Up in Smoke (25 page)

“Shhh, Zollie. I hope you not tell anyone. Is it safe?”

“Safe and warm, right here on my lap.”

“Your lap? You supposed to hide it, so no one will see.”

“Don't worry, she's fine.”

“Did you say warm? What do you mean warm?” Her tone betrayed her alarm. “Like from smoking?” She never missed a trick.

“Just a little.”

“Zollie, how could you?”

“I was curious. It's not every day you get to smoke a two-thousand-year-old pipe.” Come to think of it, he'd done it twice in the past few days.

“I gave it to you for safekeeping only.”

“Mum, it's okay. I'll take good care of her.” He did his best to sound reassuring before they said their goodbyes.

What would Mum have said if he'd told her he'd puffed on the red-eyed loon with Dennis Badger and Chief Falcon? She and Dad would be apoplectic that he'd touched the now infamous stolen artifact, tainted by theft, murder, and wanton destruction. His parents had an unfailing belief in the power of honesty, though that sometimes clashed with their morbid fear of authority fostered by their upbringing behind the Iron Curtain.

He closed the flip phone and set it on the table beside the pipe. They looked good together, about the same size, but separated by two thousand years of technology. A lot of heartbreaks in that time, in both the New World and the Old. Wars, famines, plagues, wildlife extinctions, environmental disasters, superstitions, addictions, unspeakable pedophilia in residential schools. The two worlds shared it all because heartbreak went with being human, whoever you were.

A strange clanging woke him up with a start. He looked around, but it was too dark to see much. What? Oh, the phone. It was ringing and buzzing beside him. And flashing. Six-forty. He'd slept a good three hours, maybe more.

“Hello?”

“That you, Zol?” It was Hamish.

“Yeah?”

“You weren't asleep?”

“Didn't get much last night.”

“I talked to Colleen. They seem comfortable in the house.”

“Thanks.”

“That's not why I called.”

Zol rubbed his eyes. “Yeah?”

“The mass-spec results. Just talked to my guy. They're in. And looking good.”

Zol shook the cobwebs from his head and pushed his heels down, stowing the recliner's footrest. “How good?” His feet were now firmly on the floor, his head surprisingly clear.

“He's calling them probably positive for
5
-
FNN
.”

Probably? What did that mean?

“Pending confirmatory testing,” Hamish continued. “He says there's a fluorinated nicotine derivative in the leaf Olivia sent you and in eight of ten samples from the cigarettes I got at that smoke shop on Grand Basin.”

“Did he run controls?”

“Of course,” Hamish said. “We did do a proper job of it.”

“And?”

“Nothing remotely resembling
5
-
FNN
in ten brand-name samples.”

That sounded good. “And?”

“Here's the good part — it's in the Rollies and Hat-Tricks from the rez.”

“That's amazing.”

“Actually, Zol, it's science.”

An awkward silence hung between them.

“Zol? You still there?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you going to do now?”

He had no answer. But he did know the hard part had yet to begin.

CHAPTER
38

On Thursday morning, Zol worked from home. He'd enjoyed a second smoke last night and almost had another this morning, but when he'd lifted the lid on the Davidoff, he realized that, like his dad, he was not a morning smoker. Before noon, coffee was his drug of choice.

He'd had his breakfast, and now he was in the computer room using the
7
-Eleven phone and his new Gmail account to stay in touch with Nancy at the Simcoe Health Unit. Max had sounded fine enough on the phone this morning, but very disappointed that Francine's Hong Kong flight was being delayed for twenty-four hours. Mechanical difficulties with the aircraft, according to Allie. He hoped that was true and that Allie wasn't covering for another of Francine's deceptions.

The landline in the kitchen started ringing. He looked at his watch. Ten after ten. It was probably him, so if the phone was still tapped it didn't matter. He walked to the kitchen and looked at the caller
ID
— number withheld. It was either him or a telemarketer.

He planted his feet, closed his eyes for a sec, then picked up.

“Hello?”

