The God Game

by Jeffrey Round

  “Tomorrow. Then just forget we ever had this conversation.”

  “Or what? You’ll have to kill me?” Donny gave him a gloomy look. “This is getting really out of hand.”

  “That’s what Nick thinks. Please just do this for me.”

  Dan smiled when Prabin’s message showed up the following morning. It was perfect. Prabin sounded realistically nervous, but not over the top. Anyone who didn’t know him would believe it was the real Tony Moran claiming to want to meet Dan in person, saying he had sensitive information to pass along. And if anyone cared, he would be by the office at nine o’clock that evening.

  Dan played it through twice, glad that he’d kept his old answering machine when everyone else had ditched theirs, then pressed *69 and waited while the operator’s voice told him the call came from a Bell pay phone that did not take incoming calls.

  He sat back, taking stock of his surroundings. It wasn’t the dreary sort of private investigations office depicted in movies and noir fiction, not all dust and despair. Maybe it was the gay gene, but Dan couldn’t do without the personal touch. Like the art. And the books. His shelves were full. Someone might have done a survey of World Literature here. A handful of thrillers, a few homegrown titles among them. “Death by snowshoe” was how one wag put it when it came to suspense in Canadian crime fiction. All this would come with him, as would the photographs and carpets, of course. But he’d miss the wide floorboards, the old-fashioned lead-frame windows, the tin ceilings — which reminded him yet again that he still hadn’t found a new office to call home.

  Nine o’clock, the appointed hour, came and went. He stood at the window looking down on the street. There was nothing unusual in the slow passing of cars, the occasional pedestrian dressed in airy summer garb. The neighbourhood was mostly a throughway to other parts, not a destination where people stopped after close of day. The city lights were interrupted briefly where they met the dark flow of the Don, the divide between east and west, then lit up again on the far side of the river.

  Dan thought of the bibles and sudoku books in the empty office next door. In the daytime, noise from the street filtered in, the lively conversations of passersby lit up the interior, while footsteps one floor below might sound as if they were right outside his door. But at night, he always knew when the place was deserted. The building was an echoing mausoleum, humming with the current of the electrical grid and the scratching of mice in the walls. Perhaps he should have been better prepared for whoever might show up. He doubted the call would fool Simon Bradley. If Simon had told the truth about talking to Tony, then Simon would know Tony’s voice. On the other hand, Prabin’s call might have alerted whoever Tony was hiding from, someone dangerous. The security camera would catch anyone entering the lobby, but that was no guarantee of safety. A baseball bat lay hidden in the bottom of the filing cabinet. Dan retrieved it, leaning it against the leg of his desk.

  He replied to a few emails as he waited. If nobody showed up then either his plan had failed or the message hadn’t been heard by anyone concerned with his recent activities. Or maybe, just maybe, no one really cared about Tony Moran’s whereabouts. But he doubted it.

  At 10:37 his phone rang. He picked up the receiver, identified himself, and caught the sound of wind whistling on the other end. He identified himself again, but no one spoke in return. The line went dead. A crank call. Possibly. Outside his door, he heard the tread of someone coming along the carpeted hallway. Dan waited, his body tensed. Footsteps approached and passed his office. He opened the door. At the far end of the corridor he could make out the figure of the building’s regular cleaner bending down to plug in a vacuum.

  It had occurred to him that anyone watching would wait to see who arrived before coming up to the office, but he hadn’t wanted to get anyone else involved in his little prank. No bystanders or background performers.

  Frankly, he was surprised not to hear from Simon Bradley. Maybe their confrontation at the Scene office had put fear into his heart, though he thought he’d made up for it by letting him know he’d been right about Alec Henderson’s resignation.

  At eleven, Dan stretched and lifted his feet from his desk. It didn’t pay to get too comfy on the job.

