Читать книгу Mister Jinnah Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Donald J. Hauka - Страница 6

Grant loped into the office with a studied nonchalance, paper tucked under his arm, overcoat flapping slightly as he strode seemingly self-absorbed through the newsroom to the business department. The city desk reporters pointedly ignored him, but Grant was greeted by high-fives and smiles when he reached his own section.

“Well done, Mister Grant,” beamed Ring Kendal, the portly business editor who did not subscribe to Blacklock’s theory of negative energy. “You certainly showed up those lazy bastards on cityside.”

Grant, determined to suck up as much admiration as he could, affected an offhand easiness.

“It’s nothing,” he said modestly. “Nothing any award-winning business reporter working at the peak of his abilities couldn’t have done.”

Kendal laughed and heaped more praise on Grant in that twangy New Zealand accent he failed to lose entirely in over thirty years of residency in Vancouver. His business colleagues were equally effusive in their own ways.

“Adequate job, Grant. Something approaching a news story, that,” said Stone, the transportation reporter, in the scornful voice reserved by journalists when giving their co-workers the highest of compliments. “One day you might just become a reporter.”

Grant laughed, accepted the coffee purchased for him and sat at his desk, going through his voice messages. There were one or two crank calls from readers who saw Grant as being anti-business and one or two more compliments from contacts in the CDNX. Grant had spread the newspaper out before him on his desk and sipped his luke-warm coffee. The banner headline splashed across the front page looked great — not as great as his byline beneath it with the copyright symbol and the subhead: “A Tribune Exclusive Report,” but great nonetheless. Then he went through his press releases. Mostly routine stuff: an exciting new offering based on promising gold deposits by some Yukon firm was to be listed next week. Harmonia Inc. was resuming work on their downtown office tower after a three-year delay. (Grant laughed at the part that read: “new, off-shore financing and increased consumer confidence in the diversified portfolio of Harmonia has once again put the corporation at the forefront of mixed residential-commercial construction on the West Coast.”) And a Calgary-based pharmaceutical firm was about to open a subsidiary in Vancouver to market its new line of herbal remedies. Grant stood up and pretended to stretch, casting an eye over at the cityside section to see if Jinnah was in yet. He wasn’t. Sanderson was, however, interviewing some woman at his desk. Grant smirked. It was clear from Sanderson’s body language that he was terrified of the person sitting across from him. Probably some reformed junkie or a prostitute from the look of her, he thought. Wasn’t Sanderson doing some street-kid thing? Grant smiled and his gaze wandered over to the glass reception booth where Crystal was dealing with a courier. Perhaps he’d wander by. She hadn’t been impressed last night when he’d asked her for a date. Maybe now she’d be more amenable.

Grant had just taken a step away from his desk when his phone rang. He glanced at the call display to see if it was anyone worth interrupting his quest for. But the small, plastic window read “Number Restricted” in that awful, electronic-exosketch lettering. That meant the call was from a cellphone, likely, and Grant had plenty of friends and contacts with cellphones. He picked up the receiver, still smirking.

“Gerald Dixon Grant here,” he said.

“You filthy, lying son of a bitch. I’m gonna burn you like I burned Sam Schuster.”

The voice was deep, raw and evil-sounding. Grant’s sense of well-being and superiority vanished.

“What—” he began.

The phone went dead. So did Grant’s courage. The morning’s glow was gone. He sat there stunned for a moment, staring down at the now-blank call-display in horror. It was Stone who finally noticed him sitting slack-jawed.

“What’s the matter, Grant? Your dot-com RRSPs collapse?”

Grant looked at him, still in shock.

“I just got a death threat,” he said, voice shaky.

“Congratulations,” said Stone. “Welcome to the stock beat.”

Grant looked at Stone as if he had just made an improper sexual suggestion involving his mother. Grant had not been on the CDNX beat long and this was his first death threat. He’d known when he’d taken the job that they came with the territory and yet, he never really thought he’d write anything that would prompt such a call. He didn’t have the psychological armour that Jinnah had forged over the years, having had to deal with dozens of such threats and one or two actual attempts on his life. Grant stood up, slightly dazed.

“I’m not shitting you, Stone,” he said. “That last call — he said I’d burn like Sam Schuster did.”

“Don’t take it personally,” said Stone. “Probably just a pissed-off investor. You haven’t exactly done Schuster’s business empire any favours, you know.”

“But he said he’d burn me!”

“They always shoot the messenger, son.”

“Well, no one’s shooting this messenger,” said Grant.

His shock was now giving way to anger. He strode quickly over to the reception desk. Crystal had yet another courier waiting at her window while she dealt with someone on the phone, speaking quietly into her headset. To hell with the courier. To hell with Crystal, for that matter. Grant loomed over her.

“What number was that last call to me from?” he demanded.

“Just a sec, Grant,” Crystal said without looking up at him.

Grant grabbed her seat, twirled her around and tore the headset off her ears.

“I said what was the last number to call me!” said Grant, shaking.

Crystal looked at Grant as if he’d gone mad.

“Grant, I’m dealing with someone at the moment, if you don’t mind —” she began.

“I do mind! I mind very much when people call and threaten to kill me.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so? I’m sorry, it’s just that this is the tenth damn courier I’ve had to deal with —”

“Make me feel special,” pouted the courier, a thin, spandexed creature with an over-sized bike helmet.

“I may need it for the police,” said Grant, calming down. “I’m sorry —”

“Hey, no biggee,” said Crystal.

Her fingers flew over the switchboard as Grant waited anxiously. In vain, as it turned out.

“Number restricted,” she repeated. “That means a cellphone.”

“I know that!” said Grant, venting his frustration. “So what do I do? Call every cellphone company on the planet?”

“If you had some idea of who called you —”

“I wouldn’t have asked you for the number would I?” shouted Grant, losing it.

“Listen, buddy,” said Crystal. “I deal with at least a dozen threatening phone calls a day. Get over it.”

“Oh yeah?” said Grant. “We’ll see who gets over what around here!”

Grant stormed back to the business section, looking for Kendal, but the business editor was in a meeting. Jesus. If only he’d had his tape recorder on when the call had come through! At least the cops would be able to do a voice analysis. The cops. Grant wondered what he should do: call them himself or ask for permission from Kendal or, heaven forfend, Junior. He didn’t have the faintest clue how these things worked. He was just about to ask Stone for advice when his phone rang again. Grant froze, staring hard at the call display. But the number was familiar: the four-digit extension for the front entrance security desk.

“About time!” Grant barked into the receiver. “Do you have any idea at all —”

“Is this Gerald Dixon Grant?” asked a startled voice.

“Of course it is! Who the hell did you think it was?’

“I wasn’t sure,” said the voice. “This is security.”

“I know that! About the call —”

“What call, sir?”

Grant’s mouth tightened. They didn’t know? He’d simply assumed they had somehow heard he’d been threatened and were calling to see what they could do about it. Upon reflection, he couldn’t see how they would know. Crystal sure hadn’t told them.

“What do you want? I’m busy!” he snapped.

“Pardon me sir, but there is a gentleman down here who wants to see you,” said the security supervisor. “A Mister Cosmo Lavirtue.”

Cosmo Lavirtue. Sam Schuster’s business associate. Grant knew exactly what he wanted: a piece of his hide. Well, Cosmo Lavirtue had picked the wrong time to try and lecture Gerald Dixon Grant about responsible journalism.

“Send him up!” said Grant.

“Yes sir. He has —”

“Just send him up, damn it!” shouted Grant and slammed the phone down.

He was looking forward to tearing Mister Lavirtue into tiny strips and in the few minutes it took for the man to get the elevator from the main floor to the third, Grant furiously tore through his notebooks, looking for the most awkward unanswered questions he could ask this former Louisiana-born stock promoter. He didn’t bother to look up when a shadow crossed his desk.

“Mister Grant?”

The voice behind Grant was a soft, drawling tongue spiced with a Cajun flavour. He recognized it immediately as Lavirtue’s. He turned around, face a hard mask.

