She Demons. Donald J. Hauka

questioning is not helpful to the investigation.”

      Despite her surprise at having won quite so easily, Caitlin Bishop managed to keep her smile in place as she retrieved the copied affidavit from Graham.

      “I’ll be doing a stand-up on The Corner at noon,” she said, pausing by the door. “It’s up to you if you want to go on live with me or not.”

       * * *

      “Insurance, Craig. Or home renovation. That’s the ticket. Do you think Transport Canada really inspects these things or does the operator just print up a label on his computer, hmm?”

      Normally, Graham would have appreciated Jinnah’s attempt at humour, but not today. His stomach was in knots and the rocking motion of the Aquabus wasn’t helping. The tiny passenger ferry that crossed False Creek was their special meeting place, used only when they had urgent matters to discuss. For Graham, things weren’t just urgent: they were desperate.

      “When I asked for advice, Hakeem, I didn’t mean career counselling,” he said peevishly. “I gotta find some way to muzzle Caitlin Bishop.”

      Jinnah took a drag of his cigarette and considered his friend’s face. Was it possible for a man to age so much in twenty-four hours? His hair looked greyer around the temples, there were lines that hadn’t been there just a day ago. But then, white guys were like that, he reflected. Like bananas: perfectly ripe one minute, gone off the next.

      “You could always send Animal Enforcement down to her station — remind them that pit bulls in the city of Vancouver are supposed to be muzzled.”

      “You’re a great help.”

      Graham slumped against the fiberglass hull of the ferry. They were sitting in the stern, well out of earshot of the ferryman, the only other person on the vessel as it threaded is way through the yachts, sailboats, and power craft that poured through the narrow waterway as ceaselessly as the tide. Jinnah felt sorry for the policeman, truly, but what did Craig expect him to do about it? He tried summing up the situation.

      “Caitlin Bishop has your balls in a vice, your super wants your head on a platter, and your career dangles by a thread. A very sorry state of affairs, my friend. I don’t see what I can do about it.”

      “You could talk to her, Hakeem.”

      Oh ho! Things must be worse than he’d thought. Jinnah’s inherent instincts, the ones that ensured his professional survival, quivered ominously.

      “And just what do you expect me to tell her, Craig? ‘Listen, Caitlin, I want you to forget everything I’ve ever taught you about news? Just be nice to the policeman, darling, and the policeman will be nice to you?’ Sonofabitch —”

      “You could tell her that there are some things more important than a scoop.”

      “Aside from vast personal wealth, what would those be?”

      “Like the greater good. Like catching Thad Golway’s killer.”

      “My inherent instincts tell me that somehow she has already heard this speech.”

      “She might listen to it, coming from you. She respects you, Hakeem.”

      “And I want to keep that respect. In a purely professional manner, you understand.”

      “I’m just asking you to ask her to hold off for a couple of days.”

      “You’re asking me to help you censor the news.”

      They were nearing the dock at Granville Island. Graham only had a minute left to convince Jinnah to help him.

      He gave it one last try. “Listen, Jinnah, I don’t give a shit about what happens to me. If my career’s over, fine. I screwed up and I’ll take the consequences. But before I’m done, I want to nail the bastard who killed that kid and left him carved like a Thanksgiving turkey in a shop window. You know and I know that if Caitlin runs with her angle, it’ll only make it that much harder to catch the murderer. You are the only reporter in Canada who she’ll listen to. What’s more important, a two-minute piece at the top of the news, or bringing a killer to justice? You tell me.”

      Not bad, Jinnah grunted to himself. A cross between Sam Spade and Jack Lord. He didn’t want to admit to himself how profound an effect this direct emotional appeal had had on him. It reminded him of arguments he’d had with his own father, the police chief. Somewhere, deep underneath the layers of emotional armour and professional pride, the tiny, blackened cinder that was Jinnah’s conscience stirred. He cursed his fondness for B movies and old cop shows.

      “All right, for God’s sake — stop whining like whipped puppy. I’ll talk to her. As much good as it will do….”

      As they stepped out onto the dock, Graham shook Jinnah’s hand and thanked him profusely. Jinnah waited until the policeman had reached the top of the ramp leading up the public market before flicking his cigarette into the water. It annoyed him when he agreed to do the right thing, especially when there was no tangible payoff. The whole thing was beginning to remind him of his Indo-Barbies business.

      “Sonofabitch,” he muttered, and started up the ramp.

      * * *