Deadline (23 page)

“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.”

Simms looked up.

“This is boring,” she said. “Constitution. Blech. Where’s the channel changer?”

“No,” said Balusi. “It won’t be boring to anyone who lived through Meech Lake. When Mulroney tried and failed to recognize Quebec as a distinct society, the country almost fell apart.”

She looked at him impassively.

“Remember the referendum in 1995?” he said. “That was in reaction to the collapse of Meech Lake and the Charlottetown accord. This stuff will drive the western Conservatives nuts. Especially since he says that he’ll do it without campaigning on it. It’s secret backroom politics, and it will explode in Donahoe’s face.”

“Okay,” she said. “I see. It is a story. Donahoe proposes secret deal to appease Quebec.”

“Yeah,” said Balusi. “If you don’t want it, I’ll give it to someone else. This is big. This could lead the news.”

“No,” she said. “I get it. I want it. It’s good. I was wrong.”

“You have the audio file?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I can email it to you later. But in no way must this be linked to me. Very important. Would cost me my job.”

Simms smiled. “Don’t worry. I get it. Won’t say a word to anyone, ever.”

“Hey,” she said, looking out the window. “Look. It’s Macdonald.”

Macdonald was getting into a cab.

“Oh yeah,” said Balusi. “The Newfie.”

“He creeps me out,” said Simms.

“Yeah?”

“You remember how I went to talk to him the other night at Hy’s? I asked him about his story.”

“Yeah?” said Balusi.

“He was weird,” she said. “Creeped me out.” She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.

“Did he say anything scary?”

“Not really,” said Ellen. “Anyway, who recorded the tape?”

Jack’s BlackBerry rang when he got to the corner.

“This is your new friend,” said the same male voice. “I want you to get in a taxi and meet me in Vanier, just in case someone’s watching you.”

“Are you sure that’s necessary?” Jack asked.

“We can call this off,” the man said. “I can give this to someone else.”

“No,” said Jack. “What’s the address?”

“Tell him to take you to Xcitement Lanes, in Vanier, on Cartier Street.”

“You want to bowl?” Jack asked.

“There’s a snack bar.”

“Okay,” said Jack. “On my way.”

It was a sad bowling alley, across the street from a sad mall. The owners had spent some money to spruce it up, installing flashy neon signs and a big sound system, neither of which were geared up during the day, to Jack’s relief. A francophone seniors’ group was quietly bowling in the lanes nearest the snack bar. He ordered a cup of bad coffee and watched them.

By the time he started to get interested in their competition, admiring the footwork and accuracy of one blue-haired woman, he was pretty sure that someone had sent him on a wild goose chase. Maybe Detective Sergeant Ashton.

Then the man arrived.

He was a big guy with a bushy black moustache, and short salt-and-pepper hair. He had a deep scar on his right eyebrow. He wore a dark blue wool overcoat and carried a briefcase. He looked like a cop.

“Jack?” he said.

“Hi,” said Jack, and stood to shake the guy’s hand.

“Easy there, big fellow,” he said, and shook his crushed hand in the air. “Quite a grip you got there.”

“Sorry,” said the big guy, and sat down. He smiled and nodded at the server behind the counter.

“Un café, s’il vous plaît, madame.”

He put his briefcase on the counter, rubbed his hands together and waited for his coffee.

Jack introduced himself.

“I’m Sergeant Michel Castonguay,” said the guy, and he dug into his breast pocket for a business card. It identified him as an investigator with the RCMP’s commercial crime unit.

“Commercial crime?” said Jack

Castonguay laughed. “You are an investigative reporter. Let me save you some time. I wasn’t always here in Ottawa.”

He opened his briefcase and removed a tan envelope and rested it in front of him on the counter.

“Fifteen years ago, I was stationed in Swift Current, Saskatchewan,” he said. “I was a constable, doing routine small town policing: highway patrol, breaking up fights, and, of course, every cop’s favourite call, domestic disputes.”

He slid the envelope in front of Jack. Jack opened it.

“One summer night, I forget the date, but it’s in the report, I went to a nice suburban house, really nice place, to respond to a domestic dispute. There was a lady there, and, oh boy, she was upset. She was soaking wet, fully dressed, sitting on the front step, and she started talking to me as soon as I got out of the car. She said she and her husband had been sitting by the pool after dinner, having an argument about her daughter, who was dating a boy that they didn’t like, and her husband got so mad, he grabbed her by the neck and threw her in the pool. She said it was like he was a stranger suddenly, and he held her under for a long time. She was kicking and screaming and waving her arms, but he held her under until she ran out of air and gulped water. She said she started to black out. Said she saw stars. That’s what she said. ‘I saw stars.’ I guess the husband must have realized then what he was doing, and he pulled her out of the water and she got a breath of air. He hopped in his car and drove off.”