“Did you talk to the girl?”
“Regrettably, the likely dancer in question, a short blonde with a nose ring, one Michelle Gagnon, is from Montreal and has returned to that city. I doubt that she has much to tell us, though, since she doesn’t speak English, and Sawatski apparently isn’t too good with the parlez vous. Also, Mr. Masouf does not have contact information for Mademoiselle Gagnon, and suggested that I look for her in similar establishments in Montreal, which I would be only too happy to do, if you think there’s any way we can sell a road trip to Zwicker.”
Ashton laughed. “I don’t think that he’d approve that. Of course, should you continue your investigations after work, or on the weekend, he could hardly complain.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” Flanagan grinned.
Ashton frowned at him.
“Zwicker called me up to his office. He asked for a report by noon tomorrow.”
Flanagan shook his head. “He’s gonna shut us down.”
“Looks like it. And he asked me to send him the pictures of the kid’s handcuff bruises and the bridge video.”
Flanagan sighed. “No sign of a crime here. No suspect. No evidence. Time to move on.”
“I imagine that’s about it.”
“It doesn’t feel like that to me.”
“His call,” said Ashton.
They sat in silence while a janitor pushed a broom past them.
“So I went up to see David Cochrane today, the chief of staff to Jim Donahoe, Sawatski’s boss,” Aston said. “I asked to see a breakdown of the files he was working on. Cochrane said they’d kick it around, talk to a security officer at the Privy Council Office and get back to me. When I got back here, that’s when Zwicker called me in.”
“Said he didn’t think you needed to go poking around in secret government of Canada files.”
“That’s right. Said lawyers would have to get involved. Said that if I really wanted to see the files, I should submit a request up the chain of command.”
Flanagan whistled. “We’d better hope we get some stronger evidence tomorrow,” he said.
It took Jack fifteen minutes of driving a maze of suburban streets before he found Ida Gushue’s grey brick split level deep in Ottawa South. He swished the last of his coffee around in his mouth and checked his teeth in the rearview mirror.
Ida Gushue, a handsome woman in her fifties, met him at the door. She wore her greying blond hair in a bun. Reading glasses hung on a chain around her neck. She led Jack to an immaculate living room, seated him on the sofa and went to put the kettle on for tea. Jack’s gaze was caught by a large framed photo a table by the wall. It was a formal portrait of a smiling man with a bristly moustache in a scarlet Mountie uniform, but the man’s smile was warm, and he had a twinkle in his eye.
“Is this your husband?” Jack asked when Mrs. Gushue came back in.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s Earl. He passed away last year.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“It has not been easy. Our daughter, Erin, was in her first year at Memorial when Earl passed away.”
“She’s still down there?”
“Yes. We thought it would be good for her to go to school in Newfoundland, but I sometimes wish that she was here.”
“You’re originally from Newfoundland, are you?”
“That’s right. Earl joined the Mounties when we were first married, and we were posted to different communities across Canada. We moved to Ottawa in 2009. It was to be Earl’s last post before retiring. We had planned on moving to our summer place in Ferryland. We were planning the renovations.”
In the kitchen the kettle started to sing, summoning Mrs. Gushue, who came back a few minutes later carrying a tea tray, and they both fussed with sugar and milk.
“So,” Jack said, lifting scalding tea to his lips. “Have you got any idea why Ed called you?”
“Well, my husband worked on a case that had possible political implications, and I wonder if that is why your friend was calling. But I can’t be sure. Tell me what kind of work he did.”
“He was a policy adviser to the minister of justice,” said Jack. “Beyond that, I don’t know a lot. I’m a reporter, so he was never very forthcoming with me about what he did.”
Gushue blew on her tea and kept her eyes on Jack. “Can you think of any reason why he would want to talk to a retired school teacher about Justice Department policy?”
“No” said Jack. “What was the political connection to the case your husband worked on?”
She ignored his question. “Is your friend still in a coma?”
