Sophie sighed and shut down the computer. She knew needed to sleep so that she could get back to the hospital in the morning and try to encourage that spark of life that she’d seen today. She was getting ready to go brush her teeth when she noticed the messenger light blinking on her phone. She picked it up. It was a fresh message from Jack, asking if he could pop by
When he arrived, Sophie thought there was something odd about him, but she couldn’t figure out what it was. He was rumpled-looking, but he was always rumpled-looking, and his smile was crooked, but it always was. She poured him a glass of red wine and he asked about Ed, and listened, entranced, as she told him about the tear. After she was sure that Ed was really hearing her, she had got him to blink for her, so she was sure he was really responding, and they had a little chat, with him responding by blinking, once for yes, twice for no.
“Wow. You must have been freaking out.”
“Oh, I was a scene. I was crying and talking really loud. Then I asked him if I had to talk loud for him to hear me, and he blinked twice. And then I was laughing and crying. Oh my God.” She cried and giggled a little as she talked. Then her face grew serious. “I asked him if he could move his arms or legs, and he blinked twice. And then his face grew kind of still, and I couldn’t get him to respond at all.”
Jack pulled her into his arms to comfort her.
“Hey,” she said. “What happened to your wrist? It looks like Ed’s.”
She sat up and took his hands in hers and examined them closely. “Are those handcuff marks? Did you get arrested?”
“No. I didn’t get arrested. Sort of the opposite.” He chuckled. “I want to talk to you about it. But I need you to promise me you’ll keep it secret.”
“What is it?” she said. “I promise.”
“Well, it’s kind of weird.”
He told her in a rush, everything except how he had lost control during sex. Sophie listened with wide eyes.
“Oh my God,” she said, and she got up to get more wine for them.
“I hope you used a condom,” she said. “Ugh. She probably has herpes on her herpes.”
Jack laughed.
“Yes, we did,” he said. “Although she didn’t have any extra large.”
Sophie laughed and smacked him lightly on the head.
“Idiote,” she said. “Quel gros con.”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“I bet,” said Sophie. “Ed will be jealous. He always said he wanted to ‘fuck the shit out of her.’ ”
She made air quotes with her fingers.
Now it was Jack’s turn to be surprised. “He told you that?”
“We don’t keep secrets from each other.’
“Well,” said Jack. “You promised you’d keep this a secret.”
“I will,” said Sophie. “Believe me, it’s not the first thing I want to share with my boyfriend while he’s in a coma. Honey, guess what? Your friend fucked that slut Ellen Simms. Blink once if you’re jealous, twice if you’re happy.”
They laughed together.
“I bet it was fun,” said Sophie.
“Until she kicked me out, yeah,” said Jack. “So, the reason I told you, aside from wanting to brag, is that I wonder what it means. Should I tell the cops? Is there any way that she had something to do with Ed ending up in the canal? I mean, did he sleep with her?”
Sophie thought about it. “No,” she said. “I don’t think so. He would have told me.”
Jack cocked an eyebrow at her. “I don’t know if you can be so sure,” he said.
She gazed at him coolly. “Yes I can. He always told me the other times he slept with someone. We had, uh, have, kind of a deal about that.”
“You have an open relationship?” asked Jack.
“Yeah,” said Sophie. “You could say that.”
Jack whistled.
“Don’t tell anyone,” said Sophie. “It’s a secret. I shouldn’t have told you. Shit.”
“Anyway. The point is, he would have been back here bragging about it in about a minute if he had ‘fucked the shit out of her,’ ” she said, making air quotes again.
“So do you sometimes tell him about your adventures, too?” asked Jack. “Do you have adventures?”
“None of your business,” she said. “She was really curious about Ed’s BlackBerry, eh?”
“Yeah. I won’t tell you how she got me to tell her about it, but she seemed like she really wanted to know.”
“But you don’t know where it is.”
“Nope.”
They sat in silence, and for a moment he thought he was going to tell her the truth, and tell her about the men who chased him, and about the dead taxi driver and businessman from Winnipeg. And he’d ask about the hidden camera in her bookcase, put all his cards on the table. He opened his mouth to speak, and then she got to her feet.
“Well,” she said. “I’m tired and I have an early morning tomorrow. I’m going to go to bed. You can stay here if you want. Did you sleep okay here the other night?”
“Yeah,” he said.
Sophie kissed him on the cheek. “Good night.”
She went to the bathroom. Jack took off his suit and wrapped himself in a quilt.
When she left the bathroom for the bedroom, he went in and used the bathroom.
When he came out, her bedroom door was open and the light was on. He went and stood in the doorway. She was under the covers, staring at the ceiling.
“Can I stay in here with you?” he asked.
“Hm,” she said. “Do you promise to behave?”
“Yes,” he said. “I don’t know if I mentioned it before, but I fucked the shit out of Ellen Simms tonight, so I think I’m good.”
He crawled in next to her and they lay silently beside one another for a long time before falling asleep.
5 – Pool report
ZWICKER HAD ASHTON and Flanagan in his office at 8 a.m.
