Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle

Prologue

1987: The Icy Bier

A cold snap had frozen everything. Record low temperatures setting in the previous week presaged an early winter. The man wheeled his bicycle from the ferry dock over the rocks and down to the shoreline, where the ice had cracked and erupted in little chips, reflecting a bleak sky. The cold’s relentless grip on this chill November day was enough to send most men reeling back to their homes as quickly as possible, but this man hardly felt a thing.

He stared at the surrounding shore and the ice encroaching the edges of the battered point. A spumy spray broke at the dock where the ferryboat had just left its mooring in a whorl of ice and black water. A light snow swirled about, landing on the man’s coat and brushing his reddened cheeks.

He turned his head to the big boat pulling away from the dock. There were seven cars on board for the return voyage, so few it hardly seemed worth the haul. Most of the passengers were huddled in their vehicles, but a handful emerged to stand on deck braving the elements. If they turned and saw him standing there, would they sense his desperation? Would they glean any hint of who he was or what he was about to do, wondering perhaps if he could go through with it?

A dull sun was setting through the grey skies arching overhead. Soon there would be nothing between him and the chill. He looked up at the mountain looming over the Adolphustown Reach. Somewhere up there, in three hours’ time, he had a different assignation. One he knew he was not meant to keep. Just one more broken promise in the grand scheme.

He turned to look over his shoulder. Through the trees he could make out the house he had once called home. It could never feel like home to him again. Not after what had happened. Yesterday lay like a crack in time dividing his old life from whatever remained of it. Everything that mattered had been left behind in that house.

He thought of his wife and felt a cold, clear burning inside. She had beaten him. She had stared across the courtroom with coldness and malevolence and spoken the words that brought his doom, describing to them how he had struck her. So she had won, and the victor’s spoils were too great for him to bear. But what about his sons? They still needed a father. He’d hardly been that to them.

He took a step onto the ice, feeling its slippery solidity beneath his shoe. For a moment, it took him back to the skating parties when he was a kid. The endless fun, the shrieks of laughter and cups of hot chocolate afterwards. And the daring, going out farther than he should have. He’d been lighter then, a mere pup. Now he weighed more than two hundred pounds. He looked up and imagined himself skating out to where the black swath of water stretched fifty yards offshore, chunks of disembodied whiteness bobbing as the ferry cut a path on its journey to the far side.

He took another step and paused at the uneasy creaking. In a sense, his mind had been made up long ago. He simply had to follow through with his intentions. He would head out for as long as the ice would bear his weight. Then there would be the first cracking and then another and it would be done. He thought about the cold engulfing him, the iciness gripping his skin. Even if he struggled, it would be too late.

If someone were to come looking for him years from now, what would they find? A pile of bones, at best. It would tell nothing of why he had done it. Images spewed from his mind: all the anger, all the labour, all the loss. How would they see him afterwards? As a coward who ran away from his problems? Maybe he was. Then wasn’t it better to get it over with, once and for all?

He could still make her pay, he thought. He’d kept meticulous records. Maybe one day it would help them understand his dark motives, the rage that burned, the anger she’d spoken of in court. The diary would help them piece it all together.

A seagull shrieked and bobbed on a stray wave. It seemed to be laughing at him. The ferry had progressed to about the halfway point, slowly sawing through the ice and water. He stood there, a man poised over an abyss. Which would it be, this way or the other, with all of its grim consequences? He could go no farther. He had to choose.

A gust of wind caught his collar, startling him. He turned and looked back to shore. The bicycle caught his eye. He ought to move it, not leave it there as a signpost, if he was going to go through with it.

One

2007: Look for the Unexpected

He was late again. It was the third time that week. His son was waiting on the corner outside the dry cleaners, chomping on the yellow crescent of a meat patty and still wearing his team uniform. Dan pulled over and sat by the curb, watching. A smattering of graffiti ran across the brick, swirls and squiggles approaching letters, black on white on red. Nothing actually intelligible except for the cryptic rendering
Babb 2
. But no
Babb 1
. Did graffiti artists disdain the sequential? He watched Ked push against the wall with one foot — the Jordan
Spiz’ikes
that cost more than any shoe Dan had worn at that age — then lean into the brick again. Push away and in, push away and in. It took on a rhythm.

Ked was with the same black kid from the other day — the one Dan had come to think of as the “ruffian.” His mind took in outward impressions: skinny face, weird hair, baggy clothes. A low waistband revealed the ruffled edge of blue-grey checkered boxers. At least the boy’s jeans were high enough, if he needed to run. What was it with teenagers and those freaking hoodies? They looked like ghouls roaming the streets, especially after dark.

The ruffian’s face was set on neutral. No expression of defiance or curiosity. Certainly no joy. Did that spell devious or repressed? Usually Dan got a feel for kids, but this one gave few clues. He seemed almost catatonic — no junky twitches, no arrogant swagger. It was unnatural.

Dan’s training taught him people were composites — aggregates of personalities, upbringings, social milieux. First you looked at the whole and then took in the details one at a time. Being a father confirmed it. You never knew who carried the knife and who might turn out to be a Rhodes Scholar. In this neighbourhood, sometimes the same kid filled both roles. Blue collar workers and artsy boho types eager to be near the film studios lived side by side with the new immigrants who thought they’d found Easy Street. A brave new world of 24-hour convenience stores, tenth-hand junk shops, and self-pumping gas stations, with guaranteed lifetime positions as parking lot attendants, fast food servers, and dollar store cashiers. Roll up, roll up — be the next ethnicity on the block to inhabit this ragtag, burnt-end-of-the-candle cul de sac. A new underclass of hirelings for the least-wanted jobs.

