Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (109 page)

“She'll have to adjust. So will I. The chief just asked me to be a part of the investigation team.”

She let that one sink in.

“Congratulations.”

“I hope so. What about the boy? Did you get anywhere with him?”

“No, he wasn't there. He mentioned a hangout in his last text. I'll drop by and see if I can locate him.” Dan paused. “By the way, did the investigating officers interview a dicey-looking neighbour who goes by the name of Pig or the P-Man? He definitely wasn't a fan of Yuri Malevski. I mentioned him earlier, but thought I should ask again. You never know.”

He could hear her pawing through the papers in front of her.

“Presumably,” she replied, “he has a real name. Which house was it?”

“One door up from the Lockie House going north. Should be easy to figure out.”

“I'll look into it, thanks.”

Dan considered mentioning what he'd learned about Charles, but wasn't prepared to drop him into it just yet. “By the way,” he continued. “I think I know where Yuri Malevski's phone went. Try all the pawn shops in the west end.”

“You're amazing. Keep me posted.”

The Beaver was a small, dark pub on Queen Street West. It suited a Goth mentality, Dan decided. That afternoon, however, it was pretty much deserted. The bartender didn't remember anyone named Ziggy, but he pointed to a young waiter making the rounds in an all-black outfit. The waiter confirmed that he knew Ziggy and remembered the last time he was in. It was about a week earlier. He'd been with an older man.

“Could you describe the man?” Dan asked, wishing he had a photograph of Charles to show.

“Not really,” the boy said. “Average-looking white guy. He was pretty nondescript. I only remember him because he paid with a Palladium credit card. Never saw one before. I could probably look up his name for you.”

“It's okay,” Dan said. “Thanks.”

Stable Boy

Charles had had an argument with Yuri Malevski a week before the bar owner was murdered, but hadn't mentioned a thing about it. Now he was hanging out in counter-culture bars with teenage drug peddlers he claimed not to remember. But then he was a lawyer, just doing what lawyers do. Dan needed to catch him alone, away from Lionel. Lionel said Charles spent his afternoons at the stable. Dan thought about stopping off in the middle of a run, making it look as though he just happened to be passing by, which would seem ridiculous under other circumstances. Then again, why not just show up and see what Charles was like when caught off guard?

He drove to the riding academy then followed the footpath to a paddock on the crest of a hill. Two riders thundered past as he made his way toward a white stable. A pair of Canada jays squabbled in a copse of gnarled branches outside the entrance. Inside, a dun-coloured gelding flicked its ears and looked him over before turning away.

A young man in his early twenties was pulling on a black-and-white-chequered sweater as Dan arrived. He reminded Dan of Ziggy, but minus the make-up. Attractive, with a pouty soap-opera smile and long blond hair. His zipper was down, but he seemed not to have noticed. He gave Dan an appraising look, as though lining up another prospect for later in the day.

“I'm looking for Charles,” Dan said.

The boy nodded to the back of the stables. “Down there.”

Charles frowned when Dan walked in.

“The kid out front said you were in here,” Dan told him.

“My stable hand,” Charles said. “Should I be surprised to see you? I thought our business was concluded.”

He gripped a saddle and swung it from the counter where he'd been cleaning it to a mount on the wall. The smell of manure and hay mingled in the air, a curious combination that made Dan nostalgic for all the barns he'd never explored back in his youth.

“Sorry for dropping in unexpectedly. I wanted to talk to you alone,” Dan said.

“Have you reconsidered my offer?”

“No, not exactly.”

A palomino munched happily on its nosebag of oats, shifting positions noisily. A hoof rang out against concrete. On the wall, a curb bit gleamed in a shaft of light.

“Nice hobby, by the way.”

Charles glanced at him. “I wasn't born rich, if that's what you're suggesting. I had to earn this. It pisses me off when people tell me they think money is dirty.”

