“Both,” Bunny said. “He’d been on one kind since his heart attack, and had been taking the other kind for several weeks now.”
Sandra picked up the bottles. Both had small computer-printed labels stuck to them. One said it contained Cardizone-D, which certainly sounded like a heart drug. The other was labeled Nardil. Both had been prescribed by a Dr. H. Miller. The Nardil bottle had a fluorescent orange label on it: “Warning — severe dietary restrictions.”
“What’s this about dietary restrictions?” asked Sandra.
“Oh, there was a long list of things he wasn’t supposed to eat. We were always very careful about that.”
“But he’d been eating take-out food the night he died, according to the medical examiner.”
“That’s right,” said Bunny. “He did that every Wednesday while I was out at a course. But he always had the same thing, and it had never given him trouble before.”
“Do you have any idea what he’d ordered?”
“Roast beef, I think.”
“Do you still have the packaging?”
“I threw it out,” said Bunny. “It’s probably still in our Blue Box. We haven’t had our trash pickup yet.”
“Do you mind if I have a look — and can I keep these pill bottles, please?”
“Uh, yes. Of course.”
Sandra slipped the pill bottles into her jacket pocket, then followed her down. The recycling hopper was inside a wicker hamper. Sandra rummaged through it. She soon turned up a small slip of newsprint with Rod’s order from Food Food printed on it.
“May I keep this, as well?” said Sandra.
Bunny Churchill nodded.
Sandra straightened up and put the slip of paper in her pocket. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” she said.
“I wish you’d tell me what’s going through your mind, Detective,” said Bunny.
“Nothing at all, Mrs. Churchill. Like I said, just loose ends.”
CHAPTER 34
Peter had flown to Ottawa for a meeting at Health and Welfare Canada, but it had only lasted a short time. It could have been done by conference call, but the minister liked to wield her powers every now and then, summoning people to the capital.
The soulwave work, of course, wasn’t the only project Hobson Monitoring was involved with. This meeting had been about the still-secret Project Indigo: a plan to produce a sensor that could categorically distinguish between an active smoker and one who had only been exposed to secondhand smoke. That way, the former could be disallowed benefits under provincial health-insurance plans for any illness caused by or exacerbated by smoking.
Anyway, with the meeting breaking up early, Peter found himself with an unexpected day to spend in Ottawa.
Ottawa was a government town, full of faceless bureaucrats. It produced nothing except documents and law, legislation and red tape. Still, it had to be a showcase for visiting world leaders — not everything could be in Toronto. Ottawa had many fine museums and galleries, a small amount of interesting shopping, the Rideau Canal (which in winter froze over, letting civil servants skate to work), and the pageantry of the changing of the guard on Parliament Hill. But Peter had seen all those things more than enough times in the past.
He asked the receptionist if there was a phone he could use, and she directed him to an unoccupied office. With government hiring freezes in their third decade, there were lots of those. The phone was an old audio-only model. Well, thought Peter, if they were going to spend tax dollars putting phones in unused offices, it was good that some restraint was being practiced. Like most Canadian executives, he knew Air Canada’s 800-number by heart. He was about to dial it to see if he could change his flight, but suddenly he found himself dialing 4-1-1 instead.
A voice said in English, “Directory assistance for what city, please?” Then the same phrase was quickly repeated in French.
“Ottawa,” said Peter. Videophones could access directory listings at the touch of a few keys, and for those who didn’t have such things, it was cheaper, and more environmentally friendly, to have free directory assistance. About half the time, one got an electronic operator, but Peter could tell by the bored slurring of the words that he’d landed a real live human today.
“Go ahead,” said the voice, realizing Peter’s language preference from the way he’d said the single word “Ottawa.”
“Do you have a listing for a Rebecca Keaton?” He spelled it.
“Nothing under that name, sir.”
Oh, well. It had been an idle thought. “Thank — ” Wait. Although now single, she’d been married for a short time years ago. What had that jerk’s name been? Hunnicut? No. “Cunningham,” said Peter. “Try Rebecca Cunningham, please.”
“I have an R. L. Cunningham on Slater.”
Rebecca Louise. “Yes, that would be it.”
The bored human voice was replaced with a perky computer, which read out the number, then added, “Press the star key to dial that number now.”
Peter hit the asterisk. He heard a medley of tones then the sound of a phone ringing. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Oh, well—
“Hello?”
“Becky?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“It’s Peter Hobson. I’m—”
“Petey! How wonderful to hear your voice. Are you in town?”
“Yes. I had a meeting this morning at Health and Welfare. It broke up early and my flight’s not till seven this evening. I didn’t even know if you’d be home, but I thought I’d give you a call.”
“I’m working Sundays through Thursdays. I’m off today.”
“Ah.”
“The famous Peter Hobson!” she said. “I saw you on The National.”
Peter chuckled. “Still the same old guy,” he said. “It’s good to hear your voice, Becky.”
“And yours, too.”
Peter felt his throat go dry. “Would you — would you be free for lunch today?”
“Oh, I’d love that. I’ve got to go by the bank this morning — in fact I was just on my way out to do that — but I could meet you, oh, gee, is eleven-thirty too soon?”
Not at all. “That would be great. Where?”
“Do you know Carlo’s on the Sparks Street Mall?”
“I can find it.”
“I’ll see you there at eleven-thirty, then.”
“Great,” said Peter. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Becky’s voice was full of warmth. “Me, too. Bye!”
“Bye.”
Peter left the little office and asked the receptionist if she knew Carlo’s. “Oh, yes,” she said, smiling mischievously. “It’s quite a singles spot in the evening.”
“I’m going there for lunch,” said Peter, feeling a need to explain himself.
“Ah, well, it’s a lot more quiet then. Good tortellini, though.”
“Can you tell me how to get there?”
“Sure. Are you driving?”
“I’ll walk if it’s not too far.”
“It’ll take about half an hour.”
“That’s no problem,” said Peter.
“I’ll draw you a little map,” she said, and proceeded to do so. Peter thanked her, took the elevator down to the lobby, and exited onto the street. The walk actually only took him twenty minutes; Peter was famous for his brisk walking speed. That meant he still had close to half an hour to kill. He found an on-demand newspaper box, fed three loonies into the machine, and waited the twenty seconds it took to print off a hardcopy of today’s Ottawa Citizen. He then made his way back to Carlo’s. It was deserted.
He asked for a table for two, was seated, and ordered black coffee. He looked around the place, trying to imagine it hopping with sweaty flesh in the evenings. He wondered if the receptionist had been pulling his leg. Still, there was a familiar face across the room: the same Molson’s cutie who adorned the wall next to the pay phones at The Bent Bishop. Peter settled into reading the paper, trying to contain his nervousness.