I was outspending my income, but at the end of the month there was always more money in our account than I expected. But, like I say, I was in a fog, or acting like a football player with a concussion—functioning, but strictly automatic pilot, you know?”
I nodded, as if my participation was necessary.
“Anyway, one time Ernhardt took me aside and said not to worry about money. ‘You get Patty anything she needs,’ he said. ‘Let your friends worry about your bank balance.’ And I was happy to do that. I would have done the same if the situation was reversed. What are friends for?
“At the funeral, Ernhardt came up to me and said, ‘Don’t worry about paying the money back.’ Everybody had been happy to help out. Christ, I didn’t even know how much money it was. About six months after the funeral, we ran a series of stories about how an insurance company was ripping off consumers, refusing to pay claims. Turns out it was one of Ernhardt’s clients. He phoned me up. ‘Lou, can you lighten up on that story a bit? I’m not asking you to kill it, just try not to make my guy out to be such a criminal. He’s just a businessman, trying to make a living.’
“How could I refuse? I rewrote the article and the reporter almost quit. The next time, he wanted me to actually kill a story. ‘Lou, we’ve been through so much together. We were there for you, buddy. I know Patty appreciated what little help we could give. Now this is my hour of need. I need help, buddy.’ How could I refuse? But once you kill a story, you’ve crossed a line. He knew he had me. A year later I had to fire a reporter because Ernhardt told me to.”
His drink was empty by this time. He looked at my full drink and got up to pour himself another one.
I cleared my throat. “What exactly did you tell Ernhardt about those tapes that Dougie made?”
“Just that Dougie had taped some conversations that might be a bit incriminating. Dougie could be very persuasive. He had a knack for getting people talking, especially if it was over drinks.”
“Did Dougie ever talk to Gerry Steadman?”
“Don’t know. Don’t know if they ever met.”
So now I knew that Dougie had never told Lou that he was posing as Steadman, maybe because of journalistic ethics. And because Lou didn’t know, Ernhardt didn’t know. I was the only one who had made the connection between Dougie and Gerry Steadman. “Lou, did you read Dougie’s story?”
“Oh yes. And what a story. Well-researched, well-written, well-organized, well-documented. It would have been a huge sensation.”
“Does Ernhardt know about the story?”
“Not the details of it. I try to convince myself that I might even run it one day.”
“Lou, I need that story.”
“What, and let you scoop me?”
“Lou, you’re never going to run the fucking story.” I decided to play it the Cliff Ernhardt way, tighten the screws until you get what you need and ignore the screams. “Lou, what do you think happened to Dougie?”
“He drowned in Canoe Lake?”
“You don’t think that’s a bit too muc
h of a coincidence? Dougie writes a story that’ll rip the Committee to pieces, maybe put a lot of them in jail. Ernhardt would do anything to kill that story. You know he would. And the only way to kill that story was to kill Dougie.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions.”
“I wonder if the police would agree with that. I wonder if that story contains any clues that would shed light on his death. And I wonder if they might not like to see that story. And I especially wonder if they would consider it obstruction of justice to conceal that story.”
Lou Bernier in his prime would have laughed and told me to fuck off. But this Lou Bernier was old and tired and sick at heart. He walked over to a rolltop desk and unlocked a small drawer. He took out a memory stick and tossed it to me.
“I don’t know how this is going to play out, Lou. But I’ll do my best to cover your ass.” All the way back to my room I tried to convince myself that those words made up for what I’d done.
And the evening sky imagined our fate.
Fourteen
I PHONED OSHIE AND TOLD her I had some things to do the next day and if nothing dramatic happened I would fly home the day after. That would be my twelfth day in Ottawa. It would be one day too many.