“Cosmo Lavirtue,” he said as he turned. “How do you explain —”

The accusatory question died on Grant’s lips as an unexpected sight greeted his eyes. Cosmo Lavirtue was there all right, all six-foot, six-inches of him, complete with power-suit, cape, fedora, and gold-tipped cane. But behind him were a dozen other people, some of them with placards and many, curiously enough, dressed in spandex.

“Mister Grant, we’d like to talk to ya’ll about that so-called story of yours in this morning’s newspaper,” drawled Lavirtue

There were angry murmurs from behind him and one or two of Lavirtue’s entourage held up signs. Grant managed to read one of them while nervously taking in the size of the mob, which seemed to be growing. It read: “Tribune Lies Ruins Lives.”

“Mister Lavirtue, what the hell do you think you’re doing in here with all these people?” demanded Grant, standing up and eyeing the crowd for avenues of escape.

“These good people are shareholders, sir, and they will not stand to have their life-savings jeopardized by rumour and half-truths dressed up as journalism.”

The muttering of the crowd went up a few decibels.

“Half-truths?” cried Grant.

“Lies!” someone shouted.

“The Tribune lies!” someone else yelled.

The cry was taken up by Lavirtue’s mob and before Grant knew it, everyone was chanting: “The Tribune lies! The Tribune lies!” marching back and forth waving their placards. His desk had become the site of a protest rally. Grant stood there, paralyzed, as Lavirtue went on lecturing him.

“Sam Schuster was an honest, upright citizen!” he was shouting above the din. “These so-called investigations of yours will vindicate him!”

From Grant’s perspective, the entire newsroom appeared to be full of angry, chanting investors. Where was security? Hell, why was he asking? They were the idiots who had sent Lavirtue and his crowd up here in the first place. He fumbled behind him for his phone, but before he could get hold of it, Kendal and Stone pushed their way through the crowd and grabbed Lavirtue by the arms.

“You get your ass out of here or we’ll call the police,” said the red-faced Kendal, trying to drag Lavirtue away.

“Unhand me, sir!” cried Lavirtue, wrenching himself free of both Kendal and Stone’s grasp. “We are here as guests of Mister Grant.”

“That’s a lie!” shouted Grant.

Two of Lavirtue’s fellow investors came to his aid. One of them shoved Stone, who shoved back. Instantly, Lavirtue was in the middle of a melee of arms and oaths.

“Somebody call the police!” Grant shouted above the din.

It was at this point that the lights went out.

Hakeem Jinnah missed the demonstration and subsequent riot in the Tribune newsroom. He had an important appointment with Doctor Death. Jinnah parked the satellite-guided Love Machine on Ontario Street and plugged the meter. It was just a block from here to the new police building and the lair of Rex Aikens, the forensic pathologist. Aikens had earned his nickname long before Jack Kervorkian came on the scene and was rather proud of it. He was a renowned expert on all manner of death and spent almost as much time in court testifying as an expert witness as he did in his basement lab performing the grim rituals of autopsy. If anyone could enlighten Jinnah on the true nature of Sam Schuster’s death, it would be Aikens.

The pathologist greeted Jinnah warmly as he came through the door.

“Ah, Mister Jinnah,” he smiled. “What a pleasure.” Jinnah shivered and rubbed his arms.

“Jesus, it’s cold in here, Doc,” he exclaimed. “Don’t they give you central heating?’

“It’s always cold in here, Jinnah, you know that,” grinned Aikens, eyes twinkling from behind his thick glasses. “Cold as the grave, as you are fond of saying.”

Jinnah looked around. The gleaming, white room was impeccably clean at the moment, all shining stainless-steel fixtures and spotless floors. Jinnah was quite relieved by this. Aikens was not adverse to receiving visitors while performing the most gruesome operations. It helped him think. But today there were no half-dismembered corpses or accident victims on the tables. Aikens’ own person was as immaculate as his lab. His receding black hair was carefully coifed, his suit sharply pressed and hanging elegantly on his tall, slender frame. Even his eyebrows, which formed bushy triangles above his glasses, seemed permed. And yet, there was something slightly cadaverous about this fastidious man that never failed to unnerve Jinnah. Nevertheless, he followed as Aikens guided him through the lab to his office in the far corner. It was a small room crammed with books on anatomy, dissection, and coroner’s reports. Anatomical charts festooned the walls and the obligatory skeleton stood in the corner. Aikens took a stack of papers off a chair and motioned Jinnah to sit down.

“Now, what is so pressing that you visit the first circle of hell, my man?” he asked, his voice lilting with just a touch of the Irish accent he’d largely left behind along with his youth in Dublin.

“Sam Schuster,” said Jinnah, taking the offered seat. “Did you work on him?’

Aikens looked at Jinnah, curious.

“More a labour of love, really,” he smiled. “What did you want to know?”

“Whether he committed suicide or was murdered, Doc. Mind if I smoke?”

“I don’t,” shrugged Aikens. “But the bureaucrats who run this place will have a hairy if they smell the demon nicotine sneaking through the air conditioning.”

Jinnah contented himself with a stick of gum. The forensic pathologist sat quietly in his chair, brow furrowed, long, bony index fingers gently rubbing the sides of his lengthy nose. Jinnah waited patiently. Aikens was like this. He never gave a glib answer to important questions. Finally, with a frown, he brought his hands together and flexed his fingertips back and forth slowly.

“Difficult to say,” he pronounced. “A peculiar death either way, no doubt of it.”

“You may have read that certain reporters at my newspaper have no doubts whatever,” said Jinnah, grimacing. “The cops say it’s suicide too.”

“Ah,” said Aikens. “The insurance policy. That, I fear, is leaping to conclusions.”

Jinnah leaned forward very slightly, not wanting to appear too excited.

“You mean he could have been murdered?” he asked.

Aikens stopped massaging his fingertips and placed his hands delicately on the desktop. Jinnah was always struck by how large they were: slender, but long and well-muscled. Then he imagined them with latex gloves on, thought of where those fingers had probed and shuddered. He knew what was coming. Aikens always made him pay for his information: not in money, but emotional currency.

“I think it’s best I show what troubles me,” Aikens said standing.

Jinnah stood and reluctantly followed the pathologist over to the small light table piled with X-ray and photograph files. Aikens found the folder he was looking for near the top and carefully placed it on the glass surface. Jinnah could not help but close his eyes as Aikens opened the brown manila folder.

“Come, come, Mister Jinnah!” Aikens softly chided him. “I’ve shown you worse than this. Remember: in the midst of life we are in death.”

Jinnah opened his eyes and forced himself to look at the two glossy, eight-by-ten photos on either side of the folder. They showed two angles of Sam Schuster, neither of them pleasant. The photo on the right had been taken looking straight down on the upper portion of Schuster’s body. The businessman had his hands up, arms bent at the elbow, fingers forming little black claws. His chest area was a charred, black mess. His face was largely unmarked as far as Jinnah could see. And Robert Chan had been right: Schuster appeared to be wearing sunglasses. Jinnah realized it was the light of the camera flash reflected off the soot covering the lenses of normal reading glasses.

“As you can see, there is considerable damage to the thorax,” said Aikens, using a pen as a pointer and circling the image of Schuster’s chest. “From this and the position in which the body was found, lying beside the vehicle, we can deduce that Mister Schuster was hit with a sudden burst of intense flame emanating from the interior of the Cadillac.”

“What do you mean, considerable?” asked Jinnah, wincing.

“Came out like a blow-torch, my dear man,” said Aikens, suppressing a small smile. “There must have been rather a lot of gasoline inside that car.”

“Bloody awful way to go — having your chest burned out like that,” said Jinnah with feeling.

“Spoken like a true smoker. But no, that is not the direction in which death approached. The autopsy showed that Mister Schuster’s lungs were seared on the inside, as were his throat and nasal passages.”

“He breathed in fire?”

“Super-heated gases, actually,” corrected Aikens. “Rather like taking a good lungful of the heady atmosphere of the outer layers of the sun’s heliosphere.”

“Jesus Christ!” muttered Jinnah. “Was it quick?”

“Never knew what hit him — presuming he didn’t set the fire himself.”

“Were his hands free?” asked Jinnah, looking closely at Schuster’s claws.

“No,” said Aikens. “At least, I don’t think so. You see how the victim’s hands and arms are positioned, so. Typical death response.”

