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Cover
Other Dan Sharp mysteries
Lake on the Mountain
Pumpkin Eater
The Jade Butterfly
After the Horses
Dedication
This book is for
Stanley Almodovar III, age 23; Amanda Alvear, 25; Oscar A. Aracena-Montero , 26; Rodolfo Ayala-Ayala , 33; Alejandro Barrios Martinez, 21; Martin Benitez Torres, 33; Antonio D. Brown, 30; Darryl R. Burt II, 29; Jonathan A. Camuy Vega, 24; Angel L. Candelario-Padro , 28; Simon A. Carrillo Fernandez, 31; Juan Chevez-Martinez , 25; Luis D. Conde, 39; Cory J. Connell, 21; Tevin E. Crosby, 25; Franky J. Dejesus Velazquez, 50; Deonka D. Drayton, 32; Mercedez M. Flores, 26; Peter O. Gonzalez-Cruz , 22; Juan R. Guerrero, 22; Paul T. Henry, 41; Frank Hernandez, 27; Miguel A. Honorato, 30; Javier Jorge-Reyes , 40; Jason B. Josaphat, 19; Eddie J. Justice, 30; Anthony L. Laureano Disla, 25; Christopher A. Leinonen, 32; Brenda L. Marquez McCool, 49; Jean C. Mendez Perez, 35; Akyra Monet Murray, 18; Kimberly Morris, 37; Jean C. Nieves Rodriguez, 27; Luis O. Ocasio-Capo , 20; Geraldo A. Ortiz-Jimenez , 25; Eric I. Ortiz-Rivera , 36; Joel Rayon Paniagua, 32; Enrique L. Rios Jr., 25; Juan P. Rivera Velazquez, 37; Yilmary Rodriguez Solivan, 24; Christopher J. Sanfeliz, 24; Xavier E. Serrano Rosado, 35; Gilberto R. Silva Menendez, 25; Edward Sotomayor Jr., 34; Shane E. Tomlinson, 33; Leroy Valentin Fernandez, 25; Luis S. Vielma, 22; Luis D. Wilson-Leon , 37; Jerald A. Wright, 31 … we are all one pulse.
Pulse Nightclub
Orlando, Florida
June 12, 2016
Epigraph
The flower of politics is war.
— Mother Teresa
Author’s note
Although Canada is seen by many as a country where integrity and fairness are the rule rather than the exception, politics is still a messy business. In my depiction of the political landscape, I have dealt with a real-life scandal. Apart from the barest facts and characters already known to the public, however, all characters and events herein are entirely fictional and should not be construed as having any existence or validity outside the pages of this book or my own dark imagination.
Prologue: Toronto, 2013
Disgrace
Never in his life had anything like this happened to him before. He was not the sort of man to be given the sack. And that was precisely why he’d been drinking for the past two weeks. I am not the sort of man to be given the sack, he told himself as he grabbed at his bootlace and pulled. I am John Badger Wilkens III and I was not — here the bootlace snapped — born to be subjected to public ridicule and disgrace.
He frowned and threw the lace down in disgust, glaring at the ragged ends as if they were to blame for his shameful dismissal. John Wilkens, you are hereby suspended from your official duties for suspected inappropriate conduct until further notice. He remembered every word. That was exactly what they had said when they came to remove him from his office.
He sat there, one boot on and one boot off, staring at the empty bourbon bottle sitting beside the empty tumbler on the otherwise empty table. What a dismal thing to be turned out for suggesting that all was not well behind the scenes at Queen’s Park. A pack of lying thugs had taken over, besmirching his name in the process. And at Christmas, of all times!
He stared at the rebellious boot. If he simply bypassed the top eyeholes and tied the laces shorter — if he could just reach them — he leaned down and grasped. There! That would make sure it stayed on long enough for a tramp in the night air.
He needed to clear his head and think. What was to be done? Yes, what was to be done? Never had anything like this befallen him. Clearly, he was in a pickle. What could he do to fight the forces marshalled against him? He’d raised his voice above the crowd and dared to suggest that things were not all they seemed. And no sooner had he spoken those foul words than he’d found himself dismissed, facing allegations of personal misconduct and improper use of public funds. Absurd! To make things worse, they’d locked him out of his office, separating him from his files and suspending his computer password. How could he prove his innocence now? It was absolutely reprehensible for someone with his record to be treated so meanly. So rottenly!
He tugged at the other boot. It seemed to take ages to get them both on, one lace shorter than the other but secure at last. He tramped to the hallway. The closet swung open with surprising ease, clipping his nose in the process. He didn’t know his own strength!
I don’t know my own strength, he told himself. With a tug, he pulled his trench coat from its hanger and slung it over his shoulders, inserting his arms into the sleeves with difficulty. The garment resisted his efforts. When had he last worn it? The belt barely made it around his waist.
The vestibule opened onto an unseasonably mild December evening. A warm front had come in, creating a dense fog. Streetlamps gleamed like distant fireflies before vanishing around the corner. The whole world was murky. John stepped onto the porch, feeling the coolness surround him. The air felt good against his burning cheeks.
He patted his pockets for keys. Both sets were there, house and car, but he wasn’t about to get into the driver’s seat. All he needed on top of everything was to be stopped for driving while intoxicated. No, they weren’t going to pin something like that on him. A taxi was also out of the question. Leave no trail. He’d been warned to come alone.
He was halfway down the street before he realized that the insistent tugging at his waist was because he’d mistakenly taken his wife’s overcoat instead of his own. It crossed his mind how ridiculous he must look, but it didn’t matter. Then he saw he’d also left with two mismatched gloves: one leather and the other Thinsulate. One pair for good and the other for shovelling. For pity’s sake! he thought. Whom the gods would humiliate …
If he’d taken a proper look before leaving, he might have noticed another small incongruity: the garage door left slightly ajar where earlier it had been closed, a coil of yellow nylon rope missing from the interior. He might have, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
At that moment, John was thinking about how that worm of a ministerial assistant had come to him late in the afternoon, ordering him to pack his personal belongings and leave. A distasteful man in so many ways. Clarence, the security officer, had stood behind him. They had said good morning to each other every day for the last five years. Now, the expression on the man’s face made John sick. It was hard to conceive that he, too, believed the reports of John’s dishonesty.
Staggering
