Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (50 page)

“Who was the man who raped him? Was he caught?”

“No. And he's resurfaced, making matters worse. It's one of the reasons Lester wanted to leave the city. Lester told me they lived together for a short while. He provided for the kid. Everyone thought they were father and son. They even went to church together, apparently.”

“So, a fairly normal looking and acting individual outwardly?”

“So it would seem.”

Domingo smiled ruefully.

“What is it?”

“You'd think a child molester would be a hideous looking person, someone you would instinctively be repelled by.”

“No. Often they're quite ordinary looking. Normal.
Not a monster at all. It's why they can get so close to children, disarm their families into thinking they can be trusted.”

“Our kids make us vulnerable,” she said. “I'm sure I don't have to tell you that.”

She shaded her eyes with her hand and turned her head. Her own son had been on a missing persons list for more than seven years, Dan knew. He'd disappeared without a word one summer morning. Dan had searched but found no trace of him.

“I'm …” Dan began.

“No, don't say anything. It was stupid of me. Please forget I brought it up.”

After a moment she looked up, eyes misty but her smile in place.

The rest of the meal passed quietly, as though there was little left to be said. Domingo pushed aside her plate and looked at her watch, declaring an imminent appointment.

“I'll get the cheque,” Dan told her. “You can get the next one, as long as it's in this calendar year.”

She smiled and leaned down to kiss his cheek. “You're sweet, thanks. I'll hold you to the next date.”

Dan's gaze followed her down the street and around the corner to the rest of her life. A missing child, a bout of chemotherapy. But here they both were, as Donny had said. Life certainly held its surprises.

Dan was in no rush. He finished his meal and sat there watching the clean, safe city with its unworldly citizens going by.

Little Jack Horny

Dan left the pub and made his way back to his car.
The headline in a newspaper box stopped him dead:
Child Victim or Cunning Killer?
There on the front page of the
Star
was a photograph of Gaetan Bélanger. Dan's mind was running in circles. So much for keeping
the info quiet “for reasons of discretion.” He wondered what the chief of police was thinking right at that moment.

He fished in his pockets for change and cursed his luck at having emptied them back at the pub for a tip. He watched as a woman came up and tipped in two quarters, opened the door, and removed a copy of the paper. He was considering how to distract her to keep the door from slamming when she looked over, extracted a second paper, and handed it to him.

“Two-for-one day,” she said gleefully before walking away, her heels clicking against the sidewalk like knitting needles.

He went around the corner and sat on a bench beneath a locust tree. The article outlined the discovery of a third victim, whose death was being blamed on the Quebec teenager now hiding out in Toronto.

Police are seeking a child abuse survivor in what they now suspect may be a serial killing spree. Gaetan Bélanger, 16, of Lévis, QC, is sought in connection with the murder of Donald Perry, 42, of Scarborough.

Perry was third to die in what is believed to be a co-ordinated series of attacks on sex offenders whose names were released on the Internet last year.

Guillaume Thierry, a former-priest convicted of abusing Bélanger and nearly a dozen other boys at several churches he was associated with in Montreal, was found dead on May 23.

Darryl Hillary of Etobicoke was murdered on August 11. Neither Perry nor Hillary had any known connection with Bélanger.

An unnamed source in the police force said the names appear to have been taken at random from the leaked registry that left the identities of several hundred convicted sex offenders on public view for more than a week.

Photos of Thierry, Hillary, and Perry were inset below. A sidebar mentioned severe mutilation to all three victims, but gave no further details. Dan wondered what constituted “severe.” Had Thierry and Perry been left in worse shape than Hillary? Perhaps Dan's unexpected arrival at the slaughterhouse had prevented Bélanger from inflicting more grievous physical harm on Darryl. If so, there was that to be thankful for at least.

His cellphone buzzed:
Unknown Number
showed on the display. He flipped open the phone and put it to his ear.

“Sharp.”

A shrill treble sounded in his ear. “Greetings, Dan. Constable Pfeiffer here.”

The cop's timing was uncanny. Dan looked around, scanning the street where a sea of sunglasses stared out from neighbourhood patios. He was half-convinced that Pfeiffer was sitting watching him from some nearby café.

“Not sure if you heard the news, Dan.”

Dan snapped the paper open and held it out to full view. “If you're referring to the exposé in the
Star
, then yes. I have it in hand.”

“So our Little Jack Horny has struck again.”

“Excuse me?” Dan said, thinking he had heard wrong.

“Little Jack Horny. It's our unofficial nickname for the case down at HQ.”

“Classy. But I thought you guys were keeping this under wraps for now.”