“Sit down,” he said, his face completely blank. He strode back and forth behind his desk for a while without saying anything, and stopped a couple of times as if about to begin, only to start pacing again. Finally, he sat down and opened a notebook.
“Detective Sergeant Ashton,” he said, looking down at the paper in front of him. “What did I say to you yesterday about talking to reporters?”
“Uh, you told me not to talk to any reporters.”
He laughed, a short bark with no humour. “Right. That’s what I thought I said. So then I have this story here, from a Newfoundland newspaper, with all kinds of inside details about the investigation. It doesn’t quote anyone by name, but refers to ‘sources close to the investigation.’ ”
“It was me,” said Flanagan. “I interviewed Macdonald twice, once in person and once over the phone. He is a friend of the kid, Sawatski. He was drinking with him the night before he was pulled out of the canal.”
“And did you tell this witness, this possible suspect, that we were investigating personnel in the office of the federal minister of justice?” said Zwicker. “Am I right in thinking that?”
Flanagan was silent for a moment. His expression was pained. “I believe I told him that Detective Sergeant Ashton went up to the Hill to talk to Sawatski’s colleagues.”
Zwicker’s face was crimson. “I find that surprising.”
He cradled his head in his hands and stared down at his notes. “So, do either of you have any further evidence, aside from the photo and video you sent me yesterday, that points to the idea that this is anything but a story about a drunk kid falling in the canal?”
Flanagan and Ashton looked at one another.
“Nothing definite,” said Ashton.
“Nothing definite,” said Zwicker. “Would you agree with that assessment, Detective Sergeant Flanagan?”
“Yes sir,” he said.
Zwicker glared at the two officers in front of him.
“I doubt that you two really appreciate how delicate this situation is. We have a sto
ry here,” he jabbed the printout on his desk, “that’s drawing a connection between a serious crime and the highest officials in the federal government. This is a matter of grave concern to those officials. They function in a very challenging environment, scrutiny-wise. This makes them very sensitive. So they are saying, reasonably enough, I think, ‘What is this? What is this crime we hear about? What is this crime, to which we are linked, in a very painful way for us?’ ”
Zwicker picked up the notebook then slapped it down with a crack. “What shall I tell them?”
Neither officer spoke.
“I am not impressed by your evidence,” he said. “Not at all. I am not convinced there is a crime here. You understand?”
They both nodded.
“I was going to shut the investigation down unless I saw something in your report that gave me reason to reconsider. I think you two probably guessed that.”
“Yes sir,” Ashton said.
“If I thought you had leaked anything to this reporter on purpose, I would express my frustration more fully,” he said, and he smiled at them in a distinctly unfriendly way. “That would be very pleasant for me. Do you understand that? It would be very pleasant for me to express those feelings, but not for you two,” he said, and his face was distorted with a flash of rage. “Sadly for me, I don’t think you are quite stupid enough to have planted this story on purpose. I think you are stupid enough to have done so by mistake, which is still pretty stupid. Would you agree with me, Detective Sergeant Flanagan?”
“Yes sir,” he croaked.
“Okay,” said Zwicker. “So because of this story, I am not going to ask you to shut down the investigation today, as I had planned to do. That would be my preference, but others feel that that might leave in the public mind the impression that something is being covered up, that political influence was being exerted to shut down a police investigation. You follow me?”
He stared at them until they nodded.
“I find it ironic that, in fact, looking at it one way, there is now political pressure to continue a police investigation that is embarrassing to senior government officials. So, I was tempted to tell you to continue the investigation in such a way that you don’t talk to anyone. You two could look for clues at your desks, write reports about it. On reflection, though, I don’t think the director of investigations can order you not to investigate, even though that’s what I want to do. So carry on. If, though, at any point, you are tempted to take an investigative step that might subject the Ottawa Police Service or the federal Department of Justice to scrutiny, I want you to report to me before you take that step.”
He glowered at them and said with painful slowness, “Do you understand?”
“Yes sir,” they said.
“Okay,” said Zwicker. “Now get the fuck out of my office.”
Jack was drinking coffee in the Hot Room, reading the day’s headlines on his laptop when his editor called.
“Hey,” said Brandt.
“Morning,” said Jack.
“I just had a call from a Detective Sergeant Ashton from Ottawa Police Service,” he said. “And I have some questions about your story today.”
Shit, thought Jack.
“According to her, the information about the investigation, and the quote, all came from interviews in which you were being questioned by a Detective Sergeant Flanagan. Is that right?
“Yeah,” said Jack. “He asked me questions. I asked him questions. I wrote the story. Why? He knew I was a reporter.”
There was quiet on the line before Brandt spoke. “Well, for one it would have been good if I’d known that. We would never pull a trick like this with the Royal Newfoundland Constabulary, because they’d never give us a fucking thing again, but the Ottawa Police Service doesn’t have too much juice around here.”
“So, we’re okay then. I mean, did Ashton complain about the facts in the story?”
