by Ross Pennie
The laundry room. Again, immaculate. A few socks and underwear arranged on the energy-saving drying rack. Ermalinda had requested the rack when she’d first arrived. He eyed the washer, then the dryer. Would that work? He opened the dryer, knelt down, and put his hand on one of the fins projecting from the drum on the hinge side of the door. He turned the drum until the fin was horizontal. He grabbed a pair of his boxer briefs from the rack, tossed them over the Birks box, and placed it on the fin. He made sure it was secure, then stood up and casually looked into the drum. A thief would have to get down on his hands and knees to see anything other than a pair of undies forgotten in the dryer. And he probably wouldn’t even see that.
He dashed upstairs and threw on his blazer. Now it was the camera that felt clunky in his pocket. That was okay.
As he backed out of his driveway, the sun came out from behind a cloud and flooded the neighbourhood with what his mother called October magic. The autumn leaves — red, orange, green, gold, nutmeg brown — were suddenly glowing like lanterns, whether on the trees or scattered on the ground. Thousands, no millions, of points of light were shining like bulbs in a forest of chandeliers. It was as if Mother Nature, in a burst of brilliance, had turned every tree into a candelabra, every lawn into a river of light. Was she apologizing for the end of summer, for the coming of two months of misty grey, then two months of dirty white, then two more of barren brown? If she were, she could be forgiven, especially if Max and Colleen were enjoying the same treat in Forest Hill, and Mum and Dad as well on Jenkins Road. Less than two minutes later, the sun slipped behind another cloud and the lanterns dimmed. The leaves no longer glowed from the inside. What did Natasha call that? Something she’d learned in art history? Yes, a fleeting moment. Life was full of them.
He drove west on Scenic Drive parallel to the Escarpment and mused about this famous swath of geological drama. The continuous cliff-face sliced through the city on its eight-hundred-kilometre journey from Niagara Falls to Lake Huron. The people who had lived here for thousands of years had given the region its name, Neagara.
At two o’clock, he arrived at Duff’s Corners, pleased to see that the Badger and his escorts were nowhere in sight. He ordered a large coffee, double cream, and was surprised how quickly the girl handed it to him. Then he remembered, this wasn’t the Detour in Simcoe, where every cup was freshly brewed using an individual conical filter.
He found a seat with a good view of the front entrance and Wilson Street beyond it. A half-hour’s drive to the left was Grand Basin Reserve. The centre of Hamilton was fifteen minutes to the right. The airport was twelve minutes behind him. Dennis should be here any minute.
His coffee was still hot when he saw a middle-age couple approaching one of the rooms in the seen-better-days Happy Hours Motel on the opposite side of Wilson Street. Actually, only the man looked middle-aged; the woman looked younger by a decade or two. She was wearing a skimpy polka-dot dress and high heels. He sported a long coat open over a business suit. They had no luggage. He struggled with the key for quite a while before he finally got the door to open. Perhaps the delay had something to do with her lips locking on his neck, her left hand clamped on his back, and her right hand massaging his crotch.
At two-thirty, the last mouthful of Zol’s coffee was cold. At two-forty he’d finished flipping through the issue of the AutoTrader he found on a counter. At two-forty-five, he wondered whether he should turn on his phone. He’d turned it off when he’d left the house, not wanting any interruptions during this meeting on which so many lives were hanging. He decided to leave it off. He hadn’t given Dennis the number, so he wouldn’t be calling it anyway.
The couple from the Happy Hours slipped out of their room at two-fifty. They weren’t kissing or embracing; in fact they weren’t even touching. The man looked anxious and walked left, his coat buttoned to the neck. The woman walked right, her dress still skimpy, but her heels exchanged for flats.
At three o’clock, Zol reckoned he’d waited long enough. He’d nursed a large coffee for the first half hour and a large decaf for the second. He’d started out anxious, but now he was frustrated, angry, and past the point of no return with the Badger. His bladder was demanding attention. Two more minutes and he’d go for a leak and call it a day.
