Tampered

by Ross Pennie

  “Hamish has still got his hands full at the Lodge,” Zol said.

  “I wanted to thank him. Betty’s a bit better today. Turning the corner, I’d say.”

  Zol smiled, sharing Art’s relief, then pointed to the sandwich in Art’s hand. “Should you be eating that?”

  “Why not? I love Italian salami.” His eyes twinkled as he touched the side of his nose. “Sometimes Gus sneaks it into the Lodge for us.”

  “I don’t recall you including any deli meats in your food questionnaire, Art.”

  Art put down the sandwich as a guilty look came over his face. Zol couldn’t tell whether the old guy felt embarrassed about his fading memory or guilty about an intentional deception. “I should have told you about tea time in the upstairs library. I’m sorry. I guess I forgot about the snacks.”

  Zol studied Art’s benign face, the permanent sparkle in his clear grey eyes, and chose to believe that the reading-room salami had slipped the dear fellow’s mind.

  Zol pulled out his cellphone, suddenly blaring in his pocket. The screen said Trinnock, Peter. He backed away. The boss was calling from home. On Saturday afternoon. He pressed Talk and braced himself.

  “Szabo? What the hell are you up to? I just got another call from the PMO.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, ‘oh.’”

  Zol let Trinnock’s sarcasm hang between them. That usually stopped it from escalating.

  “What can I tell them?” Trinnock continued, his tone not quite so harsh.

  “We may have found the pathogen responsible for the outbreak.”

  “Damn it, man. Why didn’t you call me? Let me know immediately?”

  “We’re still in the process of unravelling the story. And the Feds are so touchy about listeria these days that —”

  “Listeria? These old people are dying of listeria? Just like the fiasco last year in that meat-packing plant? For God’s sake, Szabo, you better have your facts iron-clad before you —”

  “Don’t worry, sir. I’m being very careful.”

  “Is it time to call in the Food Inspection Agency? Let them take over from here?”

  The last thing Zol needed was the CFIA descending upon Camelot and Viktor Horvat. Those federal boys and girls would drive Vik and his counterfeit operation into hiding immediately, and no one would ever get to the bottom of his drug scheme. More and more, it seemed the listeria and the phony meds were intimately connected.

  “We don’t need the CFIA just yet, sir. Camelot meets all federal and provincial food-handling guidelines.” Well, except for the recycled salami sandwiches, but he wasn’t going to go into the details. He’d sort things out with Gus this afternoon. “We’ve put a stop to further C diff cases, and . . . and we think we’ve found a possible source of the listeria.”

  “You think you found a possible source? That sort of language doesn’t fill me with confidence, my boy.”

  “I’ve got our own experts on the case.” Colleen was tailing Horvat, and Hamish would soon be using bacterial genetics to prove that the listeria came from the sandwiches misappropriated from Waste Not.

  “I want a full report on Monday. Ten a.m. My office. I can’t stall the PMO any longer than that.”

  Suddenly, there was commotion to the right. Two men in grey business suits, taller than Zol, huge mandibles, fresh buzz cuts — one dark, one blond — were plowing their way through the crowd. They locked Zol with their eyes and two seconds later were crowding either side of him, practically standing on his toes. Their breaths were hot with peppermint, but the gum didn’t disguise the musky odour of taco sauce and testosterone. Zol closed his phone and dropped it into his pocket.

  “We need to talk to you,” said the one with dark, deep-set eyes and a white scar above his lip.

  “Who are you?”

  “Just come with us.”

  Zol’s heartbeat shot up twenty points. Had Hamish caved and called someone, reported Horvat prematurely? Had Horvat fingered Zol to his cronies? Horvat had never seen Zol face to face, but it would be easy to dig up a photo of Dr. Zol Szabo, public-health crusader. Half a minute with Google would do it. Health-unit docs were cited throughout the Internet. That’s what the job was about — making waves. He’d been criticized, even vilified, by irate mothers and paranoid politicians. But never threatened by hired guns.

  His tongue was so thick he could hardly speak. His eyes swept the room for safety in numbers. “No. I’m staying right here.”