“That suggests his hands were loose.”

“Ah, but a minute inspection of his wrists and cuffs showed fibres from the same kind of bindings that secured his feet, so.”

Aikens moved his pen over to the right-hand photograph, which captured Schuster’s lower body. Despite the smoke and soot obscuring much of the detail on his pelvis and legs, Jinnah could tell Schuster’s ankles were bound.

“Could he have tied the knots himself?” he asked.

Aikens frowned again, the deep lines forming triangular ridges that marched back from his eyebrows and up his forehead almost as far as his hairline. His mouth made noiseless little “pum-pum” motions as he considered what they both knew was a crucial point. Jinnah took the opportunity to stuff another stick of gum into his mouth. He was over his initial squeamishness. Sam Schuster had ceased to be another human being who had met an horrific end. He had become a puzzle — an important intellectual distinction that helped ease Jinnah’s delicate stomach.

“I am not an expert at ligatures,” Aikens said finally. “But my anecdotal experience suggests that it is unlikely he could have done so.”

Jinnah’s heart skipped a beat at the word “unlikely.” Aikens was, of course, being modest. His anecdotal experience was more extensive than most so-called expert’s specialized knowledge.

“So could it have been murder?” he prompted.

“Mister Jinnah, I am increasingly of the opinion that it will take a panel of good citizens and a coroner to make that determination.”

“Damned peculiar way to commit suicide.”

“Oh, I’ve seen some very odd suicides indeed, Mister Jinnah,” said Aikens, smiling. “This is no more unusual than the chap in East Vancouver who had an elaborate gallows tripped by a bag of potatoes he’d attached to an automatic peeling machine —”

“Please!” said Jinnah, holding up a hand. “Don’t remind me!”

“— and I imagine someone could go to extraordinary lengths to make suicide look like murder for the sake of ten million dollars.”

“So you think Grant and the cops are right? Suicide?”

“Jinnah, what I am saying is, there is a giant element of doubt. We might be able to say something more definitive if we had ligatures around the wrists to look at, but we don’t. But consider this, if you will: If a man wants to make it look like his life is in danger and has an accident — drops a match when he shouldn’t, for instance — is it suicide, or death by misadventure?”

This caught Jinnah by surprise. He looked at Aikens in what he hoped was a penetrating manner, but the white, oval face gave nothing away.

“You are talking in riddles, Doc,” he said carefully. “You have information which is not strictly forensic, I presume.”

Aikens smiled and flipped through the photographs. This too was a ritual. Aikens was bound by his own strict code of ethics. He did not speak out of turn, did not pass on gossip. But he did know that a well-placed news story turned up facts in areas where he could not explore. And Rex Aikens cared about his corpses. They were his charges who deserved the truth about their ends, even if, in some cases, they did not want the truth to come out. But the pathologist also believed in letting reporters find their own way to that truth. The best he could do was point them in the right direction.

“I would like you to consider this photograph carefully,” said Aikens slowly. “As you can see, it is a detail from the trunk of the vehicle.”

Jinnah looked at the picture in minute detail. It was at first completely unenlightening. The trunk of the Caddy was closed. The very top of it was scorched with the marks of the fire, its white paint bubbled and cracked and stained black with soot and ash. The face of the trunk, the very back end of the car, was almost unscathed, however. The medallion that covered the lock was skewed to the left. Around the lock itself were scratch marks. Jinnah frowned and peered more closely. On the lower edge of the trunk, where it met the bumper, there appeared to be a deep dent. It was the kind of dent Jinnah had seen quite often, mostly in cars which had had their trunks pried open.

“So, someone broke into the trunk of the car,” he shrugged. “Big deal.”

Aikens looked at Jinnah, disappointed.

“Jinnah, I believe your father was a police chief back in Kenya, was he not?”

“What has that —”

“As a policeman,” Aikens continued. “He would ask himself questions. Questions like: Who broke into Sam Schuster’s car and when? Is there, perhaps, a record of this incident? And where, given a distinct lack of co-operation from other authorities, might I find that record?”

Jinnah gazed on Aikens with something approaching worship. This man was a master of giving tips in a manner that, even if they could be traced, could not be pinned on him.

“In theory, then, and we are talking strictly theory, hmm?” said Jinnah. “My dad might have said a trunk can contain many things. Gasoline, for instance.”

“It might,” agreed Aikens. “But if this was a suicide, then why would the trunk bear the marks of a break-in?”

Damned good question, thought Jinnah. He tried again.

“It might also contain valuables,” he ventured. “Whoever killed Sam Schuster might have known he was carrying something, lured him to a remote spot and then murdered him — in a manner that suggests suicide.”

“A possibility,” said Aikens in a tone which didn’t really admit it. “In which case, he might ask: why is the trunk closed?”

“Doctor, you ought to be a reporter,” said Jinnah. “You’d be very good at it.”

“Oh, no,” laughed Aikens. “You see, I can ask myself these questions, but I could never ask anyone else, let alone record their response. You see, I ask my clientele but one question: ‘Why are you dead?’ They’re in no particular hurry to answer.”

“There are several other possibilities,” said Jinnah, returning to the issue at hand. “But it strikes me that in this case, a Cadillac trunk would easily accommodate a person — or a body.”

Aikens closed the file and tapped it down, sending the photographs into a neat, tight rectangle within their cardboard walls.

“I’m sure an enterprising reporter would find a record of such an event, no matter what obstacles were put in his path,” he said, putting the file on top of the pile.

“I don’t suppose you might have a few suggestions of where an enterprising reporter might start looking, given that the police are less than forthcoming?”

“I’m afraid not. Now if you’ll be so good as to excuse me, Mister Jinnah, I have two post-mortems to attend to — unless you care to assist me.”

“That’s okay, Doc,” Jinnah said, his mouth twisted in a badly suppressed grin. “I have other fish to fry — no pun intended.”

Aikens rose and escorted Jinnah out of the office, through the lab and to the door.

“You understand, of course, that anything we have discussed is strictly off the record?” Aikens said as he stood in the doorway.

Jinnah smiled. Dealing with Rex Aikens was often like watching a video. No matter how many different movies you saw, no matter how unique the plot, there was always that damned FBI warning at the beginning. Aikens was exactly the same, but he preferred to put his disclaimer at the end.

“Of course, Doc, of course,” Jinnah said. “Not a word.”

“Good,” said Aikens. “You appear to have especially displeased those who work upstairs over this case.”

Aikens was referring to the police who worked on the floors above his lab.

“The feeling is entirely mutual,” said Jinnah. “There is much more to this one than meets the eye.”

“When you meet those eyes, Jinnah,” said Aikens earnestly. “Remember the horrors they have seen. Good day.”

Aikens closed the door and Jinnah walked slowly towards his van. He turned what the forensic pathologist had told him over and over in his mind. Dead men may tell tales to Aikens, but they were no use at all to Jinnah. He had to interview the living. And now he knew where to start. He climbed into the satellite-guided Love Machine and turned the key in the ignition. He drove along First Avenue for several minutes, completely self-absorbed, before the computer jarred him from his revelry.

“You should be in the right-hand lane now if you intend to take your pre-programmed route,” it admonished him.

Jinnah cursed and hastened to correct his course. He had almost forgotten about the launch of the Orient Love Express.

The Hotel Vancouver is a downtown landmark, its soaring, chateau roof ringed by gargoyles who look down on busy Georgia Street like fearsome sentinels guarding the happy people frolicking in the rooftop restaurant. Underneath the gleaming silver roof, the hotel has seen many events in its ballrooms: political conventions, trade shows, film festivals, and of course, business launches. But the launch of the Orient Love Express promised to be one of the more interesting events in months, and so the Pacific Ballroom was packed with invited guests, members of the media, the merely curious, and a very nervous Sanjit over-seeing the entire spectacle. The room echoed with an excited chattering that rolled around the high, curved ceiling, mingled with the crystal chandeliers, and bounced back down over the tables and chairs where the crowd formed little cliques around punchbowls and coffee urns. There were also rows and rows of juice and tea of all kinds, but in keeping with Sanjit’s religious beliefs, not a drop of alcohol. He’d been quite firm on this point with Jinnah. Sanjit had won that battle, as he had won the battle with Jinnah over the cost of staging such an elaborate gala launch. The room itself had not come cheap. Nor had the catering or the brochures and colour media kits. But the pièce de résistance would be revealed in a few minutes. He eyed the huge, wrap-around screen nervously for the hundredth time. Jinnah was, as usual, late. Where was he? Sanjit looked up at the podium draped with a cloth bearing the Love Express logo of a giant steam locomotive puffing red hearts from its stack. He would have to climb those stairs and speak from behind that podium in a few minutes and he knew with the utmost conviction that he wouldn’t be able to do it without Jinnah present to steady him. He sensed the restlessness of the crowd and looked up at the clock on the far wall. Name of God! Ten past noon! Late already.

