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this is the other case, and I’ve got something for you for a change.”
    Green perked up. “The aqueduct case?”
    â€œThe very one. Now you know I always play straight with you guys. You don’t want something reported, I keep it under wraps. I learn something, I pass it on. Right?”
    â€œFrank, spit it out.”
    There was a pause, during which Green could hear a phone ringing. “I got a call from a woman. She wouldn’t give her name, just said she knew who killed the prostitute in the aqueduct, and was I interested. I played dumb, what do you mean am I interested? Well, she says, how much is it worth? Nothing, I said, that’s obstructing a police investigation. You call in the cops, she says, and I’ll take it to the competition. I says nobody will touch it, and she says you got no imagination. Anyway, I thought you should know you got information out there somewhere.”
    â€œOr maybe not.” Whenever a major crime occurred in the city, the wackos and the wheeler dealers came out of the woodwork.
    â€œMaybe not, but she sounded like she was holding some good cards. Not a wingnut, clear, calm, seemed intelligent. She knew the body had been moved after death. That true?”
    Green said nothing. Inwardly, his thoughts raced over the scene at the aqueduct. How many people knew that detail, which had been held back from all press reports. He tried to sound disinterested. “So what did you tell her?”
    Frank chuckled knowingly. “I told her to give me a day to set it up and to call me back. She wasn’t happy about that, but I told her I had to get the money approved. We gotta figure out how you want to play this.”
    â€œDid you record the phone number?”
    Corelli read it out, and Green put him on hold while he logged back onto his computer and searched the phone number database. His momentary excitement faded. The call had come from a payphone on Bank Street near Wellington, which was the major intersection almost opposite Parliament Hill. Thousands of people, tourists and government workers alike, passed by it every day. Green weighed his options.
    â€œOkay, here’s what I want you to do. When she calls back, set up a meeting to see what she’s got. I’ll have someone nearby, and we’ll pick her up.”
    When Green finally escaped the office, his spirits were greatly buoyed and his headache gone. The case was breaking open, with new leads unfolding in all directions. He held fast to his good mood throughout yet another hectic evening as sole cook, babysitter and dog walker, and poured himself a well-deserved shot of single malt as he settled down to the eleven o’clock news. Only as he sat through the usual stories of global carnage and the endless spats on the federal campaign trail did his mood begin to sag.
    Politics. It was a game too often won by opportunists andmanipulators, who mouthed platitudes about the public good, but whose real passion was power. The Liberal Party, having been ousted from power after years of corruption, was pulling out all the stops to reverse the Conservative backlash. High-profile candidates for both parties were being bribed with promises of cabinet posts and plum appointments. Jubilant reporters were crisscrossing the country, stoking the flames of division in key ridings where election races were most heated. The real losers, Green thought, were the genuine good guy candidates who wanted to make a difference for their country. And the country itself.
    It was no different in policing, where, once in the public spotlight, who you knew and how well you could play the game were often more important than what was right. A victory of form over substance. And we have only ourselves to blame, Green thought as he groped sleepily for the remote to shut off the latest Conservative rant. Because people like him refused even to get in the game.
    Unexpectedly, the phone rang, sending a spike of fear and