The next morning I phoned Staff Sergeant Stala and made an appointment to see him at ten thirty. Then I inserted the memory stick into the computer and began to read Dougie’s story. There wasn’t a lot that was new to me having heard the tapes. But it was better organized, with lots of background research and references to other related stories. To the uninitiated, it would be explosive. Careers would be ruined and charges would be laid. It provided ample motive for murder. I had just come to the end of the first installment when it was time to leave to see Stala. I wondered if Dougie had written an ending, or if the ending was still up in the air, or if there even was such a thing as an ending.
On my way to the police station, I stopped at an electronics shop and made three copies of the memory stick. When I was ushered into his office, I gave one of them to Staff Sergeant Stala. “That’s the story Dougie was working on. I’ve only read the first part, but it’s explosive. Definitely a motive for murder.”
“Where’d you find it?”
“Dougie had given it to someone for safekeeping and they kept it safe.” Stala gave me a look but said nothing. “I was hoping I could get a look at the material you found at the murder scene. Also, I was wondering about the time of death. Do you have an accurate estimate?”
“Analysis of his stomach contents puts it at around 9:30 PM. But that could be plus or minus an hour or so.” He got up and went over to a filing cabinet and took out a file folder and a cassette tape. “This tape”—he waved it at me—“was found at the scene along with some documents. It just happens to be a duplicate of tape ten of the bunch you gave me. By the way, all the ones you gave me are duplicates as well. Presumably the originals are still hidden somewhere.” He handed me the file folder. “These are copies of documents we found hidden under the mattress. The originals are in the evidence lockup. You’ll find them very interesting.”
Inside the folder was a two-page affidavit signed by Gerry Steadman. It stated that Steadman had given Ernhardt two million dollars, but only one million had made it to the Committee. It further stated that he, Steadman, would keep quiet about the discrepancy if Ernhardt paid him two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Wow! That was definitely food for thought. It explained why the cops had focused on Ernhardt as a prime suspect. They had no way of knowing that the affidavit was bullshit. Steadman, AKA Dougie Tarkenen, had never had two million dollars. Dougie had obviously been trying to set Ernhardt up. But for what? Dougie couldn’t have known that murder was in the offing.
“If you take that at face value,” Stala said, “your friend gave Ernhardt two million dollars. That’s a lot of money to save up on a reporter’s salary.”
“It’s ridiculous. Dougie never had two million dollars.” I omitted the fact that he’d had a hell of a lot more than the average newspaper reporter.
I thought out loud. “Dougie was running some kind of game. I don’t know exactly what kind of a game, but it certainly gives Ernhardt a motive for murder. And that tape—it’s probably the most incriminating of them all. You’ve heard it. There’s someone talking about rigging bureaucratic approval for Chinese access to Canadian oil. And there’s a reference to using Chinese muscle to get rid of opposition. And that gives whoever is speaking on the tape a good motive for murder as well as Ernhardt.”
Stala nodded. “It does that. But we need hard evidence.”
“What have you got so far?”
“Ernhardt had powder residue on his hand, but that’s explained by the fact that he had been target shooting. The only prints on the gun are on the barrel, but they’re your friend’s, like he’d grabbed the gun to deflect it. The stock had been wiped clean. The gun is unregistered. We know Ernhardt was there that night, but he says he left around eight thirty. But someone was in the room at nine, because the waiter heard the sounds of an argument when he delivered a bottle of wine.”
A question occurred to me. “How do you know Ernhardt was there that night? Did he voluntarily come forward?”
“No. A reporter from the Ottawa Times, Alex Porter, was there that night interviewing someone, and he saw Ernhardt walk through the lobby.”
“Alex didn’t tell me he was the one who fingered Ernhardt. I didn’t know he was there that night.”
Stala frowned. “Probably because I asked him to keep quiet about it. I don’t like leaks.”
“I’ve noticed that,” I said. “You should have been a shipwright.”
Stala ignored me. “Anyway, that’s not enough to get us an indictment. The Crown attorney wants more. Connect Ernhardt to the gun, a witness who puts him at the hotel after nine, or—fantasy time—a confession.” Stala gave a what-are-ya-gonna-do kind of shrug. “By the way, we found Tarkenen’s dentist. His records match the victim.”
