The River Killers (24 page)

“I'll take it under advisement.” She squeezed my thigh and I was glad I'd let her off the hook.

When we walked by Tommy Yamada's open door, Louise rapped on the doorjamb and kept going toward the meeting room we'd commandeered as our war room. She was opening the envelope as Tommy walked in. “Crowley's call may have gone to voicemail and been deleted by the bad guy.” She held up a sheaf of accordion-folded paper. “Personnel records. Mr. Swanson here, in a stroke of genius that leaves me trembling with admiration, has suggested that our suspect worked in the lab in 1996 and still works there. So all we do is compare the names from 1996 with the names on the latest record. If they only have one name in common, bingo: that's our guy.” She ripped off the last four sheets and handed them to Tommy. “Two thousand and four. I'll start reading from 1996. You watch us Danny, and make sure we're doing this right. Charlie Allworth.”

“Got 'im.”

“Susan Anthony.”

“Got 'er.”

“Samuel Aston.”

“Got 'im.”

Police work sure was exciting.

“Paul Avignon.”

“Got 'im.”

And so on and so forth. Alistair Crowley was on the 1996 list. Only eleven names appeared on both lists. Two worked in the payroll department and four were cleaning staff. I doubted if they were involved in a murder plot. “These five names,” I said circling the remainder, “they need to be checked out.”

“I'm on it,” Tommy said, nodding.

I thought of something else. “Can I use your phone?”

I dialed the lab, and then Bette's extension. She answered on the first ring.

“Hi,” I said, “it's me. The personnel records aren't telling us much. Did you remember anything more about Crowley's memo from Project Chimera, asking for more money?”

“No. But I remember it was weird for some reason. It'll come to me.”

“Thanks. I'll keep you posted.” I hung up. “Bette had a vague memory of seeing a note from Crowley, asking for a lot more money for something for Project Chimera. She's trying to remember what it was. Other than that, our best clue is the stuff in Crowley's computer and his notebook.”

“Danny wants to give that stuff to Bette Connelly to decipher; I'm reluctant. What do you think, Tommy?”

He chewed on that for awhile. “Connelly might be the only person in Canada who can decipher that stuff. But she must have a counterpart somewhere, maybe the States, who's got the same knowledge base. Let's take a bit of time and ask around.”

“To decipher those files, you need someone with a corporate memory. Bette's got that. No one else does.”

Tommy rubbed the back of his neck. “Danny, she's
DFO
. She's spent fifteen years in the belly of the beast. The only reason I trust you is because Louise says you're not normal: normal
DFO
that is.”

I shrugged and stood up. Louise followed suit. “I'll walk you out.”

In the hall, Louise grasped my hand. “We need to be careful here, Danny. Ask Bette about her relationship with Griffith. Did he give her the job at the lab? See how she reacts. If it looks like she's playing her cards straight up, maybe we can come to an arrangement.”

“Okay. Can we come to an arrangement for dinner tonight?”

“I need an early night, Danny. I'll see you tomorrow.”

On my lonely cab ride back to my lonely hotel room, I tried to ac-cent-uate the positive, e-lim-inate the negative, and so on and so forth. My “relationship” was progressing about as well as my murder investigation. Regarding the latter, there was something teasing me, some connection I should be making but wasn't. Whatever it was, it hovered maddeningly out of reach. I tried not to think about it too hard but failed. Tomorrow, I would work on thinking less hard. Ah, a positive note to end the day.

The next morning, I called
Bette first thing. Her assistant told me she was in a meeting at
DFO
HQ
until ten-thirty and I could see her there at elevenish. I went out for a wander and a wonder, and idly perused the fashionably dressed crowd. It wasn't Montreal but it was several rungs up the fashion ladder from Bella Bella . . . or Ottawa, for that matter.

