Deadline by Stephen Maher Read Free Book Online Page B

time, critics described the appointment of the former insurance industry executive as a reward for his work as party bagman.
    Since then, Ramia has been a low key senator, shunning the spotlight and avoiding committee work.
    “Lord Jesus,” said Jack.
    He shook his head, which hurt his neck. He was sweating at his desk, struggling with the Ramia story, and finding it very difficult to concentrate. Since Flanagan had told him that Sawatski had wound up in the canal, nearly dead, Jack could think of nothing else. He had to file his story before he went to the police station, but as soon as he started to write, his mind wandered to the night before. Guilt gnawed at him, as if Ed’s accident were somehow his fault, but he had only the haziest memory of the evening’s events, which left him running over the few moments that he could remember again and again. He had to force himself to type up his story so he could get to the police station.
    He banged out another ten inches, hit save, then send, and called the desk to make sure the file had arrived. Then he left the Hot Room, walked downstairs, and stepped out through the heavy brass doors under the Peace Tower, where he hunched against the cold wind and lit a cigarette. For the first time, as he walked toward the parking lot, he had time to think about the night before, and what he would tell the police.
    He had met Ed and Sophie at D’Arcy’s, where he had a shepherd’s pie and the first beer of the evening. The three of them had gossiped about politics. He had tried to draw them out about who would be likely to replace Stevens if he stepped down before the next election. Since Sophie worked for Mowat and Ed worked for Donahoe, the two ministers most likely to get the keys to 24 Sussex, Jack had tried to provoke them into arguing about who had the better chance, in the hope that they would spill secrets, but they saw through him and laughed it off.
    When Sophie tapped out after dinner, Jack was tempted to do the same, but Ed was in a drinking mood: animated, funny, laughing, singing, buying rounds, flirting with girls at the bar, and Jack decided to have another drink or two.
    They did some shots at the bar, where they chatted up three Inuit girls for a while, bureaucrats from Aboriginal Affairs. Then there was another bar, Quatre Jeudis, in Hull, where they tried to hit on Quebec hotties, but were restrained by their increasing and obvious drunkenness and their bad French.
    They ate greasy poutine at 2 a.m. Then they were in a cab, and then they were at Pigale, reeling into the strip bar in time to order two beers each at last call. After that, everything was fuzzy. Jack could remember the naked bodies of the tattooed Montreal biker chicks who danced there, and he could remember Ed going for a lap dance, while he sat and waited, drinking beer and leering at the dancers. Then there was another cab, which he remembered getting into, but after that, nothing.
    It wasn’t going to be fun telling the cops about it.

    Tim Balfour sat in his office with the door closed, wasting time on one of his computers by trying out a new first-person shooter: blowing up aliens inside a spaceship, flicking from flamethrower to rocket launcher, expertly turning alien gunmen into chunks of meat.
    The call was taking longer than he expected. The little Chinese slut must be slacking off.
    Then, sure enough, the phone rang.
    He paused the game. His screen instantly reverted to his desktop and he picked up his phone.
    “Balfour here,” he said.
    “Um, excuse me, Tim,” the voice said. “This is Eileen Sing-Chu. I seem to be having a problem with my computer. I can’t access the network. It’s rejecting my password. I’ve rebooted twice, but it doesn’t want to work.”
    He grinned, and rubbed his big tummy with both hands.
    “Did you make sure caps lock is off?” he asked.
    “Yes I did,” she said.
    Of course you did, you little hottie, he thought.
    “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be