Deadline (19 page)

“That’s so hard,” said Jack.

“Well, it’s reality, at least for now,” said Sophie. “We have to keep talking to him and hope that he gets better.”

“Well, I’ll pop in to see him when I can,” said Jack.

“It’ll get easier,” said Sophie. “I felt bad for you today, with his mom making you talk to him, but she has the right idea. If you engage him directly, try to communicate, we might be reaching him.”

“Maybe there is reason to hope.”

“There is always reason to hope,” said Sophie, and she laughed. “Listen to me, the wise woman.”

“So you still there?”

“No. I’m at home. I’m having a bite, then I’ll sit with Ed while his parents go out for dinner.”

“Sophie, I think you should let them know I’ve got a story on Ed coming out tomorrow. I didn’t want to tell them about it today. It seemed like too much.”

“What kind of story?”

“Nothing much,” said Jack. “Just the facts. He’s in hospital after nearly drowning. The police are investigating. I didn’t want to do it, but my editors said it would be a story at home.”

“Shouldn’t you tell his parents yourself, give them a chance to comment?” said Sophie.

“I just really don’t want to bother them.”

“You don’t mention me or Minister Mowat?”

“No. I didn’t see any reason to drag you into it.”

“Okay,” said Sophie.

“Call me later if you feel like talking, after you’re finished at the hospital.”

Ashton and Flanagan met in the police station cafeteria when he got back from Gatineau.

“How was the ballet?” asked Ashton, when she walked up to the table with coffees for both of them

“Ah, you know,” said Flanagan, laughing. “Seen one you seen ’em all.”

“I bet,” said Ashton, turning a chair backwards and straddling it. “Did you have time for a little grind?”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” said Flanagan. “I’m a good Catholic. I wouldn’t dream of it. Anyway, the wife would kill me.”

“Devon, you’re divorced.”

“I am,” he said and winked. “She divorced me for being a bad husband. Think what she’d do if she caught me with a naked lady.”

They laughed together.

“So did you learn anything?” Ashton asked, sipping from her old Ottawa Police Service mug.

“Not a whole lot,” said Flanagan, flipping open his notebook. “I did talk, though, to one Henri Tremblay, driver for Regal Taxi, who is pretty sure he drove Jack Macdonald to his residence and Ed Sawatski to his. Mr. Tremblay is ninety-five per cent sure that they were the two guys in question. I suspect the five per cent is just in case he has to go to court to testify and finds out some tough guys don’t want him to. He was carting drunks home after Pigale closed. The time matches. He can’t remember the exact addresses, but the neighbourhoods match with Macdonald and Sawatski’s addresses. Said they didn’t say anything, and he didn’t see where either of them went once they got out of his cab.”

“Shit,” said Ashton.

“Shit is right,” said Flanagan. “And, before you ask, he didn’t find a BlackBerry in his cab.”

Flanagan turned the page in his notebook. “According to the best recollection of one –” he flipped more pages “– Rejean Masouf, a security professional at Pigale, the two gentlemen appeared to be thoroughly intoxicated. He remembers them because they were so drunk. They weren’t causing trouble, but apparently one of them fell down and Masouf thought about ejecting them for drunkenness. It was after last call, though, so he decided to just wait till they left.”

“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.”