As I waited impatiently for five hours to pass, I couldn’t help but pat the inside breast pocket of my jacket, which contained an envelope of two hundred one-hundred-dollar bills. If I had to bribe someone, or pay for some information, I wanted to be prepared. I knew it wasn’t enough to buy a politician, of course. Well, maybe a Conservative senator.
I took a cab from the Ottawa airport to the Hotel Chateauvert. When I was as ensconced as one could be at a big city hotel, I decided to play a long shot. Would Cliff Ernhardt’s home number be unlisted? It was not. So, assuming the guy was at work, I dialed the number. Bingo! The answering machine answered with the unmistakable warm and friendly voice that I’d heard on the tapes. Progress had been made.
Then I set off to do some errands. I had a 3:00 PM appointment with Lou Bernier, the features editor at the Ottawa Times and the man who had been Dougie’s boss.
But I had something to do first before I formally burst onto the Ottawa scene. I expected, intended actually, to stir up a bit of a tempest. And when things got really stormy, I wanted a snug little anchorage somewhere hidden away from searchers and seekers.
I’d Googled Ottawa rooming houses, so I took a cab into the Little Italy district. The houses were a bit on the shabby side but struggling to remain respectable. I got dropped off at Rochester Street and walked three blocks to 953 Adele Avenue. I rang the bell and when a chubby little bald guy came to the door, I said I’d like to look at the basement suite he’d advertised. He smiled and nodded and asked me to wait a moment while he fetched the key. He then led me around to the back of the house to the suite’s entrance. I noted that there was access to the back alley. Excellent. He led me inside, and I pretended to inspect everything thoroughly. After that charade I said I’d take it and gave him three months’ rent and a phony name, and I had my little hideaway. I told Bert, the landlord, that I was going out of town for a few weeks so wouldn’t move in right away. That was hunky-dory with him, so I waved goodbye and walked back toward Rochester.
I got to the Ottawa Times building just before three and didn’t have to wait long before being shown in to Lou Bernier’s office. He rose to shake my hand and said, “Mr. Swanson, I recognize you. Dougie had a picture of you and your wife on his desk.” He was a small, trim man, maybe fifty years old and neatly dressed in sports jacket, pressed flannel trousers, shirt, and tie. I didn’t know if that was old school or new school for a newsman. Maybe they didn’t have schools.
He sat down and gestured me into a chair. “As Dougie’s friend, you appreciate how really unfortunate his accident was. But we’ll miss him too. He was our best reporter. He had a real future ahead of him.”
“He left a bit of a hole, all right. And, of course, he left a lot of loose ends that I’m trying to tidy up. What can you tell me about the story he was working on?”
“Just the broadest outline. Political corruption, financial skulduggery at the highest levels. It’s an old story, really, but as long as they keep doing it we have to keep writing it.”
“I found some tapes of conversations with heavy hitters like Cliff Ernhardt. I’m guessing that Dougie recorded them secretly, and also that he had devised a really good cover, because I don’t think these guys realized they were talking to a reporter. They were far too open about what they were doing. Any idea who or what Dougie was posing as?”
“No, but a good reporter can get people to reveal some pretty dark stuff, especially if he does the Pierre Berton thing. You know, ‘I’m writing history and you’re in it.’ Very often ego trumps self-preservation.”
“Maybe, but Dougie sounded to me like he was playing a role. There was at least one other voice on the tapes aside from Ernhardt. A real player, someone with tremendous influence and connections and, I suspect, a colleague of Ernhardt’s. Who does Ernhardt run with outside of the PR arena?”
“There’s three types of major players in this town. There’s the spin doctors, of whom Ernhardt is the best, there’s the bagmen, most of whom I know and can introduce you to, and then there’s the fixers, the guys who put the deals together. They’re the ones that really run the show, but they stay in the shadows.”
“I see. Well, here’s my plan, Lou. I want to pursue Dougie’s story. The stuff I heard on those tapes was explosive. If I can pull it together, will you run the story?”
