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. There are too many sensitivities involved here. That should get you in and out of there in what, a day? Maybe two?”
Again I didn’t answer. I wanted him to sweat. When he finally spoke it was with forced joviality. “Because with Duncan gone those high-profile projects are just piling up, and really, you’re the only with the clearance to handle them.”
“You mean the investigation and the report, or just the investigation?”
“I’m sure we can reach an understanding on that.” I continued as though I hadn’t heard the last part of the conversation. “You know, Bob, I have my own concerns about this Network file, and I may need your help sorting it all out.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Oh? Since when? But I kept that to myself. “I need to know where the file was when it disappeared from September to June.”
There was dead silence. “Bob? Are you still there?”
I heard a little hiccup, then a muffled sound at the other end. I hoped he wasn’t having a coronary. With a guy like Bob, who smoked, was out of shape, and turned such a livid colour under stress, it could happen in the blink of an eye. Still, I thought it best to continue while I had the advantage. “You see, the reason I need to know is that a reporter may now be involved, and that makes things messy. So any help you can give me from your end would really be appreciated. Oh, and should I refer the press to you, or would Patsy prefer to take it?” Then I added pointedly, “Maybe you should ask her.”
Another minute of silence passed, and by the time Bob gathered himself up to reply the jovial tone was gone. “No one speaks to the press,” he barked. “That’s number one. Number two: you use authorized channels to view the financial records. Authorized. When that’s done I want you out of there. Number three: you report all findings directly to me. And I want you back here and standing in my office Wednesday nine A.M. Got that? Any shenanigans, O’Brien, and you’re up for suspension.”
I let a few seconds pass then asked politely, “And when should I expect the information on those missing months?”
He banged the phone down in my ear.
Two out of two. Not bad.
With the worst of my evening over, I wandered to the balcony door, slid it open, and stepped outside. I was on the twenty-second floor of a narrow tower in a mixed commercial and residential neighbourhood. Beneath me I could see café diners through the glass roof of a trendy little mall across the street, but at eye level I had a panoramic view of downtown Vancouver. It was a spectacular sight, the high-rises jutting over the black water of English Bay, patches of brilliant neon flashing like beacons in the fading light, and behind this, a backdrop of mountains: massive dark forms, ghostlike with the faint glow of snow.
I sighed. It was too much beauty all at once. Overpowering and almost painful. I checked my watch, briefly debated a jog, then decided to go for it. I knew the area well enough to know a reasonable route that would take me through well-lit, safe streets. Not that I can’t take care of myself, but why push your luck.
I pulled on my jogging clothes and