“He is,” said Jack. “I went to see him today. His eyes are open and he seems at times to follow what’s going on around him, but he hasn’t spoken. His mother insists that he understands what people say to him, but it didn’t seem like that to me.”
“Poor woman,” said Mrs. Gushue. “I can’t imagine how terrible she must feel. Are the police investigating? Do they suspect someone may have tried to drown him?”
Jack told her how they had been drinking together, although he didn’t mention where, and told her what he had learned from his interviews with police.
“It’s all very mysterious,” said Mrs. Gushue.
“Can you give me some idea of how your husband’s case might be connected to this?” said Jack.
She opened her mouth to speak, then thought for moment while she took a sip of tea. “I’m not at all sure that I should tell you about this. I wanted to see you because I thought you might have some idea why your friend tried to contact me, so that I could forget about the whole thing. But I can’t think of anything else but the case my husband handled.”
“Um, I wonder … Perhaps you could give me some sense of what you’ve got?”
She was suddenly all business, looking at him with her sharp pale eyes. “I want to know you that you won’t reveal what I’m about to tell you, to anyone, not even your editor, unless I decide I want to go with a story.”
“I’d rather go to jail than reveal a source,” he said. “I swear I won’t tell anyone what you tell me without your permission.”
She looked at him, appraisingly. “You should know, Mr. Macdonald, that my maiden name was Sullivan. You may know my uncle, Allan Sullivan.”
The Sullivans owned the Telegram. Allan Sullivan, the publisher, was a remote and powerful figure to Macdonald.
“Then you have the added comfort of knowing, Ms. Gushue, that if I break my word, you could cost me my job.”
“Yes, Mr. Macdonald, you’re right. I do have that comfort. You probably think I’m an old fool, with no idea of how politics works. But I’m not. Before I met my husband, I worked in Brian Peckford’s office.”
She looked at him sharply.
“Mr. Peckford was premier then,” she said.
Jack nodded, meaning to show that he knew that.
“I kept my eyes and ears open, so I know a thing or two about the business,” she said.
“I’m quite sure you do,” said Jack.
“Yes, well,” she said. “After my husband’s death I didn’t have the energy to deal with all of his things. I just recently sorted through some of his papers and I found a case file, which in itself is quite surprising. My husband was a stickler for the rules. He never brought case files home. This one had to do with a murder he investigated – the murder of a prostitute in Fort McMurray. Unless I am mistaken, the information in the file would end the career of a prominent Canadian politician.”
Jack stared at her blankly before he spoke. “If you have information that raises serious questions about the fitness of a cabinet minister, you have an obligation to make it public.”
She laughed, and Jack saw a flash of her as a young woman.
“No,” she said. “No I don’t. My obligations are anything but clear. If my husband had followed the law, I wouldn’t be in possession of this file, although I’m under no legal obligation to return it, not so far as I’m aware. I can
’t say I’m sure what to do about it. I’ve told you as much as I have so that you will take me seriously. I’m going to mull it over, likely over the holidays when Erin and I are home visiting family. I may seek advice from an old family friend.” She smiled at Jack and placed her cup on the tray.
“I come from a Tory family, as I’m sure you know,” she said. “We opposed Confederation, but eventually reconciled to it and made common cause with the federal Conservatives. That’s a relationship of some fifty years. I must decide whether, in the long run, the information I have is more likely to hurt my family, the party, or the country. It’s far from black and white. I need to think about it. I’ll get in touch with you in the new year.”
She stood up. “I want to thank you for coming.”
Jack stayed seated. “If there is some possibility of a connection between a murder in Fort McMurray and what happened to Ed, and you stay silent about it, you could be letting some bad people to get away with mischief.”
“That is one of the things I must consider,” she said. “Believe me, I don’t take that lightly.”
“There are some things I haven’t told you,” he said, making no move to stand. “I’ve been followed and my apartment has been searched, and not by the Ottawa Police. I have the feeling there are some dangerous people with an interest in this, so you should be very careful.”
