The God Game

by Jeffrey Round

  The Rapture let out a cackle, his flesh jiggling.

  Dan heard the door open behind him. Serenity had returned. His interview was almost at an end.

  “And you?” Dan asked. “What do you follow?”

  “Me?” The Rapture laughed again. “I follow the Lord. The Lord provides, even here in the ghetto.”

  “And that’s all you need now?”

  The Rapture nodded. “I ain’t got much, just a roof over my head. But let this be said, it no matter because …” He held up a finger and stared at Dan intently. “Mistah Kurtz — he ain’t dead.”

  Sixteen

  Dirty Little Secrets

  Nick was sitting at the kitchen table. The word glower came to mind when Dan saw his expression. And probably not just because the angel hair pasta had wilted. There was definitely a scowl.

  “Glad to see you back,” Nick said. “Alive, I mean.”

  Dan had updated him by phone about the attackers on his drive home. It had mostly been a one-way conversation, with Nick’s silences filling the void.

  “I am indeed alive,” Dan replied, rubbing his palms together. “And starvin’, Marvin.”

  “Not to mention cocky. I was hoping for a little remorse, but instead you’re cocky.”

  Dan tried to look contrite. “Just trying to lighten the mood a little. Sorry.”

  “Sorry and …?”

  “Yes, definitely sorry. I don’t think I caught the second bit.”

  “How about, ‘Sorry and I will definitely take you along next time I do anything dangerous’?”

  “I’m sorry. I will definitely take you along. I promise.”

  “That’s better.”

  Nick got up to throw more noodles into a pot of boiling water.

  “Though in all honesty I wasn’t expecting it to be dangerous,” Dan said.

  Nick sighed and turned back to him. “Then that just makes it worse, Dan, because you knew you were going to meet someone who is a part of the underworld.”

  “Formerly part of the underworld.”

  “Formerly. Whatever. You should have anticipated danger.”

  “Right. I’m sorry. Again.” Dan tried for a smile. “Don’t worry. This isn’t my way of getting out of marriage. For the record, I have every intention of being around for the wedding.”

  “Oh, the good intentions clause. That’s reassuring. Not.” Nick glowered again. “And also for the record, I have no intention of spending all that money on a funeral for you instead of a wedding.”

  “I would hate for you to do that, but you might want to put that suit to good use.”

  “You really are infuriating.” He caught sight of the bruise discolouring Dan’s arm. “That’s going to need looking after. Did you at least find out anything useful?”

  Dan recapped the bizarre interview he’d had, struggling to describe the man who seemed to want to pass himself off as a modern-day Kurtz. Nick listened in silence, shaking his head when Dan related how the Rapture said he’d been offered a gun to kill John Wilkens.

  “They tried to coerce him on the basis of his drug charges,” Dan added.

  “Not uncommon with this type. So it may actually turn out that someone really is trying to fix elections?”

  “Not elections. Reputations. To ensure that certain people cannot win their campaigns. That’s what Simon Bradley thinks.”

  “Same thing, isn’t it? Fixing elections before they get started?”

  “Well, technically yes. But killing someone is different than sabotaging a reputation. John Wilkens’s death could turn out to have been for entirely different reasons.”

  “Fair enough. But what do you intend to do about it? I mean, it’s not your case, really. You’re not being paid to look into this.”

  “True, but I can’t just ignore what I know.” Dan shrugged. “I’ve tried talking to several people, including an old friend at Queen’s Park, but no one seems to want to take me seriously. Until now, only Simon Bradley and Anne Wilkens have believed that something is going on.”

  “Remind me again — what was that about the sisters’ secret identities?”

  Dan smiled. “Conspiracy theory three hundred and ninety-seven. They went out of their way to convince me that the older sister was married to John Wilkens when in fact it was the younger sister. Anne, the real Mrs. Wilkens, told me later how she stole John from Doris. Practically left her jilted at the altar, by the sounds of it. Apparently they hadn’t spoken for years till Doris came back into their lives last year.”

  “And Doris still stands by Anne? Impressive, I’d say.” He caught Dan’s eye.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning they lied to you once. Who’s to say they won’t lie again?”

  “I’m not sure what they would have to gain.”

  Nick shrugged as he drained the pasta, then tossed it in a marinara sauce and placed it on the table.

  “Well, as an officer of the law, I feel I ought to remind you that people who lie once will always lie.”

  “And when you were in the closet living with your ex-wife, weren’t you lying about who you were?”

  Nick screwed up in his mouth. “That’s different. It was for my survival.”

  “Ah, the exemption clause. Everyone else should tell the truth, but I have an excuse.”

  Nick punched him on the shoulder. “Smartass. Shut up and eat.”