A Native guy, husky, about forty, wearing a black nylon jacket came out of nowhere and made a beeline for Zol’s table.
“You’re Dr. Szabo, eh?”
“That’s right. Are you with Mr. —”
He dropped a letter-size envelope on the table. “Then this is for you.” He turned and strode out. Zol watched him climb into a black Silverado and drive off. No coffee, no explanation, no nothing.
Zol picked up the envelope. His name was hand-printed in blue ink. The top left corner said Office of the Chief, Grand Basin. Inside was a standard sheet of white paper. It took only a few seconds to read what was scrawled across it: Dr. Szabo, Dennis Badger says forget the meeting. No point to it. He doesn’t trade. A waste of time for both of yous. Sorry, Rob Falcon, Grand Basin Chief.
Shit. He’d played it all wrong. He’d pushed Dennis too hard by expecting him to drop everything and fly halfway across the country on short notice. He’d made the Badger lose face to a White Man, making it impossible for him to cooperate. In retaliation, the Badger was holed up in his den, digging in his heels.
Zol read the chief’s message again, folded it, and returned it to the envelope. He thought about it again. Maybe no one had ever pushed the Badger hard enough. The bastard was killing people. Directly and indirectly. And expecting to get away with it. What about Colleen’s contacts at the DNA lab in Toronto? They’d been processing the Badger’s discarded coffee cup for four days now and not a word. That sounded anything but hopeful; Colleen had expected a turnaround time of under seventy-two hours. The Badger was likely to be as slick at evading forensic science as eluding government authority.
Zol flipped open his 7-Eleven phone and turned it on. No notice of missed incoming calls, but there was an unread text message from Hamish sent over an hour ago: IMPORTANT DEVELOPMENTS. CALL MY CELL ASAP.
Hamish was going to have to wait. Zol pressed delete and the phone came alive in his hand, buzzing and chirping. Shit. What was happening? Had Hamish set some sort of cyber loop thing that told him Zol was ignoring his message?
No, it was an incoming call. A Toronto number he knew far too well.
An icy fist gripped his heart.
CHAPTER 43
“Dr. Szabo?” said the female voice from the Ministry of Health.
“Yes.”
“Please hold for Dr. York.” She parked him on hold without waiting for an answer. If the Muzak was supposed to Zen you out while you were waiting on the line, it wasn’t working. His palms were so slippery he had to keep passing the phone from one hand to the other and wiping the sweat on his pants.
“Szabo?” Elliott said after an eternal three or four minutes.
“Yes, sir?”
“What are you up to?”
“Well, I’ve been waiting for —”
“I know who you’re waiting for, and it’s not going to happen.”
“Sir?”
“I told you to watch your step down there in Indian country, and now I get a phone call from the vice commissioner of the provincial police. Says you’ve been threatening a prominent First Nations businessman. Even tried to blackmail him. Tell me this isn’t true.”
A vice commissioner of the OPP? How had such a heavy hitter got involved so quickly? The Badger’s connections must run right to the top. What were those connections based on? Hush money? Political contributions? Family ties?
“Well, I’ve been negotiating with Mr. Badger to solicit his cooperation in our investigation of his tainted tobacco.” The camera in his pocket now felt bulky and incriminating.
“Negotiating? The OPP are calling it bribery or extorti
on. Those are criminal offences, for God’s sake.”
Surely Dennis hadn’t mentioned the pipes to the police. His complaint couldn’t have been that specific without incriminating himself. He’d told them enough of his version of the story to get Zol off his back. “We’ve traced our cluster of fatal liver failures to a research project that went sour in Norfolk County.”
“Research?” York made it sound like a curse. “Come on, man, a guy like Dennis Badger doesn’t do research.”
“But Caledonia University does, and a toxin-producing virus escaped the confines of a lab and infected most of the tobacco crop in Norfolk County. That’s Dennis Badger’s prime source for his cut-price cigarettes.”