“Absolutely. Provided you can provide sufficient verification.”
“Second question. If I can claim to be a reporter for the Times, it would make everything a lot easier. Is that cool with you?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Give me some time to think about that one. I’ve got cousins back in Truro that are fishermen. It’s not so much that they ignore rules. They don’t really realize that there are rules. And if something gets in between where they are and where they want to be, there’s often collateral damage. But maybe you West-Coast fishermen are a little more, uh, restrained?”
“Lou, restraint is my middle name.” I thought about telling him how often I’d been restrained, but somehow that didn’t strike the reassuring tone I was looking for. “Think it over and I’ll call you tomorrow. This could be the story of the decade.”
“And there’s an interesting angle you may not be aware of. Have you heard of Gerry Steadman?”
The name rang a bell. “The guy that was murdered, right? Some big-time operator from Alberta.”
“That’s right. And he was tight with Ernhardt and his crowd until there was some kind of split. The cops have been talking to Ernhardt and some of his friends, and rumor has it that Ernhardt is starting to feel the heat. I’d be curious to know if Dougie had any material—notes or photos or tapes—that sheds light on the relationship between Steadman and Ernhardt.”
“There’s nothing here in the office? I presume he had a computer here?”
“We’ve been through it file by file. And there’s no paperwork either. Don’t forget, he’d been on a leave of absence, working entirely from home.”
“Right. I’m going to go through all his stuff with a fine-tooth comb. I’ll keep you posted.”
As I descended in the elevator, I thought about this new angle. If this murder was somehow linked to any of the people that Dougie had been talking to, it put things in a whole new light. Ernhardt was undoubtedly feeling pressure and that might give me some leverage to pry something out of him. But how to approach him? I needed more background information—and some credentials courtesy of Lou Bernier. As it turned out, I provided my own credentials.
It was only four so I grabbed a cab to the storage facility holding all of Dougie’s possessions. I found the correct container, unlocked the door and walked in. I looked around at not a lot of stuff: boxes of paper and books, a desktop computer plus a laptop, a filing cabinet, a few pieces of furniture, and, leaning against a wall, Dougie’s yellow Yamaha dirt bike. Well, I thought, at least I won’t have to take cabs anymore.
I started with one of the cardboard boxes full of papers and notebooks. There were printouts of all the stories Dougie had written, bundled up with the relevant notebooks and associated documents. The first box contained nothing related to the current story. Neither did any of the other boxes.
He must have had notes, I thought. Where the hell are they? An image of Phil Davis, notorious tape thief, crossed my mind. If they’d wanted the tapes, presumably they’d want any other incriminating stuff as well. Which meant they might very well try to search Dougie’s stuff just as I was doing. However, they obviously hadn’t found this place yet, because the computers were still here. I strapped Dougie’s laptop to the pannier on the back of the dirt bike, wheeled it outside, locked the door of the container and rode well over the speed limit back to the hotel. I left the bike in the hotel’s underground parking, leaning in a corner inaccessible to four-wheeled vehicles.
Back in my room, I looked through the Yellow Pages for private-investigation agencies. I picked one that didn’t use the word discreet in its ad, because I thought that at a good agency,
discretion was a given.
I phoned Capital Investigative Services and explained that I had rented a storage container to store some valuable stuff, I had reason to believe it might be broken into, and therefore I wanted it watched, starting now, and if it was broken into, the perpetrator should be discreetly followed to his lair. I gave them my credit card number, and they assured me they would get right on it.
Pleased with myself, I phoned home and had a diverting conversation with Ren, who had just mastered bike riding, and with Daiki, who had discovered the wondrous world of Sherlock Holmes, and finally with Oshie, whose voice negated the miles between us. I told her of my progress and she was pleased. I told her I missed her and she reciprocated. Then I said goodbye, and contact with my extended self came to an end.
I phoned room service and ordered a clubhouse sandwich and two Heinekens, then plugged in Dougie’s laptop while I waited. He had told me his password years earlier, and I had no trouble remembering it. Kaleva capers.
