The God Game

by Jeffrey Round

  “That’s not what Bradley’s colleagues tell us,” the officer said, thumbing through a pad of handwritten notes. He turned to Dan. “It says here you were overheard threatening Mr. Bradley in his office a week ago —”

  “They were not credible threats,” Will interjected. “Mr. Sharp had no reason to wish harm on Mr. Bradley.”

  The officer picked up the envelope with Hansen’s money. “You don’t call this reason enough?”

  “Mr. Sharp has already indicated the money you found in his office safe is —”

  “A substantial amount of money.”

  “As you keep repeating, Officer Boychuk. And, as Mr. Sharp has explained, it was being held in safekeeping for his client, Peter Hansen, as a down payment for finding Mr. Hansen’s husband. It has nothing to do with Simon Bradley.”

  “We haven’t been able to reach Hansen yet to confirm this.” Boychuk gave Dan a skeptical look. “Do you always get paid that much money for a search, Mr. Sharp? Hell, I’ll leave this dump in a second and come and join you if you do.”

  Dan shook his head. “It was an advance. I told Mr. Hansen it was too much.”

  “Then why not just give it back to him?”

  “He’d already gone by then. I didn’t look in the envelope till later.”

  The officer feigned confusion. “Don’t you normally sign contracts with your clients?”

  “Normally, yes. He showed up at my office without warning. When I said we needed a contract, he refused one.”

  Boychuk looked pleased, the cat catching an unobservant mouse. “How could you tell him there was too much money if he was already gone?”

  “I called his cellphone.”

  “I see.” He shrugged. “Did you at least offer him a receipt?”

  “Yes. He refused that too.”

  “Funny kind of client.”

  “Tell me about it. I said I would hold the money in my safe until I had concluded the job and we would work out the details then.”

  The officer harrumphed. “Must be a rich guy, this Mr. Hansen.”

  “I couldn’t say. I get hired by poor people, too. My terms are on my website. Mr. Hansen told me he’d read them before approaching me. As I said, he dropped the envelope on my desk and left before I counted the money. I hadn’t formally accepted the job. I told him I would think about it and let him know.”

  “You have an awfully casual attitude to what you get paid, is all I can say.”

  Will’s hand came down on the desk. “My client hasn’t denied having the money. What you think of it is your problem. Unless you have any further questions …?”

  Boychuk picked up his notepad and stared hard at Dan. “Don’t leave town till I say you can.”

  They were on the sidewalk outside the police station. Traffic rushed past and pedestrians eyed gaps between cars, calculating the risk of jaywalking. A few of the spryer ones managed, the others heading for the crosswalk.

  “Thank you for rescuing me,” Dan said.

  Will brushed it aside. “I’m just glad you’re still talking to me after the other day.”

  “I thought about it. I realized I put you in a delicate position. Still, I have to say I was a little taken aback when Steve Ross showed up.”

  “He insisted. He said he was an old friend of yours.”

  Dan managed a smile. “‘Friend’ is the last word I’d use. We were acquainted once upon a time.”

  Will nodded. “You’d probably be more surprised to know just how far his reach extends. Especially when it comes to government matters.”

  “Maybe, but I won’t be so naïve next time. It won’t happen again, I can assure you.”

  “For your sake, I hope not. Anyway, that’s in the past. We have other fish to fry, as they say.” He gave Dan a searching look. “Any idea why Hansen would pay you so much money and insist on doing it in cash?”

  “Are you suggesting he planned on killing Simon Bradley and then pinning it on me?”

  “Maybe not, but it certainly makes you look suspicious. I don’t like it.”

  “I can’t help that. Hansen thought he was buying discretion with that money, which is funny considering he’s a public figure and news of his missing husband is all over the media. And that had nothing to do with me either, in case you’re wondering.”

  “I wasn’t wondering, Dan. I know you better than that. Unless you’ve changed a lot in the last decade.”

  “I’m still gullible, it seems.”

  Will smiled for the first time since he’d arrived at the station. “I always thought you were too trusting. You believe in human goodness. It’s what I remember most about you from when we worked those help lines together.”

  “Is that such a bad thing?”

  “Not necessarily, but I’d overhear you trying to convince callers they weren’t as bad as they said they were. In my experience, when someone tells me not to trust them or does anything that makes me wary, I don’t try to argue them out of it.”

  He pulled out a cigarette. Dan thought of Donny, glad to know there was at least one other person in the city who stuck to his convictions, no matter what.

  Will took a drag and nodded at Dan. “Do you think Hansen will deny giving you the money?”

  “If he does it’s his word against mine, but I doubt it. He’s running for office next year. I don’t think he’d want a public fight over something like this. It would make him look too shady.”

  “Whereas if he gets publicity for having hired you to find his husband, it would make him look like a guy who’d do anything for family.” Will gave him a knowing look. “Not a bad bit of publicity, when it comes down to it.”

  Dan stared at him. “You don’t really think … you don’t believe Hansen set me up for a publicity stunt, do you?”