“I don't object to money,” Dan said. “Though I often object to the values of people who think money is important. I grew up poor and overcame it, but ours is probably the last generation that could do that. My son is growing up in a world where he might not be able to afford the education he deserves. His peers may never be able to buy homes. Greed is the problem, not the economy. As the experts have been telling us for decades, we can afford to feed the entire world. We just don't.”

“Nice speech. Sad to say, I don't really care. But in case there are any doubts, I do care about my husband's safety.”

“Then I hope you show it by hiring someone to look out for him properly.”

Charles gave him a curt glance. “Is that what you came here to tell me?”

“Lionel wants Yuri's killer found. I worry he might do something to put himself in jeopardy if he thinks it would help make that happen. That's why he needs protection.”

“Have you got any names for me?”

Dan held out a small square of paper. “Here are two who come highly recommended.”

Charles tucked it in his pocket.

“Thanks.”

He picked up a rake and began dragging dirty straw out of an empty stall, his powerful body throwing more force into the action than seemed necessary. When he was done, he tossed an armful of clean straw onto the floor. So much for having a stable boy, Dan thought.

“There have been two deaths so far,” Dan continued. “First Yuri's and now Santiago's. On top of that, I was attacked in Quebec. Are you willing to risk a third death, and possibly a fourth?”

Charles stopped and stared. “A fourth? Whose?”

“Yours. Don't kid yourself. Lionel may be the only one directly connected with Yuri's bar, but these people won't hesitate to put you out of the picture if they think you pose any sort of threat to them.”

Charles's expression was incredulous. “For the record, I don't believe Santiago was murdered, despite what Lionel may think. I don't contradict him because he needs to believe it for whatever reason, but the facts clearly indicate it was a suicide. Even the police agree.” A suspicious look crossed his face. “Are you saying you think it was murder, too?”

“Until we have any reason to believe otherwise, I wouldn't entirely discount it.”

Charles threw his hands up in the air, startling the palomino, who snorted and stomped. “I'm a lawyer, Dan. I look at things from every angle. Then I ask questions and calculate the odds on whether something happened one way or another, and I try to prove it. That's what lawyers do. It's not about morality or justice. To me, it seems a simple cut-and-dried case: Santiago Suárez killed Yuri Malevski and then committed suicide out of grief or shame.”

“Maybe,” Dan said. “One thing that stands out for me in all of this is the front door of Malevski's house. It was double-locked from inside. If you're committing a murder, wouldn't you just leave and not worry about the doors? Someone was bound to find him sooner or later. And it's not as if Santiago needed time to leave the country, since we now know he stuck around. Unfortunately for him.”

Charles shrugged impatiently. “Then maybe it was a hustler or a drug user or even this kid Ziggy everyone keeps talking about.”

“The one you had sex with? It says so in his diary.”

Charles whirled on him. “Fuck off, why don't you? Why are you even here? You said you're not interested in pursuing the case any further, so drop it.”

“I'll take that as an admission of guilt. He got pretty depressed over it, too, in case you have any compassion. He's a lost kid and you were fucking with him. But if you're not interested in him, then why did you get his hopes up by taking him out again last week?”

Charles stared him down. “The reason I went out with Ziggy was to try to explain nicely why we couldn't have an affair. And yes, I thought I owed him at least that much. Which brings us back to Santiago. Whether the murder was an accident or a crime of passion doesn't matter, though I will happily accept it wasn't premeditated, if you like. But this cock-eyed theory that the police killed first Yuri Malevski and then Santiago is beginning to wear a bit thin. And I, for one, would like a little closure on this case so that Lionel and I can get on with our lives. It's over.”

“And you're willing to risk both your lives to prove it?”

Charles's lip curled. “Give me a break. If someone wanted us dead, we would already be dead.”

“I hope you're right,” Dan said. “But I still worry about it.”

A floorboard creaked behind them. The boy had slipped quietly back inside. Dan turned and saw he'd discovered his wayward zipper at last. Charles took him by the arm and they stepped outside.

