Deadline (31 page)

Jack checked himself out of the hospital, got a taxi back to his apartment, where he was confronted by the mess left from the night before.

He cleaned up his vomit, changed into jeans and a sweater and packed a duffle bag with clothes. He put his laptop, his voice recorder, a notebook and a few books in a backpack. Then he got in his car and drove to Ida Gushue’s house.

She was startled to see him at her door.

“Jack,” she said. “Hello. What brings you back?”

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said, “but I’d like a quick chat.”

“What about?” she said. “I understand you’re not with the paper anymore.”

“That’s right. I’ve been suspended, and I’m moving back to Newfoundland. I don’t know whether I’ll get back on the Tely or not.”

She frowned. “Well, if you want to ask me to intercede with my uncle to save your job, I’m afraid I can’t. From the sounds of things the lawyers are calling the shots on everything to do with the Mowat story.”

“No,” he said. “It’s not that. I made a mistake. I’ll accept the consequences. I just want to ask you about something. It’s related to the Mowat story. It won’t take long. If you’ll give me five minutes, I have a proposal for you.”

She looked at him coolly.

“Please,” he said. “I’m at the end of my rope and I just want a few minutes of your time.”

She opened the door wide and let him in.

Zwicker greeted Ashton and Flanagan with a not very friendly smile and motioned for them to sit down.

“Thanks for coming,” he said. “I want an update on the Sawatski case. To start with, I take it neither of you have been pestering Justice Department officials for secret files.”

They both shook their heads.

“And you haven’t conducted any accidental interviews with journalists?

They shook their heads again.

“Good,” he said. “What have you been up to?”

Flanagan started. He whipped out his notebook. “I went for a drive today with the taxi driver who drove Macdonald and Sawatski to their homes. Name’s Henri Tremblay, works for Regal Taxi in Gatineau.

“We retraced his route, but he really doesn’t remember anything much about these two in particular other than that they were both very intoxicated. I also tracked down Michelle Gagnon, the
danseuse
who gave Sawatski his lap dance. I found her, via telephone, at Chez Parée, a Montreal establishment for dance enthusiasts. I emailed her his picture, but she said she could remember
rien
. Has many customers. Does not recall. And that’s about it.”

“Okay,” said Zwicker, turning to Ashton. “How about you?”

“I interviewed Sophie Fortin again, and then Jack Macdonald again,” she said, flipping through her notebook. “He is no longer working as a journalist, so there is no danger that he could report on our conversation. I did come up with something interesting that I think warrants follow-up. Mr. Macdonald went to see Ms. Fortin late Thursday night. He was upset over losing his job and wanted to commiserate with her. He found that she had a gentleman caller and didn’t want to let him in.

“Also, he reports that there is a hidden camera in the bedroom of Ms. Fortin, connected to the computer she shared with Mr. Sawatski. He also reported that he witnessed her using the computer after Mr. Sawatski’s injury. But when I interviewed her, she told me it was Sawatski’s computer, and she didn’t have the password.”

“A hidden camera?” said Zwicker.

“Yes,” said Ashton. “It’s hidden in a bookshelf. Likely a small web cam.”

“And she said she didn’t know the password.”

Ashton nodded.

“Do we know who she’s been sleeping with?” he asked.

“No,” said Ashton. “And it seems to me we need to know that.”

“Okay,” he said. “Tomorrow morning, get a warrant for the computer. Grab it and ask her why she lied to you. Ask her who her gentleman caller was. Tell her that you may have to treat her as a suspect. She’s an aide to Greg Mowat, right?”

Ashton nodded. She was taking notes.

“Tell her you don’t want to alert her employer to your investigations, but her lies are causing problems for the investigation. Then bring the computer back here and tell me what she said.”

He looked at them. “Anything else?”

“No,” said Ashton.

“Well, get the fuck out of my office then,” he said.

Ida Gushue again brought Jack tea.

“Thanks for taking a minute to listen to me,” he said. “I want to ask for your help.”

He paused and took a cup of tea.

“I think you know about my Greg Mowat story yesterday,” he said.

She nodded.

“Well,” he said. “It was a set up. A man posing as an RCMP officer leaked me a forged report. He was very persuasive. He even gave me a fake business card.” He pulled it out and put it in front of her.

“I believe they did this to discredit me as a journalist,” he said. “They have succeeded in doing so. I’m finished. I’ll be lucky to get the Tely to give me a job in Port aux Basques now.”

She said nothing.

“I don’t know who this man is, or why he is trying to destroy me, but I think it has something to do with the near death of my friend, Ed Sawatski, who as you probably know, is an aide to Jim Donahoe. They think I have his cell phone, which I don’t. I won’t bore you with the details, but they have been tailing me. I think they are police of some kind, or intelligence agents, and I think they are being directed by someone senior in the government. I can’t prove that, though. I can’t prove anything.”

“Have you told the police?” asked Gushue.