“Zollie? Dennis. You're looking for me?”

He'd called back surprisingly quickly. Chief Bob Falcon hadn't wasted any time passing on the message and impressing Dennis with its importance. A good sign.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Then talk away.”

“Face to face.”

“You White guys never learn. Face to face isn't good for you. No matter what comes out of your mouth, your body language betrays what you're really thinking. You're better using the phone. Shoot. I'm all ears.”

“Sorry, Dennis, this isn't the sort of conversation I want to have on the phone, especially one that might not be secure, if you know what I mean.”

“I'm busy, man,” said the Badger without missing a beat. “Don't expect me to see you today. I'm three hours away.”

“There's plenty of time left in the day.”

“But I'm in Manitoba, for God's sake.”

“I've got something to show you. It'll blow your socks off.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Think of your wildest dream, and then think of it sitting in my pocket. Just for you.”

“Why would you — ?”

“A little horse trading. Between former schoolmates. Because in my other pocket is something you don't want your German customers to see.”

“Sounds like a threat, Dr. Szabo. I don't take kindly to those. Besides, I've got business to finish here. And then the flight home.”

“I know you keep the Lear at Mount Hope. I'll make it easy for you. The Tim's at Duff's Corners.”

“I don't do meetings at Tim Hortons.”

The loon pipe was staring at Zol from the counter, telling him to stand his ground. Or was that terror in those onyx eyes, the little bird pleading not to be given up to the Badger? Zol picked up the frightened creature and cupped her in his hand, like he used to do with the chicks on the farm. Was he doing the right thing? God, he hoped so. “You will if you want to see what I'm holding in my hand.”

“Shit, Szabo.” There was a long pause, which Zol had no intention of filling. The Badger coughed, then cleared his throat. “I might be able to make it at five.” He'd blinked. His contract with the German army was a gold mine he couldn't afford to give up.

Five o'clock was too close to sunset. This time, he was going to face the Badger in the full light of day. Besides, there'd been too many delays in this case already. “Two o'clock, Dennis.”

“Two-fifteen. It'll take me twenty minutes to get from Hamilton airport to Duff's corners.”

“It's twelve minutes, Dennis, even if your driver keeps to the speed limit.” He'd checked out the route on Google Maps after Chief Falcon had told him Dennis was out of the province, but due back later today. “But okay,” Zol told him. “See you at two-fifteen.”

For a moment, hanging up on the Badger felt great.

But when it sank in, it felt terribly foolish.

CHAPTER
39

Natasha drew to a stop in front of the single-storey brick box that called itself Norfolk Fire and Rescue Services, Simcoe Station. The only open parking spot was beside a red fire-and-rescue minivan. She checked three times, but couldn't see a sign telling her not to park here. It must be okay. Hamish had arrived already. Who else would have a gleaming, burgundy Saab without a speck of dirt on it?

He greeted her in the vestibule with a nod, his eyes cold, his mouth tight across his lips. He was angry, anxious, or distracted, she could never tell.

“They know you're here?” she asked him.

“Just arrived. Not a soul around.”

“Where's Al?”

“Had to work. You know, newspapers and their deadlines.”

“Shall we go in?”

He shrugged. “Guess so. We said twelve-thirty, and it's almost that now.” He hesitated, then added, “You get the meeting started, okay? That room's going to be full of wives and girlfriends, all anxious and tearful — as I told you before, way too much unbridled estrogen for me.”

She flashed the Tin Man her gentle, concerned-professional smile. It was the secret weapon she used with anxious relatives who were turning hostile in a nursing home closed by a flu epidemic. People said they were calmed by her natural sincerity. She knew that deep down, Hamish appreciated it too.

“No problem, Hamish. You'll be fine.”

It had been Al's show at the Vanderhoef house. Today it was hers. She liked that.