Dan glanced around. In the corner, a large wooden feed box was secured with a metal clasp. He pushed the clasp through the hoop and flipped open the lid. No feed inside, just a thick tarp with dark stains on one edge. Dan's mind went into overdrive: they were close to Overlea Bridge. What if Charles killed Santiago and kept his body here until he could dispose of it? Lionel had said Charles knew how to make money disappear. Perhaps he'd done just that and Santiago found out about it, becoming a threat. It was melodramatic, but that didn't make it any less plausible. Certainly no less plausible than thinking Ziggy killed Yuri Malevski out of love. Dan recalled Donny's suggestion that the police killed Yuri over unpaid protection money. Maybe he should take out a Netflix subscription, too. He'd be in good company. He closed the lid and slid the hasp back.

Footsteps approached. Charles returned. “Thank you again for the names. I'll look into it, but I doubt it's necessary now. If we needed protection from anyone, it was Santiago. I didn't really know him, but he had a motive. He was hoping Yuri would marry him for citizenship. When that didn't happen, they argued. I think that's what's behind it.”

“What did you and Yuri argue about the week before his death?”

Charles stared without replying.

“You were at his house the week before he died, having a very loud argument with him.”

“Who told you that?”

“A first-hand witness. Very credible, from what I could tell.”

The lawyer's eyes bored through him. Dan held his gaze.

“I went there to tell Yuri I didn't like the things he was making Lionel do. The payoffs, the money he had to hide. I may have raised my voice, but I certainly didn't do anything to harm him. Anyway, I was in Mexico when he died. Lionel left that evening and I joined him two days later.”

“Lucky for you.”

“Yes, it is lucky for me,” Charles said. “I didn't know you'd joined the prosecution for Yuri's murder, but then you are friends with the chief of police.” He checked his watch. “I have to go. Is this ridiculous inquisition over?”

“Thanks for answering my questions,” Dan said.

Back in the car, Dan considered the possibilities buzzing around in his head. From the start, Charles had pointed to Santiago as being the likeliest choice for Yuri's killer. According to Lionel, Charles wanted the police to pin the murder on him and be done with it. And of course it had been Charles who first brought Dan in to find Santiago.

Charles and Yuri had argued not long before Yuri's death, but he only had Charles's word for what caused the argument. Despite being in Mexico at the time, he could still in some way have been responsible for what happened to the bar owner. Maybe that was what Santiago knew. And where did Ziggy fit in? Charles and his Palladium credit cards would surely seem impressive to someone like Ziggy, a messed-up young man who could scarcely conceive of his own future. Ziggy was no fan of Santiago, according to his diary. Had he ever been to the stables? What had they really discussed that night at the Beaver? It would have been at most a day or two before Santiago's body was found.

Dan's mind was on fire. He pulled out his cell and dialled Lydia Johnston's number. She answered right away.

He launched in without a preamble. “This may be a strange question: did the coroner's report mention anything about horse hair on the body retrieved from below the Overlea Bridge?”

“It is a strange question, but coming from you, Dan, I'm not so sure it isn't relevant in some weird way that you haven't shared with me yet. Should I ask why you want to know?”

“Just a tangent I'm following. I saw a movie on Netflix the other night. There was a body in a box in a stable.”

“Is this the same movie with the bell tower?”

“Different one.”

She laughed. “Okay, I'll indulge you. Let me get back to you on it.”

Dan put his car in gear and drove out of the park. Sunset was breaking on the underbelly of clouds. A streak of blood seemed to be spreading over the river.

Bloodless

Dan woke to a chilled house. Winter was over, but it had left a stark reminder it would be back. With a flick of the thermostat, the furnace chugged into life. In the kitchen, he was greeted with a sorry sight: Hank's floral apology had lost all its blossoms. Two naked stems extended from the pot. The leaves were still waxy and resilient looking, but the petals had fallen to the floor in soft, pale clumps like the bloodless brides of Dracula.

