Halfway between the Dominion and the Sixes, I order a sandwich and a coffee at a nondescript diner. The place smells like yesterday’s cooking oil, but a line is forming behind me, so it can’t be that bad. Once I’m at my little booth at the back of the place, I open the envelope, then I stare at what I pull out. The first page is a nondisclosure agreement, and Paul Brzezicka’s signature is at the bottom. I read it over with bewilderment. Why would a construction worker need to sign an NDA?
I set that page aside and draw out photocopies of inspection reportswith the Vale’s logo up top. At first, I don’t notice anything strange, but there must be a reason I’m holding them, so I squint harder. Three pages are stapled together, all projects with which I had no connection. The inspector is Dan Mason, who has been working for Claudia for years. I don’t know him very well, but he is detail-oriented, which is always good for an inspector. He is a good, honest worker, from what I’ve seen. The next three reports are also signed by Dan—then I stop short.
The last two are not Dan’s signature. It’s his name, and there’s a likeness, but when I compare them to the first report, it’s obvious that someone has forged his signature. I check the inspection form more closely and see the date has been changed on two of them as well. They’re not in Dan’s handwriting, and he did not initial the changes. It’s impossible to know if any of the other checked items were approved by Dan or not, but I have a sinking feeling about that. I slide three small copies of blueprints from the envelope, which refer to the three questionable reports. One by one, I go through the inspections and line up the items with the drawings. On every single one, I find areas marked “complete.” None of them exist on the blueprints.
Last, but not least, I pour half a dozen photos onto the table, and I immediately see why they are included in the envelope. On each photo, the project number is printed, so I know what to compare it with. There’s one of rusting beams, and they line up with a report that certifies those beams are safe and in good condition. I see a window that has not been reinforced properly, and yet it has been approved, too. That one is terrifying, because it’s on one of the upper floors of a condo building. The idea of a faulty window frame falling out of the wall, and possibly taking a tenant with it, is unthinkable. The other photos are just as damning.
There’s one more piece of paper: a photocopy of a newspaper article from six years ago. I remember the story clearly, because Vale’s was sued over it. A party at a small apartment building in the north end of the city had proved fatal when a balcony got overloaded and gave way. Six teenagers killed, eight more injured. Stapled to the article is an inspection report that clearly marks the balcony supports as “safe.” They obviously weren’t. And yetsomehow, despite a police investigation, Vale’s was found not liable and did not pay a cent as a result of that lawsuit.
I stare at the pages, stunned. Where did this come from? What am I supposed to do with this information?
I shake the envelope one more time, and a scrap of paper slides out.Good luck. PB.
Paul Brzezicka.
I should go to the police. But the police didn’t want to listen to me before, why would they this time? And I wonder, how far does the corruption go?
chapterTWENTY–THREE
I don’t know why I decide to text Matthew. Especially after he’d gone to such lengths to rescue me on Friday night, the poor man. It’s just that I need someone I can rely on. Someone I can trust. In my heart, I know he is both of those and more.
BK: Can I come see you?
MB: Right now? Sure. I’m at the archives. See you soon.
I grab an Uber and head to the archives. He is waiting at reception when I arrive. We head down the stairs to his office, and when he opens his door, I see he has planned ahead and borrowed his neighbour’s chair for me. I sit, then I place the brown envelope on Matthew’s desk.
“Don’t open that yet,” I say. “There’s a lot I want to tell you first.”
He leans back in his chair. “I have all day, Bridget. Coffee?” Two steaming Starbucks cups materialize out of nowhere along with creamers and sugar, and I am suddenly so thirsty I could kiss him on the lips. It’s cooled just enough that it doesn’t burn my mouth when I take a gulp.
“Let’s start from the beginning. Go slow. You look like you’ve been sprinting for miles.”
I go back to the day when I first noticed the crates marked Montey Series Industries. He is paying close attention as I continue, voicing all my suspicions as I go. I can’t see any reason not to tell him. After all,Ididn’t sign an NDA.
“Do you want to tell me about Friday night in the basement?”
Adrenaline rushes in. “I can never thank you enough for what you did, coming to find me.”
“There’s no need for that. I’m just curious what you were going there for, and what you found. You were white as a sheet when I found you outside.”
I remind him about the hidden door that opens into the forbidden storage room and how it doesn’t appear on the blueprints I was given for my inspection. And how completely unusual that is. “I needed to know about Montey, and the workmen were emphatic that I wasn’t allowed in there. So after being stonewalled by Gary, then Jack, then Claudia…”
“You went in. Naturally.”
“Yeah. I snuck in and found a long, narrow room stacked almost to the ceiling with more MSI crates. And get this: at the other end of the room there was an exit door. Maybe I’m nuts, but it seemed awfully suspect. Maybe it leads to a tunnel. I don’t know. I started thinking that maybe it was for smuggling, from the Prohibition days. Paul, one of the workers, suggested that to me, and frankly, I didn’t think it sounded too far-fetched. So, then I opened one of the crates with a crowbar—”
“You what?”
“It’s okay. I didn’t damage anything. But I’d seen the crates beforehand, and I’d come prepared. Anyway, I don’t know what I expected to find, but it wasn’t drugs.”
Pause. “What?”
“Right when I discovered them, I heard that guy outside the door. That’s when my hero came to my rescue with a perfectly timed diversion that lured the guy away.”
He chuckles self-consciously. “Hardly hero material.”
I disagree, but I don’t want to embarrass him by insisting. Who knows where I might be right now if he hadn’t shown up.