  At eleven thirty, he locked his office and headed downstairs. Outside, the sidewalks were deserted. From a distance came the clattering of a streetcar. The accordion doors opened and shut again after ejecting a single figure. A woman. Tall, older. She turned and went into the convenience store without even looking in his direction.

  Dan steeled himself when a slim dark form emerged from an alley and headed his way. He caught the haunted look in the youngster’s eyes as he reached out a hand.

  “Can you spare some change, sir?”

  “What do I get for it?”

  The question seemed to startle him. “I’m hungry,” came the reply.

  “We’re all hungry, son.”

  Dan fished a toonie from his pocket and dropped it into the outstretched palm. The look he caught was disappointment. Tough. In this neighbourhood you’d be lucky not to get a boot for your troubles. The boy slipped the coin in his pocket and left. No contact.

  Dan made his way slowly home along Queen. Once or twice he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise as others approached, singly or in pairs, but nothing further happened.

  Junk mail and flyers spilled out of his mailbox like weeds in an untended lawn. The porch light was off. Dan sifted through the advertisements, squinting to read the names: Occupant; Resident; Lucky Winner! And one for his neighbours two doors down. He tucked them all under his arm and unlocked the door. Ralph came up for a quick pat on the head then returned to his cushion. Steadfast Ralph. And Nick, the other steadfast in Dan’s books, was on night shift. There was no sound in the house.

  He opened a tin of spiced kippers, grabbed a fork, and turned on the radio, eating straight from the can. Bachelors’ habits die hard.

  Done, he rinsed the can under the faucet, tossed it in the trash, and washed his fork. It was garbage night. He grabbed the bag — surprisingly light, thanks to Nick’s insistence on eating fresh whenever possible — then toted it downstairs to the basement and dumped it into the recycling bin. Next, he flattened two cardboard boxes Nick had carted his dinnerware over in and tied them up with string. A good citizen. Then again, the grumpy sanitation engineers refused to touch anything not properly bundled and presented. Soon they’d be wanting it wrapped in bows and ribbons, with politely worded thank-you cards. Everyone was a Martha Stewart.

  He was about to head back upstairs to take his carefully packaged refuse outside when something caught his eye. The window over the washer was ajar. He examined it carefully. It was open an inch, but even an inch meant it had been left unlocked for who knew how long. He couldn’t recall having opened it any time in the past week. Had Nick been airing out the basement for some reason?

  Ralph would have howled at the first sounds of an intruder, but with the basement door closed he wouldn’t have been able to get downstairs. Presumably no one would come up and face an angry dog, even if they’d known he was geriatric. Howl all he might, however, there would be no one to hear Ralph sound the alarm.

  Dan tensed, keeping his ears and eyes alert. No sounds came to him. Basements could be surprisingly quiet. He closed and locked the window and turned back to the room. Gripping a flashlight — it would come in handy as a weapon, if need be — he began a through search, trying to hold his paranoia at bay. The problem was, there were so many places to hide. Behind the furnace, for one, though cobwebs were his only find there. Slowly, he let himself inside the tool room, keeping the light trained dead ahead. The switch dangled from a string an inconvenient five feet into the room. He’d always planned on moving it closer to the door, so why the hell hadn’t he?

  His beam swept the space. Nothing hiding behind hammers and saws carefully hung on the walls, the drills and pliers si
lent in their slots. Basements might be spooky in general, but at night they became veritable haunted houses made all the worse by an overactive imagination.

  Ten minutes later, satisfied he was alone in the house, Dan hauled the recycling out to the curb. Feeling wide awake, he took advantage of Nick’s absence to watch the late-night news. It featured the usual showstoppers, including more political spill-out from the revelations at Queen’s Park. There was no further mention of Anne Wilkens’s involvement in her husband’s affairs, he noted. And for that he was genuinely glad.

  The weather report followed. Even that had been whipped up into a tantalizing drama of portending storms. Had no one heard of summer rain? Dan leaned back against his chair and closed his eyes, lulled into a light sleep. He realized later, on reflection, that he’d heard the shot but it hadn’t registered till Ralph lifted his head and whined.