  They whipped out their badges and business cards. Shoved them in his face.

  RCMP.

  Oh, no. The PMO was muscling in, just like he’d feared. Their timing was terrible. They were going to ruin everything.

  The cards flashed so fast that Zol didn’t notice the officers’ ranks, though he didn’t miss their names. The blond one was Gretzky, the dark one with the scar through his lip was Crosby. They must be aliases; those names would never appear side by side in real life except in a hockey lineup. Were they allowed to use fake ID when questioning a public official? Or was this some sort of covert action, masquerading as RCMP but masterminded by CSIS, the Canadian Security Intelligence Service? Yes, the Prime Minister’s Office was behind this.

  “In the next room,” said Crosby.

  “But . . .”

  “Let me put it this way, you don’t want to make this difficult.”

  “Okay, okay. But I’m not leaving the building.”

  The two men guided Zol into the adjacent parlour, marching him between them shoulder to shoulder. The room was deserted. It seemed they’d commandeered it already. Gretzky shut the door and dragged an armchair in front of it.

  The room began to spin. Zol could barely keep upright. The back of his shirt felt cold and wet. He steadied himself against a stand holding a spray of flowers. He breathed in the revolting pungency of the lilies — as jarring as smelling salts — but it did nothing to clear his head.

  If this wasn’t the PMO in action, it must be Francine. Had she sicced the RCMP on him in a bid to steal custody of Max? That was it — she was accusing Zol of fraud or neglect or something worse. Pedophilia? She must be back on the continent. In one of those ashrams in British Columbia, the Kootenays or Vancouver Island. She’d lived in a string of communes in Asia for the past eight years, ever since the day she’d stormed out, leaving ten-month-old Max alone in the house. She hadn’t called in months, not since she’d threatened to take Max to Toronto for an unsupervised visit, court order or not.

  Gretzky pointed to the sofa and said, “Have a seat.”

  “We got a few questions,” Crosby added, pulling a notepad from his jacket pocket.

  “Who’s the short babe with the camera and the long ponytail?” said Gretzky.

  Yes, Francine was behind this. She’d found out Colleen was staying over. Not that it needed to be a secret. The divorce had come through years ago. The witch must be claiming that Colleen, a private eye, was a toxic influence. No, it couldn’t be. For the RCMP to be involved, the allegations must be horrendous. Francine had always had a morbid fear of the devil. Was she accusing Zol and Colleen of Satanism?

  Hell, was he never going to be rid of her?

  “She’s . . . she’s a private investigator,” Zol said.

  Gretzky was asking the questions. “And her name?”

  “Um . . . Woolton. Colleen Woolton.”

  “What’s your relationship?”

  “She . . . works for me.”

  Gretzky raised an eyebrow.

  “Consultant,” Zol added. His tongue was so dry that he could barely spit out one syllable at a time.

  The men each pulled up a chair and positioned themselves directly in front of Zol. They were enjoying watching him squirm.

  “Look,” Zol said, “does this have anything to do with my personal life? With my ex-wife?”

  Gretzky smirked. “You tell us.”

  “I haven’t seen my ex in eight years. The last I heard she was living in India. She’s got nothing to d
o with . . . with Camelot Lodge.”

  Crosby shrugged and shot a knowing smile, then looked at Gretzky. They both had exes in their pasts. “Works for us.”

  “What do you know about Augusto Oliveira?” Gretzky asked.

  “Who?”

  “Calls himself Gus.”

  Gus? Oh, of course. “Um . . . He’s the son-in-law of the deceased.”

  “A friend of yours?”

  “No.”

  “Then what are you doing at his mother-in-law’s funeral?”

  “He’s the handyman at Camelot Lodge, a retirement residence. My grandfather lives there.”

  “Camelot,” Gretzky said. “That’s the place. Looks like a castle. Fancy neighbourhood at the bottom of the Mountain.”

  Only Hamiltonians called the Niagara Escarpment “the Mountain.” Gretzky was from the local detachment.

