I could hear Duncan moving things around on the other side of the wall, so I picked up the salmon file and scooted down the corridor to his office. Duncan and I had always worked as a team, helping each other follow up leads, covering home base when the other was in the field. I didn’t like to think about life around here without him. When I arrived at the door I stood for a minute, watching him load books into a cardboard box. Then I sighed.
“You bum,” I said, and walked through the door. He looked up from the box and smiled. Duncan is warm, gentle, and thoughtful. Exactly the kind of man I could never fall in love with. He moved the box off the chair and motioned for me to sit down.
“Hey,” I said, “I wouldn’t want to disrupt your packing.”
“Actually, I’ve been cleaning up all week, surreptitiously of course. This isn’t quite as sudden as it seems.”
Now that I thought of it, his office had looked awfully orderly this past week. I felt a little jab of hurt that Duncan hadn’t let me in on the secret, but I assumed he had his reasons. Duncan had perched himself on the edge of his desk and was looking casual, yet professional. Receptive, yet in control. Damn. He was perfect for the minister’s office. I took the file and slid it onto the desk beside him. He picked it up and fanned through the pages.
“I should thank you for that,” I said, nodding to the file. “But I think I’ll withhold judgment until the investigation is complete.”
He raised his eyebrows. “What’s up?” “The investigation has been restricted by the fifth floor and I haven’t even started.”
I could see him scanning a few pages. “Salmon. That makes it hot politically. We start a new round of negotiations next week, and if there’s no headway we’re going to have war on the Fraser.”
“I’ve thought of that. Keep everything under cover for political reasons. But there are other possibilities.”
“Like?”
“Ever heard of Riesler?”
“Big cheese. Does good work as far as I know.”
“But nothing juicy?”
He turned to stare out the window for a couple seconds, the wheels furiously grinding in his head. The guy has total recall for any investigation he has ever come in contact with, as well as an encyclopedic knowledge of who knows whom in the research community. When he turned back to me it was with an answer. He spoke by rote.
“Overly 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.