  He was instantly alert. “What is it, Ralphie? What’s wrong?”

  Ralph struggled out of his basket, making a low and ominous growling sound. A moment later he broke into full-fledged barking and bounded for the door, forgetting for a moment that he was an old, arthritic dog.

  Something slumped against the front entrance, but the sound was drowned out by Ralph’s ruckus.

  “Who’s there?” Dan demanded.

  No answer. Slowly, cautiously, he reached for the handle.

  “Who’s there?” he called again. Still no answer.

  Something was propped against the door. Dan opened it a crack till he could make out a pair of legs lying across his front step. Gently, he eased the door inward, crouching down and cradling Simon Bradley’s head with his hands. He felt for a pulse. It was faint.

  Dan looked around. The yard lay in darkness. The shooter could still be out there. He grabbed hold of Simon by the armpits and pulled him carefully into the living room. He looked back to see a long trail of blood on the carpet.

  A gurgle came from Simon’s lips. Dan leaned in.

  “Magus.” It was a choked whisper.

  “The Magus did this to you?”

  Simon was struggling for his pocket. Dan put a hand in and felt the compact curves of a cellphone.

  “Okay, try to relax. I’ll call for help.”

  The phone lit up at his touch, but it was password-protected. He dropped it on the couch and reached for his own, giving the operator explicit instructions. Dan heard a whimper and saw that Simon was trying to sit up. He grasped Dan’s arm. His grip was incredibly strong for a second or two, then relaxed suddenly.

  “Don’t talk,” Dan said, but he was the only one who heard.

  He sat there on the floor beside the body till the wail of sirens cut through the night air like streamers.

  Dan answered the knock, identifying himself as a private investigator to the wary-looking officers. Then he deposited himself on a chair to endure their questions, keeping Ralph tightly leashed beside him.

  Who was the dead man? That was easy: Simon Bradley, the journalist.

  Why was Mr. Bradley here? Not so easy: he didn’t know.

  Did Dan know who had shot him? Even more difficult: not a fucking clue, in fact.

  They asked all the obvious questions, plus a few he hadn’t expected.

  What was his relationship with Mr. Bradley?

  None.

  Was there anything personal between them then?

  No. Otherwise he would have acknowledged the relationship.

  Did he, Dan, live alone?

  No, not that that was any of their business, though he was reluctant to name Nick as his partner, particularly when dealing with Nick’s colleagues. In fact, Nick saved him the bother when he showed up ten minutes into the call.

  “I heard the address on the radio,” he told Dan quietly as he took in the officers swarming over the house. He glanced down at Simon’s body. “Who is this guy? How did this happen?”

  “It’s Simon Bradley, the reporter who called asking to meet me after the news brief on Tony Moran.”

  “The snoop? The one who’s been tapping your phone? What the fuck is he doing here?”

  One of the officers looked over with interest. Nick waved him off.

  “Nothing. Just a private conversation.”

  The cop came over, a scowl written large on his face. “How do you two know each other?”

  Dan let Nick take the lead.

  “I live here,” Nick said quietly.

  The officer took this in with barely a change of expression. “You the guy who was on suspension last week?”

  Nick nodded.

  “Huh.”

  He noted Nick’s badge number, writing it in a notebook before turning back to the room and Simon Bradley’s body.

  The forensics testing looked like it was going to go on for some time. In the meantime, Dan and Nick arranged to go to Nick’s condo, giving enough contact info to the investigating officers to satisfy the most ardent of enforcers.

  “Sir, please make sure you are available at all times in the next twenty-four hours,” one of the officers told Dan. He looked to Nick. “I’ll hold you responsible if I can’t reach him.”

  “He’ll be available,” Nick said.

  With an overnight bag over one shoulder and Ralph pulling him onward, Dan followed Nick to the car.

