by Gail Bowen
“Did you buy that?”
“I don’t know. I may be a fallen-away Catholic, but I’ve always had an endless supply of guilt.” Jill flexed her long, freckled, ringless fingers. “Do you want to hear something weird?” she said. “There was a point in my relationship with Graham when I really believed he was Mr. Right.”
I was incredulous. “How could that happen?”
“As soon as you told me that Slater Doyle had played you the tape of Ian and me, I knew the shining new life I was planning to build with you and your family would never happen. I’ve never felt so alone. But Graham was there, attentive, flattering, and apparently willing to pick up the pieces.” Jill closed her eyes. “And you know the rest. My knight in shining armour turned out to be a monster who tried to kill me.”
“Because he realized you’d given me the information about his phone call with Slater Doyle.”
Jill frowned. “That’s what I thought at first. Everything happened so fast, but I’ve had time to think since I got here. Jo, Graham never even mentioned his phone call with Slater Doyle. All he cared about was getting my phone itself. I didn’t have it. After I talked to you I went for a run in Victoria Park. When I couldn’t find the phone in my hotel room, I assumed I’d lost it on my run. I was on my way out the door to retrace my steps when Graham burst in demanding that I hand over my phone. I told him I didn’t have it, and I was just about to go looking for it. That’s when he went crazy. He said he knew I’d taken pictures. Apparently there’s a surveillance camera in the master bedroom and he’d seen me taking pictures of the safe and of the papers on his desk. At that point, he was raving, and I just wanted to get away from him. I apologized. I told him he could come with me to the park and when I found my camera, I’d hand it over to him. That’s when he began choking me.
“I was sure I was dying. I must have passed out. When I regained consciousness, I was naked, and he was raping me. He’d removed his hands from my throat. I was starved for oxygen. When he saw I was able to gasp for air, he choked me again. I don’t know how long it went on. Finally, I just slid into unconsciousness. That’s when he must have … done whatever he did to me.”
Jill was shaking violently. I put my arms around her shoulders and held her until her body calmed. “It’s over,” I said finally. “Graham Meighen will never hurt you or anyone else again. You won’t have to testify because there won’t be a trial. What Graham Meighen did to you is proof that he was a very sick man who killed once and tried to kill again. He had to be stopped. You have your story, Jill.”
“The story isn’t finished,” Jill said. “Jo, my phone’s over on the nightstand. Someone found it in Vic Park. The phone wasn’t locked so they checked my email address and got in touch with NationTV. Luke picked the phone up for me this afternoon. Until now, I didn’t want to look at it – too many memories.”
“But you’re ready now,” I said.
Jill nodded, then, heads touching, she and I looked through the pictures she’d taken at Graham’s home on Thanksgiving night. Several photos were of slips of paper she’d taken from a drawer in Graham’s desk. She said they didn’t make any sense – they were just numbers jotted down. But she’d noticed that one of the number sequences was repeated many times.
Jill indicated it with her fingertip. “Obviously those numbers were much on Graham’s mind. Can you see any significance there?”
“Yes,” I said. “These are the numbers Cronus sent with the photo of him, Zack and Brock. The afternoon before he died, Cronus asked me to take a buddy shot of him with Zack and Brock. I have no idea to whom he sent the picture, but when he tapped out the message he said a series of numbers out loud: “2-5-1-0-0-6. I assumed it was all one number, but Graham’s written the figures so they’re spaced. 25 10 06. Jill, we have to call Debbie Haczkewicz with this.”
“Give me one day,” Jill said. “This is my story. Let me try to work it out. Besides, it’s E-Day. You have a thousand things to do, and Graham’s dead. The police won’t be able to move as quickly on this as I can, and if I can get solid proof of what was really going on between Graham and Ridgeway, we might be able to sway some late voters. Give me one day to help before you go to the police.”
I stood. “All right, but first thing tomorrow morning, we’re going to Debbie.”
CHAPTER
18
On E-Day, time stands still. After months in which every minute is accounted for, there is suddenly nothing to do but wait. When I got back to the condo, I was dreading the long day ahead, but Zack and Taylor were at the breakfast table, seemingly oblivious to the larger world.
