Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (98 page)

Dan nodded.

“All right. Then I can share a bit, though I keep my head down and my nose clean for the most part. If there's something a little too spicy going on in the bar, I just duck behind the counter till it blows over. But yeah — shit gets said, and I overhear it now and then.”

He paused. Dan felt himself leaning forward, a boy anticipating a secret revelation.

“There are guys — I'm pretty sure they're cops — who come in every once in a while. Never in uniform, of course. When they show up, the owners give me a look that says I need to disappear. I usually go down to the basement and count cases of beer. When I come back up, the till is a little emptier and the owners are a little more sombre, like they've just had a scare and aren't ready to talk about it.”

“Do they ever ask you to give anything out if they're not around? Maybe an envelope?”

Hank made a face. “No. And I hope they don't ask.”

“Why do you think the guys who come in are cops?”

Hank gave a rueful shrug. “Because every time they come in, the owners get slack about the head count for the next few weekends. Like they've been told they don't have to bother with all the bodies in the place. Meaning they can let a lot more people in. Sometimes we go over the legal limit, which in turn means more beer sold, which also means they can start to make up for whatever payments they just handed out.”

Dan nodded. “A nice, clean system. So in the end, nobody really loses out.”

“You might say it's a win-win situation.”

“Until there's a fire. But so far as you know, the payments have always been made?”

Hank's brow wrinkled. “Couple of years ago, when things were slow, I know we weren't doing so well. I think the payments were smaller. The bar was fined a few times. Once it was a long weekend. We had a full house. Wall to wall people. We got closed for a week for overcrowding, but I got the feeling they were just testing us. Just showing us what it would be like if we didn't go along with their scheme.”

“It sounds like what was going on at the Saddle. What about the other bars? Are they getting tapped, too?”

Hank's smile was grim. “I think we all are. But the Saddle, especially. They were always over the limit and everyone knew it. It wasn't just luck that they got away with it again and again.”

“You think they pick on gay bars in particular?”

Hank gave him a funny look. “You mean, because we're minorities the cops think we must be knock-overs? That sort of thing?”

Dan waited.

“I guess it might be true, but then again we're known as a successful bar. If they were after minorities, they'd be hitting up some of those small Jamaican bars on Vaughan Road. But they don't, unless they're making money. Why squeeze someone who isn't worth tapping into, right?”

Another of the bartenders came out to the patio, knocking butts into a pail. He glanced at Hank, nodded, and left.

“One of your big fans from downstairs,” Hank said with a laugh. “You should start a club. Or maybe I'll start one for you.”

Dan grinned. “Did you ever recognize any of the cops who came in to the bar?”

Hank looked away for a long while then turned to face Dan.

“There's one who comes in sometimes. Not often. I haven't seen him in months, but I wouldn't forget him. Thin, muscular. Wiry build. Intense black eyes. He made a scene one night. I remember he was very drunk. That's when I learned he was a cop. He looked as though he could get out of hand if you pushed him. One of those mean drunks you hear about.”

“Was his name Trposki?”

Hank thought it over. “Yeah, that sounds right. Take my advice — stay as far away from him as you can.” He stubbed out his cigarette and stood. “Gotta get back, sorry.”

“Thanks for your time.”

Hank nodded. “I could probably find out more, if you're interested. Of course, you'd have to come over to my place for supper to continue the conversation.”

Dan smiled and looked at Hank's muscular forearms, his facial hair. “I wouldn't say no to a dinner date.”

The Approach

Dan left the bar thinking about everything he'd just learned. A lot of fingers seemed to be pointing to an Officer Trposki of the Toronto Police. A gay cop hitting up a gay bar for protection. He took out his wallet and fiddled with the blue-and-white-striped card he kept hidden in its soft folds. So far he hadn't used it, but once the chief of police had asked for his help. With reluctance, Dan had given it. Maybe it was time to ask for a favour in return.

He pulled out his cellphone.

Not exactly friends, still they were allies in an undefined way. The conversation was brief. Dan had no hesitation saying precisely what was on his mind: police officers were taking kickbacks from bars in the gay ghetto.

The chief didn't insult him by denying it. In fact, he surprised Dan by being forthright.

“Does this have anything to do with the Yuri Malevski case?”

“That's it,” Dan told him.

“
Quid pro quo
. What do you know about it?”

“Not much, but I've been told the official investigation may run into some roadblocks because of the bribery allegations. Cops don't rat on cops.”

“You know I don't like hearing that kind of talk.”

“I wouldn't say it if it weren't true.”

The chief mulled this one over.

“I'd like you to talk to someone,” he said at last. “Have you got a pen?”

“Shoot.”

Dan wrote down the name and number.

“One of my best. She's in charge of an internal investigation into police corruption. You can talk straight with her. She'll treat you the same.”