Sanjit was just on the point of reaching for his cell-phone to give Jinnah one last call when his cousin appeared in the huge, double-doored entrance way at the far end of the ballroom. Sanjit gave a gusty exhalation of temporary relief before politely barging his way through the crowd towards Jinnah. But Sanjit’s glimpse of his cousin was fleeting. Hakeem was almost instantly obscured by a large mob of reporters.

“Jesus Christ, Jinnah!” cried Ashley Acorn.

Acorn was business reporter with “Another Vancouver daily morning newspaper,” Hakeem’s competition. Jinnah smiled.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Acorn scolded. “Hold a launch and no booze for the press corps? Dear, oh dear, you are asking for trouble, mate!”

Jinnah was unruffled. The diminutive Acorn, yet another British ex-patriot, was grinning and holding his hand out to be shaken. He liked Acorn, who had been a good reporter in his time. He had coined the now legendary expense account notation: “P.A./C.R.” When pressed by the accountants to explain what that meant, he had truthfully told them: “Pissed Away/Can’t Remember.” Jinnah assumed a haughty air of moral superiority while shaking Acorn’s hand.

“Mister Acorn, the Orient Love Express does not need to rely on artificial stimulants to launch itself successfully. We deal only in the genuine thrill of the endorphins engendered by love.”

“Not to mention cash,” laughed Acorn. “This Sanjit guy — he’s your cousin?”

“Absolutely. But don’t quote me on that. I am merely an observer.”

“But you’re on the board of directors, aren’t you?” pressed Acorn.

“I have given him a hand in setting the thing up,” Jinnah said, obfusticating. “Now if you’ll excuse me —”

“Hey, not so fast!” Acorn plucked at Jinnah’s sleeve. “You haven’t told me where you were when the lights went out.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Jinnah, puzzled.

It was Acorn’s turn to be incredulous. His head sank back into his shoulders, rather like a turtle retreating into his shell, mouth agape.

“You mean you haven’t heard?” he said, amazed. “Not been to the newsroom this morning? Dear, oh dear!”

“Heard what?” demanded Jinnah. “Was there a power shortage or something?”

“You might say that—” Acorn laughed.

Before Jinnah could receive further enlightenment, he was steered away from Acorn by Sanjit, who wrapped a bear-like arm around his waist.

“Hey! I was talking to that guy —” Jinnah started to complain in Hindi.

“Save it,” growled Sanjit in the same tongue. “Where the hell have you been? We are late!”

“My apologies. I was talking to a man about a body.”

“You may now talk to other men about units and expected rates of return,” said Sanjit. “Not that any of these men are from our community.”

“None?” said Jinnah. “Not even Mister Germal from the Community Reporter?”

Sanjit scowled as he manoeuvred Jinnah through the crowd towards the podium.

“Yes, Mister Germal is here. I think he wants to speak with you.”

“Forget it,” said Jinnah. “You’re the president. You talk to him.”

“Only if you’re there to help me.”

“Don’t worry about it, Sanjit.”

They had reached the front of the room. Sanjit paused at the foot of the short flight of stairs up to the platform. There was now nothing for it. Jinnah reached out and gave Sanjit’s arm a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“Go on, buddy! Knock ‘em dead!” he whispered.

Sanjit nodded gravely and slowly walked up the stairs and over to the podium. A hush fell over the guests as he nervously cleared his throat into the microphone, sending a coughing sound reverberating around the ballroom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests and members of the media,” said Sanjit. “If I could have your attention for a few moments …”

Jinnah had drifted towards the side of the ballroom near the doors and taken up a position underneath one of the speaker stands. It was journalistic habit. This way, he could leave unobserved if things proved too boring or too embarrassing, but could still hear what was being said. Right now, however, Jinnah was praying fervently to Allah to fill Sanjit with courage as his cousin launched the Orient Love Express. His attempts at heavenly intercession were interrupted, however, by the persistent Acorn.

“Seriously, you haven’t heard what happened, mate?” he whispered, straining up on his tiptoes to reach Jinnah’s ear.

“Look, can this wait, Ashley?” begged Jinnah. “My cousin is playing with my financial future right now.”

“Fine, fine,” hissed Acorn. “Suit yourself. I just thought you’d like to know about that ass Grant getting the scare of his life, that’s all.”

“Say what?” Jinnah, whirling around so abruptly that the off-balanced Acorn nearly toppled over.

“Grant was wearing brown trousers this morning, mate,” said Acorn cryptically.

By now, several guests were staring at them. Jinnah was in a bind. He wanted to know what Acorn was talking about, but it was essential the launch go off without disruption. Self-interest struggled briefly with professional jealousy and the latter won. Jinnah put an arm around the tiny business reporter’s shoulders and guided him to the doorway, out of earshot of those in the room.

“What the hell are you talking about? Make it quick,” he whispered.

“Oh, I don’t know, I should really be listening to your cousin’s speech, shouldn’t I Jinnah?” Acorn grinned wickedly. “After all, you’ll find out soon enough when you get back to the Trib. If they let you through security, that is.”

“Ashley, if you don’t tell me right now —” Jinnah began, raising his volume.

A group of people near the door whirled about, glaring. Jinnah lowered is voice.

“What the hell happened to Grant?” he whispered almost inaudibly.

“Such news should not come from a competitor,” Acorn shook his head. “But let me show you someone who can fill you in, eh?”

Acorn moved along the sides of the room, past speaker and light stands, tables with trays of water on them and the odd person leaning against the wall to the rear. Standing at the back of the room were three people having a hushed conversation. Jinnah at first took them to be reporters — it was quite usual for journalists to talk at the back of the crowd while the event they were supposed to be watching unfolded. But it was quickly apparent to Jinnah that these three people were discussing something far more important to them than a stock offering being launched on the CDNX. The two men and one woman were having a quiet argument and their body language was quite revealing.

They formed an uneven triangle. To the left, Jinnah recognized from his photographs the flamboyant bulk of Cosmo Lavirtue, who was leaning forward, chest out, hands clenching his cane. In the middle and standing back a step was a tall, thin woman with dark hair and too much make-up on her face. Her dark hair was cut short and she was dressed entirely in black. Her arms were wrapped around herself, as if she were trying to contain herself. These two Jinnah took in with a glance. It was at the third side of the human pyramid that his eyes did a double-take. Standing there was a heavy, round man, hands carefully folded behind his back, protruding belly straining the vest of his suit (which, Jinnah noted, was cheap and synthetic). Everything about him was round or circular: his stomach, his shoulders, the slight bow to his short legs, as if he had been drawn by an art student instead of born of woman. His face too was round: a pale, pock-marked moon partially eclipsed by a scraggly, black beard flecked with grey. What hair he had hung down limp, lifeless, and flat on either side of his bald pate and was ill-kept. His dark overcoat was too long for him while his pants had been cut too high, showing more of his snakeskin cowboy boots than was strictly fashionable. Unlike his two companions, his posture was a study of solid composure: like a pillar of salt, Jinnah thought.

But that wasn’t the man’s most striking feature. That dubious honour went to his eyes. They did not flash, they did not gleam, nor were they, precisely, dark wells. They were large and black, but appeared to Jinnah to suck up all the light around them and reflect nothing back, like twin black holes. He looked vaguely familiar, but Jinnah could not place him.

“Quite a love-triangle,” whispered Acorn. “Big bloke on the left is Cosmo Lavirtue. Dumpy devil to right is Neil Thompson: both sometime business partners of that lovely woman-in-widow’s-weeds’ late husband.”