  “Handyman, eh?” Crosby said. “Lots of construction projects? Major renovations?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Crosby’s scarred lip curled into a sneer. “Come off it. Where’s he stashing the building supplies?”

  Zol balled the Kleenex in his suit-coat pocket between his sweaty fingers. He could barely stop from pulling out the tissue and ripping it to shreds. But there was no point in showing Gretzky and Crosby how nervous he was. Hell, they could probably smell it off him anyway. “No idea.”

  “Don’t give us that,” Gretzky said.

  “I’ve got nothing to give you.”

  Gretzky stiffened and let out a rumbling sigh. “The goods, man. We know there’s criminal activity being perpetrated at that old-people’s place.”

  How much should he tell them? Should he spill everything? Luncheon-meat sandwiches misappropriated from a respectable charity, recurrent listeria infections in a subset of residents tied to a federal political party, empty antibiotic capsules and counterfeit antihypertensives? Then what would these guys do? Stomp into Camelot with their Tasers? Storm into Steeltown Apothecary and ruin any chance of catching Horvat red-handed?

  Zol pushed himself back farther onto the sofa and let the cushions take the weight of his back and shoulders. This had nothing to do with Max, the core of his life. It was only about work. He could cope with that. He wiped the sweat from his hands with the ball of Kleenex. He bored his gaze into Gretzky’s chiselled face.

  “Tell us what you know about Joe Medeiros,” Gretzky demanded.

  Now that Max was out of the equation, Crosby and Gretzky had lost their bite. Zol shook his head. “Don’t know him.”

  Crosby pulled a photo from his inner jacket pocket and thrust it at Zol. “Sure you do. He hangs out at Camelot.”

  Zol studied the photo. The face looked familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Then he pictured the right eye swollen and blood streaming from the forehead and he knew who it was. “Oh. That’s Joe. The nephew.”

  “Whose nephew?”

  “Um . . . Gloria’s, I think.”

  “What do you know about him?” Gretzky asked.

  “He’s a visitor. From Portugal. Got in a car accident three or four days ago. He’s here at the funeral, but you’d never recognize him with his face banged up. You can talk to him yourselves. His English is perfect.”

  Now that Zol didn’t feel like the target, the words were stumbling more easily out of his mouth. He tightened his fists and reminded himself to be careful. Gretzky and Crosby were undercover for some reason, and they could scupper his own investigation.

  Crosby flipped his notepad to a fresh page. “What do you know about his frequent trips between Canada and Europe?”

  Things suddenly started to make sense. These guys were RCMP drug squad. They must be hot on the heels of that drug bust in Escarpment Country out near Kilbride. The front section of the Spec had been full of the story all week. The cops had uncovered a crystal meth factory on a rundown old farm, but hadn’t nabbed anyone.

  “If you’re asking if I’ve seen anything to suggest that the Oliveiras are in the drug trade, the answer is no.” If he was right about the crystal meth connection, neither Gretzky nor Crosby showed it on his face.

  “Have you noticed anything suspicious about Joe’s behaviour? Or his uncle’s?” Crosby asked, his pen poised over his notepad.

  Zol clamped his jaw and fixed his gaze on the door, still blocked by the armchair.

  Suspicious? Hell, he could give them suspicious. He could spill it all and be done with it. But . . . whether these guys were CSIS, or RCMP, or a couple of thugs from the local criminal families, he was going to keep his mouth shut.

  Could he maintain a neutral face and flat-out lie to Gretzky and Crosby?

  He’d do his damndest.

  CHAPTER 28

  An hour later, outside Betty McKenzie’s room on the Mountain Wing, Zol shrugged out of the black suit coat he’d worn to the funeral. He rolled up his sleeves, still tacky from the sweat of his interrogation. His tongue was dry as the Gobi. It would have been easier to cave, to spill everything to the two bullies, whoever they were. But he’d put up a wall and stood behind it. Despite their badgering, they had no inkling about Horvat, didn’t even mention his name, which had made it easier to tell them nothing about the events at the Lodge that bothered him most.

  But how much information would the Mounties turn up on their own? And when would they be back?