I bought a
Globe and Mail
and decided to treat myself to brunch. I looked for one of the Bavarian joints that used to line Robson Street but they were all gone. Replacing them was a series of upscale eateries of no particular brand. I entered one at random, and while waiting to be seated, I glanced at the front page of the
Globe
. The dollar was down, which was bad, but last week it had been up, which was bad. Economics wasn't just the dismal science, it was positively abysmal. While I wondered at the concept of a Nobel Prize for economics when there was no prize for the equally valid study of porridge, the hostess appeared and led me to a table.

They had organic lager on tap so I ordered a mug while I perused the menu. Pasta seemed like a good choice, since it was about all they offered. While I waited for my meal, I progressed to the editorial page of the
Globe
. The third editorial, wavering stylistically between self-importance and omnipotence, deigned to congratulate
DFO
on their latest licensing policy. I felt a frisson of anticipation as I read on.
DFO
was to be commended on their new abalone licensing plan, which would do much to conserve the species while definitely not conserving anyone who hoped to fish them. Area licensing was called for as was fishing with traps. They weren't sure, however, that they could endorse thirty traps per boat. Perhaps the fleet could share thirty traps, the
Globe
suggested. And the traps had to be of sufficient size so the abalone didn't feel unnecessarily confined.

I felt proud that we had formulated a policy worthy of
DFO
and that the
Globe and Mail
editorial board had seen fit to endorse. By the time, I finished my breakfast I had composed a letter to the editor that called for farming of abalone. All they had to do was add salt to the Rideau Canal.

It was a beautiful spring day in Vancouver, so I decided to walk the fourteen blocks to the
DFO
building. As I ambled north, toward the mountains, which I could occasionally glimpse between the concrete trees of our 21st-century forest, I pondered the state of play.

We were no closer to catching our bad guy, and even if we did, we probably didn't have enough evidence to bring him to trial, much less get a conviction. Crowley's computer files and that odd journal had to contain answers, if only we could decipher them. I was positive Bette was the only person who could do that. I had to convince Tommy and Louise to trust her.

At
DFO
HQ
, I showed my picture
ID
to the security guard and he phoned Bette to warn her I was coming. These elaborate and useless security measures had been put into effect after the building had been occupied by some angry fishermen. I still hadn't adjusted to the idea of security people and locked doors being used to keep taxpayers out of public buildings. Perhaps this should be number five on my list of “Reasons Our Bureaucracy Keeps Screwing Things Up.” When the general public becomes angry enough to blockade a building, perhaps it is time to re-examine policy rather than hiring armed guards.

Upon being instructed to proceed to the twelfth floor, I decided to use the elevator. When the door opened after an exhilarating ascent, I stepped out and saw Bette striding toward me accompanied by a pretty young thing in an expensive blue suit. Bette introduced him as Floyd Granger, Public Relations.

“There's no public here,” I pointed out. “Just us.”

“I know, Danny, but Griffith is worried this is going to blow up on us. He wants you to work with Floyd here to minimize the fallout.”

“How did Griffith get involved?”

“He's the assistant deputy minister. Involvement is what he does.”

This wasn't going well. Fleming Griffith was suspicious and obviously worried. I was damned if I was going to tell Pretty Boy Floyd anything. But maybe I could get some information from them. I smiled charmingly. “I'm certainly onside with damage control. Let's sit down somewhere and examine the options.”

Granger radiated friendly concern and teammate-like bonhomie as he took my arm. “Care for a latte? I have the technology in my office.”

I couldn't help looking at Bette, but couldn't read her expression. We followed Granger into a large, well-appointed office where he busied himself with latte production while I sank into a low armchair that had obviously been designed to put people at a psychological disadvantage. Bette folded her arms and leaned against the wall. When he had served us, Granger perched pertly on the edge of his desk and sipped at his latte while I tried not to spill mine.

“I'm afraid we're going to have to suck it up and tough it out here. Fleming wants to minimize the collateral damage, so we're going to play hardball. Crowley was no longer a
DFO
employee and his death probably had nothing to do with us.”

“I feel like a bit of a wuss next to you guys,” I lied. “Stuff like this scares me. How can we deny what was going on in the West Vancouver lab?”