When my food came, I ate while searching through Dougie’s files for anything connected with the story he had spent the last three months of his life working on. There wasn’t a goddamned thing. I checked his e-mail. Nothing from Cliff Ernhardt, Gerry Steadman, or any other name I recognized. I wondered if any had been deleted. I wondered how you would tell. I wondered if it was bedtime. At least I had an answer to that.
The next morning I had to drink four cups of coffee before I judged it was a reasonable time to phone Lou Bernier. When I got through to him, he had good news. “Ollie, I’m taking a risk here, but I want Dougie’s story. I’m going to team you up with one of our young guns, kid by the name of Alex Porter. He’ll pose as an intern, so the two of you have an excuse for appearing together. But in reality he’ll be calling the shots. You okay with that?”
“Lou, that’s great. Thanks. I’m too restrained to say anything more.” I’m sure he almost chuckled.
“Just remember, you’re representing me and the Ottawa Times. And any breach of good journalistic practice could queer the story. Now, Alex will be here about ten. Why don’t you come down and meet him?”
“I’ll be there.”
I hung up and referred to my to-do list. Then I phoned Corporal Mayhew of the OPP. When he came on the line, I said, “Hi, it’s Ollie Swanson. You assisted me with the search for my friend, Dougie Tarkenen.”
“I recall that. How can I help you?”
I phrased my words cautiously. “Without sounding alarmist, I just wanted to make you aware that there may, just may, be more to Dougie’s disappearance than a typical canoe accident. He was working on a big story for the Ottawa Times that would have exposed some very important people. They are worried enough that they stole some of Dougie’s tapes that I’d found. And the same people Dougie was talking to may be involved with Gerry Steadman’s murder. I’m just telling you this so that if you come across anything connected, you’ll know what to connect it to.”
There was a pause. He spoke hesitantly. “There was something a bit strange. After you left, the canoe was taken to the SAR compound in the park. We had to do something with it, so it was left there with other miscellaneous stuff and then sort of forgotten about. One night a warden got back from a patrol a little late and surprised a guy, he thought, trying to steal the canoe. The guy ran off, and when the warden took a closer look, he saw that the guy had been unscrewing the boards that form the seats. It was if he was looking for something. Anyway, he phoned me and I went down there and took all the boards off, but there was nothing underneath but the Styrofoam that provides flotation.”
“That fits,” I said. “Someone is desperate to find any material that Dougie had accumulated to support his story. I’m back in Ottawa now, looking into all this. You can reach me at the Hotel Chateauvert.”
“Thanks for the tip. I’ll keep in touch. And I’ll pass your name on to the team investigating the Steadman murder. Don’t be surprised if you get a call from them.”
“Okay, Corporal. Thanks for your help.”
I hung up and considered. I seemed to be in a race with Phil Davis and whoever he worked for to find material that Dougie may or may not have hidden. Surely, you’d think, I would have the advantage because of my knowledge of Dougie and his habits. But I seemed to be missing something.
By then it was nine thirty, so I grabbed my jacket and headed for the Ottawa Times building. I eschewed the bike because I planned to end up at the storage container and pack some stuff back to my hotel. I took a cab, and during the ten-minute ride I wondered what Alex Porter would be like.
He was twenty-six years old but looked nineteen. He was a big kid, but he had sort of an earnest stoop that made him look very nonthreatening, like he wanted to be your friend. He wore glasses and dressed nerdishly, which probably worked to his advantage. He didn’t have an office, just a desk in the chaotic newsroom, so we went out for coffee and a chat.
Seated across from one another in a coffee joint that refused to serve a plain coffee, Alex looked at me nervously. “I know everyone says this, but I was really sorry to hear about Dougie’s accident. He helped me a lot when I was a complete greenhorn. I wouldn’t have got as far as I have without his help.”
“He was a good guy. I’d love to finish his story for him. But I’m having a hell of a time finding the work in progress or whatever you’d call it. After finding those tapes, I haven’t found anything else at all.”