The old Canadians knew they lived in a ghetto at the bottom of Leslieville that held gold for a few, but fool’s gold for most. Trapped between the uptight New Agers of Riverdale and the monochromatic, mostly-white enclave known as the Beach (
And don’t call it the Beaches!
residents chided), theirs was the forgotten neighbourhood. Above and to the north, Greek and Muslim communities stretched along Danforth Avenue in uneasy communion. To the south there was industry, water filtration plants, and the decay-ridden stench of Lake Ontario.

Ked said something to the other boy, who responded with a gentle upturning at the edges of his mouth. Ah! He was shy, then. Or possibly enamoured of his son. Dan thought about the drink he’d be having at home and the files tucked into his case waiting to be unpacked. He honked.

Ked looked over and said something to the other kid. Hands gestured in teen-speak. Additional clues, these ones more arcane. Ked ran across the street and climbed in back.

“Hey Dad! Find any missing people today?”

“Just you.”

“Cool!”

Dan turned to look at him. “Better view from back there?”

Ked grinned. “Nah. I told Eph you were my chauffeur. Don’t blow my cover.”

“And Eph would be…?”

“Ephraim. New kid. He’s cool.” His son was mastering the art of the two-second meaningless sound bite.

“Does he need a ride somewhere?”

“Nah. He lives close.”

“Is he going to be a friend?” Dan probed.

“Um … maybe.” A one-shoulder shrug. “We’ll see how it goes.”

“He could stand a change of wardrobe,” Dan said, catching the boy’s retreating form in his side mirror.

Ked snorted. His freckles underwent a quick metamorphosis. “Eph’s from an underprivileged family. I hope you’re not going to hand me some crap about poor kids being bad influences.”

“Hardly.”

Dan reversed and swung the car around. Not bad influences, no. But what about the other kind? The kind that determined whether you became a success or failure in life. It added up. Who you hung out with, went to school with, fucked, or married — that sort of thing. It mattered in the end, even if for all the wrong reasons.

He eyed his son in the rear-view mirror. Ked’s head was down, focused on his Game Boy. “Good game?” he ventured.

“Pretty good.”

“Score any goals?”

“Nah.”

Dan nodded. “You’ll get there. Just don’t neglect your schoolwork.”

“I won’t,” Ked said without lifting his eyes.

“How’s your mother?”

“Same.”

Dan saw Ked wrinkle his nose the same way Kendra would at such a generic question. “Be specific or be gone,” she liked to say. Dan could play that game.

“Same as what?”

“Same as always,” came the reply from the backseat.

“That’s what you say every time I ask.”

Ked looked up. “It’s true. What do you want me to say?” His voice rose in pitch, as though puberty wasn’t done with him.

“I want you to tell me how she is. Happy? Healthy? Going anywhere interesting?”

“She’s fine. She’s happy. Not going anywhere. She doesn’t ask as many questions as you.” Ked bared his teeth at the mirror then turned back to the Game Boy.

“You’re really exasperating, you know.”

“I know, Dad. I learned it from you.”

Cars buzzed past the intersection. Rush hour was in full swing. The streets were packed with the usual muck of traffic heading away from the downtown core. A black Neon swerved into their lane without signalling. Dan felt a prickling of anger on his scalp and back.

“Who taught these losers to drive?”

Ked looked up again. “Other losers?”

Dan braked for a scattering of teenagers running from the 7-Eleven and dodging cars. More hoodies. The smallest of them banged a pop can against an SUV, exchanging glares with the driver and flashing a less obscure hand signal Dan recalled from his own teen years. The light turned red. Vehicles continued to flood the intersection, blocking the way.

“Inconsiderate moron!” Dan yelled through the window.

An Asian woman looked nervously away.

“Too much testosterone, Dad,” Ked informed him.

Dan thought again how the city had devolved over the past fifteen years into a rat’s nest of frustration and seething tempers. Corporate crime had taken the backseat to a more visible MTV-style menace: street gangs shooting and killing in broad daylight, the corrupt, surly cops who chased them, and the mindless assholes who blocked intersections and drove like the selfish pricks they were. That and the slow-moving immigrants who learned to drive at schools with names like Lucky Driver and navigated as if they were herding caravans in the desert. What did luck have to do with it?

There was a moment’s respite as Dan turned down his street. The overhang of leafy boughs made it seem like a vast cathedral. The elation vanished. Once again he had to squeeze past his neighbour’s car to get into his parking pad. If she’d pull up another foot it wouldn’t be a problem, but Glenda couldn’t be bothered to clear his drive. He looked over. She was out raking leaves in the kind of outfit women wore to cocktail parties. She ignored him. He’d been an occasional dinner guest before Steve moved out. Dan liked Steve, but had wondered about his wife. She always seemed a little vacuous and self-absorbed. Maybe Steve liked his women that way.

He got out and slammed the car door. “Fucking princess,” he muttered, hoping she might hear but Ked wouldn’t.