Chapter 2

Back in my office I took a few minutes to gloat. I imagined myself returning triumphant from Vancouver to a new fifth-floor corner office with a teak desk and credenza. I was just about to sink into my imaginary leatherette chair when my mind, unbidden, flew back to Vancouver and began to make its way down 12^th Ave toward the dismal east end. I could feel my stomach twitch as we hovered past the elementary school, the derelict yard, the swings dangling askew.

The house was down a side-street, white clapboard and looking abandoned. As my mind pulled me toward it, willing me to open the door, to step inside, I felt myself numb. I hadn’t thought about my mother in months, and her intrusion into my life was unwelcome.

I jerked my chair forward and caught sight of the file sitting innocently on my desk. I grabbed for it, flipped it open, and focussed all my attention on it, forcing the past to recede. Work, I have always found, is the most potent antidote to memory.

The first thing that caught my attention was the appearance of the file. It was way too trim and neat for a project with high security clearance, especially one involving Pacific salmon. Since these animals migrate across international borders, the Network had to involve research partners from Japan, Russia and the USA. With that amount of bureaucracy the file should have been bloated with back and forth correspondence, directives, and memos, the foreplay of an investigation, but the only thing inside was a single, neatly bound sheaf of paper that was maybe a hundred pages long.

I picked it up and fanned through it. There were letters, some newspaper clippings, grant applications, curriculum vitae and the print-out of a very inadequate reference search, but no external correspondence with any other funding bodies, foreign governments, or research institutes. That meant that none of the other research partners had been notified of the investigation.

I flipped to the front of the file hoping to find something to explain the lack of background material. Normally, the first page in any file is NCST Internal Form 16-52-C which covers financial codes and any special instructions or concerns related to a project. But, instead of the usual form, there was a post-it note with a scrawled message attached to the first page. It was from our director general, Ms. Patricia Middlemass. Bob had scratched out his name and jotted in "Duncan." The note from Patsy (she would behead me if that nickname ever slipped out in conversation) was surprisingly informal. Usually her missives arrive on official letterhead in triplicate and are written in a language that only a lawyer can understand. They are known around here as CYA (cover your ass) memos, and Patsy is gifted in her ability to produce them. Her instructions for this project, however, were terse.

Typical Patsy, to restrict travel time. She was in a fury of cost-cutting these days—a vital part of renewal, we’d been told—and travel must be the newest front for deficit reduction. I shook my head, pulled off the post-it note, crumpled it, and aimed for the garbage can; then I stopped. I flattened it out and read it again.

Patsy’s note really issued two distinct orders. The most obvious one was to investigate financial impropriety only, but by default, that implied a second directive: Keep your nose out of the science. Don’t touch the research. Now why, I wondered, would our busy director general be involving herself in the details of an inquiry? And why would she be giving her orders on untraceable scraps of paper? I carefully folded up the crumpled post-it note and tucked it between two pages near the front of my day book. I made a mental note to return to it when I was more familiar with the file.

With the note removed I could now read the top document; the last thing we had received relating to this project. It was a letter dated August 28^th, almost two months ago, written by a Dr. Jonathan Edwards at the University of Southern British Columbia. And he wasn’t happy.

So much for client service. I briefly wondered how much time "forthwith" gave us, and decided that it was probably considerably less than the time that had already elapsed since his final letter. I reached for the telephone and was halfway through dialling his number when I realized that it was only 7:15 A.M. in Vancouver. Normally, I would have sworn loudly and banged down the phone, but for once the three-hour time lag was welcome. It gave me enough time to do a quick study of the file and at least have my excuses lined up when I finally managed to reach Edwards.

I worked methodically forward from the initial letter of complaint through to the final threat of going to the media, and I began to see why Edwards was so annoyed. As far as I could figure out from the dates of letters and submissions, the file had sat dormant for a period of ten months. His first letter of complaint, at the very bottom of the sheaf of papers, was received by us a little over a year ago. The letter had been stamped Received: 8 Sept, and noted in the log of the file. A very cursory reference search was attached to the letter, but not mentioned in the log. Following this, there was nothing. No notes. No action. No follow-up.

Dr. Edwards had sent a second letter in June of the following year, almost ten months later. The request for an investigation was again made, and supporting documentation supplied. This time there was a more substantive follow up: past grant applications were acquired, some internal financial records were appended, and confidential documents relating to the Canada/US Pacific Salmon Treaty were attached, but no action was taken. In fact, it looked as though nothing was really done until the last registered letter was sent. Then, with the threat of media involvement, the file was sent on to Bob. Who of course didn’t read it, because he works on the government’s thirty-day rule: don’t even lay your fingers on a file until it’s sat in your in-box for at least thirty days. Then, from his in-box, the file would have gone to the bottom of his to-do pile, accounting for the two-month lag before it fell into my hands.

I swivelled around in my chair to face the window. It was a spectacular northeastern autumn day with the sun bright and hot, the sky an expanse of cloudless blue. The happy workers, dressed only in shirtsleeves, strolled along the sidewalk underneath my window, puffing on cigarettes and chatting in pairs. Only the maples aflame in orange and red were telling the truth: winter was almost upon us.

I’ve always held to the theory that it’s best to have friends in low places since they’re the ones who do the work and actually know what’s going on. On impulse, I picked up the phone and called Lydia.

"Office of the Director General, Grants and Funding."

I know Lydia well, and preliminaries aren’t required. "It’s me. I’m looking for the scuttlebutt on a file."

"I see." Her voice was polite, but cold: professional. That meant that Patsy’s office was occupied and the adjoining door was open. You’d think a busy director general would have more to do with her time than eavesdrop on her executive assistant, but Patsy considered it was part of her job description. Lydia continued in the same tone. "How may I help you?"

"International Network for Pacific Salmon Population Dynamics. Does that ring a bell?"

"Yes, I understand. But Ms. Middlemass is booked at that time. Would another time be possible?"

Well, well. Pay dirt. "Could you meet me on the path in fifteen?"

"That would be fine. I’ll book you in for then."

I hung up the phone and smiled to myself. Lydia manages Patsy’s office like the captain of a well run frigate. She knows every nuance of every file that enters or leaves the office, and she issues orders to her subordinates with an assurance based on infallible knowledge. Despite her command of Patsy’s dominion, she finds the whole thing—the work, the politics, the fretting, the constant jockeying for position—both tedious and silly. In short, Lydia has a life, something the Council tries hard to discourage.

With fifteen minutes to kill I did a rapid accounting of what I already knew, even after my brief look at the documents. The good news? Elaine was not involved. If she had been—if she’d been named as one of the researchers on the original grant request—then I’d have a serious conflict of interest. Elaine was my secret weapon. She was not only my best friend from graduate school, but she had just recently escaped the post-doctoral mill for a professorship at Southern (as the University of Southern BC is known). She was honest, clear-headed, and would know most of the players. While she disapproved of the government interfering with science, we went back a long way and I knew she could be convinced to help. Insider information could cut weeks off an investigation.

Now for the bad news. Dr. Madden Riesler was a big man on campus and not just in Vancouver. He sat on funding committees, editorial boards and government panels, which meant that he had connections—both political and scientific. That made investigating him problematic. It also made Dr. Edwards either very brave or very stupid, but it was too early in the game to know which.

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 judgement 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 encyclopaedic 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 big 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’ 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 focussed 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 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—and 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 flashpoint 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 any more."

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.

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Copyright © Alexandra Brett, 2004.
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