Neil Thompson. Jinnah hadn’t recognized him from the photograph. Cosmo Lavirtue had aged far more gracefully. Jinnah tore his eyes away from the gravitational pull of Neil Thompson’s gaze and looked more closely at the woman. Sam Schuster’s widow had bags under her eyes that no amount of make-up could hide. Her nose was slightly too long and too bulky for her face and twitched downwards when she spoke. She was thin to the point of anorexia in Jinnah’s book and her black designer dress accentuated this effect. Her feet were encased by huge shoes — sensible low-heels that flowed like boats from her ankles.

“Paula, I think her name is,” Acorn said, reading Jinnah’s thought. “Two of the meanest sharks from the old VSE, the widow of the biggest swindler of them all and they’re at your share launch, mate. You really know how to pull in the players.”

“What the hell are they doing here, for God’s sake?” whispered Jinnah.

“They were spinning me something fierce before you arrived. I suspect they’re here because the press corps are in attendance.”

Jinnah’s eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly.

“Is this about Grant’s story?” he asked, instincts tingling.

“Bingo,” said Acorn. “They say he’s full of shit.”

“Do you think he’s full of shit, Ashley?”

“Ah, who can tell? What do you expect them to say?” Acorn shrugged. “Murder, suicide, what’s the difference? The main thing is to salvage the deal, right? Mourning comes later.”

Before Jinnah could ask for a more lucid explanation, the lights dimmed and a tremendous, rumbling roar echoed through the room. Jinnah felt the vibration of the sound resonate throughout his body, shaking him, making his stomach turn backflips. The din was follow by an explosion of light and motion at the front of the ballroom. Jinnah turned away from the trio and his eyes were assaulted by the image of a huge locomotive twenty feet high steaming straight towards him. Then, a mellow, well-modulated voice floated over top the sound and motion.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard the Orient Love Express,” it said.

The Orient Love Express was on track. The audio-visual presentation was on a surround-sound screen at a volume little short of ear-splitting. It’s slick look screamed “expensive.” The production on screen was fast-paced, cutting from images of unhappy-looking men and women to charts of birth rates and widening gendergaps in China and Russia. At any other time, Jinnah might have appreciated the production qualities. He should have — he’d paid for them. But he was watching Lavirtue, Paula Schuster and Thompson as best he could as the flickering light from the screen reflected off their faces and seemed to vanish down Thompson’s eye sockets. Lavirtue looked slightly amused, the son of a bitch! Paula Schuster’s face was a mask of indifference, her eyes far away. Thompson, on the other hand was watching intently. Jinnah could almost see him calculating, cross-checking, trying to determine if this share offering was worth it or not. Well, he could wonder — there was no way he wanted this man’s money. Besides, Jinnah had immediately slotted all three people in the triangle as suspects in Sam Schuster’s death and he made it a rule never to accept money from a suspect. Well, more a guideline than a rule, really …

The lights went back up and Sanjit was at the podium, beaming. There was one final surprise. Flanking the president of the Orient Love Express were a dozen very attractive young women and men (Russian women, Chinese men) in tight-fitting, revealing engineer’s uniforms. They were carrying copies of the prospectus.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our hosts and hostesses would be happy to assist you with any inquiries,” said Sanjit as the models fanned out into what, it had to be admitted, was an impressed crowd.

Jinnah too was impressed. And trying to figure out the final bill. But his calculations were interrupted. Acorn was once again at his ear.

“Lavirtue’s the man you want to talk to about the little fracas in your newsroom this morning, mate,” he said. “I’m told he was in the middle of it.”

“Middle of what?” asked Jinnah, not taking his eyes off the troika.

“I have said too much already,” grinned Acorn, running a clenched thumb and forefinger across his mouth and symbolically zipping his lips.

The crowd was starting to fragment into small knots of people (usually with a model at the centre) moving in eddies that carried them in all directions. Jinnah saw Sanjit come down from the platform, beaming and making his way towards him. But Jinnah wanted to talk to Lavirtue and especially Thompson, who were moving in opposite directions: Lavirtue towards the door with Mrs. Schuster in tow, Thompson to the information tables where the brochures and media kits were piled high. Jinnah hesitated — which one first? He decided to kill two birds with one stone and nab Lavirtue and Schuster. But before he could take a step, his way was blocked by the form of a very broad, very bearded man wearing a turban and carrying a notebook.

“Greetings, Mister Jinnah,” said Mister Germal of the Indo-Canadian Community Reporter. “May I ask you a few questions?”

“Not now, Germal,” said Jinnah, pushing past him. “Go ask Sanjit.”

“But Sanjit said —”

“Maybe later,” said Jinnah, diving through a screen of people to relative safety.

Unfortunately, his relative was closing in from the other side. Behind Sanjit trailed a cameraman from one of the local TV stations.

“Hakeem!” Sanjit called, beckoning urgently with a hand. “Hakeem!”

Jinnah frowned. The last thing he wanted right now was to hold Sanjit’s hand during media interviews. On the other hand, the thought of leaving Sanjit alone with Germal was a frightening one. A group of people pushed past Jinnah, forcing him to step further away from the centre of the room and towards the tables.

“Excuse me. Mister Jinnah, I believe?”

Jinnah turned to find himself facing the cratered face of Neil Thompson. He looked into the light-sucking eyes at close range and discovered he was short of breath.

“Yes?” was the best Jinnah could gasp.

“My name is Thompson. Neil Thompson. You tied in with this share offering?”

“Only marginally,” wheezed Jinnah.

There was no doubt about it. Jinnah was having an asthma attack. He cursed to himself and opened his black pouch. Somewhere inside there ought to be his puffer. Thompson continued as Jinnah’s fingers fumbled inside the bag’s dark, jumbled depths.

“Marginal. Margins. It all boils down to those, doesn’t it? What’s your margin of return on investment? What are your marginal costs? What are they, do you know?”

Panicked, Jinnah looked around wildly. Sanjit had been stopped and now was deep in conversation with Germal while the TV cameras rolled. From the look on Sanjit’s face, the interview was not going well. Nor was Jinnah’s search for the puffer. Keys. Combs. God damn it, it must be in here somewhere!

“My cousin Sanjit is actually the president,” Jinnah wheezed. “You must excuse me, I have an asthmatic condition.”

Thompson grunted and abruptly changed the topic.

“Do you know this Gerald Dixon Grant guy?” he said, voice cautious, reserved.

“Works at the same paper,” gasped Jinnah.

“Tell him he’s full of shit, would you?”

Jinnah was tempted to tell Thompson that was a mantra he recited to Grant virtually every day, but it did not do to disparage your colleagues in public.

“He’s an award-winning reporter, Mister Thompson.”

“Yeah? Tell that to Sam Schuster’s murderer.”

Jinnah’s fingers closed around the smooth, cool metal cylinder of his puffer. He squeezed it tight, arm rigid, lungs protesting. He wanted with all his might to bring the device to his lips and inhale the aerosol relief it held, but that would be a greater sign of weakness than him gasping and wheezing. Painful as it was, he decided to tough it out.

“Really?” he said as nonchalantly as he could. “Do you know him? The murderer?

Thompson’s expression did not change in the least. He eyed Jinnah in that calculating way, then abruptly seized one of the coloured brochures and raised it to his chest, holding it for Jinnah to see.

“This venture of yours. What are you selling?” he demanded.

“Why, love, Mister Thompson. A service,” he added hastily.

The faintest suggestion of a sneer twisted Thompson’s mouth, but he kept his tone expressionless.

“Love. Bullshit. People tell you they do things for love all the time, but when you peel away the wrapping, you always find cash underneath. Remember that next time you write a story, friend.”

Jinnah was about to reply to the effect that love was a greater motivator for murder than money any day and ask Thompson if he could account for his whereabouts during the night in question when there was an uproar behind them. Jinnah reluctantly craned his neck backwards and saw Sanjit bellowing as he walked away from the TV cameras with the pugnacious Germal in pursuit.