“Dad just made the best breakfast,” Taylor said. “I love Boursin au poivre in anything, but it is soooooo good in scrambled eggs.”
Zack pushed his chair back from the table. “I can make you some eggs,” he said.
“Thanks, but my stomach’s a little queasy. I’ll just have tea and toast.”
Zack frowned. “Are you coming down with something?”
“No. Telling Jill about Graham was rough, and the news seemed to jolt her memory about the assault. Anyway, I’m not sick. It’s just nerves.”
“After you have your toast, let’s go for a swim. That always relaxes you.”
“This really is a banner day,” I said. “That’s the first time you’ve ever actually volunteered to go for a swim.”
“I just want to watch you get into your bathing suit.”
Taylor coughed theatrically. “I’m still here, you know.”
“Duly noted,” Zack said. “Do you want a ride to school?”
Taylor’s lips twitched with mischief. “Are you trying to get me out of the way?”
“No flies on you,” Zack said. “But the drive to school is a time-sensitive offer, and the clock is ticking.”
Zack and I were in our robes and ready to go down to the pool when Milo called from downstairs.
Zack uttered his favourite expletive, but he buzzed Milo in. As always, Milo came in drumming, but when he saw that we were in our swimming gear, he stopped in his tracks. “You guys are going swimming,” he said.
“If you want to talk, we can wait,” Zack said amiably.
“Actually, what I’d like to do is have a swim,” Milo said. “I don’t suppose you have a spare suit around here.”
Zack shot me a warning look, but I ignored him. “I’ll get you one of Angus’s,” I said.
I found Milo a suit, a robe, and a towel, and told him the pool was in the basement, and we’d meet him there. When we got into the elevator Zack was still grumbling. “This swim was supposed to relax you,” he said. “Nobody can relax around Milo.”
“Tomorrow Milo will be gone,” I said. “It’ll be nice to have a little private time with him today. He’s been terrific, Zack.”
“I know,” Zack said. “He’s taken a lot of the burden off you, and for that I am very grateful. Where’s Milo going anyway?”
“To the next campaign,” I said. “It’s a congressional seat in Alabama. The current congressman got caught with his pecker in the pickle barrel, so there’s a special election. Milo’s candidate is slightly to the right of Genghis Khan.”
“That’ll be a one-eighty for him. Our campaign was pretty progressive.”
“Milo won’t miss a beat,” I said. “He’s a professional. He doesn’t have principles, he has very specialized skills. He’ll give his new candidate exactly the kind of loyalty and commitment he gave you.”
Zack’s smile was sheepish. “Kind of like a lawyer,” he said.
“Exactly,” I said.
Milo’s swimming was a surprise. He knifed into the pool, barely rippling the surface. Water was clearly Milo’s element. Swimming gave his wild, kinetic energy a conduit, and he moved with grace and power. For twenty minutes, side-by-side, the three of us did laps. Enveloped in our watery tranquil world, no one said a word. When we pulled ourselves out of the pool, the bond was still there. Then Milo shook the water from his head and turned to Z
ack and me. “That fucking fucker Meighen may have finally fucked us,” he said.
“How so?” Zack said.
Milo wrapped his thin body in his towel. “Meighen’s death gives Ridgeway a free pass for the day. Slater Doyle’s a douchebag, but he’s not stupid. By now he will have a called a press conference and he’ll be coaching his candidate, the homeroom monitor, on what he should say.”
“The homeroom monitor should be able to handle this assignment,” Zack said. All he needs to say is that people should remember that Meighen was innocent until proven guilty, and since nothing had been proven when he died, Meighen died an innocent man. As long as no one challenges him, he’ll be fine. And if he gets a tough question, he can always just choke up and run.”
Milo spent the rest of the morning at the Noodle House tweeting and checking voter turnout. Zack didn’t want to comment on the Meighen situation until after Scott Ridgeway’s press conference, so he and I kept a low profile, moving from poll to poll and thanking poll captains and volunteers. We were home in time for the noon news. Zack’s prediction that the mayor would crumble at the first probing question was prescient.