  “There you go being all naïve and conscientious again. But no, I don’t really believe he could have foreseen all this. Even if he killed Simon Bradley himself —” He stopped. “Let’s not go down that road. Politicians may be liars, but they’re usually not murderers.”

  “Simon Bradley wasn’t convinced of that. He believed John Wilkens was killed to prevent him from hurting Alec Henderson’s career prospects. He knew Henderson would be running for a federal seat in the next election before it was announced. Do you think there’s even a remote chance Henderson had Simon Bradley killed?”

  “Not a credible theory, Dan.” Will pulled on his cigarette, exhaled, and watched the smoke disappear. “Look, leave Henderson alone and don’t mess around with CSIS. Believe me, you will not win. If they say John Wilkens killed himself then that’s the story we’re all going with right now. Maybe sometime in future …” He shrugged. “I’ll get you out of this. I promise. Just don’t make things worse. And I can get your money back fast. No need to wait on it.”

  “The money is the least of my concerns,” Dan said. “It’s not like I have plans for it. I was just going to let it sit in the safe till I found Tony. Ironically, I’d already tagged it to go to the catering bill for the wedding, if I earned it.”

  They both managed a laugh.

  Twenty-Three

  The Trophy

  Dan got Will to drop him back at his office. He entered carefully, looking around at the piles of paper that had been sifted and abandoned on chairs, his desk, the floor. What they expected to find was anybody’s guess. Years of filing had been done with meticulous care, so if they were looking for irregularities, they had only to check the records by date or client number and match them up with his archives of appointment ledgers, not to mention his income-tax claims. Except for Peter Hansen, of course, who had demanded anonymity. Which, Dan now saw, was working against him. But if Hansen had planned it for that reason, he wouldn’t get away with it. He still had the notation of Hansen’s visit in his Day-Timer crammed in among so many other things, like the note to call anoth
er caterer. That it didn’t look as though it had been added later solely to substantiate his claim would add to his credibility. He’d also discussed Hansen with Nick the very same day. So, there was that going for him, too, if it came down to his word against Peter’s.

  He picked up the phone and dialed Hansen’s number. When there was no reply, he waited for the beep.

  “Peter, it’s Dan Sharp. I want you to know that the police were at my office today. You may already have heard that Simon Bradley was shot outside my home last night. If not, then you have now officially been informed. My problem currently is an envelope with your ten thousand dollars in it. Despite my promise of confidentiality, I told them it was from you, so you can expect to be answering further questions about it. I hope you will do so clearly and truthfully.”

  He hung up, wishing yet again that he’d never heard of Peter Hansen.

  On the far side of the room, a potted palm had been lifted from its base and set down again beside it. He restored order, matching pot to base. Prints and photographs hung askew on the walls. He straightened them, then turned to his desk, where a colourful ceramic parrot, a gift from a one-time admirer, lay on its side with its beak cracked. It had been a pricey item. German antique. He’d never liked it. He picked it up and dropped it in a bin.

  Dan was on his knees, shifting his desk into place when he heard a throat clear behind him. He looked up to see a boyish figure standing in the open doorway.

  “Mr. Sharp?” The voice was hollow, almost out-of-body sounding.

  Dan had never seen a real ghost before, but this man was about as spectral as they came.

  “Sorry for disturbing you. Quite a mess you’ve got here.”

  “That’s all right. As you can see, it was a helluva party in here last night.”

  “Really?”

  “No. My office was ransacked by the police. I believe it had something to do with your husband. If your husband is Peter Hansen, that is.”

  “Yes, I’m …”

  “Tony Moran,” Dan finished for him. He stood and wiped his hands on his pant legs.

  Tony looked nervously about. He was the least secure, least confident-looking person Dan could recall ever having met. He was reminded of a schoolboy nabbed for a minor insurrection and silenced by the fear of being blamed for larger faults through association with the wrong school chums.

  “How did you find me?”

  Tony’s face lit up. Simple questions seemed to be his forte. “Oh, that was easy.”

  “That’s never good.”

  “No, I mean I found your address online. Simon Bradley told me about you. He said if I ever got in trouble I should talk to you.”

  “Simon said that?”

  Tony nodded. Dan recalled the gentle face in the photograph on the dresser in Tony’s bedroom, thinking of the contrast between Tony and his husband. There was a fragile beauty to Tony’s features that hadn’t been captured in the picture. He could see why someone as powerful as Peter Hansen might be entranced by him. Entranced enough to marry him and drag him into public life, willing or not, believing Tony would help improve his image.

  “Is it true Simon was killed? I mean at your house.”

  “Not exactly,” Dan said. “He was shot coming to see me. I don’t know why. I found him on my doorstep. He died in my living room. Did Simon think someone wanted to kill him?”

  Fear eclipsed Tony’s features. “I … I don’t know. He never said anything like that.”

  And he wouldn’t have, Dan knew. Simon may have been milking Tony for information, but he wasn’t going to do anything to scare such a meek little rabbit.

  “I was about to make myself a coffee. Would you like one?”

  The offer seemed to cheer Tony up. “Sure, yeah.”