“We don't need to deny anything if it doesn't become public. And we don't want the police snooping through our files. You seem to be in with them, Danny. Can you sort of steer them away, at least from anything sensitive?”

They didn't have a clue.
DFO
was about to get Nagasakied and they were worrying about “managing the fallout.” I wanted to warn Bette but I couldn't afford anything getting back to Griffith .

“Um, well sure, I guess. I'll do my best. But I have to be sure there was no continuing link between Crowley and the lab. Bette, last time we talked, we hashed over some invoices you'd seen for the unauthorized project. You were trying to remember what they were for.”

She looked at Granger and he nodded imperceptibly. “Miniaturized transceivers. A hundred grand's worth. We had to get them from the
US
military.”

“And that obviously had nothing to do with Crowley's death. If it wasn't suicide, it was probably some sordid feud with another fisherman.”

“I'm sure you're right. It's good that we're all on the same page now. Well, I'll take my leave and we'll stay in touch.” I shook hands with Granger and Bette, made gestures of appreciation, smiled cooperatively and left.

I exited the building, one foot forward and then the other, shuffling off to nowhere in a miasma of depression. My cell rang. It was Bette. “I finally got rid of the
PR
guy. How bad is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I've never in my life seen you so polite and agreeable. You're sitting on something and I just know it's bad.”

“Bette, there's a bit of a trust issue developing between the cops and
DFO
. You need to trust us and vice versa.”

“Us? I thought
we
were
us
.”

“Bette, there's some serious shit going on here. Murder is only part of it. Departmental loyalty is not a card that trumps much in this game.”

There was a loud sigh. “What do I need to do?”

“How did you get that job?”

“Excuse me?”

“Some people are worried you owe Griffith.”

“For Christ's sake! I had to fight him tooth and nail to get the job. He was pushing Reginald Sanderson.”

“So how'd you get it?”

“I don't like to admit this,” I could hear her sigh. “The Minister's executive assistant is my cousin. That and the fact that my qualifications are impeccable got me the job.”

“Okay, we need to confer. Can you meet us at the police
HQ
?”

“Yeah, okay. After work tomorrow. Say five o'clock.”

“And Bette, no one else, and I mean no one bloody else, can know about the meeting or anything that comes out of it.”

“Christ, I'm a biologist and a data whiz, not a goddamn spook. I'll see you there.”

Feeling much better, I dialed Louise. “It's me.”

“How did it go with Ms Connelly?”

“It went well,” I told her. “I think I may have brokered a rapprochement between our two agencies.”

“
DFO
is an agency. The
RCMP
, on the other hand, is a Canadian icon and a stalwart in the fight for all that is good and decent.”

“Don't chipmunks store icons for the winter? Hey, have you discovered any clues lately? It seems like we've hit a few dead ends.”

“Tommy's still checking the names from the personnel files, but nobody has ‘Psycho Killer' on their résumé.”

I tried to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “These are smart people. That's why they scare me.”

“We're smarter. And we're tracking them, not them tracking us.”

“Hopefully.”

“Where are you going to be later?”

“I'm going to touch bases with Mark. Why don't we have dinner together? Vi's on Main Street. A cab will get you there.”

“Five-thirtyish?”

“Sounds good.”

I wondered where I could find Mark. Was he still staying on the boat or would he be at his house in White Rock? I felt the need for an accomplice beer drinker. I resorted to my cell phone again. “Hi, where are you?”

“I'm babysitting a dozen frozen sockeye on the boat. If the power goes off, our evidence will get really smelly.”

“I'm not ready to hand them over to
DFO
. Maybe the Mounties can take them, put them in the morgue or something. You wanna go for a beer?”

“Sure. The Princeton in twenty minutes.”

The Princeton was a pleasantly dingy bar with a noticeable absence of ferns. There were lots of pictures of fish boats on the walls and cigarette burns on the tables. Mark was sitting at the bar but when he saw me he took his pint to a table in the corner. I procured a pint before following him. “I assume you've been diligently pursuing the murderer. How's it going?”