“Yeah. Funny that. Wonder how it happened.” Pfeiffer's voice went from mocking to accusatory. “A shame about that third death,” he said. “Especially when you could have prevented it.”

Dan was momentarily stunned. “You really believe that? I know even less about the whereabouts of Gaetan Bélanger than you do.”

“I'd like to believe that, Dan, but your movements tell me otherwise.”

Dan shook his head. “What are you saying?”

“I know you've got Jags Rohmer for a client. Shouldn't you be trying to find Bélanger before he gets him too?”

Ice went down Dan's spine. “What's Rohmer got to do with any of this?”

He heard Pfeiffer laugh. “You better ask him, I guess.”

“Ask him what?”

“Just ask him, Dan.”

The call ended. Dan pocketed the phone and finished the article. By the time he was done, he wished he'd never heard of Darryl Hillary or Jags Rohmer.

Yorkville was three blocks away. He hoofed it over. Once the preserve of beatniks, hippies, and soon-to-be famous musicians like Joni Mitchell, Gordon Lightfoot, and Neil Young, the neighbourhood had upped its ante in the ensuing decades and was now the private preserve of the financial elite, ensconced in a few square blocks where bidding wars for condos reached into the millions.

Dan remembered Jags' warning that the building's security was formidable. He entered, gave them a cursory glance and turned aside before he could register on their radar. They looked like the sort of team you might see in a James Bond film, where the hero has to use all of his wits and a beautiful, scantily clad woman to get past them. Using a key was easier.

Upstairs, he stepped out of the elevator and quickly found the door. Jags answered wearing only a dressing gown. He looked surprised to see Dan but nodded at him to come in.

“Oh, right. I gave you the key, didn't I?”

The room was cluttered. Art on the walls, statues on the side tables. Shelves crammed with books, records, CDs. Expensive-looking rugs on the floors. Dan tossed the
Star
on the coffee table. Jags gave him a quizzical look.

“A review of my book?”

“Hardly,” Dan said. “Look at the headline.”

Jags glanced at the paper then back at Dan. “So?”

“You don't know what this is about?”

Jags shook his head. “Enlighten me, good sir.”

“I'd prefer if you would enlighten
me
. Constable Pfeiffer suggested I ask you about your involvement.”

“My involvement?” Now Jags looked uneasy. “I'm not sure what you're trying to tell me.”

“Why did you hire me as a bodyguard? The real reason, please. And don't give me a load of crap about needing protection from someone you've libelled in your book, because those people are all dead from drug overdoses or such has-beens that they would probably be thrilled to have the publicity.”

“Nice way to talk about former stars.”

Dan felt himself losing it. “I don't give a fuck about former anything. What connection do you have with this murder?”

Jags sat on the couch and gestured for Dan to do the same. When he didn't, Jags looked up at him.

“Sit,” he said, and indicated the chair opposite.

Dan sat slowly, keeping his eyes on Jags. “You led me to believe I was recommended to you by my former boss, Ed Burch. I called Ed. He knew nothing about it. He doesn't even know who you are.”

“How unkind.” Jags wiped his brow with a kerchief then looked at Dan. “I went to the police because I thought I might have a problem. What I told you was true, however. There are people from my past who were upset thinking I might expose something incriminating about them. I've got too much good sense — not to mention legal counsel — to do that, but until they read the book they won't know for sure.”

Dan was getting impatient. “As I said, there's nothing in your book that anyone would get upset over or take exception to. Does the world not know that Keith Richards was a junkie or that John Lennon was a first-class jackass behind his Saint of the Peace Movement routine?”

Dan waited.

Jags shrugged. “You're right. It's old news. On the other hand, I could have said that John Lennon once had a boyfriend named Stuart Sutcliffe …”

He watched Dan's face for a reaction, but found none.

“… and that poor Stuart died of a brain haemorrhage two months after John kicked the shit out of him. This was back in Hamburg in the days before the Beatles went viral. And afterward, of course, John would only ever talk about Stuart when he was in his cups. No charges were ever laid, but that
would
have been news.”

Jags eyed him. Dan's face was impassive.

“Why do you really need a bodyguard?”

Jags sighed. “Okay.”

He stood and went over to a desk. He fished around in a small silver bowl on a bookshelf and brought out an antique key. It fit neatly into the desk's lock. The drawer slid open. He retrieved a slim envelope and passed it to Dan.

Dan lifted the flap and a Polaroid dovetailed into his hand. At first glance he couldn't figure out what he was seeing. It appeared to be a close-up of a dried, curled leaf lying on a dirt background. Then the colours jumped out at him. He was looking at a severed human ear. He fought the nausea.