  Nick was silent as they drove across town to Queen’s Quay. Even Ralph seemed alert to the unspoken tension, keeping his head down where normally he’d have been up sniffing at the windows, waiting to have them opened for him.

  “I’m sorry,” Dan began. “I never wanted this to land in your lap.”

  He went over all that had happened in the lead-up to Simon’s death. Nick’s expression hardened at the mention of his faked call to draw out the eavesdropper.

  “I know it was reckless,” Dan admitted. “But I couldn’t involve you because of what we discussed.”

  Nick stared straight ahead. After a moment he said, “I’m starting to feel as though I don’t know you.”

  “That’s unfair. We’ve been over this before. This is my job. Sometimes I have to take risks, just like you. I’m sure there are plenty of things that happen to you in the course of a day that I never get to hear.”

  “Maybe. But even I wouldn’t muck around with CSIS.”

  “What do you expect me to do? Just ignore it? I didn’t ask for a corpse to end up on our doorstep.”

  Nick’s jaw tensed. “Sometimes it’s better just to do nothing, but you don’t seem to get that. You better be prepared for what’s coming.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “You know as well as I do this isn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.”

  At the condo, they went to bed without a word. After half an hour, Nick picked up his pillow and went off down the hall. Dan heard the guest room door open and close.

  Twenty-Two

  Ten Thousand Reasons

  They were waiting for him at his office the next morning. Some were metro cops, but Dan could see immediately that at least two were not. CSIS, he guessed. A warrant was shoved under his nose. He let them in and sprawled in the visitor’s chair as they went through his files and desk drawers. Steve Ross’s words came back to him: There will be consequences. He thought of phoning Nick for advice, but they hadn’t spoken since their discussion last night.

  One of the cops turned to him. Dark, muscular. Shaved head. Attitude to burn. He’d just missed out on being Vin Diesel. The officer glanced over at the safe.

  “We’ll need the combination, unless you want me to break into it. Sir.”

  Dan unlocked it. The envelope with Peter Hansen’s retainer lay on top. The cop grabbed it and rifled through the bills, whistling.

  “That’s a lot of money. Do you usually have so much on hand?”

  “No.”

  No paper trail, Hansen had said. Could
there have been more to it than that? It all seemed very convenient at the moment. Convenient for Hansen.

  “Care to tell us why you have so much money on hand, sir?”

  “No. I’ll wait till I speak with a lawyer, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure, if you prefer. If you think you have reason to need a lawyer.” He counted through the bills slowly, fanning them on the desk like a gambler laying out a winning hand. “Then again, I can think of ten thousand reasons about now.”

  Another officer came over and flipped through a pocket notebook. He looked up at Dan. “I see your partner is a police officer.”

  “Is that a question?”

  He looked at the money on the desk. “We’ll get you to sign for that, but I think you better come down to the station for questioning. If you want a lawyer present, you should call one now.”

  Dan was about to say he didn’t like lawyers and therefore didn’t have any to call, so a public defender would be in order, when he suddenly remembered one lawyer he was on speaking terms with. Or at least had been until recently.

  They were in a small, grey, windowless cell masquerading as an interview room. Dan, Will Parker, and the officer who’d asked him to come to the station sat around a desk that was covered in small scars and scratches. Torture chamber might have been a better fit, Dan thought.

  Will gave the cop his best don’t-fuck-with-me look. “Is my client to be detained after this question period is over?”

  The man scowled, obviously not prepared to be on good terms with any lawyer representing a potential murder suspect.

  “That depends on whether he confesses to anything.”

  “My client hasn’t done anything he needs to confess to,” Will said, with a look at Dan as though to confirm the statement.

  “A man was shot to death in his living room last night —”

  Will interrupted. “A man was shot on the street outside his house and ended up on Mr. Sharp’s doorstep. Mr. Sharp brought him into his home in an effort to save his life, potentially risking his own while doing so. He had no reason to wish harm on Simon Bradley.”