ambitious. Best work behind him. Reputation built on graduate students’ work. That kind of thing. The usual researcher jealousy, but nothing seamy.”
“Jonathan Edwards?”
“Never heard of him.”
“And that’s not surprising. He’s a junior prof at Southern. He’s accused Riesler of embezzling Network funds.”
“I hope the good Dr. Edwards doesn’t have a mortgage.”
“An uplifting thought.” But, of course, Duncan was right. If word got out that Edwards had started an investigation against a guy like Riesler, funding would dry up faster than a prairie slough in August. Even worse, Edwards would be shunned by his colleagues, and despite the stereotype of the scientist toiling alone in the lab, modern science is a cooperative venture impossible to carry out in isolation. And all this would happen even if Riesler was guilty, unless we were talking big-time crime: murder or grand larceny. It was a bit depressing really, and it meant that I had to tread lightly in my investigation, keeping the nature of my business confidential. We both pondered Edwards’s fate for a minute, then I continued. “What’s your take on the Network?”
“Big money, big science, big politics. In short, a hornets’ nest. I’m glad it’s you and not me.”
“Any connections with the Council?” “You mean other than brokering and funding? Something more personal?”
I nodded.
He straightened and his eyes brightened. It was as though a little jolt of electricity had zinged up his spine. “Now why would a nice girl like you ask a question like that?”
“Because the file seems to have disappeared from September to June. No records, no chronology.”
What had begun as a slight smile morphed into a grin. “No kidding.” Then he switched off his external functions and went back into think mode, staring at the corner of the room. When he was ready he focused his attention back on me. “Hard to say. It’s a megaproject. I know there’s government and industry money involved, so there are a lot of players, but I don’t see any obvious connections. What’s your guess?”
I shrugged. “Somebody on the fifth lost the file? When it resurfaced nine months later they freaked and slipped it back into circulation without a word. That’s what I’d do if I lost it.”
Duncan was examining me, his clear hazel eyes unblinking. “But you’re not convinced.”
“A total budget of twelve million dollars over five years. That’s a tempting jackpot.”
“And certainly enough to cover incidentals, like making an annoying file disappear.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Duncan paused for a minute before continuing. “Then there’s politics. Who’s got what at stake?”
“What do you mean?”
“Whose career, whose reputation, is on the line here?” I thought about that for a second. “It would have to be someone who could influence Patsy. The restrictions are in her writing.”
I could see that the neurons were already firing again, running through a databank of connections that were well beyond my comprehension. Duncan loves a good internal scandal. And as far as I could see, the Network put a whole lot of butts — some of them very big — on the line. Because the data could have a major impact on fishing quotas throughout the Pacific Rim, even a hint of impropriety could lead to accusations of data manipulation for political gain, the “you get more fish than we get because you cheated” sort of accusation that would discredit the whole project. Given that the Pacific salmon fisheries were an international flash-point, the Network had to appear squeaky clean.
I shifted in my chair. Duncan had had enough time, and I didn’t want him doing all the work right now. “So,” I interrupted his thoughts, “when do you start the new job?”
He started slightly. “Tomorrow. Nine o’clock. There’s no vacation for the committed.”
“If you don’t take a vacation you will be committed, but it’s your life.” I stood up and reached for the file. “As you’re wandering through the corridors of power, can you keep your ears open for me? If you hear anything about either the salmon project or anyone connected with it, even if it’s whispered behind closed doors, could you give me a call? I’m going to need all the help I can get.”
He laughed. “Hey, I’m not an investigator anymore.”
I tweaked his cheek, which was as soft as I imagined a baby’s bum would be. “Once an investigator, always an investigator.” When I was almost out the door, I shot him a smile over my shoulder. “Good luck in your new position.”
Good. That hook was baited. Now I’d have to wait and see what it pulled in.
chapter three
When I got back to my office I changed into sneakers and was out the door. Our section is on the ground level of the building in a little cul-de-sac that runs off the main corridor. When I arrived at the corridor I turned left and headed out toward the loading dock and mail room. That way I avoided passing Bob’s office. Once outside, I jogged across the small expanse of grass behind the building that buffers the woods from the parking lot. Lydia was already seated at our regular spot: a bench along the main trail just out of sight of the building. As usual, she looked like a raven-haired version of Catherine Deneuve ready for a perfume photo shoot.
As I approached she stood and formally extended her hand. I smiled and extended mine in return: not my usual style of greeting, but with Lydia it comes with the territory. Then, with no words spoken, we turned and began to walk down the path. We’d been here, and done this, before.
About forty metres from the bench we hit a side trail that was rarely used by Council employees. We turned onto it and walked quietly, enjoying the silence. The woods smelled of autumn, the soft earthy odour of leaf mould mixed with slow, organic decomposition. Every few metres a golden leaf, poplar or birch, floated to the ground and settled with a whisper. In summer the under-story was in shade, but now sunlight dappled the ground, dancing on the tapestry of leaves that had already fallen.
We came up over a rise and hit a curtain of cool, damp air. The path then dipped and made an abrupt left, meeting a brook that it escorted downstream for two hundred metres before looping back to the main path. There was a bench overlooking the brook and we sat down. It gave us an excellent view of uninvited guests, and the burble of the water masked our conversation to anyone not within visual range. We were silent for a moment more, absorbed in the peace of the forest — an island of sanity in an otherwise idiotic world — then I took a breath and broke the spell.
“Tell me about the file.”
She turned slowly, as if pulling herself away from the stream. Her voice was cool. “What exactly concerns you?”
I was taken aback. Usually Lydia was more forthcoming. “Gee, Lyd. For starters, according to the chronology of the documents, the file seems to have vanished between September and June. Any idea where it might have been?”
She hesitated, then turned back to the stream. Her back was ramrod straight: the bearing of a queen. She took her time, enunciated each word clearly, but in a flat, expressionless voice. Quite a performance. “I lost it.”
I had to stop myself from laughing. I would have at least chuckled, except for the sensation of a very serious subtext underlying the little game.
“No, you didn’t.” I let a few seconds pass, then I said gently, “I do need to know where it was. If someone was sitting on it, I have to know who and why before I dive in head first. Otherwise I’ll be eaten alive. You didn’t lose it, so either someone told you to make it disappear or you’re being used as a scapegoat. Which is it?”
She turned back to me. Did I see a hint of amusement in her eyes? “Of course, your expertise in interrogation