“Not really. She didn’t like the stuff about police investigating officials in the federal Justice Department, but she couldn’t deny that she did personally go there for interviews. She asked me for the assurance that if she needs to interview you again in the course of the investigation, she can do so without you quoting her. Seemed reasonable to me, so she got that assurance. She can’t do her job if she’s worried that she’ll get quoted.”
“Okay,” said Jack. “I’ll continue to co-operate with their investigation, but I won’t quote them again.”
“All right,” said Brandt. “Got anything for tomorrow?”
“Not yet,” said Jack. “I’ll let you know when I get organized.”
When Jack hung up, he had a fresh email.
From: [email protected]
To: Jack Macdonald
Subject: Good story today
I’ve got a document that links a Minister to a crime.
Send me your cell phone and I’ll call.
Jack searched the email address, but nothing came up on the internet. He thought for a moment and sent his cell number. His phone rang almost immediately.
“Jack Macdonald,” he said.
“Mr. Macdonald, this is Detective Sergeant Mallorie Ashton.”
Fuck. “Hello detective,” he said. “How can I help you?”
“I have a few questions for you, and I’d like to have a chat with you today.”
“Sure,” said Jack. “I’m glad to help.”
Ashton laughed. “I bet you are. Can you be here, at OPS headquarters, at one?”
“You want me to go in there?” he said.
“That would be a help to us, yes,” she said.
“Fine,” said Jack.
“See you then,” she said.
The phone rang again.
“Jack Macdonald.”
“Hey,” said a male voice. “This is the guy who sent you an email. You know what I’m talking about?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Just a minute.”
Jack dug his recorder out of his pocket and held it next to the phone.
“I’m back,” he said.
“Got your recorder going?” The voice was muffled, as if somebody were holding a towel over the handset.
“Yeah,” said Jack. “That’s right. Go ahead. What have you got? I’m interested.”
“Would it interest you to know that a current cabinet minister once tried to drown somebody?”
Jack sat up straight. “I find that very interesting.”
“There’s a police report,” said the voice. “You want it?”
“Yes,” said Jack. “Yes I do.”
“Okay,” said the man. “Are you prepared to make an undertaking that you will never reveal my identity to anyone, under any circumstances?”
“Yes,” said Jack. “I undertake to never reveal your identity to anyone, under any circumstances.”
“I don’t want to say my name over the phone,” he said. “But I’ll meet you in thirty minutes, and I’ll have the police report with me.”
“Where do you want to meet?”
“You know the cab stand at the corner of Sparks Street and Metcalfe?”
“Of course I do.”
“See you there in thirty,” the man said.
Balusi sat on a couch in the corner window of the Bridgehead Coffee Shop, on the corner of Sparks and Metcalfe, and sipped at his Americano. He paged through documents on his BlackBerry while keeping an eye peeled for Simms. When he spotted her, strolling down from the Hill, he sat back to watch. He liked to watch the effect she had on crowds, the way people stopped to watch her pass, men especially, but women, too. As she passed the RCMP bodyguards outside the entrance to Langevin Building, all of them in their shades and earpieces turned, as one, to idly look down Metcalfe Street – all of them super casual, just looking around, at the exact moment that she passed them – and checked her out from behind.
She came in, shrugged off her heavy winter coat, and took the chair opposite him.
“Oh my God,” she said. “What a day. And it�
�s only eleven.”
“Want a coffee?” said Balusi.
“Yes thanks. A soy latte with cinnamon sprinkles, but not too many.”
Balusi went up to the counter and returned moments later with her order.
“I’ve got something else for you, too,” he said.
She winked at him. “Is it big and brown?”
“Enough of that or I’ll never be able to focus on the business at hand.”
She frowned. “Fine. All business. What have you got?”
“Well, it is brown, and I think it’s big,” he said, and he tossed a manila envelope on the table. “It’s a story.”
She opened the envelope and pulled out a transcript. “This is in French,” she said. “My French isn’t great. What’s it say?”
Balusi laughed. “What it says is Jim Donahoe said some things in Montreal last night that he should not have done. It’s a transcript of an off-the-record talk he had with some heavyweight Quebec Tories, at the Champlain Club. It was a fundraiser, get-to-know-you session. Open it up. I had it translated.”
Simms flipped through until she got to the English. She skimmed it.
“Looks boring,” she said. “Quebec’s place within Confederation, renewal, blah blah blah.”
“Check out the bit I highlighted.”
It was the last paragraph of the transcript. Simms read it aloud. “Ever since the repatriation of the constitution in 1981, against the express wishes of the voters of this province, Quebecers have been governed by a constitution that the province’s elected representatives did not ratify. Many Quebecers think this keeps them from embracing their place in Canada. That’s why Quebecers continue to support, at best, nationalist parties, and at worst, sovereigntist parties, parties led by people who would tear our country apart. To mend this rift, they say, we need to make a new place for Quebec in the Constitution, and formally recognize what is a fact of life, the distinct and rich cultural life of the province. Call it Meech II. I am with these people. We can’t campaign on this kind of risky business, it would be divisive and destructive, but a majority Donahoe government could succeed where Mulroney failed.”
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