“A little bit,” said Jack. “Not everything. I’m afraid. I know this sounds completely insane, but I assure you I’m telling the truth.”

“It doesn’t sound that insane,” said Gushue. “What do you want me to do about it?

“Well, when I was last here, you told me you had information about an old case – the murder of a prostitute in Fort McMurray – that could end the career of a senior cabinet minister. I want to persuade you to give me the file.” He stared at her, willing her to be moved by what he was saying but he could see the toughness in her eyes. “The only way I can save my career now is to nail a really good story,” he said. “I worked hard to get here and now my career has been destroyed by some ruthless people. I’m begging for your help.”

Gushue smiled warmly, then looked away.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I don’t think I can do that. If I decide to use the file, it will be because ... because I have decided it’s necessary, that it’s the right thing for the country, for the party, and for me and my daughter. I am far from reaching such a conclusion. I wish now that I hadn’t mentioned the file to you at all.”

Jack sighed and put his head in his hands.

“I am truly sorry for what’s happened to you, and I believe your story, but I simply can’t give you the file,” she said. “Maybe I can eventually, but not now. Maybe never.”

Jack lifted his head from his hands. He finished his tea.

“Okay,” he said, and got to his feet. “Thank you so much for agreeing to let me try to persuade you. I really am at the end of my rope. I would ask you to please not share my story with anyone.”

“Of course,” she said, rising with him.

“You are actually the only person I’ve told about this. If I turn up dead, you might want to tell Detective Sergeant Mallorie Ashton, with the Ottawa Police Service.”

She didn’t say anything.

“I don’t want to tell my family or friends about this,” he said. “Anyway, I doubt they’ll come after me in Newfoundland. I don’t mean to be melodramatic.”

“I understand,” she said, walking him to the door. “I really do wish I could help. You should think about telling the police everything you know.”

He thanked her again and went out and got in his car, lit a cigarette and started the engine then realized that he didn’t know where he should go. He had hoped she would give him a place to start digging, to find some way to get himself out of the mess he’d made of life. What should he do now? Drive to Newfoundland? He supposed that made sense. No point flying, spending money he didn’t have. But it was getting late to start a long drive, and he was tired.

He thought about going back to the apartment. He could get a good night’s sleep and pack up more stuff, leave in the morning. Get as far as Edmundston tomorrow night. Maybe Fredericton. Might get on a ferry to Port Aux Basques in Sydney the following afternoon. He’d better call his parents and let them know he’s coming.

The thought of the call, and the drive, was too much. He put his head on the steering wheel and closed his eyes for several minutes, breathing deeply. Then he opened his eyes, got out of the car and knocked on Ida Gushue’s door again.

When she opened it, he tried to smile.

“I’m sorry to bother you again,” he said. “But I just had a thought. Why don’t you just tell me the name of the prostitute? It would give me a place to start digging. If I find anything I’ll come back to you and you can decide whether you want to share your file. I might find the story without your help, in which case nothing would be linked to you. In either case, I swear not to drag you into it without your permission.”

She stared at him, and he saw her eyes harden. He thought he had pushed his luck too far and she would slam the door in his face.

“Rena Redcloud,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so much. I swear I won’t drag you into this.”

“See that you don’t,” she said. “And let me know what you find.”

Jack got $3,200 for his car. It was a 2003 Focus with 190,000 kilometres on it, so he hadn’t expected to get much, but he thought he’d get more than $3,200. He could have got more, he knew, if he had had the time to sell it online, but he needed the money right away. So he’d gone to the suburb of Vanier, and driven it back and forth from one used car lot to another for an hour. The best offer he got $3,200, from a guy who wrote Jack a cheque on the spot.

He took a taxi directly to the airport and called his parents from the departures terminal. He explained that he’d been suspended, which they had heard on the news.

“I told you to be careful around them politicians,” said his mother. “Well, we been right worried about you. Good to hear your voice.”

“How’s Dad?” he asked.

“Good, b’y,” said his mother. “Worried about you.”

Jack could hear the rumble of his father’s voice in the background: “Worried about what foolishness he’d get up to next.”

“Tell him I’m gonna take it easy on the foolishness for a bit,” Jack said.

“What are you going to do now?” said his mother.

“I’ve decided to go out to Fort Mac. Might get a job out there. I’m at the airport now.”

“Fort Mac?” his mother said. “Well, Vern and Peggy are out there, just like everybody else these days. I bet they’ll put you up for a bit. Let me get their number.” She read it to him. “That’s a cell, now. They haven’t got a home phone there.”

“Thanks, Ma,” said Jack. “Don’t worry about me now. I’ll call in a day or two. You look after the old fellow now.”

He called the cell number next.

“Aunt Peggy,” he said when his aunt answered.

“Yes,” she said. “Who’s that?”

“Jack,” he said.

“What do you know?” she said. “What are ya at, b’y?”