Ralph glanced up from his basket. He wasn't wearing his guilty look, the one that said he'd done something wrong. Clearly, he hadn't been up early eating flowers and spitting them on the floor. With a shock, Dan saw the open window behind the pot. He reached over to shut it, cutting off the stream of frigid air as his mind leapt at the implications: someone had broken into the house while he was asleep upstairs.

He looked around, but nothing seemed awry. Ralph had doubtless slept in his basket all night. No alarm had sounded. Then he remembered: Irma had left the window open to give the house a breath of fresh air. That was all. Nothing to panic over. No doubt she would have closed it later, but he'd terrified her with his questions about Yuri Malevski. He wanted to kick himself for his stupidity. With a police guard outside his house, he'd gone to bed leaving his place vulnerable and exposed. At least he'd talked Ked into staying with his mother.

It was just seven, but his answering machine yielded a message from Inspector Johnston. Yes, her officers had spoken with a neighbour of Yuri Malevski who answered to the name of P-Man. He had, despite his weird moniker, seemed an ordinary Joe to them. And Dan's assumption, based on whatever movie, had been wrong. There were no traces of horsehair on either the victim or his clothes. Dan felt deflated. Perhaps it really was just a simple suicide and Charles had been correct all along in assuming Santiago killed himself out of a combination of guilt and grief.

He looked in the mirror with displeasure at his lined, unshaven face. He needed to get a grip before the day got totally out of hand. Coffee brewed as the house warmed. The phone rang. It was Kendra.

“Hey, how are things on the sunny side of town?” he asked.

Lately, he preferred to keep things light between them, conscious of the need to disarm her fears before they worked themselves into a serious concern. These days he was treading carefully on all fronts.

“We're fine. Ked's gone off to school. Something about a big science project coming up.” She paused. “He told me a little about what's been happening. I have to say you scored big points by letting him stay with you the other night. I just hope you knew what you were doing.”

“Not to worry, we were safe,” Dan told her. “But the truth is, he didn't give me a choice. There was no way I could dissuade him. In any case, we were armed to the teeth, cops on the doorstep, the whole nine yards.”

Kendra said nothing.

“You know I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize Ked's life.”

“What about yours?”

“I'm doing my best,” he said, knowing there was scant reassurance in the statement even if it were true.

“Dan, we're worried for you. Please don't treat us like idiots.”

“I don't,” he said softly. “Believe me, I don't.”

He had Donny on the phone.

“What movie has a bridge and a bell tower?”

“Category?”

“Thriller, I think.”

There was barely a pause.

“
Vertigo
, 1958. Kim Novak and Jimmy Stewart.”

“Hitchcock?”

“Of course!”

“Never saw it.”

Donny snorted. “Barbarian. It was voted one of the forty greatest movies of all time.”

“Oh, really? For the record? I hate Hitchcock. I feel the psychology is unsound.”

“Unsound?” Donny spluttered.

“It's not like real life.

“Of course not. It's a movie!”

“Well, it's unbelievable,” Dan insisted.

“What about
Psycho
?”

“Leave Norman Bates alone. He's okay.”

“Fine. Nevertheless, the movie you want is
Vertigo
.”

Dan paused to regroup his thoughts. “Does someone die falling from a bridge?”

“No, from a bell tower. The same woman who tries to kill herself by jumping into the water beneath the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco.”

“Suicide heaven,” Dan mused.

“You got it.”

“Was it a murder?”

“No. The first time it was faked. The real death at the end is an accident.”

“Hmm. I'm not sure this fits the scenario. The one I'm looking for has a suicide from a bridge and a murder inside a house.”

“Yuri Malevski's?”

“I can't keep anything from you.” Dan paused. “What connects the two deaths in the film?”

“Love and regret.”

“Well, the theme works. Anything to do with immigration?”