“You may have been reading too much science fiction, Szabo, but I’ve been reading your reports on those liver cases. There’s a flaw in your logic. Your so-called toxin is affecting kids at only one high school and the firefighters at just one station. People smoke Dennis Badger’s cigarettes all over the country. If his tobacco was causing your liver failures, we’d be seeing cases like them coast to coast.”
“Yes, well . . . we’re working on that puzzling aspect.”
“You’re working on it, are you. Isn’t that dandy? At this point in your investigation you can’t tell me how Dennis Badger’s cigarettes have anything to do with the crux of your liver outbreak. Yet today you threatened to shut down his international tobacco sales? Goddammit, who the hell do you think you are?”
What was he supposed to say?
York hadn’t finished. “You overstepped your jurisdiction, Szabo. Big time. Your territory is Norfolk County. Any public-health ramifications beyond your borders you leave to me. And if anyone is going to shut down Mr. Badger’s international tobacco sales, it’s the pertinent federal agency. Certainly not an upstart rural MOH who’s too big for his britches.”
This was so unfair. The Badger’s tobacco was poisoning livers, there was no doubt about that. They just hadn’t figured out the exact mechanism. In the meantime, of course it was appropriate to issue a public-health warning and suspend the Badger’s operation until the mess got sorted out. That was how public health worked. When a restaurant was in violation of an important health and safety code, the health unit shut the place down by posting a red sign on the front door of the premises. When nursing homes indulged in faulty practices, the Ministry suspended their licences until they cleaned up their act. When paramedics refused their annual flu shots, Emergency Medical Services suspended them without pay.
The difference was, Dennis Badger was a multimillionaire with a direct line to the OPP.
“I’m taking a supervisory role in this case, Szabo. I want all your notes and data sent to me by tomorrow morning. And you’ll call me every afternoon with an update.”
“Is that necessary, sir? Isn’t that too much of an imposition on your time?”
“You’ve left me no choice. And let me make this clear: if Dennis Badger needs to be approached by anyone working on behalf of the Ministry of Health, I’ll arrange for one of my staff to interview him. From now on, you’re under strict orders not to contact Dennis Badger or his associates in any way, shape, or form.”
Zol said nothing. He was too busy thinking.
“You still there, Szabo?”
“I’m here.”
“Did I make myself clear?
“Very, sir.”
“Good,” York said and hung up.
Zol closed the phone and gazed through the window at the Happy Hours Motel. The woman in the skimpy polka-dot dress was outside room number eight again. She’d put on her heels, and this time her client was a much younger man. He had the rakish ball cap, high-top sneakers, and baggy jeans of a rapper. She had that doorway routine of hers down pat: same lips on the neck, same left hand pressed against the back, same right-handed action on the crotch.
Zol was so drained he could hardly move. He felt like slouching on this chair for the rest of the afternoon and watching that hooker come and go, but his bladder was begging for relief, and he had a call to make. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t entered the number into the new phone’s address book. He knew it by heart.
CHAPTER 44
At five-thirty, Zol strode into Four Corners Fine Foods through the automatic doors off Concession Street. He loved this place, five minutes’ drive from his house. It was a haven, and perhaps another addiction, for a professional chef turned doctor. There were so many aromas coming off the breads and cheeses, the tropical fruits, the European chocolates that they cancelled each other and let him browse in peace. No crossed-wire musical snippets assaulted him here. Sometimes, he and Max came with a list. Other times, like now, he let his imagination take him down the aisles and into the grocery cart.
It was amazing how good you felt when you’d wrestled a problem to the ground — in this case to the tobacco fields of Norfolk County — and decided on a plan. His visit with Art Greenwood had soothed him immediately. Art had listened without interrupting and validated Zol’s concerns with his eyes and with that gentle way he clasped his hands and cocked his head. Then it had been Art’s turn to speak, and Zol’s world seemed to stop as Art put it back on course. The wily old fellow was a master at stripping away bullshit, zoning into the heart of a matter, and suggesting a course of action that fit the situation perfectly. No wonder he’d been such a whiz in the telecom industry, perfecting Canada’s version of Touch-Tone service.