“Name of God!” Jinnah groaned. “You’ll forgive me, Mister Thompson —”

Jinnah turned around to excuse himself only to find Thompson had already vanished. Slippery bastard, he thought, and went to rescue Sanjit. Jinnah closed his eyes for a second and uttered a brief prayer to the effect that if he was dreaming or seeing things, he would not fail to increase his monthly tithe to the mosque. He reopened them to discover that if Allah worked in mysterious ways, profit-motivation was clearly not one of them. Sanjit was still stalking away from the cameras and from Germal — the worst possible thing an interview subject could do. This would be the kiss of death on the evening news. Germal’s paper, the Indo-Canadian Reporter, Jinnah could care less about. He took his ventilator from his pouch and took two quick puffs. He had only seconds to act. The cameramen were capturing the typical “crook caught-out walking away from camera” shot. Jinnah took several deep breaths and raced from the rear of the room towards his cousin. His lungs protested and ached, but he had enough breath in them to pace swiftly past the cameras and Germal and overtake Sanjit before he got to the large double-doors at the front of the ballroom.

“Sanjit! Hey!” cried Jinnah, grabbing his cousin by the arm.

Sanjit whirled around, eyes blazing, chins trembling with rage.

“Sanjit, never, ever walk away from the cameras!” Jinnah scolded. “Did you not remember a thing I told you?”

“A fine help you and your advice are!” Sanjit shouted at him in Punjabi. “Tell the truth! Hah!”

“What are you talking about?” asked Jinnah, sliding comfortably into the same language his cousin was using.

“That bastard Germal started off by asking if it was true we had been branded Islamabad Pimps by Mister Puri,” said Sanjit. “Then when I admitted this was true, he brought up the business of the gold coins! As if it was my fault!”

“You’re kidding!”

Jinnah turned around and saw the cameramen closing in again with Germal at their heels. Jinnah stared at them wide-eyed with terror. Now he knew something of how his own victims felt. Well, even rules governing a good interview were made to be broken. Jinnah linked an arm with Sanjit and marched him out into the corridor.

“Bastard!” he swore. “Germal’s family lost just as much as you did in that scam! Only they have deeper pockets.”

“What are we going to do, Hakeem?” wailed Sanjit. “There are people waiting to talk to me about investing! I can’t do it with awkward questions being asked!”

“Calmly, Sanjit, calmly —”

It suddenly struck Jinnah that they were speaking Punjabi. He used so many languages unconsciously he seldom noticed the transition. But in this case, it came to Jinnah like a clear flash of light that there may be salvation in the Old Country’s tongue.

“Sanjit, were you and Germal speaking English or Punjabi in front of the cameras?”

“Why, Punjabi, of course,” said Sanjit.

Jinnah stopped just a few feet down the corridor and turned Sanjit about abruptly. He placed his hands on his cousin’s shoulders and gave him a stern look.

“Sanjit,” Jinnah said. “Talk to Germal. Make sure you use Punjabi. Say whatever you want to him. I’ll take care of the cameras, hmm?”

“But Jinnah,” said Sanjit, bewildered. “They will hear.”

“Ah, but will they understand, cousin?”

Sanjit glanced over Jinnah’s shoulder at the advancing cameramen. After a moment, he smiled.

“Shabash, cousin!” he grinned, seizing Jinnah’s drift.

“Remind Germal of his own misfortune,” said Jinnah, launching his cousin at the reporter. “Don’t stop haranguing until I say so.”

Sanjit happily rounded on Germal, who was now in front of the two cameramen and started berating him in Punjabi as per Jinnah’s instructions. Jinnah steadied himself and fought to remember the names of the video-journalists capturing the scene for posterity. He knew their faces from hundreds of press conferences, scrums, stakeouts, and other news events. They were both, praise God, lily-white and he was quite certain completely ignorant of any language other than English and perhaps French. Jinnah planted himself firmly between them and Sanjit.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, what brings you to the Grand Central Station of Love, hmm?” he said with a forced joviality.

The Older Camerman who was, as most technicians are, very tall, dropped his camera from his shoulder to his hip.

“No love lost between those two, Jinnah,” he said. “What gives?”

“I may ask you the same thing,” said Jinnah smoothly. “Where’s your reporter?

The older camerman glanced over at his younger colleague, a mere pup with red hair and a thin, weedy beard. They grinned at each other.

“Troughing at a business luncheon,” admitted the Older Camerman. “They sent us over to get nice visuals.”

Jinnah’s hopes soared. No reporters meant the news directors didn’t see this as a serious story, just a quirky one. With luck, Jinnah could convince them there was no larger issue.

“So what are you going to use on tonight’s news then? This will be a ten-second voice-over by the anchor with pretty pictures. The pretty pictures are over there,” said Jinnah, pointing to two rather blond, rather tall models who had gathered a considerable crowd around them.

The cameramen looked at each other suspiciously.

“Listen, Hakeem,” said the Older Cameraman. “What are those two jammering about? On the level.”

“They have a passing business acquaintance and are arguing over whose family lost more on a scam that went through the Indo-Canadian community some months ago,” said Jinnah, quite truthfully. “I’m sure I could get Sanjit to explain the whole thing for you — if you think that fits your demographic.”

The cameramen exchanged looks once more.

“Depends,” said the Younger One. “Are they women under thirty?”

“Look for yourself,” laughed Jinnah.

The cameramen shuffled their feet. Both looked hungrily over at the blondes. Jinnah sensed victory. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a couple of brochures.

“Just in case you need some words with the pretty pictures,” he said, handing one to each technician. “You need anything else, I’ll have Sanjit send a press kit over, hmm?”

The Older Cameraman accepted the brochure with a grin.

“Ever thought of going into P.R., Jinnah?” he asked.

“Never, my friend! But let me tell you something — if I did, I’d be the best goddamned flack this city ever saw.”

The pair picked up their cameras and hastened towards the Russian women holding court. Jinnah sighed mightily and muttered a short prayer of thanks before rescuing Sanjit from Germal.

“Come on, Mister President — there are investors craving audience,” Jinnah said, putting a protective arm around Sanjit’s shoulders and guiding him back into the room.

“Hey!” cried Germal. “What about me?”

“No more questions!” cried Jinnah, imitating the most officious press secretary he had ever come across.

Germal stood petulantly in the hall as the two cousins returned to the ballroom. There was still a considerable crowd milling about inside. A hush fell over them as Jinnah and Sanjit entered, suppressed grins twisting their mouths. The cameramen abandoned the blondes and swung their cameras around to capture the moment. There was a slight pause.

“Name of God, Jinnah! Now what?” whispered Sanjit.

They will think I am a flack, thought Jinnah. Oh well — in for a penny, in for your life savings.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Jinnah cried in a loud voice. “I give you the Chief Engineer of the Orient Love Express! All aboard!”

The models, knowing their jobs well, applauded enthusiastically, encouraging the rest of the crowd. An excited chattering broke out as Jinnah gently shoved Sanjit forward. The cousins found themselves mobbed by people wanting more information, the name of a reputable broker and, wonder of wonders, one or two who actually wanted to buy several units on the spot. Sanjit looked as if he was afraid to pinch himself for fear of waking up. For his part, Jinnah beamed at everyone and told anyone who asked that Sanjit was indeed his cousin and a savvy businessman. If this is all there is to being a P.R. flack, maybe a career change is in order, he thought happily.

Back at the Tribune office, a change in careers was just what was being contemplated. Not for Jinnah, of course — not this time, although Blacklock had often fantasized about breaking Jinnah down to the rank of copy-runner. The editor-in-chief was currently mulling his own career options. Not in a serious way, but depressing episodes like the one he was currently enduring always made him wonder if there weren’t greener corporate pastures elsewhere. The black cloud hanging over his thoughts had started with the demonstration in the newsroom that morning and become steadily larger, darker and more electrically charged.

Blacklock knew two things: one, the presence of so many protesters in the newsroom was an appalling breach of security and two, the sudden switching off of the lights had compounded the problem. He needed someone to take the fall for both and fortunately, he seemed to have just the right sacrificial victim: Crystal Wagner. He’d been stunned when the Publisher had urged caution after summoning him to the corner office.

“It’s quite clearly her fault, sir,” Blacklock argued. “Allowing so many couriers into the office at once. She admits she was the one who turned the lights off.”