As he stepped before the microphones in his black suit, white shirt, and navy tie, the mayor was red-eyed, wan, and sombre. He read a prepared statement that was almost word for word what Zack had reeled off by the swimming pool. When he turned to leave, the media began to shout questions. Ridgeway looked startled, but he walked back to the microphones. A rangy young woman with a ponytail asked whether the Meighen case would remain on the books as still open.
The question seemed to stun Ridgeway. “But Graham’s dead,” he said.
The young woman had clearly done her homework. “My information is that the evidence the police have amassed against Graham Meighen points to ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ proof of his guilt in at least two major crimes.”
The mayor was exasperated. “Didn’t you hear me? Graham’s dead. Why would there be a trial?”
“So even though the evidence against Meighen hasn’t been tested before the courts, you’re in favour of putting the investigation to bed.”
The mayor’s eyes darted towards Slater Doyle. The intent of Doyle’s subtle headshake was clear. He was urging the mayor to say no, but Scott Ridgeway didn’t get the message. “I don’t know what I think,” he said. “All I know is that my friend is dead.” Then Ridgeway teared up and fled.
Milo had alerted the media that Zack and I would be voting in one of the gymnasia at Racette-Hunter at one o’clock, so they were ready with cameras and questions when we arrived. After we’d smiled for the obligatory “candidate and spouse entering the voting booth” photos, the questions began. Once again, the rangy young woman took the lead: “Did you see the mayor’s news conference?”
“I did,” Zack said.
“Any thoughts about why the mayor left the room rather than face questions about Graham Meighen’s activities since Labour Day?”
Zack shrugged. “The mayor’s campaign manager used to be a lawyer. I’m sure by now he’s reminded the mayor that depending on the evidence, the police might decide to push ahead with the investigation into Cronus’s murder, despite Mr. Meighen’s death. I’m sure Mr. Doyle has also reminded the mayor that if the case is still open, he shouldn’t comment on it. I’m a lawyer, so I won’t be commenting either. Thank you for coming out today. The photos of Joanne and me voting will be a nice souvenir.”
And with that, we went home to wait. The latest Insightrix Poll had Zack at 52 per cent of likely voters and Scott Ridgeway at 48 per cent. Way too close to call.
Margot had invited Brock, us, the kids, and the grandkids to eat and watch the results at her house. Margot’s caterer of choice was Evolution, and Aimee had outdone herself with the buffet. But the children were the only ones who had an appetite. Even Taylor, who was normally a trencherwoman, picked at her food and watched the clock, waiting for the polls to close.
Not long after eight, the numbers started to come in. The first results were from the south end, an area that was supposedly solid for Ridgeway, but Zack was doing surprisingly well. The east end was a disappointment. We thought we’d made real inroads, but apparently dog whistle politics had triumphed, and while Zack’s numbers there improved, they never surged. After the first half-hour the numbers came so quickly, we didn’t even bother writing them down.
Zack was getting the figures directly from Milo on Twitter. Hunched over his phone, peering through his reading glasses at the screen, Zack was a solitary figure. Several times I went over to massage his shoulders. He smiled absently and kept his eyes on the numbers.
At 9:25, with thirty-two of the thirty-two precincts reporting, Zack was ahead by 251 votes. Margot had muted the sound on the television. For a few minutes, we all just stared at the screen, but no matter how hard we stared, the numbers didn’t change.
Finally, Taylor walked over to Zack, kissed him, and said the unsayable. “It looks like you won, Dad.”
Zack took off his glasses and turned to me. “So now we wait for Ridgeway to concede.”
“And he may not,” I said. “Slater may want a recount.”
“Do you think he will?”
“I don’t, but what does Milo say?”
Zack checked Twitter. “There were 58,395 accepted votes. Milo thinks a lead of 251 should be enough.”
“I think so too,” I said. “But it’s their move. If I were Slater, I’d concede. If they want a recount, they’ll have to go to court. The process will drag on for days, and in the end, nothing will change. The count Milo gave us was of accepted votes. That means those 58,395 votes have already passed the smell test. Concession will give Ridgeway a dignified exit, and after a dirty campaign they could use a grace note.”