  Dan went into the hall and fiddled with the Faema, one of many things he would soon miss about his office.

  They sat across from one another and sipped from their cups. Tony’s clothes were shabby and he had dark circles beneath his eyes. Sleeping rough, Dan thought.

  “I decided to meet you because of the news story. Simon told me …” His voice trailed off. “You found my wallet, right? In a cemetery?”

  Dan shook his head. “Not me. It was turned in to the police.”

  “That’s not what Simon …”

  “Were you sleeping there?”

  “Just one night.” He paused and blinked at the light. “Simon told me you found it. He said he talked to you there.”

  “I did talk to him there. I didn’t find your wallet. A homeless person did.”

  Tony’s face betrayed his confusion. “He said you did. He said you knew everything about what was going on. That you had access to all the information. Why would he lie?”

  Dan was taken aback for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe he thought I knew more than I do.” Or maybe he wanted you to believe that so you would come to me if anything happened to him, Dan thought.

  Tony shivered. “It scared me when I heard what happened to Simon.”

  “Who is the Magus, Tony?”

  “I don’t know. I never met them.”

  “Them?”

  “I think so. I was never sure.” He gave a nervous laugh.

  “Does Peter know you’re okay?”

  Tony looked away. “I don’t know if he wants me back. He kept saying I was a liability.”

  “A liability to what?”

  “To getting elected.”

  “Why did you marry him?”

  “He said he’d help me get a better life. He helped me with my gambling addiction and this is how I repay him.”

  Your husband pitied you, but now he thinks he married beneath himself, Dan reflected. Since when do politicians marry for pity?

  “I was dirt when Peter met me. I guess I was supposed to behave like a trophy wife.”

  And with those boyish good looks you might have been ideal, Dan thought, but for the poker-playing fly in the ointment.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Tony said.

  “Why not just go back home? What are you afraid of? These people who call themselves the Magus? What have they got on you?”

  “Nothing!”

  It was the most unconvincing answer Dan had ever heard.

  “I don’t even know who they are.” Tony’s voice rose to a whine. “I thought they wanted to help me. Now I don’t know.”

  “Help you what?”

  “Just … help me get my life together.”

  “When did you last hear from them?”

  “Yesterday. They keep texting me to ask where I am and what I’m up to.”

  “What do you tell them?”

  “I don’t tell them anything now that Simon’s been killed.”

  “And John Wilkens? Did the Magus have anything to do with that?”

  “How did you — ?” He put down his coffee and looked nervously around. “I shouldn’t stay here. They can find you. They know how to track you down.”

  “How?”

  “Cellphone. I left my old one at home, but they tracked my new number.”

  At that moment, Dan would not have bet a dollar that Tony Moran wasn’t a certified mental health patient. He could have been holed up at CAMH with paranoid delusions for the past three weeks, for all he knew.

  Dan’s phone rang. Peter Hansen’s name flashed on the screen. “It’s Peter.”

  Tony looked terrified. “How does he know I’m here?”

  “He doesn’t. I left a message before you arrived.” Dan put the cell to his ear. “Sharp.”

  “Hansen here. I just got your message. What on earth is going on?”

  “Thanks for returning my call. Listen, I’ve got …”

  But when he turned to look over his shoulder, his door was wide open. Tony had vanished.

 
“You’ve got what?” Hansen was demanding in his querulous voice.

  Dan shook his head. “I’ve got questions for you,” he replied. “Lots of questions. Let me call you back.”

  Twenty-Four

  Like Father, Like Son

  By the time Dan got to the street, Tony was out of sight. He looked in all directions, tried to make out faces in the backs of two cabs passing by, but there was no sign of him. He’d vanished again.

  Back in his office, he sat staring at the phone, feeling like a failure. Calling Hansen back and relaying how he’d had Tony in his office but then let him slip away did not go over any better than he expected. At least he’d convinced Peter that knowing Tony was alive and reasonably well was better than nothing.

  And on top of everything else, now he had to tell Ked he wouldn’t be coming for his graduation after all. He went online and cancelled his reservation, then picked up the phone again, trying hard to imagine the words that might lessen the blow: I’ll make it up to you; we’ll get together in a few weeks; don’t worry, I know you’ve done really well. He replaced the receiver. Letting his son down was something he hated doing. It had to be done, but he would pick the right time.

  He made his way back home and stood on the sidewalk outside his house. The grass was green, the flowers waved in the wind. Nothing at the front door or along the walkway suggested the sort of tragedy that had occurred there less than twenty-four hours ago. It was as though in the face of death there could be nothing permanent.

  Ralph came scrabbling across the hardwood to greet him when he turned the key in the lock. That meant Nick had returned. Time to face the dragon. Dan was prepared to apologize, though he’d begun to resent that he was always first to back down. He noted ruefully that he had never dated anybody more stubborn than himself. Until now.

  “Hello, house?” he called out.

  He glanced into the living room. Empty. A lover of order, Nick had put everything back in place. All appeared more or less as it had been, except for the blood stain on the carpet. That would take professional cleaners. But where was Nick?