  The paving stones were cool and wet beneath his feet as Dan reached down to grasp the morning papers. It was a headline in the Scene, the city’s alternative paper, that caught his eye: Queen’s Park allegations spreading. The byline read Simon Bradley. He brought the paper inside and read quickly. The allegations of the cover-up at Queen’s Park had snagged others, with investigations into missing emails and charges of hard drives wiped clean for the purpose of obscuring evidence. There was a mention of John Wilkens’s involvement as the one who first cried foul. If this was all true, then Simon did have his finger on something, after all. It was the article’s final sentence that made Dan stop: Police also are questioning the late MPP’s widow about her relationship with a man in connection with the financial scandal associated with her husband’s office.

  He threw the paper down and grabbed his phone. It was Doris who answered.

  “Good morning, Doris. This is Dan Sharp. I’d like to speak to Anne.”

  Her intake of breath was abrupt.

  “Haven’t you done enough damage?”

  “Please put her on the line.”

  A hand was held over the receiver while a muffled conversation ensued. Finally, Anne Wilkens came on the line.

  “Yes, Dan. This is Anne.”

  “Forgive my asking, but did you go to the police, as I suggested?”

  “Yes, but it … hasn’t turned out well, as you probably know. I wouldn’t have gone if I’d known they would release the story to the press.”

  “Are you sure it was them? Did you tell anyone else about your affair?”

  “No. Just you and then the police.”

  “And the police assured you confidentiality?”

  “Yes, but … well, it hasn’t turned out that way.” She paused. “I’m sorry. I have to go. I have things to attend to.”

  “Wait. Just one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you speak to the police on the phone or in person?”

  “I went down to the station and spoke to them in person, as you suggested. I really should go.”

  “All right. Thank you. I’m sincerely sorry for what’s happened.”

  Dan thought back. Three days ago, Simon Bradley had appeared on the scene at Mount Pleasant Cemetery minutes after a call from Nick alerted Dan that Tony Moran’s wallet had been found. Two days ago, Anne Wilkens told him of her so-called “affair” with another man. She’d assured him that n
o one but she and her sister knew of the affair, and clearly her sister wanted to leave it at that. Now, suddenly, it was public knowledge of a very embarrassing sort.

  Coincidence? Not bloody likely, thought Dan.

  Dan had the back of his phone off in seconds. When he couldn’t locate anything other than what should be there, he opened a drawer and pulled out a magnifying glass. Still nothing. But that didn’t mean much.

  He pieced the phone back together and dialed Simon Bradley’s number. Simon’s voice answered, smoothly assuring the caller he would return the call as soon as possible. Dan left a curt message, then dialed Will Parker’s number.

  “Stupid question, Will,” he said when his old friend came on the line, “but that matter we discussed the other day … about John Wilkens’s widow. Did you mention it to anyone?”

  Will hesitated. “If you’re asking whether I tipped off anyone in the media, then no. Absolutely not. I saw Bradley’s piece this morning and I’ve been fielding questions about it ever since. But I did speak about it with one of my higher-ups on the understanding it was completely in confidence. I doubt he’d breach that trust, Dan.”

  “Who was it?”

  Will hesitated again.

  “Come on, Will. I need to know.”

  “It was the Attorney General. Given the gravity of the subject I had to reveal what I knew. Hardly a likely source for scandal-mongering, if that’s what it was.”

  Dan persisted. “Did you speak to him on the phone or in person?”

  Will’s lawyer side kicked in. “I don’t mind answering your questions, but what is this about, Dan?”

  “It’s about me trying to determine whether my phone has been tapped. I was the sole source on this outside the Wilkens family until two days ago. Nobody else knew about this but me. And you are the only other person I told.”

  “Oh, brother!” Will said. “In that case, we can rule out my phone because I spoke to the Attorney General in person.”

  “Then it must have come from my phone or my office.”

  Will sighed. “Don’t get paranoid, Dan. It could have come from elsewhere. The article mentioned the police.”

  “I advised Anne to talk to the police.”

  “Well, then. It could have come from a cop with loose lips.”

  “Possibly, but Simon Bradley has surprised me before with the information he’s had access to.”

  “He’s a radical journalist, so it’s no surprise. There’s no telling where his sources come from. I warned you about him. He’s a slimeball. But how would he have tapped your phone?”

  Dan thought back to the night they met. He’d briefly left his phone on the table in the diner while he paid his bill, but that was hardly enough time for Simon to take it apart and plant a bug. Then it struck him. The colossal stupidity! He’d downloaded an app to access Simon’s article. Once it was downloaded, Simon could have sent a simple command putting Dan’s phone under Simon’s control. He recalled waking in the night and seeing the light fade on his cell, the phone warm but with no trace of a caller or message. That had to be it. What had been unthinkable spyware fifteen years ago was now in the hands of every parent monitoring their kid’s communications. Without even touching Dan’s phone, Simon could make it send and receive any kind of data: email, voice messages. It had been done easily enough to the royals, so it had probably been done to him.

  “I downloaded an app he sent. All he would need is my number to forward an SMS from his phone to mine and he could control it without my knowing.”

  “Those are pretty serious charges —”

  “If I can prove them. Which I probably can’t.”