Immediately ahead on the right was a reception area, no more than a wall-mounted window opening onto a single-desk office. She imagined that visitors were normally required to sign in — a logbook was hanging on a chain next to the window — but there was no one in the office. Were they out for lunch? Or were they with the others, waiting for the nerd team from the Ministry of Health? It was strange there was no one waiting to greet them. Maybe small towns worked on more casual terms than larger cities. She hoped the
911
line was being handled by a dispatcher located somewhere offsite.

In keeping with the casual flavour, there were no signs indicating what was where, but when she'd arranged this meeting last evening with the fire chief, he told her the group would be waiting in the lunch room, through the first door on the left.

That door took them into a short hallway lit with fluorescent tubes. Behind the closed door marked
LUNCHROOM
was one heck of a hubbub. She couldn't tell what was coming through loudest — anger, fear, or grief. There was certainly sobbing. Perhaps they were consoling the widows. Overnight, a second woman had lost her husband, a paramedic. He'd died at Toronto General before they could find him a liver. She didn't like getting morbid about it, but the death count was now standing at six. The team was running out of tricks.

She knocked. No one answered. They probably couldn't hear through the commotion. She knocked again, then tried the door handle. It was locked.

“Who ever heard of locking a lunchroom?” Hamish said. “You sure you got the time right?”

She ignored the barb. “Maybe the room serves a second purpose. This isn't a big building.”

They looked around, but the hallway was empty. Hamish tried the other three doors off the corridor, but they were locked too.

Applause erupted from behind the door, and a few seconds later it opened. A slim woman slipped out, looked surprised to see them, and stuck out her hand. Her salt-and-pepper hair was cut in a striking page-boy, and she stood almost six feet in her Stuart Weitzman ankle boots.

Although the woman's skin was photo-shoot flawless, her eyes were bloodshot. She'd been crying. “Ms. Sharma?” she said, “I'm Joanna Dyment, my husband's the fire chief. I'm sorry, we weren't expecting you so soon.”

Hamish looked at his watch and made a face. “We are only ten minutes early,” he told her.

Natasha introduced Hamish, hoping Mrs. Dyment wouldn't be overly put off by his manner. She hadn't seen anything yet.

“You may have heard us,” Mrs. Dyment confided without hesitation. “What started as a prayer vigil ended up as a free-for-all.” She closed her eyes and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Forgive me, this past week has been difficult. For all of us. But especially for my husband. The stress is killing him.”

Natasha handed her a tissue from her purse and waited while the poor woman dabbed at her face then stowed the Kleenex in the sleeve of her Simon Chang jacket.

She'd noticed Natasha checking out her boots. “Don't you love the animal-print lining?” Joanna Dyment said, lifting her foot and turning it side to side. She pointed at Natasha's pumps, also Stuart Weitzmans. “I see we share the same designer.” A spark of conspiracy gave a lift to the sadness in her eyes. “And the same indulgence. You must know Miller's in Hamilton, on James Street North?”

Natasha nodded. She could feel herself blushing. “My mother calls me Imelda. Says I have far too many shoes.” She didn't look at Hamish, didn't need to see him rolling his eyes at this frivolous interlude in the gravitas.

“It never bothered me that the Marcos woman had so many pairs,” Joanna said. “Except I heard she didn't wear most of them.” She paused, and let out a sigh. “Lucky her, she didn't have to drive for an hour and a half to find a good shoe store. They probably came to her.”

She straightened her back and tugged at the cuffs of her jacket. “I hope you're ready for this. They're not an easy crowd at the best of times.”

CHAPTER
40

The lunchroom was crammed. It looked to Natasha like a
TV
news clip of an airport departure lounge in the middle of a blizzard, where stranded passengers were strewn about like dirty laundry. The windowless room — meant to accommodate eight people at a rectangular table, three more on a sofa, and one in a recliner — was packed with at least thirty bodies. And it looked like half of them had been crying.

A tall, uniformed man with a red face, broad shoulders, and a broader paunch introduced himself as Grant Dyment, the fire chief. He looked rattled, almost overwhelmed.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. He swept the room with his arm. “As you can see, we're kind of in a bad way. But . . . but doing our best to pull together.”