Jags' voice was soft, almost taunting. “Takes a while, but it kind of gets to you once you figure it out, doesn't it?”

Dan slid the photo back in the envelope and handed it back with a nod.

“Now that's a real
memento mori
,” Jags said.

Dan nodded. “You should have told me about this from the beginning.”

Jags was watching him. “They warned me not to. Said you might not take me on if I did.”

“Who?”

“The cops. The cocky one — Pfeiffer — seemed particularly adamant about it. He said you were more than just a gun for hire and that you probably wouldn't go for it if you didn't like it.”

“He doesn't know me in the least, but he was right on that score.”

Jags put the envelope back in the drawer and locked it again. He turned to look at Dan seated on the couch.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I was desperate. I wanted you to take me on and I didn't want to jeopardize that. I needed someone who was more than just a hunk of muscle. Someone who was savvy. They assured me you had a reputation for doing whatever you had to do to make things happen right.”

Dan glanced away. On the wall were three framed platinum records. He wondered which ones they were. Probably from early on in Jags' career. His later records tended to confuse and polarize his fans. They weren't sure if his experimenting was just a joke, maybe on them. An image came to mind of a melting face — Jags' face — on some cover. A disturbing image. The man dealt in the bizarre.

“You're right,” he said. “If you'd shown me this photo I wouldn't have taken the job. I've got a son and a partner. I wouldn't do anything that might endanger them.”

He looked down at the paper. Darryl Hillary's eyes burned up at him.

“Did you read it? Do you know what any of this is about?”

Jags nodded. “Yeah. They're looking for some kid who kills sex abusers.”

Dan looked over at him. “Are you a sex abuser?”

Jags tensed. His expression darkened. He looked as though he might tear Dan limb from limb.

“What the fuck are you asking me? What are you saying?”

Dan picked up the paper and tossed it at Jags. “I'm asking you why the guy who killed three men would be sending you photographs.”

Jags looked genuinely confused. “What?”

“That picture you just showed me was of a severed ear.”

“I know that! Why the fuck do you think I freaked out?”

He pointed to the paper. “Severed ears. The kid cuts off his victims' ears.”

Jags suddenly paled. “He does what?”

“So I ask you again, are you a sex abuser?”

“No!”

“Has your name ever appeared on the Sex Offenders Registry?”

“Fuck no! I … I …”

“Then why was that photograph sent to you?”

“I have no fucking idea. And I had no idea it had anything to do with this … this crazy business.”

Jags strode across the room and stood face to face with Dan. He waited till they were eye to eye.

“I swear on my life that I have never abused a kid, sexually or otherwise.”

Dan waited a beat. “What about all those groupies you slept with? Can you say for sure whether any of them weren't under the age of consent?”

A look of fear came over Jags' face. “Are you telling me that…? But they were all willing!”

“They were all willing?”

“Yes.”

“Surely you can't be naïve enough to think that that makes it legal.”

Jags' mouth seemed to be doing some sort of mastication exercise. “But it was years ago … decades.” His voice trailed off. He sat and cradled his head in his hands.

“Have you had other warnings?” Dan asked. “Abusive phone calls? Emails?”

Jags looked up. “No, it can't be.” He nodded. “The day I asked you to go to the cottage with me, someone called and threatened to kill me.”

“And that's why you wanted to go out of the city so suddenly?”

Jags nodded. “Yes.”

Dan waited.

“Have you any idea,” Jags said slowly, “how many musicians have slept with any number of groupies without knowing whether they were legal or not?”

“I couldn't begin to guess,” Dan said.

“Think about it. It was the punk era. Everybody fucked everything. This was pre-AIDS, even. We'd never heard of the shit. If it had a pulse, you fucked it. And sometimes even if it didn't. Nobody cared. No one would even remember what happened between 1977 and 1987 because we were all too wasted to recall. One moment you were shagging someone in the back room of some rancid little club then the next you were shooting up heroin with water you drew out of a toilet. Soiled? Used? Maybe. Who the fuck cared? Those were crazy days. Off-the-map crazy. Total zonkers.”

Dan held out the paper. “You think that's an excuse?”

Jags took it from him and shook his head. “I'm telling you, that universe had no rules and no way is anyone going to come after me now and say, ‘Excuse me, but you boffed me when I was fifteen years old and some murdering sod wants to talk to you about it.' Ain't gonna happen.” He slammed down the paper. “Ain't gonna happen!”

“Okay. So who sent you the photograph?”