Dan hung up and left a message with Inspector Lydia Johnston. She phoned back within five minutes, asking to meet. Half an hour later he was sitting across from an attractive, forty-something woman with shoulder-length brown hair, sporty build. She beamed confidence. They were at Fran's Restaurant on College, one of Toronto's culinary institutions whether you were a connoisseur of diners or not. Johnston glanced around at the other customers. “I like to chat here,” she said. “It's always so loud and busy that no one can overhear you.”

Dan smiled. He'd wondered about the wisdom of talking in public, but she was right. The buzz was deafening. The only drawback, as far as he knew, was that the coffee was nearly undrinkable. “Burned” and “scorched” seemed to be the only noticeable flavours it possessed.

Inspector Johnston put him at ease at once. She didn't carry that tough outer persona most cops projected on the job, and which more often than not seeped through to their private lives until friends and family found it difficult to distinguish one from the other. But he'd been given access to her through the chief of police, so perhaps she felt it was in her best interests to impress him.

Dan told her the little he knew: word on the street was the police had been taking bribes from the Saddle and Bridle, milking Yuri Malevski through various employees designated to put money in other hands for a dubious form of protection.

“And you know this how?” she asked.

“Through one of his employees.”

“Name?”

Dan hesitated.

“If I'm going to trust you, then I'd like you to trust me.”

She wasn't hard-balling him, just stating her position. There was no aggression or intimidation in her voice.

“I'm sorry. I promised my source anonymity.”

She nodded. “Okay. Fair enough, but the more you tell me, the more I can help you. Let me be frank: I can't prove that whatever you tell me is safe, but I want you to know my aim is to rid the police force of corruption inasmuch as that is possible in a force this large. I have no hidden agenda. The bars are part of it. There are drug deals, as well. Lots of messes to clean up. But I don't screw around with confidential information or the lives and reputations of police officers. I've merely been assigned a task and I'm trying to carry it out as well as I can. We will all benefit from a cleaner police force. Do you have any questions?”

Dan liked her so far. “Where do you get your zeal? What makes you suitable for this job?”

Her gaze was unblinking. “My father. He was a good cop. One of the best. He taught me to be honourable in all things. He taught me that although there are unjust laws, there are a lot of good and meaningful laws on the books. You don't break laws simply for your own convenience and especially not for personal gain. My father didn't like graft and corruption. I don't either.”

Dan started to speak, but she cut him off.

“And in case you think that's a pretty speech, I'll tell you that my father died in the line of duty. I don't take his memory lightly.”

“Okay, I believe you,” Dan said. “Forgive me if I don't name names. I gave my word, and that means something to me. In fact, it means everything to me. I will ask for permission to spell things out to you personally, but give me credit that for now I simply cannot.”

“Cool. Let me know when you can.”

“For the moment, however, I can give you the name of one of your own: Trposki.” He caught a flicker of interest behind the self-assured gaze. How deep the interest went, or why, was impossible to guess with certainty.

“What about him?”

“I'm told he was one of the officers who might have received bribes from the Saddle and Bridle.”

“And this comes from your source?”

“Yes.”

Her mood had darkened, but only slightly. He saw the outward signs, and was glad he hadn't revealed everything. Obviously the name meant something to her. Dan recognized the look. He'd seen it in his clients, the ones with things to hide. They didn't necessarily turn away when you asked the hard questions about why someone might have vanished:
Did you ever hit her? Were you having an affair?
These were the sort of questions that made most people blink, though a few had played poker long enough to know that an averted gaze was as good as an admission of guilt. But there were others, like Superintendent Johnston, whose aversion tactic was barely discernible. Dan thought of it as lips being out of synch with the words in a film. Something was mismatched. If asked to describe it, he would have said she seemed to be thinking one thing while saying another, the words going in one direction while the flickering traces of thought on her face went elsewhere. It was his own internal polygraph, but he'd never known it to be wrong. A lie was a lie, no matter the reason for telling it.

“I'm curious,” she said at last. “What's your interest in this case?”

“My source is also my client. I think I can safely tell you that much. I'm looking for Malevski's ex-boyfriend, Santiago Suárez.”

She sat back. “Interesting.”

“As far as I know, Santiago was responsible for passing the payback money along to the police officers who were taking bribes.”

“I'm sure you won't be surprised to hear we already know this?”

“Is he a suspect? In the murder, I mean.”

“As much as anyone who knew Yuri Malevksi is considered a suspect at present.”

“What about the killing itself. How was it done?”

“Nasty and swift. A long-handled knife was used. From what we can tell, he was attacked in his kitchen before being carried upstairs afterwards. There were a few residual bloodstains on the stairs. Everything else had been cleaned up. The front door was double-locked from inside and the back door alarmed. He was all dressed up when they found him. Almost as if he was going somewhere. In any case, he probably died in his bed.”

“Sounds like someone went to a lot of trouble to hide the body.”

“Seems like it. He was discovered pretty quickly, however, when he failed to show up at work and missed an accounting meeting he had planned.”

Dan nodded. “Word is the ex-boyfriend left Yuri for a girlfriend. Do you know anything about that?”

