can make the money instead of you? We worked hard to set ourselves up, and every year we got to upgrade equipment and cut more trees just to make ends meet. The forest will be gone no matter what we do, so we might as well make the money out of it. Anyway, you know whose fault it really is?”
At this point she directed her index finger at me and gave me a good, sharp poke in the arm. It hurt, particularly with those acrylic nails. “The government. That’s who. They let in those foreign companies who strip the land, don’t reforest, then send the logs to their own countries for processing. Those are our jobs. If the government would keep their nose out of it,” she poked me again, “we’d run the industry like it should be run.”
I was tempted to remind her that forestry was within the provincial jurisdiction so she was poking the wrong person, but it probably wouldn’t have mattered to her. Government is government and they’re all bad. I rubbed my arm and mumbled something about getting the point, then the lights dimmed and the movie started: Free Willy 3. I wondered how she felt about that.
As we approached Vancouver, the sun was sitting low over Vancouver Island across the Strait of Georgia. Vancouver’s airport spreads across a marshy island in the Fraser River delta, and as we neared the city the plane came in low over the river, following it out to its mouth. Beneath us, tug boats, seiners, and log booms moved sluggishly along the channel while yachts and pleasure craft darted between them. From above, the Fraser looked like nothing more than a vast aquatic highway.
Then suddenly the land dropped away and we shot out over open water, banking sharply to make our final descent. As the plane tilted, the clean line of demarcation — where the muddy Fraser hits the clear, cold waters of the Strait of Georgia — was visible below. The mass of flowing water created a solid, murky wall that ran several miles out, and fishing boats dotted either side of the line.
As we taxied into the airport I wished Angela luck with her mother, grabbed my briefcase and my carry-on bag, and slipped out of the seat before we’d come to a stop. It was going to take her at least half an hour to gather up the fruits of her labour.
For me, Vancouver equals pain, but even so I can’t help but be seduced by the overpowering beauty: the city cradled by snowy mountains against a shimmering sea. I stood for a moment, breathing in the damp, salty air, remembering, and not remembering. When I was ready to move, I crossed to the rental lot, where I picked up my government-rate car: basically, a tin can powered by a blender engine, set on wheels the size of Oreo cookies. If this case involved a high-speed chase I was already dead. I consulted the map, just to refresh my memory, and headed into the city.
As I crossed the north arm of the river, I caught the scent of fresh-cut cedar, pungent and aromatic, escaping from a sawmill below. For a moment I was displaced, no longer in a car speeding toward the city but standing in a moist, dark glade dwarfed by towering trees. Then the car cleared the rise of the bridge and my eyes were assaulted by straight lines and concrete grey. I sighed, jammed my foot on the gas, and descended into the urban sprawl.
For once, someone in Travel had done their job. Instead of booking me into a downtown hotel, which would be more expensive and mired in traffic, they had put me in a high-rise hotel at the corner of 12th and Cambie. While it was slightly off the beaten path, it gave me straight-line access to Southern without having to go downtown. I made a mental note to send an e-mail to the travel clerk and thank her.
When I’d settled in my room, I pulled the salmon file from my briefcase and flipped through it until I found Edwards’s number. It was late, but from his CV he looked like a keener. He answered on the second ring.
“Edwards.” His voice was a resonant low bass, distinctive and beautiful.
I gave him my name, but when I got to the part about why I was here — to investigate Madden Riesler — he cut me off. Explosively.
“Bullshit! After a year and half? Come on.” “I understand your — “ “You’re not here to investigate Madden. You could-n’t get rid of me, so now you’re going to conduct a nice little investigation that will clear him and screw me. Guess it pays to have friends in high places, huh? Well you know what? Sorry to say, you’re too late. I’ve already gone to a reporter, and believe me, I used the word cover-up when referring to your department.”
Bummer. That meant dealing with the press, my media-incompetent management, and the complaint itself. This was getting complicated, and I didn’t like that. If I was going to tie it up fast I needed Edwards on my side, so I decided to go for the truth.
“Look Dr. Edwards, I’ll level with you. I don’t know why it took so long for us to investigate your complaint, but I intend to find out, and the best place for me to start is with the complaint itself.”
“If you really believe that, then you’re a patsy. Madden Riesler is not going to be investigated.”
A patsy? I didn’t like that word usage one little bit. “I’m not afraid of Riesler or anybody else. If there’s a cover-up I’ll find it and expose it, but first I need information. If we could just — “
“Get your own bloody information. That’s what we pay you for, isn’t it?” And the phone went dead.
His lack of cooperation was understandable, but annoying. I’d have to find out from Sylvia who covered the science beat for the local paper. That was probably his contact. Maybe I could cut a deal.
Having jotted a note to that effect I took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and dialed a number I knew by heart. I’d hoped to leave a message on voice mail — after all, it was 9:00 P.M. in Ottawa — but Bob picked up on the first ring. I had the impression he’d been waiting for my call.
“Robert Gregory, Chief of Investigations.”
Really. Give me a break. The guy has call display and would know it was me. “Hi, Bob. I got your message from Duncan. What can I do for you?”
I heard some shuffling in the background, a chair moving. So he wasn’t alone in his office.
“Morgan. You left earlier than expected.” “It seemed more cost-effective. Get me onsite and working sooner.”
There was a slight pause, then: “I see. You wanted to get onsite and working sooner.” He spoke at an unnaturally slow pace, enunciating clearly. I thought of suggesting the speakerphone so he wouldn’t have to repeat everything I said but realized it was to my advantage to play the game his way. There was some more shuffling in the background, the sound of paper moving across his desk. After another brief pause he continued. “There is some concern here about the instructions in that file.” I waited and said nothing. The silence stretched to fill a room, forcing Bob to continue. “What instructions did you receive?”
“The cover page was missing.”
“The cover page was missing,” he repeated ponderously. “I see, but did you receive…” he hesitated. “Was there anything else?”
“Special instructions? No. I just assumed normal procedure. Really, Bob, I am a senior officer.”
“There was nothing in the file?” “Should there have been?”
His voice relaxed a bit. “No, of course not. Other than the cover sheet, which was missing. An oversight on someone’s part, no doubt. Well then.” More paper was shuffled. “I want this investigation tied up as quickly as possible with a minimum of disruption. Understood? Stick to the financial and stay out of the researchers’ way. We don’t want the Network disturbed.