  “I still say someone else could have found out.”

  “I’d like to believe that, but it’s not the first time he had access to information that only I knew.”

  “Try not to get worked up, Dan. These things happen in politics all the time.”

  Dan felt his blood pressure surge. “I’m not in politics, Will.”

  “You are now.”

  “In that case, it’s time to pay Mr. Bradley a visit.”

  Nick had just come down to the kitchen and stood watching him.

  “Who deserves a visit?”

  “Simon Bradley.”

  “The journalist with the famous father?”

  “Grandfather. I think he’s been tapping my phone.”

  Nick put up his hands in protest. “Wait! This is getting way too serious. Why do you think that?”

  “Remember how he just happened to show up at the cemetery after your call about Tony Moran’s wallet? Simon always seems to know things he shouldn’t about what I’ve been working on.”

  “If he’s after a scoop, he could be listening in on the police radio. That’s bad enough. But if he’s tapped your phone, that’s highly illegal.”

  “Yeah. It’s also not very polite.”

  “Still cocky, I see.”

  “Occupational hazard. In any case, suspecting him is one thing, but proving it is another matter. I’m not some high-profile celebrity who merits a big investigation.”

  “You’re hardly Prince Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles …”

  “Or Sir Paul McCartney.”

  “Dunno … I’ve never heard you sing.”

  “You wouldn’t want to. In any case, there’s not much I can do about it at the moment.”

  “I can get someone from work to check out your phone. They’re pros. The best there is.”

  Dan shook his head. “Bradley’s never been near the house, so it would all have been done from afar. Nothing that can be traced easily. Still …”

  “I would remind you of last night’s conversation. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Nick advised, gently rubbing the bruise on Dan’s arm.

  “No, I wouldn’t do that.”

  “For the record, you worry me sometimes. Right now, you worry me a lot of the time.”

  “Admit it. It keeps you on your toes.”

  Nick watched Dan put on his coat. “Don’t miss supper tonight.”

  “I promise.”

  Seventeen

  Simon Says

  The Scene’s website proudly boasted about its independence from mainstream media. It had the whiff of puritanical zealotry: We the knowing. We the free-thinking. We the upholders of truth. From a free street corner rag, it had grown in over a decade to include a video news production house that made minor stars of people like Simon Bradley. The only problem, Dan found, was this sort of maverick political correctness did not respect individuality, but merely offered another kind of conformity. Be like me, is what it really said. Think like me. Somewhere, always, someone wanted to be the new messiah.

  He found the address. The Scene was part of a complex on King Street East. By the time Dan got there, morning traffic had congealed like cholesterol in a meat-lover’s arteries. It never failed to surprise him how people drove as though they were still living in the Toronto of thirty years ago, where in reality it was more like the Manhattan of thirty years ago, still far from good. It took fifteen minutes of crawling, barely containing his fury each time someone tried to bypass him in a side lane, to reach one of the underground Green-P parking lots. This was followed by another five minutes of circling till he found a free space.

  The Confederation Life Building was a marvel of two-tone red sandstone and Romanesque Revival, one of the city’s remaining treasures after the great fire of 1904. As downtown addresses went, it was one of the most desirable. Dan stood on the sidewalk looking up. Must be nice to be a radical these days, he thought. I’d love to relocate here, though I probably couldn’t afford it in about, oh, a million years.

  The directory sent him in search of the elevators, which ejected him onto the fourth floor. His footsteps were nearly soundless in the spacious corridors. The doorway was grand, opaque glass wi
th a rippled texture and an oversized slogan: The zine that’s always on the Scene! It looked like the headquarters of a multinational corporation. He entered and looked around. The room was full of over-earnest thirty-somethings with colour-streaked hair and ardent expressions. Save the world and get famous doing it! Someone bumped into him. He turned and caught a pile of papers before they tumbled to the ground.

  A young man glared. “Dude, could you not stand there?”

  Everybody had rules.

  “Right, yeah. You’re welcome.”

  At a counter to his left, a receptionist glanced up with a bored expression, as though challenging him to be interesting enough to make it worth her while. He’d barely finished asking for Simon when the reporter’s head popped up from behind a divider. The hair was still cool, but the clothes were a little more casual today. His face showed surprise and fear.

  “Dan, how … well, how incredible to see you here. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I think you already know.” He walked over and tossed the morning’s paper on Simon’s desk, dropping his cellphone on top. “I’m just wondering how you manage to know what I’m doing before I do half the time.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “What do you think would happen if I turned my cellphone over to the police and asked them to find a link between the data it’s been sending out to another number and yours?”

  Simon smiled nervously. “Very little, I assure you.”

  Dan didn’t know if he was more impressed or angered by the fact that Simon smiled as he said this.

  “Do you think that will stop me from trying?”

  Simon blew him off. “You’re welcome to do whatever it takes. I hope you’re not suggesting I’m guilty of such an offence. It runs counter to my moral beliefs, putting me on par with some sort of Axis of Evil. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”