“I will,” she said. “I promise you that. I’ll get in touch with you.”
He reluctantly stood up and she showed him the door.
Balusi got a glass of red wine at the bar and carried it over to a booth in the rear of Hy’s, where Bouchard was working his BlackBerry, a double Scotch on the rocks resting on the table in front of him.
“How’s it going?” said Balusi.
“I’ve had better fucking days,” said Bouchard, and nodded at his drink. “But it’s starting to get a little better.”
Balusi eased into the booth across from him. “It wasn’t pretty, but I think it could have been even worse.”
“Have you seen the clippings?”
“Yeah. Not terrific.”
“Here’s one I like,” said Bouchard, and read from his BlackBerry: “ ‘Mowat disgraced himself and his office today with his below-the-belt attack on the Liberals, an ineffective drive-by smear clumsily designed to draw attention away from the Auditor General’s devastating report. The move should give pause to any Conservatives hoping that Mowat would bring a kinder, gentler face to lead a government that too often seems pointlessly vicious.’ That’s from Taylor, usually one of the friendly columnists.” Bouchard shook his head in dismay. “At least the Simms piece was pretty good.”
“Well, from what I hear NTV news is going to be tougher tonight. Murphy thought she was too easy on the government and he’s doing the piece. I don’t think we’re going to like it.”
Bouchard laughed. “I guess the Stevens leak wasn’t such a great idea after all.”
Balusi nodded. “I outsmarted myself there. I admit it. I’m sorry, but I won’t underestimate the boss again.”
“You could have called me this morning,” Bouchard said. “Given me a heads-up.”
Balusi shook his head. “What would’ve been the point? So you could lube up? If I’d warned you, Knowles would have seen it in your eyes when he told you. He doesn’t miss much and he doesn’t trust me.”
Bouchard laughed, and held up his glass. “Well, he’s smarter than me then. Here’s to him.”
The two men clinked their drinks.
“Hey,” said Bouchard. “Look who’s here.”
Balusi turned to see Ellen Simms approaching, glass of white wine in hand. She had removed her business jacket and looked amazingly sexy in her tight silk blouse and pencil skirt.
“Hey, you scamps,” she said. “Gossiping as usual, I see.”
“We were talking about you,” said Bouchard. “Have a seat.”
She flopped down beside Bouchard, tossed her hair and took a weary look around the bar before focusing again on the two men.
“So, that didn’t go so well today for your team,” she said.
“I thought your piece was good,” said Bouchard.
Ellen laughed. “I guess it was a bit too good. Murphy yanked it and he’s putting a tougher piece on the air. It’s a humdinger. I did the reaction piece.”
“Well, you’ll all be on the same page then,” said Bouchard. “All shitting on my boss.”
Ellen stared at him. “Did you see the brief in the Citizen about Sawatski?”
Both of them looked at her blankly.
“The kid who worked in Donahoe’s office,” she said. “They pulled him out of the canal.”
“He goes out with Sophie Fortin, who works in your office, Claude,” Balusi said.
“I know. I went with the minister to the hospital to see how Sophie was doing.”
Ellen frowned at him. “You knew about it? You could have told me. I was trying to get the story today, calling the cops, but they wouldn’t give me anything.”
“I don’t know if it’s much of a story,” said Bouchard. “Drunk kid falls in canal.”
“That’s not what the cops think,” said Simms, and nodded to her phone.
“What’s the story say?” said Balusi.
“I’ll flip it to you,” said Simms, and she forwarded the story to both men.
They sat there reading it while she scanned the bar.
“Hey,” she said. “Is that tall guy at the bar Jack Macdonald?”
Balusi looked up. It was Jack standing at the bar, drinking with a couple of other reporters.
“Yeah,” he said. “He’s the guy with the Newfoundland paper. He’s the guy who got the story.”
