Chapter Twenty–Two #2
I feel sick. They’ve set up little white tent cards labelling the evidence at the scene of the crime, and I see one by Paul’s hat.
An unexpected pang of grief hits me. One of the policemen shifts, and that’s when I see Paul, facedown on the floor.
His face is turned my way, though it is so blood-covered and stiff, I barely recognize him.
Gary said the police reckoned Paul had been here for two days. Did he have a chance to call for help?
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
I jump, then face a uniformed policewoman approaching from the side. I assume my professional face automatically, but from her cool expression, I know the effort isn’t appreciated. I grab my card from my pocket, then hold out my hand.
“Hi. I’m Bridget Kelly. I’m with Vale’s. I’m the building inspector assigned here, and I needed to check—”
She takes my card. “You can’t be here right now, Miss Kelly. This is a police matter.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I fake, stepping back. “What happened? An accident?”
“I am unable to divulge anything to members of the public,” she replies with a pointed glare. “Please go.”
I have seen too many weird things lately. In my head, I think, well, if it was an accident, she would have just said yes to that. She did not. Do they think it’s a suspicious death? Frankly, I do. Now I am like Gary: I need to get out of the building right away.
I’m back on the elevator and quick-walking through the lobby on my way out when I hear the woman at reception call my name. I’m not sure how she even knows it, but I head over.
“This was left for you,” she says.
I take the brown paper envelope she hands me. It has my name scribbled on it, but nothing else. “Who left it?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. It was here when I arrived this morning.”
I slide my finger under the closed flap, then stop. I’ll check it out once I’m out of here. I can’t stay in the hotel another minute. I give the receptionist a friendly thank-you, then I head out to Front Street.
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 reports with 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 yet somehow, 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?