Alex nodded slowly. “You’d think there’d be something, notes or a journal. Dougie was meticulous about stuff like that. We’ll have to think that through.”
“Tell me, were there people he hung around with—girlfriends, men friends, anybody he was close to?”
Alex shook his head. “He wasn’t really close to anyone, as far as I know. He wasn’t unfriendly, but he was totally committed to his work. I was probably as close to him as anyone.”
That was pretty much what I’d expected to hear. “So anyway, tell me about the Steadman murder. I haven’t really been following it.”
He leaned forward. “Okay, Steadman was sort of a shadowy figure. Not a lot is known about him. He had what is euphemistically called a consulting business in Calgary, but he wasn’t from Alberta. We’re trying to trace his roots.
“Whenever he came to Ottawa, which was a lot lately, he took a suite at the Château Laurier. He’d entertain Ernhardt and all the big Conservative Party wheelers and dealers. The rumor was that he represented offshore interests, and he splashed a bit of money around. The political whores were circling like hungry sharks, to mix a metaphor. At 9:00 PM on July 3, he phoned room service for a bottle of wine. The waiter took it up and heard a loud argument going on. He recognized Steadman’s voice but not the other. He knocked. Steadman came to the door, took the wine, tipped the guy and closed the door. The waiter never really saw the inside of the room.
“In the morning, room service took his breakfast up at eight, standard arrangement. Knocked, no answer. Opened the door and saw Steadman lying on his back in the middle of the room, blood on his shirt, apparently dead. The gun was just inside the door, probably dropped there by the shooter as he left.
“The cops were called and staff interviewed. Someone had seen Cliff Ernhardt walk into the lobby around eight the previous evening. He admitted he went up to see Steadman but said he left at eight thirty. The investigation continues. It’s hot and it’s juicy and lots of big names are running scared.”
“Why?”
“Because Steadman was greasing palms, apparently to pave the way for some legislation he wanted. Anything of that nature that comes out during the investigation would be political dynamite. It could influence the next election.”
I thought things over for a moment. “If Ernhardt did it, what’s his motive?”
“I don’t know, but these guys deal in some serious payola. Whenever you’ve got that sort of loose change kicking around, you’ve got a motive for all kinds of things.”
I thought some more. “If Ern
hardt shot Steadman, he’d have powder residue on his hands. Surely the cops could rule him in or out.”
Alex nodded approval. “Ernhardt just happens to belong to the Royal Reserves Shooting Club. He’d been potting targets the morning of the murder.”
“Okay, here’s what I’ve got: one of the two voices on the tapes, aside from Dougie’s, was Ernhardt. We need to identify the other voice. And there could be others as well. I didn’t listen to all of the tapes. Which is why we have to get them back. And the OPP officer who organized the search for Dougie told me that someone tried to mess with his canoe, apparently searching for something. What I would recommend is that we go out to the storage container where all Dougie’s stuff is and start going through it. I started yesterday but didn’t get very far.”
He nodded. “Let’s take my car.”
As we drove out to the storage compound I explained that I’d arranged to have it watched. “Let’s see how good they are.” When we got out of the car and approached the container, I couldn’t see any watchers. Either they were very good or complete frauds.
Inside the container, I gestured at all the stuff. “Yesterday I went through all those boxes. Nothing. There was a laptop, which I took back to my hotel. Nothing. We’ll take the computer when we leave, but in the meantime, why don’t you start on the filing cabinet and I’ll start tearing the furniture apart looking for something he might have hidden.”
Alex was agreeable so we commenced. I found nothing, but Alex found a couple of things. Jammed in with a folder of household bills was a handwritten note from Cliff Ernhardt to Gerry Steadman.
Mr. Steadman:
I dropped by your hotel today, mainly to thank you for your incredible generosity. Unfortunately, you weren’t in. I’ve left this note at the desk in the hope that you receive it before four this afternoon.
The Fourth Betrayal Page 7