“There may be perfectly reasonable explanations for her actions,” the Publisher said stubbornly. “Besides, you fire her and the union will simply grieve it.”

“Then what do you propose to do, sir?” Blacklock asked, dreading the answer.

“Investigate, Connie, investigate! There may be systemic failures that can be corrected. We don’t always have to have heads on platters when things go wrong.”

Blacklock gritted his teeth at the Publisher’s use of the diminutive, “Connie.” He hated being called Connie and had fought for much of his childhood, adolescence, and adult professional life to leave the despised sobriquet behind. And what nonsense the man was talking! Systemic errors! No need for heads? What sort of manager was he? It almost sounded like he believed all that crap about synergy and employee-empowerment the consultants tried to shove down your throat at those management training seminars.

“I really think this would be the fastest way of restoring confidence, sir. The least amount of disruption.”

The Publisher looked at Blacklock with that tiny face of his and his bespectacled eyes bulged.

“Listen, Connie: there’s been a major breach of our security. Firing a receptionist on the spot is not going to prevent a reoccurrence. I intend to take other action.”

Blacklock failed to suppress the arching of an eyebrow.

“If I may ask, what do you contemplate, sir?” he asked, hiding the amusement in his voice almost entirely.

“For a start, I intend to interview this Crystal woman.”

Blacklock was stunned.

“To what end, sir?”

“To finding out what happened, Connie,” the Publisher said in a tone that Blacklock found somewhat dismissive. “To communicate. We are in the communications business, no?”

Blacklock smiled weakly and to his horror, the Publisher made him sit through the entire wretched business. Crystal came in looking completely unconcerned that she was in the presence of the ultimate boss. That would not be the case, Blacklock sniffed to himself, if it were he sitting where that jumped-up advertising clerk is now.

“So, is this an unofficial conversation or do I need a shop steward?” Crystal asked right off the top.

Blacklock felt his neck flush red. She said this with an impertinence he found intolerable. The reaction of the Publisher was to smile reassuringly.

“Now Crystal — you don’t mind if I call you by your first name, do you? Crystal, no one’s on trial here. This is completely off the record. All I want to know is what happened. This is in no way a disciplinary hearing and nothing you say will be repeated beyond these walls. Isn’t that right, Conway?”

Blacklock nodded. At least the little ad-taker had used his full first given name in front of this plebeian.

“You must have had an upsetting morning,” the Publisher said, voice tinged with what Blacklock took to be genuine concern.

“A little,” admitted Crystal. “But shi — stuff happens.”

The Publisher, who was leaning across his desk with his hands clasped, took this opportunity to lean back and smile.

“So — tell me how this particular … stuff, happened.”

“I clued in to the courier thing just before the demo broke out,” Crystal said, looking unconcernedly at her nails. “I was on the blower with the Security Supervisor when the shi — stuff, hit the fan.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said he’d tried to warn Grant this Lavirtue character had quite the entourage with him, but Gerald was rude to him and hung up. Apparently, Mister Grant has a bit of a ‘tude when it comes to dealing with us lackeys.”

Blacklock was moved to interject. How dare a receptionist say such a thing about a reporter! But one quick look in the Publisher’s eyes silenced him. Jesus wept, he thought. The little bugger believes her.

“Go on,” the Publisher urged Crystal. “What happened with the lights?”

Crystal looked around at the art work on the walls and Blacklock, following her gaze, noticed there were one or two pieces of new work covering the unfaded patches: both were Markgraffs and the classically schooled Blacklock’s nose turned his nostrils so far up they were in danger of sheering through his skull like a can-opener.

“Simple, really,” Crystal said, finally looking directly into the Publisher’s eyes. “I saw the demo break out and called security. I’m not allowed to call the cops unless directed to, so I scoped out the action. Then I saw the cat with the video-camera taping very word Lavirtue was spouting and I said, ‘Hello, can you say Noon News, courtesy our newsfinder video?’ So I hit the lights so the bastard — bugger — sorry, bounder, wouldn’t have enough light to shoot by.”

A likely story, Blacklock thought. Surely not even the ad-taker could buy this bill of goods.

“Quick thinking,” the Publisher said, nodding his head. “And by the way, who has to give you permission to call the police in a potentially dangerous situation?’

“The editor-in-chief, sir,” Crystal said sweetly, smiling sickeningly into the Publisher’s eyes.

It was at that moment that Blacklock felt the cloak of experience, which had been akin to a suit of armour, slip from his breast. He felt naked and exposed. Especially after the Publisher once again praised Crystal and promised her a letter of commendation for her brilliant actions. For there had been no newsfinder video on any of the noon news broadcasts and if there was one institution the electronic media loved to bash, it was their poor cousin and competitor, the Tribune. He practically felt the warm tide of burgeoning affection emanating from the Publisher wash over the receptionist whose hide he had just recommended be pinned to the door.

“Thank you, Crystal,” the Publisher said, showing her to the door. “We must really do lunch some day soon.”

“I’m free Friday,” Crystal said.

“Tell Jackie outside to put you in for Friday noon,” the Publisher beamed and closed the door.

Blacklock was quite thankful he hadn’t had lunch himself yet, for he would have surely lost it all over the Publisher’s taupe shag carpeting.

“Well, that puts a different complexion on things, don’t you agree, Connie?”

“Oh, absolutely, sir,” Blacklock replied with a meaning that the Publisher had yet to grasp — but he would, Blacklock vowed, he would before long …

“Well, almost time for the meeting,” the Publisher said, looking pointedly at the clock above one of his prized prints.

“Meeting, sir?” Blacklock replied, voice carefully neutral.

“You do read your e-mail, don’t you, Connie?” The Publisher looked slightly amused. “I sent it around a half an hour ago.”

“I have been slightly preoccupied by events. I apologize.”

Blacklock chose the expedient of the out-and-out lie. Ever the techno-peasant, he never checked his e-mail. Anyone who needed to communicate with him went through his secretary or wrote him good, old-fashioned memos.

“Then get your game face on. I’m addressing the newsroom in five minutes.”

If Blacklock had been slightly alarmed before, he was at that moment such a mass of contradictory emotions that both words and faith failed him. His management mask, so carefully crafted over the years, slipped. He couldn’t hide his look of astonishment.

“Do you mean to say, sir,” he said in as even a voice as he could muster. “That you intend to address the newsroom staff directly? In person?”

“Well, they are my employees after all, Connie.”

Blacklock felt perhaps a little like the Pope had when Gallileo matter-of-factly informed him that the earth did not orbit the sun nor was it the centre of God’s universe. His entire managerial cosmos was in chaos.

“My dear sir!” he cried. “You can’t mean it!”

The Publisher pushed back his chair and put his hands on top of his head.

“Do you have a problem with that, Connie?”

Despite his shocked state, Blacklock noted the apparent off-handed choice of words. “Problem” was bad enough, but more importantly, “do you have?” was attached to the dreaded phrase. He looked at the Publisher uncomprehendingly. How did you presume to tell God what His proper role was? For that is what Blacklock had always considered a publisher at a newspaper to be: a deity, apart, aloof.

He cleared his throat and tried to explain.

“Sir, there is a certain school of thought,” he began, coughing into his hand. “That sees the Publisher as above such petty broils. Pronouncements from on high should come via a trusted messenger, so to speak, thus giving you the latitude you need in shifting your policy and trusting me with the responsibility of ensuring your wishes are carried out to the letter.”

The Publisher actually smiled and for a brief second, Blacklock thought he might have pushed his argument home. But the hands came down off the head and were placed carefully on the table, clasped together, thumbs twiddling — Blacklock hated twiddling thumbs.

“So you are Moses on Mount Sinai to my Jehovah, is that it?” he asked.

The analogy was precise and Blacklock was about to agree to it wholeheartedly, but the twiddling thumbs alerted him to the Publisher’s ill-disguised thought: “Don’t waste my time.”

“Not exactly,” Blacklock retreated. “More like a Poindexter to your Reagan.”

The Publisher laughed, said what a card Blacklock was, and stood up, slinging his jacket casually over his shoulder.

“Come on, Connie,” he said. “Let’s fire up the troops.”