Bouchard looked up. “The kid in the suit that doesn’t fit? That’s Macdonald?”
“I wonder how he got it,” said Ellen. “I would’ve thought that the cops liked me better than they like him.”
“What the story doesn’t tell you is that he was out drinking with Sawatski the night he ended up in the canal,” said Bouchard. “That’s how he got the story.”
Simms kept her eyes on Jack. “I wonder what else he knows. That’s a juicy story.” She looked at the two glum men with her for a moment, then grabbed her wine glass and got to her feet.
“I’m going to ask him,” she said. “See you scamps later.”
Bouchard groaned as she walked away. “I bet he tells her.”
Jack was leaning against the bar, accepting the good-natured, half-hearted congratulations of two colleagues who worked for Ontario papers when they suddenly fell silent and looked behind him.
He turned to see Ellen standing behind him, smiling at him.
“Hey, Scoop,” she said.
“Uh, hi,” he said, smiling and frowning and smiling again. “You’re Ellen Simms.”
She laughed. “I can see how you get your scoops. You don’t miss much.”
He leaned back nonchalantly against the bar, but with an effort. Being this close to her was making him nervous.
“I identified you from your television appearances,” he said, and winked. “That’s how I get a lot of my scoops.”
“That’s a good one today,” she said. “I was chasing that, too.”
“Oh, well, you know, got lucky. Really, it just fell in my lap.”
“Do things often fall in your lap?” she asked, and glanced quickly down at the front of his trousers. “What kinds of things?”
She smiled and looked away as he blushed.
“All sorts of odd things,” he said. “I never know what I’m going to find down there.”
She giggled and took a sip of wine, then propped herself against the bar, cutting him off from his colleagues. She spoke without looking at him. “If I invite you to my place for a glass of wine, will you tell me how you got the story?”
“Well, I never talk about my sources, but in this case there’s not much of a story,” he said.
“Is that a no?” she asked, and she turned her h
ead and looked at him with sad puppy dog eyes.
“Nnnnno,” he stammered. “I’d be happy to accept your invitation. I’m just warning you the story might not be worth the wine.”
“Well, maybe you’ll find a way to make it up to me then,” she said, then leaned over until her hair brushed against his cheek and whispered in his ear. “700 Sussex. Buzzer 1483. Give me half an hour. I’m going to go say goodbye to my friends”
Then she gave him a tiny kiss on the cheek and walked over to Balusi and Bouchard, her hips swaying.
Jack watched and took a long drink of his beer.
Sophie eventually managed to convince the reluctant Sawatskis to go out for dinner and sighed with relief when they left. She turned down the stereo, which was playing a Newfoundland jig, and pulled our her iPod. She paused before she plugged it into the stereo’s iPod dock.
“Ed,” she said. “You don’t mind if I change the music, do you?”
He lay mute on his back, staring at the ceiling.
“I’m just going to put my music on for a bit. Okay?”
A Cowboys Fringants song started.
“Here,” she said. “We can work on your French.”
She lay next to him the bed, took his stiff hand in hers, gave him a small kiss on the cheek and put her head on his shoulder.
She started to sing along softly and sweetly, her mouth next to his ear, singing along to Les Étoiles Filantes.
“Got that?” she asked, when the tune ended.
“No? Well you never studied hard enough at French. Let’s see, in English, it says, um, ‘Even if we know that nothing lasts forever, I’d like if you were, for the moment, my shooting star.’ ”
She was quiet then, with her head on his shoulder, letting the pretty song play without singing along.
She propped herself up on her elbow and looked down at Ed’s face. She smoothed his hair and kissed him on the mouth.
“That song is kind of right,” she said. “Nothing lasts forever. Our lives are like shooting stars. But I thought we’d have more time together than this.”
She started to cry silently, the tears running down her cheeks. She put her head back on his shoulder and her tears ran down her cheek and soaked into Ed’s hospital gown.
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