Deadline (43 page)

“Are you sure?” she said. “Are you sure you didn’t tell anyone?”

“Of course I’m sure,” he said.

“Okay,” she said. “Thanks. I’ll call you later and explain what’s going on.”

She got to the bench where she left her boots and changed into them as quickly as she could, shivering in the cold. She had just finished putting on her boots when her BlackBerry buzzed. It was Jack.

“Oh my God,” she said. “Are you okay?”

“I’ve been better,” he said. “Do you believe me now?”

“Oh my God. Who was that? What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it over the phone. Let’s meet. We need to talk.”

“Where are you?”

“Buying boots. Can you meet me?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Okay,” he said. “Remember that place where Ed tried to pick a fight with one of the Senators? Don’t say the name.”

“I know where you mean.”

“Meet me there in twenty minutes.”

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

“Do me a favour,” he said. “Take the battery out of your BlackBerry now and don’t use it until you see me. Okay? I’m gonna do the same.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t tell anybody where you’re going.”

“I won’t.”

Ashton slept late, then went to a neighbourhood gym for an hour on the elliptical machine. She had been working such long hours since she caught the Sawatski case that she had neglected her workouts, and she could feel the difference. Her body felt bloated and she had more aches and pains than she liked. She stopped at Starbucks on her way home, bought a huge macchiato, then picked up the paper. She planned to spend a happy hour doing not much at all, then crack open her laptop and work on the Sawatski case.

She still didn’t have a working theory to investigate, but there were enough loose ends that she felt if she pulled them all something might turn up in the next day or two. If nothing did, Zwicker would likely insist that they move on, and she wouldn’t be able to say he was wrong. So the next day or two would be crucial, and she hoped to steal a march by sending a series of Sunday afternoon emails, and drawing up a plan of attack for Monday morning.

She needed to convince Zwicker to let her put pressure on Sophie Fortin, at her workplace if necessary, to find out who she’d been sleeping with. Fortin had ignored several calls on Saturday, and late in the day a defence lawyer named Jonah Chisholm had called. He’d said that he was representing Sophie, and expressed the hope that they could sit down soon to see how Sophie could help with the investigation, as soon as he’d had a chance to thoroughly debrief his client.

Ashton was curled up on the couch, flipping through a day-old
Citizen
, sipping her coffee, when her phone buzzed. The call display showed it was Zwicker.

“Ashton,” he said. “We have an odd situation here. Have you heard the news from the canal?”

“No,” she said. “What is it?”

“There was a shooting, about an hour ago. Some guy in a balaclava tried to shoot someone, and winged a bystander, an African kid, Miko Wamala, the son of the Ugandan ambassador.”

“Bizarre,” said Ashton.

“It sure is,” said Zwicker. “The kid’s been taken to hospital. Is likely going to be okay.”

“Why are you telling me this?” said Ashton.

“Well, we have a witness at the scene, a Marie-Hélène Bourassa. Does that name ring a bell?”

Ashton’s mind raced. “Does she work with Sophie Fortin?”

“That’s right. She’s a receptionist or some damn thing in Mowat’s office. Anyway, she was skating with Fortin today when Jack Macdonald skated up, wanted to talk to Sophie. They tried to brush him off. Bourassa says he said someone was trying to kill him. Sophie said she couldn’t talk to him, but he keeps trying. They’re trying to get rid of him when the African kid suddenly gets hit. They turn around, see a man in a balaclava, holding a pistol with a silencer on it. Macdonald takes off.”

“Holy cow,” said Ashton. “I need to come in right now.”

“Yes, you do,” said Zwicker. “I just got a report from Jack Vierra, the weekend duty officer. He didn’t see the link to your case right away.”

“Oh, it’s linked,” said Ashton.

“I know,” said Zwicker. “Here’s how I know. About ten minutes ago, 911 gets a call. Male caller with a disguised voice, a fake accent. Won’t identify himself. I’m going to read it to you: ‘Tell Detective Mallorie Ashton that the canal shooter is RCMP Inspector Emil Dupré.’ He repeats the message word for word and hangs up.”

“Holy fuck.”

“That’s right. And it gets better. The call was from 613 555-0139. You know who that number belongs to?”

“Ed Sawatski,” said Ashton.

“I want you in here right now,” said Zwicker.

Rupert Knowles didn’t like going to meet Fred Murphy on a Sunday afternoon. He didn’t like giving up time with his family, and he didn’t like reporters. He saw the parliamentary press gallery as, at best, a troublesome filter between the prime minister and voters. Journalists were an unpredictable, unprofessional bunch of egotistical slackers who frequently missed the point and messed up the message and just as often petulantly refused to deliver it, despite the best efforts of the prime minister’s stressed out media staff.

So when Murphy called him at home – God knows how he got his unlisted number – and asked for a chat, Knowles said, no, sorry, he couldn’t, but maybe they could get together for a coffee sometime soon. He’d ask his assistant to find a time this week if that worked for Murphy.