Blacklock followed with a due sense of dread and disgust. Also with the conviction that his policy of victory by attrition would not work with this publisher. He would have to take the man down by whatever means were necessary. His own survival dictated it.

The conviction gathered strength as Blacklock and the Publisher entered the newsroom. The editor-in-chief had never had occasion to call everyone together before — that sort of thing was, in his lexicon, reserved for events like massive layoffs or closing newspapers entirely — and he was curious to see how the Publisher handled this. To Blacklock’s horror, the Publisher handed him his jacket, climbed up onto the central desk of city desk and whistled sharply, like some carnival carney.

“Okay people, gather ‘round and listen up!” he bellowed.

Blacklock was mortified. Had the man no sense of dignity at all? Everyone slowly took up positions around the desk: reporters from business, the entertainment section, even the jocks from sports. The process of putting the paper out had stopped entirely. They were all looking up at the Publisher, curious, wondering what this little man in rolled-up shirtsleeves and no jacket had to say to them. He’s about to get a taste of newsroom surliness, thought Blacklock. Just as well.

“Okay,” said the Publisher, hands on his hips. “This morning there was a shocking breach of security on this floor. It was inexcusable and as your publisher, I want to personally take responsibility and apologize to you, the employees. You deserve better.”

Blacklock felt his gorge rise. Apologize? Take responsibility? One did not take responsibility, one pinned it on someone else. As for apologizing — that was tantamount to admitting an error and in Blacklock’s experience, managers who did that did not last long. He waited for the catcalls and snide remarks. Surprisingly, none came.

“I have personally looked into this incident in a preliminary way and I am satisfied of two things: one, no individual is to blame for what happened and two, the staff of this newsroom operated coolly and professionally in the face of extreme provocation. I would like to single out Crystal Wagner over there at reception as having been especially alert. I think she deserves a round of applause.”

Blacklock held his breath. Surely these tired, cynical old hacks wouldn’t fall for this, this … carnival act, would they? He was stunned by the ovation that burst upon his ears and disgusted by Crystal’s maidenly blush.

“Changes will be made to ensure there is no repeat performance,” the Publisher said as the applause died down. “Security at the front desk has been doubled. It has come to my attention that several of these demonstrators sneaked in the rear entrance posing as couriers. For now, we will place a security desk there. Couriers seeking entrance to the building will be escorted. As a more lasting deterrent, I have asked for a report on the cost of installing an employee security card access system that will minimize your inconvenience. I am assured such a system can be in place within two weeks. My people deserve a secure workplace to perform in. Are there any questions?”

Blacklock felt physically ill. His people? This rabble? And a secure workplace? Didn’t the short-assed ad-taker know how hard he’d worked to make everyone feel as insecure as possible in order to boost their performance, keep them fighting for their jobs? He glared at his employees. They were lapping it up. He saw something approaching the glow of affection in their eyes. I must crush him like a bug, Blacklock vowed silently.

“Sir, I wonder if —” Sanderson began, hand raised like he was still in school.

“What’s this ‘sir’ nonsense?” the Publisher cut in, smiling. “Call me Phil.”

Blacklock would wretch, he knew it. Phil? Phil! Who could fear and respect anyone named Phil, for God’s sake?

“Phil,” Sanderson corrected himself, smiling back at the Publisher. “I wonder if you’ve been informed about our policy re: calling the police?”

Blacklock bristled. That was his policy! How dare that scribbling, incompetent hack question it?

“Yes, I have. I think it’s a dumb policy.”

Everyone laughed except Blacklock. This was intolerable! Management was supposed to hang together, back each other up. They weren’t supposed to call each other’s policies dumb!

“From now on,” the Publisher continued after the laughter had subsided. “I hereby authorize any employee who feels threatened or sees a potentially dangerous situation to call 911 without prior approval. Now, that doesn’t mean I want you all calling the cops at the drop of a hat. I trust you all to use your best judgment. But better safe than sorry, eh?”

This was too much. Blacklock saw the warmth in the employees’ faces as they applauded this creature from the corner office as if he was some conjurer who’d performed an especially clever trick. The only trick he was performing was the magic unraveling of a decade’s work on Blacklock’s behalf to cow his workers.

“Is that all on the security issue?” the Publisher asked.

There was a muttering of general agreement. This would be the point to dismiss the mob, Blacklock thought. But no, the short-assed bastard merely surveyed the crowd and kept going.

“In that case, let’s open up the floor for other questions. Any topic. Fire away.”

This did take the Tribune staff aback for a moment. No publisher had ever given them this opportunity. It was Stone who broke the momentary silence.

“Phil, the demo this morning was prompted by our story on Sam Schuster’s suicide. The investors are demanding a retraction and there has been some discussion by some people that maybe we ought to give them one to take the heat off.”

There were angry mutterings and murmurings. The Publisher glanced down at Blacklock, surprised.

“Is that so, Connie?”

Blacklock felt his skin crawl. Sweet Jesus! He’d called him Connie in front of everyone! And he hadn’t proposed a full retraction — just one of the ephemeral non-apologies to take the sting out of things. His dignity mortally wounded, Blacklock merely shook his head.

“I thought not,” said the Publisher. “The Tribune stands by its stories and I stand by my people.”

There were cheers, full-throated, genuine cheers echoing in Blacklock’s ears. It was all too horrible. A life’s work undone in a few moments. God, he’d have them singing Kum Bay Ya by the end of it …

Blacklock was so self-absorbed that he didn’t even notice Jinnah slide into the room and take up his position at the back of the crowd, beside Sanderson.

“Did the paper fold in my absence, Ronald?” he whispered to Sanderson.

“No,” Sanderson hissed back, impatiently.

“Who’s this asshole?”

“That asshole is the new publisher.”

“So then the paper did fold.”

“No. He’s holding a meeting about security and other issues. Now shut up.”

“Security? Other issues? What about the shameful way I was just treated at the back entrance? Some rent-a-cop as much as frisked me before allowing me in!”

“Jinnah, where have you been all morning? Haven’t you heard?”

“You don’t understand, Ronald,” whined Jinnah. “He asked for identification, for God’s sake! Me! As if everyone doesn’t know Jinnah!”

“Hakeem, there was a mob of angry investors demonstrating in here this morning. Does that register on your personal radar?”

“You’re kidding!” said Jinnah.

And then what Acorn had said came back to him.

“Jesus. This was to do with Grant, right?”

“Yes. He also received a death threat.”

“Oh ho!” said Jinnah, scanning the crowd and failing to spot Grant. “I take it the poor boy took the rest of the day off to soothe his shattered nerves.”

“He’s at a business luncheon, actually and he’s not back yet,” said Sanderson. “Now shut up and listen to Phil!”

“Phil?” said Jinnah, bewildered. “Our publisher should not be referred to as Phil, Ronald — it’s disrespectful.”

“He wants us to call him Phil.”

“You’re kidding me. What did he do in a former life? Sell used cars?”

“Shush!”

But the Publisher was finished and had climbed down from the desk to a thunderous ovation. Jinnah stared at Sanderson as he clapped vigorously.

“What the hell are you doing that for?” he demanded.

“Because Phil just addressed every single problem thrown his way and gave us the straight goods, that’s why. He seems a great guy.”

Jinnah blinked and looked among the assembly for Blacklock.

“Did the corporate culture undergo a major sea-change while I was out?” he asked. “I mean, what’s Blacklock doing here still alive if the Publisher, for God’s sake, is addressing the newsroom directly?”

Sanderson smiled and gave voice to the thought that had formed in many minds.

“Maybe Mister Blacklock is not long for this newsroom, Hakeem.”

Jinnah looked at the dark, brooding expression on the editor-in-chief’s face and decided at once he’d spend some time researching in the field. He had to go out anyway.

“I know someone else who is not long for this room, my friend,” he said, clapping Sanderson on the back and smiling. “I’m outta here, buddy.”

“Where are you off to this time? Visiting your axe murderer or accosting more witnesses recovering in hospital?”

“Neither,” said Jinnah, pulling out an unlighted cigarette and putting it to his lips. “I have to see a woman about a body.”

Before Sanderson could ask if that meant he was on personal business and not company time, he was gone.