Johnston's smile lit up her face. “That's what we heard, too. I thought at first it might just be an alibi thing, but we found the girl and she confirms his story. A quick conversation with some of the neighbours told us he'd been coming and going for some time. So it seems as though it might have been real. At least back then. We put a watch on the apartment, but he never returned. Probably never will, is my guess. If it helps, I can give you her name and address.”

“I'd appreciate that.”

Inspector Johnston took out a notebook. “She's in the Jane-Finch Corridor. If he's hiding out, it would prove easier for an illegal alien to hide out there, far from the downtown core, rather than in other culturally diverse areas like St. James Town.”

“True enough,” Dan concurred as he wrote down the particulars.

“What else do you know about Officer Trposki?” she asked.

The turnaround surprised him, but it shouldn't have. She came across as pleasant, but she was still canny.

“He's gay.”

She finished her coffee.

“Okay, leave this with me. Do I have permission to call you at home?”

Dan nodded. “Any time you like.”

“Good. And I'd like you to feel free to contact me any time as well.” She stood and offered her hand. “Lydia, please.”

“Dan.”

Dan had a couple of hours to kill and an appetite to appease now that he'd overdosed on bad coffee. He headed back to the ghetto. The Village Rainbow Restaurant seemed the quickest option on the strip. He wasn't above cheap food when his appetite was on autopilot. He went in and took a seat.

The waiter's immaculately cut hair was the only clue he cared about his appearance. The trousers pushed down around his hips seemed to say,
I can't be bothered to worry what you might think about my butt
. He was arrogant with the scarcely considered beauty of youth — untouched, untutored, and altogether radiant.

The burger was barely noteworthy, but Dan wolfed it down anyway. Fries were always in season. When the bill arrived, Dan pulled out his wallet. The blue-and-white-striped card fell onto the table. He picked it up and thumbed the edge before tucking it back inside.

“Yeah, thanks,” the boy said coolly, when Dan tipped him for his meagre efforts.

His look was sullen, as though he hated to be beholden for something as inconsequential as money.

Afterwards, Dan stood on the sidewalk outside. Apart from meeting Hank, there'd been little mem-orable about his afternoon in the ghetto. It simply reinforced his belief that he didn't belong there. He was a misfit among misfits. But the neighbourhood wasn't the problem, he realized. Now he saw it simply for what it was: an underprivileged bit of turf that attracted a particular type of person. Why did the LGBT community need to stand out? Wasn't that what his therapist had accused him of: trying too hard to show the world that he belonged? Maybe the boy who served him his burger felt the same:
Take me or leave me
, he seemed to say.
I can't be bothered to waste my time trying to impress you
.

Dan remembered walking down these same streets for the first time as an eighteen-year-old. The city had seemed immense to him, having just come from small-town northern Ontario after leaving behind a brutal upbringing where love was expressed with fists and curses by his alcoholic father. Back then he'd felt it was all he could do to survive, but somehow his future had been forming quietly in the background, taking shape while he walked the streets and grew more and more comfortable with the cityscape.

Images passed through his mind, a parade without end. Now, more than twenty years on, the buildings no longer seemed so high, the city less crowded than in his memory. He'd scaled its heights, bringing it down to human proportions. Of course, raising a son had contributed to that. There was nothing like being responsible for another human being to make reality assert itself.

He saw them up ahead, a trio of twisted sisters. They were a splash of local colour, a stage designer's
trompe l'oeil
, like exhibitions in the Church and Wellesley display for curious tourists. “If you look to your right, ladies and gentlemen, you'll see some of the favoured clichés of the LGBT community …”

The first was male, at least in appearance: red hair, freckled shoulders, and muscular physique, though the walk and talk said otherwise. Why go to the trouble of pumping yourself up if the voice and personality didn't match? Security, of course. You could beat up a wimp, but you'd think twice before tackling someone with a construction worker's build. The second was also male, nothing much to write home about, though the third had Dan perplexed. Shoulder-length hair and wide hips, but with a broad back and a boy's voice that cackled and whinnied and carried on. The message was as loud as it was clear:
You may think we're freaks, but don't mess with us. We won't be silent.
The latter leaned over to the first and kissed him on the mouth.

“Longer and wetter, sweetheart!” came the cackling command.

Even when Dan passed them by, casting a sidelong glance to see if there were breasts — hardly any to speak of — he still couldn't be sure. Then it dawned on him: the spiky hair and bushy eyebrows. This was Jan the transsexual. Normally, he looked for signs of aberration: an unusual scar or an overly obvious tattoo — something to tell him the thrust behind the personality, where a person came from and how they'd been formed. Clues that gave hints about the likeliest approach to finding someone should they disappear. But this was an overload of signs and signals in every sense of the word.

Before Dan could make a move, Jan held up an arm and let out a whistle, stopping a passing cab. The unlikely trio climbed in, the cab whisking off even before the doors were shut properly.

Dan watched it pass down the street and out of view.