And they had pulled together. Three quarters of the faces in the room belonged to women. She knew that Donna Holt was the sole female first responder in Norfolk County, which meant that these women were the anxious wives, mothers, sisters, partners of the men who worked out of this station. The two widows were easy to spot: they'd been seated on chairs at the table and were surrounded by solicitous “sisters.” It was a relief, and heartbreaking, that this micro-community had responded so quickly to Natasha's appeal.

Chief Dyment introduced them to the group, and in the process stumbled over her last name and Hamish's first. It happened so often it felt almost natural. She'd found out by accident that Hamish's middle name was Ulysses. The schoolyard razzing that must have caused him was too much to contemplate.

She thanked everyone for coming and told them she appreciated that this was a frightening time for them all. She explained that she and Dr. Wakefield were going to need their help in finding the key pieces of information that would unlock the puzzle and prevent further cases of jaundice and liver failure. She had learned to avoid four words in these situations: victim, stricken, quarantine, and epidemic. They were far too effective at pushing emotions passed the boiling point.

“So I hope you brought your thinking caps with you,” she said as she turned her secret-weapon smile on the shy smiles that responded from a few of the faces in the middle tier. There were no smiles from the women in the front row, who looked like time bombs set with high-octane anxiety. The four men standing at the back, dressed in dark blue uniforms that matched their chief's, shifted on their feet and studied their highly polished boots.

She didn't recap the narrative of the epidemic. These people were living it, for heaven's sake. But she wanted them to understand that she and Dr. Wakefield were searching for all the threads that bound the affected first responders together. One of those threads, she hoped, would lead to the solution.

She looked at Hamish for reassurance, but saw only Tin Man diffidence in his stance and on his face. “There must be several threads,” she continued. “Some we know already, and one or two crucial ones we need to discover together.”

“As soon as possible,” Hamish added flatly.

“And we have to keep in mind,” she said, “that the most important threads will include the students at Erie Christian Collegiate.” She didn't have to remind them that four kids at that school had died and more were getting sick almost every day. It was front-page news.

She decided to start by itemizing the threads they already knew and writing them on the flip chart someone had set up at the front. “Thread number one,” she said, “is working at this station.” She wrote that down, then turned to the fire chief. “Is that true, all the affected firefighters and paramedics work here? This is their base?”

“Every one,” he said, puffing his chest like a proud father.

“Their only base?” Hamish asked. “None of those with liver failure worked part time at another station?”

The chief scanned the room, looking for dissent. There wasn't any. “Only here.”

“Number two,” Natasha said, “they all smoked cigarettes manufactured on Grand Basin Reserve.”

“Rollies and Hat-Tricks, and varieties of such,” Hamish clarified.

There were reluctant nods among the women. The men at the back kept their arms crossed and faces fixed.

“Number three is exposure to chemicals,” Natasha said, and wrote that down. “Chief Dyment, do the paramedics ever use the fire extinguishers, and do they ever help fight fires?”

He gave that some thought. “No. Never.”

“Good,” she said, “neither do the kids at Erie Collegiate.” She threw Hamish a knowing look. “At least, that's what we've been told. It looks like we can rule out firefighting chemicals.”

One of the uniformed men at the back put up his hand. “So you're ruling out all the toxins we're exposed to?” He shot daggers with his eyes first at the chief and then at Hamish, then snapped his fingers. “Just like that?”

“Put it this way,” Hamish said, “it's not something that links the majority of the affected people together.”

Clearly unhappy with the answer, the man shook his head and crossed his arms again. He muttered something to the man beside him.

One of the women seated at the table stopped picking at her lips and put her hand up. Her sloppy, mint-green tee-shirt said
FORT MYERS, FLORIDA, CITY OF PALMS
. “What about the new appliances?”

Natasha looked at the chief and raised her eyebrows.

The chief looked stumped, then threw a questioning look at his wife. Mrs. Dyment pointed toward the kitchen counter on her right, but the room was so full of bodies that Natasha couldn't see what she was pointing at.