  “You okay?” Hamish asked him. “You look terrible. Funerals always affect you like that?”

  “Just tired, I guess.” He was in no mood to tell Hamish about the goons.

  Hamish’s isolation gown cast a yellow glow of jaundice to his pale skin and bloodshot eyes. Last night’s beers, and whatever else Hamish had got up to, had taken their toll.

  “That’ll be Art,” Hamish said as the elevator pinged. “His daily visit with Betty. Will you get him gowned up?”

  Zol fastened Art’s isolation gown at his neck and tucked the trailing edge between Art’s skinny thighs and the scooter seat. More than ever, the old man was showing his age. Funerals did that to you, Zol reckoned, especially when you were over ninety. The solemn service brought you face to face with the possibility that the next person lying in the coffin would be you. And such thoughts were bound to show in the creases on your face.

  As Zol followed Art into Betty’s room, he was struck by a sudden wistfulness. He’d never known either of his grandfathers. The Second World War had consumed them both, consigned them to unmarked graves somewhere in Europe. No funerals. No burials. Just open-ended grief. Their widows, his grandmothers, had lived the rest of their frugal lives in Budapest, imprisoned behind the Iron Curtain. As a child in Ontario, Zol imagined the curtain as a giant wall encircling his grey-haired Nagymamas. In the rare photos sent from Hungary, he’d looked in vain for soldiers and a barbed-wire barricade. The letters with the bold Magyar stamps stopped coming sometime in the eighties, before he became a teenager.

  Zol handed Art two vinyl gloves and squeezed into a pair of his own, afraid the flimsy things might rip. Large was never large enough, and the nurses didn’t put out boxes of XL. Hamish had no trouble slipping on the smalls.

  Art took Betty’s blue-veined hand. She seemed tiny, swallowed up by the hospital bed. “You’re looking a little better, my love,” he said.

  “Only a little?” She pushed wisps of silvery hair from her pallid cheek, then extended her arm towards Hamish. “How am I doing, Doctor?”

  Hamish hesitated, then glanced at Zol and said, “We’ll soon have you dining on . . . on filet mignon.”

  Zol stiffened at the false note in his friend’s tone. They both knew she had a long way to go before she could eat solid food.

  “Thank you, Dr. Wakefield,” Betty said. “I think I’m getting there.”

  Hamish looked away, then turned his attention to Betty’s tubes. Zol could see him subtly checking the labels on the IV bag, the rate of the infusion, the volume in her urine container, the moisture on her tongue, the temperature of her brow, the distension of her belly, the
pained look in her eyes when he pressed on the four quadrants of her abdomen. They’d already reviewed her chart and seen that the frequency of her diarrhea had decreased. Only three stools since midnight. Was that a minor triumph or a signal that the intestines were giving up, injured beyond repair?

  Zol studied the rainbow of get-well cards displayed on the windowsill. “A lot of fan mail there, Betty. Once you’re up and about, you’ll have your hands full with correspondence.”

  Her eyes dipped modestly. “It’s nice to be remembered, even after all these years.”

  “A lifetime of friends and associates in high places,” Zol continued.

  “Most of the old friends are gone. But the party machine still remembers. And they know I’m writing my memoirs. They must think cards and chocolates will keep me from soiling their reputations.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” Art said. “They have nothing to worry about. Your stories aren’t salacious. No bedroom scandals.”

  She touched her finger to the side of her nose as her eyes brightened. “It is a minority parliament, remember. So they’re nervous over rumours about a certain former PM’s noontime indiscretions, which only his former assistant knows about for sure.”

  Art squeezed her hand through his gloves, the vinyl an ugly barrier between them. But there was no mistaking the love in his eyes. “You’re making an important contribution to the nation’s history.”

  “Thank you, Art dear,” she said. “But you know how skittish politicians can be. When it got around that the old den mother was writing a book, they became as edgy as a bunch of cats.”

  “You haven’t been threatened, have you?” Zol said.

  “Oh no. Though I hear they are a little unsettled in the PMO. Wish I’d taken up crocheting afghans instead of writing books.”

  “Are you still in touch?” Zol asked.