“Not at all. A man kills his wife, then hires Kim Novak to replace her and fake her suicide. Since she's supposed to be dead, she has to disappear. All's good till bumbling Jimmy Stewart comes onto the scene. He finds Novak, only she says she's someone else. Trouble ensues. She returns to the scene of the fake suicide and climbs the bell tower just as she realizes she's in love with Jimmy. Alas, this time she falls to her death for real.”

“And the moral of this quaint tale?”

“If you're afraid of heights, stay off the roof.”

“An apt precept.”

“Who got you onto this kick?”

“A transie named Jan.”

“Ah, yes. A stalwart figure in the ghetto. Jan was once part of Yuri's in-crowd till rumours spread that she had one of his delivery boys busted for drug peddling. Seems he'd been her boyfriend, but he jilted Jan for a newer, prettier face on the block.”

“Is that fact or just ghetto lore?”

“The latter, probably. Why? What have you heard?”

“From Jan comes the tale that Yuri thought Jan was coming on to Santiago, who as we know was prone to deploying his charms on others.”

“Huh. So what do I know? They're a sordid bunch.” Donny paused. “Are you all right? You're sounding a little jittery and obsessive.”

“I'm okay. It's been weird. I almost had sex with a nineteen-year-old the other day.”

“Almost?”

“He was stoned. I turned him down. He came on to me, I feel I should add.”

“Congratulations.”

“For turning him down or for being propositioned by someone half my age?”

“Either. Both. Many wouldn't have let that deter them.”

“It just felt weird. It was Ziggy, by the way.”

“Deploying his charms, as you said. Yes, he likes older men. He tried it on with me, too. I had zero interest, though I have no qualms about shagging a younger man. You have to remember it's not the same for us queers. Two men are on common ground, even if their experience levels are unequal. We're a different tribe from the straight world. It's like native justice. They want their own set of values recognized. Why shouldn't we?”

“Well, maybe. But I read his diary and saw in black and white that he's depressed and confused. I wouldn't want to add to that.”

“Because you care about these things, Danny. It's what makes you the difficult-wonderful person you are. You do the work of saints and angels every day and don't think twice about it.”

“I'm hardly a saint. My life is far too messy.”

“Ah, but that's where you're wrong. Saints are made, not born. Mother Theresa came from a wealthy family and had to cast it off. Same with Gautama Buddha. Mandela was jailed for conspiracy to commit acts of violence against the state. He went to prison, got squeezed like carbon into a diamond before he became a saint. It doesn't just happen. Sainthood is thrust on you.”

“Okay. In the meantime, I've got a killer to track down and a movie to watch.” Dan paused. “You know, I miss all these cultural conversations with you trying to convince me that black-and-white films are inherently superior to colour —”

“They are.”

“— or that some quirky, obscure jazz musician was the unheralded genius of his age.”

“Lennie Tristano. I'll pencil you in for some art therapy.”

“Thanks, I'd appreciate it, but I don't want to take away from your time with Prabin.”

“We're not joined at the hip. At least not yet.”

No cigarettes had joined the conversation, Dan noted after hanging up.

Dan called the hospital to ask about Domingo. He was connected with the front desk. The voice hesitated. Dan recognized the Irish nurse's accent immediately.

“This is her half-bother,” he said. “I talked to you yesterday.”

She sounded relieved for a moment. “Oh, yes. I remember you.” The pause told him. “I'm sorry. Your sister died early this morning.”

For a moment, he couldn't speak. The blood drained from his face; his feet felt unsteady. He wondered if her train had come at last, and, if so, was she glad or disappointed with its long-awaited arrival. Dan had an urge to put the phone down and walk out of the house and never come back.

“Are you all right?” the nurse asked.

“Uh, yes. I'm … I'm all right,” he said.

“I'm sorry to tell you over the phone, but as you're a relative we're allowed to do that.”