“Sorry? What appliances?” Natasha asked.

“Let me see,” Joanna said. “We wives got together and purchased a new electric kettle, a toaster oven, and a microwave. I think that's it.”

Natasha turned to the woman with the Fort Myers palm tree sprawled across her boobs and asked her, “Is something about them bothering you?”

“I guess not. It's just that they're new.”

“Do people usually bring their own lunches, or do you have a caterer come in?” Hamish asked.

The men at the back scoffed and chuckled. One of them, a bit shorter than the others, said, “A caterer? In here? Yeah, sure. Every day.”

One of the women turned and threw the man a
behave yourself
look. “But they do have takeout,” she insisted. “Several times a week. Pizza, Chinese, Thai. You name it.”

“But no waiters or fancy dishes, and we clean up the mess ourselves,” said the man at the back.

Natasha tore a blank sheet from her notebook and handed it to one of the women in the front row. “People,” she said, scanning the crowd and catching as many eyes as she could, “would you please list the names of the takeout places you've ordered from in the past couple of months. And the phone numbers, if you have them.”

The woman stared at the paper in her hand as if it were a piece of nuclear waste. The chief took it from her, asked his wife for a pen from her handbag, and instructed one of the men to get busy with the list.

Natasha glanced at her notebook. Had she turned up any other common threads when she'd spoken to the families of the affected first responders last week in Simcoe Emerg? No, none. She looked at the flip chart. It was awfully bare.

“I'm wondering,” she said, “are there any events that brought the affected first responders in contact with kids from Erie Collegiate?”

The room filled with muttering and perplexed faces, but nothing that looked like an answer.

Hamish was beginning to look impatient, as if exasperated at having to do the thinking for a room full of ninnies with no ideas of their own. Natasha was beginning to feel the same but hoped her body language didn't betray her.

“For instance,” Hamish prodded, “do all the affected firefighters go to the same church?”

One of the men at the back said, “Can't think of a single one who does go to church.”

“Yeah,” said the man beside him. “Working shifts means we're either at work or sleeping in on Sunday mornings.”

“How about sports?” Hamish said. “Do you guys play on the same teams as a lot of people from Erie Collegiate?”

“Not with the kids,” came a comment from the back.

“Any of the jaundiced guys coach kids from that school?” Hamish said.

“Our shifts kinda put the kibosh on that,” said the talkative guy at the back. He looked pointedly at the chief. “Much as we'd like to.”

The woman in the Fort Myers tee-shirt stood up. “What about Fire Prevention Week?”

“When was that?” Natasha asked.

“A couple of weeks ago,” someone else said.

“Actually,” said a woman wearing a chunky Juicy Couture necklace. Natasha had noticed the pavé heart glinting in the overhead fluorescents. Now, as the woman raised her hand, Natasha saw Band-Aids on two of her fingers. “It was a few days before all this started,” the woman said.

The room went quiet.

Natasha's tongue went dry. Her heartbeat quickened in her chest. “Did your station visit Erie Collegiate?” she asked the chief.

He straightened his shirt collar and stepped forward. “We certainly did. Spent a full morning there.”

Natasha's pulse was now racing at her right temple. Maybe they were getting somewhere. “The exact date would be very helpful,” she said. “Anyone remember?”

The chief's face showed he was drawing a blank.

Joanna Dyment pulled her phone from her Coach handbag and started tapping on the screen. “Here it is,” she said. “The day after Thanksgiving.” She looked at her husband and touched his arm. “You dropped me off at the dentist on your way to that school. I remember, because you said the principal was a bit odd and you wondered how such a scruffy guy got on in a school full of demanding parents from the Christian Right.”

Natasha wrote thread number four on the flip chart: Firefighters visit Erie Collegiate six days before first students come down with jaundice.

“What exactly did you do there?” Hamish asked the chief.