As always on election nights, Howard had been quiet, watching the numbers, assessing the possibilities. I turned to him. “What do you think?”
He didn’t hesitate. As Howard had reminded me during a sharp exchange about strategy during Zack’s campaign, he had been to the rodeo many times before. “They’ll concede,” he said. “Every sitting member of city council was defeated tonight. Scott Ridgeway was a puppet. He doesn’t have the brains or the stomach to deal with a council that will oppose him, even if the count did somehow prove to be wrong. And the money boys won’t be encouraging him to stay. They need a winner and Ridgeway lost.” Howard checked his watch. “9:45,” he said. “Jo, I’ll bet you a bottle of Crown Royal, Ridgeway will be onstage at the Travelodge within half an hour giving his concession speech.”
“You’re on,” I said. “Except we’re betting for a dozen Black and White cookies. Do you really think they’ll concede within half an hour?”
“Slater Doyle will be writing the speech, and it’s his last chance to fuck with our minds,” Howard said. “But he’s not stupid. He knows it’s over.”
At 10:10, Scott Ridgeway entered the convention room of the Travelodge to give his concession speech. The mayor appeared dazed. Slater Doyle came onstage with him and stood less than a metre away. As Ridgeway spoke, his eyes kept seeking Slater’s. The speech was good, but the sparse audience’s response was tepid. Howard had won his cookies.
When they left the stage, I turned off my phone. “That’s it,” I said. “Time to move.”
Zack wheeled towards the door. “I’ll get our jackets.”
Taylor leapt up. “I’ll help you, Dad.”
I looked around the room. Everyone was still awake. “Who’s up for the Pile O’ Bones?” I said.
Madeleine and Lena were the first to volunteer. “Tomorrow’s a school day,” Mieka said. The girls groaned. “Okay, this is a special occasion. Grab your coats.”
It was almost impossible to find parking around the club. I dropped Zack and Taylor off and began searching for a spot. After my third tour of the neighbourhood, I dug the handicapped sign out of the glove compartment, went back to the Pile O’ Bones, and nosed into a spot near the entrance.
Inside,
Zack and Taylor were still attempting to navigate through the crowd. Brock had joined them, but they weren’t having much success. People were hugging them and some were crying. It seemed everyone wanted to talk to the newly elected mayor and councillor. I was relieved when Howard, who had driven over in his own car, steered them purposefully towards the ramp that led to the stage.
It was already close to eleven and the next day was a workday. The sooner the speeches were over, the better. I saw that our family and Margot’s had gathered on the left side of the hall. I managed to push through the well-wishers to join them. When we were together, I gave Howard the high sign to get the evening underway.
Howard introduced Brock as the new councillor from Ward 6, and the crowd erupted. Brock’s speech was brief and gracious, then he introduced Zack. When the applause and whoops and hollers died down, Zack began by congratulating Scott Ridgeway for a spirited campaign. Predictably, there were boos and catcalls. Equally predictably, Zack quieted the grumbling and began.
“Tonight when we finally knew the election results, our seven-year-old granddaughter, Lena, said, ‘Well I’m glad that’s over.’ ” There was laughter. Zack joined in, then he continued. “I understand how she felt. I imagine you do too. It’s been a long, hard campaign. When we began, everybody wrote us off. The idea that a slate of populists could defeat an entrenched mayor and council seemed ludicrous. But we did it.
“And in the process, we reminded the citizens of Regina that rich or poor, Canadian-born or born elsewhere; Muslim, Hindu, Jew, Christian, agnostic or atheist; male or female; gay, straight, bi, or questioning, we are all in this together.
“Almost a hundred years ago, a man who was as wise as he was humane said, ‘What we desire for ourselves we wish for all.’ His words still resonate. We are a wealthy city that truly does have enough for all – enough money, enough food, enough work, enough challenges. And it seems we’re finally accepting the truth of that old adage: ‘My neighbour’s strength is my strength.’