“Yes, thank you. Very kind.”

Dan stood and paced. He didn't want Ked to see him in this state. He put on his jacket, grabbed his keys, and left. The car seemed to steer itself of its own accord, down to the lakeshore near Cherry Beach. Something inside him wanted space, broad vistas. Here the sky arched bleakly overhead. The snow had melted, but ice lingered along the shore like the vestiges of a vanished world. He sat and stared across the water till numbness replaced the shock.

What had he told Ked? That you could understand life's problems intellectually, but you could never fully prepare yourself emotionally. A good lesson. It had been a long time since he'd shed tears, but he felt a great emptiness knowing this ball of joyous energy and goodwill had gone out of the world. Maybe the only consolation for Domingo's death was in not knowing her son had predeceased her after losing the battle for his mental well-being.

Dan thought of his own genetic heritage, the legacy of two alcoholics. Both had died early, his mother when he was just four. Nothing could have brought her back, but there were times when he wondered whether his life would have been any better had she lived. She'd been more of a good-time girl than a silent abuser like his father; her wrongdoing lay in the neglect of her son. But between the two of them, what chance did he have? Dark side or light, the odds were against him. Dan, too, loved alcohol, but he loved his son more. So it might be true after all that love could save you, as long as one outweighed the other.

The loss Dan felt as a boy had eventually been supplanted by rage, overwhelming him with paroxysms of feeling. He'd had his moments of smashing things in anger, staving in the side of a filing cabinet at work and once, in a private moment of drunken grief and rage after being dumped by a partner, he'd grabbed a ball-peen hammer as it flashed through his mind to hit himself senseless, though he'd checked the urge. Rage was a glaring red eye in the darkness, a fury coming at you from out of nowhere. It exploded when you least expected it, and got bigger and more menacing when you tried to repress it. The last thing Dan ever wanted was for his son to have to live with it, but in his drinking years it had been there until Ked told him to stop.
Stop drinking, Dad
. And he had. So far, he had.

He'd looked into the darkness and lived to tell the tale. The rage had largely dissipated on discovering the circumstances of his mother's early death, a dismal tale of drunkenness and betrayal, but now and then it returned with a vengeance, startling even him and making him drift off in the middle of conversations, averting his gaze to avoid eye contact with people he despised, where once he would have stared them down. From waking sweating from traumatic nightmares through to anxious nights where sleep never came, all he knew was that his subconscious was at war with itself. Despair had been a keynote for many years; now it was an undercurrent running through everything he did, a battle he'd been fighting for years.

What had Donny said? That he was a saint. Not true, Dan thought. Rather, he was a shepherd keeping track of wayward sheep. To him, his life seemed unremarkable, or nearly so. He'd spent the first half as a lost boy, the second half finding others who got lost, as if it were a given that loss should be at the core of his existence. But if he got lost, who would come looking for him? Ked, of course. Donny, too. Yes, and Kendra. So, three people. That wasn't bad. Some people had no one.

After a while, he turned the car around and headed for the ghetto. He'd spent many afternoons there knocking back a few in the days when he used to drink. Domingo had joined him from time to time. She never encouraged his excesses, though. In fact, he recalled how she once told him in a gently reproving tone that he needed to put fatherhood above his indulgences. She was right, of course, though at the time he thought she was overreacting.

Getting drunk wasn't his intention. He simply wanted to forget, if only for an hour. He also didn't want to risk seeing Hank, so he went to Crews & Tangos, twin bars housed in a gaudy old mansion on Church Street. The place had a reputation for being a lesbian hangout. All the better, he thought, as he was less likely to have to fend off hopeful men thinking he might be the answer to their problems, if only for an afternoon.

He ordered a Scotch, barely registering the bartender's queries as to whether he wanted it neat or on the rocks. A glass of yellow liquor — the drinker's fool's gold — was set in front of him and the bartender left him to his ponderings. Not everyone came in to socialize.