“I spoke to them at an assembly,” the chief said. “You know, the dos and don'ts of fire safety. And . . . and I explained how to draw up — and practise — a home fire-escape plan.”

“Did you demonstrate your equipment?” Hamish asked.

The chief chuckled. “That's the only thing that holds their attention.”

“What did you show them?” Natasha asked.

“Our boots, suits, helmets. That sort of thing. They won't let us bring our axes into schools.”

“Did you demonstrate the fire extinguishers?” Hamish asked.

“There'd be a riot if we didn't shoot off an extinguisher,” the chief confided.

Hamish swept his hand over his flat-top. “Interesting. Did anybody get sprayed?”

“No, no,” said the chief, looking embarrassed by Hamish's suggestion. “We're careful about that. We spray at a bucket full of logs. Makes a lot of noise, mind you. And all that white
CO
₂
gas looks impressive.” He looked for reassurance from his wife, but her attention was elsewhere. “For about a couple of minutes anyway, and then it disappears.”

“Aren't you forgetting something, Chief?” said the smart aleck among the uniforms at the back. “Couple of twin girls in the front row got their high heels sprayed. Remember how they shrieked?”

The chief turned as red as a traffic light. “But — but only for a second,” he stammered. “Didn't hurt them or nothing. And they were laughing about it by the time the assembly was over.”

Was this the link they were looking for? The next question was crucial: “Were any of your paramedics there?” Natasha asked.

The answer came back quickly. “No. Only firefighters. We don't take paramedics away from the station.”

Hamish looked colossally disappointed, arms tightly at his sides, eyes aimed at the linoleum. Was he even breathing? Then suddenly, his arms came up. “Did you give the kids anything? Or take anything from them?”

“Just a little booklet,” said the chief. “On fire prevention. Comes from Toronto. The Ontario Fire Marshall's office. Given to kids throughout the province.”

“Nothing else?” Hamish pressed. “You're sure?” He was waving in that camp way that overtook him when he got excited about a diagnosis. He'd finally warmed up. Oscar Wilde had broken free of the Tin Man.

The chief looked puzzled, uncertain, but shook his head all the same.

“Think carefully,” Hamish pressed again. “As I'm sure you understand, Chief, this is very important.”

Dyment raised his arms, palms up, and looked out at the audience. “What do you say, guys? Did we give them anything else?”

“Nah,” was the consensus from the uniforms at the back.

“Sure we did,” said a lone, male voice. It came from the side, from a well-built Adonis in a firefighter's jumpsuit. He was perched on the counter in front of the microwave. He looked about twenty-two. He'd rolled up his shirt to reveal his impressive biceps. He had a cute, freckled face, like Ron Howard as Richie on
Happy Days
reruns. “Remember?” he said. “The cheerleaders?”

A smirk slid across the face of the short guy at the back. “Couldn't forget them.”

“They wanted our special gum,” said the Richie lookalike. “Their supplier wasn't sure when his next shipment was coming in. The kids' stock had run out and they'd heard we used it too.”

What a funny choice of words, Natasha thought. Normally you chewed gum, you didn't use it. And why did it require a supplier?

“Good man,” Hamish said. “What sort of gum?”

Richie dug into his pocket and pulled out a small packet. He tossed it to Hamish, but he fumbled it, and it dropped to the floor. Natasha picked it up.

The label said
PRODUCT OF CHINA
and called Snooze-Free Gum:
KEEP YOU FROM DOZING WHILE IT FRESHEN YOUR BREATH
. Though she'd bought lots of gum in her time, she'd never seen anything like this. The wrapper was the sort of beige that would never attract attention on a store shelf, and the printing was in a plain typewriter font. She turned the packet over. The active ingredients were listed as caffeine, taurine, and ginkgo biloba. A warning caught her eye:
THIS PRODUCT CONTAIN NATURALLY BOOSTED GINKGO AMENTOFLAVONE. NOT MEANT FOR PROLONGED USAGES. ASK DOCTOR BEFORE USING FOR MORE THAN THREE DAYS IN ROWS.