That jolted me a bit. Dougie? Victim? The two words didn’t seem to belong together. Neither did my knowledge of Dougie and the emerging image of someone running some kind of convoluted con. What the hell had Dougie been up to?
Stala continued, “In light of the new ID, we went back and looked at Steadman’s identification papers, driver’s license, credit cards. Fakes, very good and expensive fakes, but fakes nevertheless. Your friend must have spent maybe ten grand on them.”
“Well, Dougie earned a good salary and he didn’t spend much.”
I needed to go someplace where I could think. “I’m going to keep plowing through the story material that Dougie put together. Something might strike me. Also, I’m meeting Ernhardt and the Committee tonight. That’ll give us some more names to work with.”
“Give me a call tomorrow morning,” Stala said. “I’ll be here for a couple of hours at least.”
I found a post office and mailed one of the copied memory sticks to Danny. I was going to send the other one to Oshie but thought better of it. It would look too much like an insurance policy, which it was, and I didn’t want Oshie thinking I needed insurance. So I sent it to my dad, with a note asking him to hold on to it for me.
My meeting with the Committee wasn’t until that evening, so I had a lot of time to kill and no sophisticated weapons to do it with. Outnumbered by the threatening hours, I began a war of attrition with a slow walk around Parliament Hill. Two down. A prolonged window-shop did in a few more, and then supper hour took care of another one. The last of them was dealt with by a slow read of the Globe and Mail, and then it was time to take a cab to Ernhardt’s house in the suburbs.
The Ernhardt abode was set well back on a spacious lot. Through still-bare maple trees, roadside viewers would catch appealing glimpses of a red brick structure that many, but not I, would have called a mansion. I was damned if I was going to dignify Ernhardt’s weasel hole by calling it a mansion. It was, nevertheless, an imposing weasel hole. An attractive brown-skinned woman, a r
eal-life maid, answered the door. Upon hearing my name, she granted me entrance.
The Committee was loosely gathered in what they wouldn’t have referred to as the living room. It took up most of the rear of the house, with a back wall entirely of glass. It might have afforded a scenic view, but now it offered only reflections, lamentably unscenic.
There were three or four clumps of important-looking men engaged in earnest conversation. My entrance had in no way changed the racial or gender purity of the room. When Ernhardt saw me, he detached himself from one of the groups, launched a smile in my direction and followed it with a cringe-worthy unctuousness. “Mr. Johnson, thanks for coming by. Great to see you. Can I get you a drink?”
“Thanks, Cliff. Would you happen to have a few drops of the Macallan?”
He chuckled. “We certainly do. There’s a few people here who appreciate”—and here he affected a Scottish accent—“a wee dram of the golden nectar.” He led me to the bar and poured me a shot from the appropriate bottle. I resisted the urge to ask for Coke in it. “Let me introduce you to some of our people.” He placed his hand lightly on my elbow and guided me to a group of four men who were in various stages of unwinding. All of them had loosened their ties, and one rebel had removed his suit jacket.
“Gentlemen, let me introduce Jimmie Johnson. As I mentioned earlier, he’s an old friend and colleague of Gerry Steadman, and, if I’m not mistaken, he has an eye toward taking over some of Gerry’s files. Am I right, Jimmie?”
“Well, Cliff, I’m still in a bit of shock at losing Gerry. We go way back together. But if you think it might be useful to try to rebuild the network that Gerry put together, I think I could do it.” What utter bullshit! But it came out so easily.
One of the men, almost my height but considerably heavier, reached out and shook my hand. “Mr. Johnson, Colin Peterson. We all miss Gerry, but sometimes a man’s work is more important than the man. In spite of his tragic death, his work must go on. If you could reconnect us with his backers, it would forward the agenda immensely.”
The Fourth Betrayal Page 14