Murphy laughed. “It’s not like that. Sorry, Rupert. I need to see you. For your sake as much as mine. It’s very important. I could see Naumetz instead, I guess, but I think it would be better if I saw you. I assume he’s busier than you are. Would you say that’s right?”

Rupert agreed. Yes, he said, he was very busy but the chief of staff was even busier.

“That’s what I thought,” said Murphy. “This won’t wait. And I’m telling you it’s very important. I don’t want to track down Naumetz to tell him that you told me to call him instead, but I will. This matter is very important and it won’t wait. I’m repeating myself, aren’t I? I already told you that it’s very important and that it won’t wait.”

Knowles took it in. “I’m thinking.”

“How’s three o’clock?” said Murphy. “You name the place. It won’t take long.”

So Knowles was uneasy as he entered the little tea house in Rockcliffe.

Murphy was waiting for him, sitting in the rear of the empty place – a faux Victorian nightmare of lace curtains and ornate wallpaper, chosen only because it was close to Knowles’s house. Murphy was wearing a frayed green sweater, and warming his hands around a cup of coffee. His laptop was open beside him.

“Kind of you to come, Rupert,” said Murphy, standing to shake his hand.

“No bother at all,” said Knowles, amused that they both started with lies.

“Rupert, I’ve been in the business for a long time,” Murphy said, when Knowles was settled and served with coffee. “And I’ve never blown a source. I’ve always been very, very careful. However, I intend to reveal a source to you today. I suspect it will cost him his job, but unless I am sorely mistaken, the information he gave us was a malicious lie, and I will not protect a source who tells a malicious lie, who induces us to report something false for the purpose of hurting a rival.”

He sat back and fixed Rupert with a steady gaze. “Do you get that? Do you see the ethical code here?”

Rupert nodded. “Of course.”

“I like the system,” said Murphy. “I don’t give a good goddamn who the prime minister is, who’s in power, who’s out. Couldn’t care less. I don’t even care that half the stuff you tell the voters is nonsense. Not my fault if they’re stupid enough to believe it.”

Murphy wore an odd, twisted smile. Knowles grew uneasy. He wondered if Murphy had been drinking. Then the smile was suddenly gone.

“I wish we’d met for a drink instead of a coffee,” Murphy said. “I have no choice but to give you this information, and I’m going to ask for some in return, which I ask you to provide to me as soon as you get it. You can’t really agree to that until I tell you what I have to tell you, but there you go. Nothing I can do about that. I think you’ll be smart enough to do what I want.”

Rupert tried a half smile. “I don’t know if I can agree to that, Ed,” he said. “I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about, but I expect this is the kind of thing that would be more fruitfully discussed with our communications people. It sounds more like Ismael’s bailiwick.”

Murphy ignored him. He pulled earphones from his pocket and plugged them into the laptop.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” he said. “I’m going to play you a bit of audio. Then I’ll ask you a few questions.”

Jack was huddled in the doorway to Chez Lucien when Sophie pulled up in a taxi. He was very cold, but was afraid to wait inside, where he wouldn’t be able to run if Dupré showed up. He had retrieved the BlackBerry from the nook in the men’s room where he had hidden it, powered it up and made his 911 call. Then he shut it down and went outside to wait for Sophie.

He jumped into her cab and asked the driver to take them to the Nicholas Street entrance of the Rideau Centre.

Then he turned and hugged Sophie.

“Oh my God,” she said, pulling him tight. “I’m so glad to see you.”

He kept his arm around her and put his lips next to her ear. “I am so glad to see you. You have no idea.” Then he pulled her in for another hug and they stayed that way until they came to the mall.

Jack paid the driver and they went inside, Jack leading her by the hand.

“Where are we going?” asked Sophie.

“Did you turn off your BlackBerry?” he asked, striding along so quickly she had to trot to keep up.

“Yes. Where are we going?”

“I want to make sure we’re not being followed. I’ll explain soon.”

They went up the escalators, and he led her on quick circuit of the third floor of the mall, then ducked into the hallway that led to a pedway that crossed Rideau Street to the Bay. He led her along, constantly looking behind him, beside the racks of women’s fashions, then up the escalator, through the housewares department, then down the elevator to the first floor and out the side entrance to the cab stand across York Street.

They jumped into the first cab, out of breath, and Jack pulled Sophie close to him.

“We’re going to Gatineau,” he said to the driver. “To Pigale.”

Sophie looked at him, startled.

“Okay,” he said so quietly that only Sophie could hear. “This is what I think we should do. We get out at Pigale, go next door to the motel there and get a room. Pay cash. Nobody will know we’re there and we can do four things.” He held up his hand and raised a finger. “One: I will tell you everything I know, like, for example, that I have Ed’s BlackBerry.” He pulled it from his pocket and showed it to her. Her mouth dropped open in astonishment. He raised a second finger.

“Two: You tell me everything you know.” He pulled away, looked at her, waiting for a reaction.

“What are three and four?” she asked.

He pulled her close again, put his hand on her thigh and whispered in her ear. “Three, we have sex, and four, we make a plan to sort everything out.”

She pushed him away, gave him a skeptical look.