Zol was reaching for a warm, sourdough baguette when the flip phone buzzed in his pocket. It wouldn’t be Colleen again. She’d called ten minutes ago to say that she, Max, and Allie were at Toronto Pearson Terminal Three waiting for Francine’s flight from Hong Kong. Max was beside himself with excitement. At first Zol had bristled at the thought of them wandering around the city, but Colleen was a pro and assured him they weren’t being followed. And by now, the Badger would have received word from his OPP contact that the pain-in-the-ass Simcoe MOH had been officially muzzled and was no longer a threat.
Zol dropped the baguette into his cart beside the masala hummus and Kalamata olives, and put the phone to his ear.
“Where the heck have you been?” Hamish said.
“Here and there. Sorry. Forgot about your message.”
“No point in having a phone if you never turn it on.”
“Long story. Spent an hour with Art Greenwood at his retirement residence. They don’t like cellphones ringing there. They find them intrusive and interfere with their hearing aids. Old people didn’t grow up with them the way we did.”
“You could’ve left it on vibrate.”
“To tell you the truth, I needed some space. It’s been a tough afternoon. We went for a walk — well I walked, he drove his electric scooter thing. I needed some advice. He helped me put everything into perspective. We decided I needed to talk to the priest.”
“Seriously? A priest?”
“Yep.”
“But you never go to church.”
“Sure, but don’t forget I was raised a Catholic. Once they baptize you, they stick to you for life. My mother’s in deep with the Catholic Women’s League.”
“When are you going to talk to the priest?”
“Have already. And now I feel a hell of a lot better. No matter what happens, I’ll be able to live with myself.” That’s what counted in the end — making things safe for the next generation.
“Colleen told me she and Max moved their stuff to the Beach.”
He knew that already from Colleen. Allie suggested they all stay at her house in Toronto. It made sense — Zol’s place was a no-go zone and the Beach was a family friendly neighbourhood. Most of the city was accessible by way of the Queen Street streetcar. Max loved the Red Rocket.
“That okay with you?” Hamish continued. “Your son, your ex, and your girlfriend in one big happy sleepover?”
“I’m cool with it. Good to ha
ve them safely out of the way for a few days. The Badger and I aren’t done yet.”
“That’s what I need to talk to you about. I’ve got great news. Now you can bypass Dennis Badger and stop the epidemic immediately. That’s why I texted you to call me ASAP.”
Zol wheeled the cart to the quiet corner where Four Corners kept the tasteless stuff for diabetics, imported from Germany: sugar-free chocolates, boring jams, and canned fruits packed in some sort of brine. He’d never seen anyone browsing here.
“What are you saying?” Zol said.
“We found the cofactor. You know, the agent that makes the kids at Erie Collegiate and the first responders at Norfolk Emergency Services uniquely susceptible to acute liver failure.”
“You’re kidding. What is it? Where’d you find it?”
“In the lunchroom at the Simcoe fire station.”
“Just sitting there?”
“No, we had to ferret it out. Natasha and I.”
“And?”
“It’s something called Snooze-Free gum.” Hamish’s voice was getting higher and higher, his tone more and more camp, as he expounded on the details of the dodgy import from China.
“And exactly what is amentoflavone?” Zol asked.
“In high doses, it’s a powerful modifier of cytochrome P-450 enzymes, which means it alters the way the liver metabolizes certain drugs, chemicals, and toxins.”
“Let me guess, it sends Tammy Holt’s 5-FNN down some sort of nasty biochemical pathway that turns it into a toxin.”
“Oh.” Hamish said, sounding surprised that a mere public-health doc knew the first thing about biochemistry. “I’ve done a little digging, some talking to a couple of biochem colleagues. And well, you’re exactly right.”
“Fancy that, eh?”
“Without the gum, 5-FNN is a nice little appetite suppressant with billion-dollar market potential. But if it’s in your system and you chew that gum . . .”