Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (137 page)

Next, Dan pawed through papers and letters stacked on the kitchen counter. Inside a drawer, a messy assortment of bills and flyers dominated. There was little of interest until he came to a single sheet of note paper with a flowery frill around the edges: a record of payments under the words
Irma
—
home
and a phone number.

“Gotcha!”

He dialled.

“Hello, is that Irma?”

“Who is it, please?”

The Bela Lugosi accent Ziggy had described.

“Just a person with a very dirty house. A friend gave me your number. He said you were reasonably priced.”

“Yes, I am cleaner. What you need?”

“Just a little light housework. We can work on a cash basis, if you prefer.”

The words came quickly. “Yes, is good. Where, please?”

He gave her the address as he checked his watch. “This afternoon? Two o’clock?”

“Yes. I am coming.”

She hung up. Now all he needed was to go home and wait.

The woman who arrived at his door was small and neat. Plaid skirt and pink blouse. Dove-grey hair. Hardly a killer, but then again, you never knew. Hadn’t Ziggy said she was a religious fanatic? Sometimes that was all it took.

She gave him a tentative smile and held out a gloved hand. “I am Irma.”

They shook.

“Hello, Irma. I’m Dan.”

He watched as she entered and sized up the room. Her face showed approval: this was the home of someone who took pride in his possessions and kept them in good order.

Her eyes lit up when she saw the teak table. “Is nice,” she said, running a finger along the grain. She turned back to him. “I am good worker, very clean. Never steal.”

“Glad to hear it,” Dan said. “I approve of honesty.”

She frowned, as though he’d made fun of her. “I am good woman,” she assured him. “Where is wacuum?”

Dan showed her to the pantry. She smiled when she saw the Dyson. Undoubtedly a reliable brand. She pulled out a mop and bucket.

Dan left her and went to his office. From time to time, the sounds of cleaning reached his ears. After an hour, she called up to say she’d finished. She waited while he examined her handiwork, the miracles she’d wrought with a vacuum and a few household cleaners. Everything gleamed.

“I leave windows open for fresh,” she said. “Upstairs now?”

“Later,” he said. “Irma, I know you worked for a man named Yuri Malevski.”

A hand flew to her mouth.

“Don’t be frightened,” Dan said, though the words had little effect. “I just want to ask you a few questions.”

“Please — I am afraid!”

He indicated a chair. “Please sit.”

She slumped into the seat, rigid with fear.

“You worked at his house in Parkdale?”

She stared at him a few seconds then nodded.

“Was the alarm always on?”

“Alarm?”

“Security system.”

She nodded again. “Yes.”

“Was there any other way into the house? Any way to get in without tripping the alarm?”

She shook her head. Tears welled in her eyes.

Dan knelt beside her and spoke softly. “I am not with the police. I’m not with Immigration. Do you understand?’

She removed a Kleenex from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.

“Yes, thank you.” She grasped his arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “I don’t want to sent back.”

“Please tell me about the house.”

She looked off, as though seeing it from a distance. “Is much evil. So much drugs and sex. Now murder. So terrible!”

“I understand. That’s not why I’m asking these questions. I just want to know about the security system.”

“There is no other way inside. Mr. Malevski has code. Numbers code.”

“I know about the code. You punch in four numbers and the light turns from red to green.”

“Yes, is always code.”

“And Yuri texted you a new code whenever he changed it?”

“Yes, before I am coming.”

“Did you ever give the code to anyone else?”

She clutched her breast in a portrait of shocked indignation. “Never! I never give this —!”

“It’s okay. I just wondered. What about this boy, Santiago Suárez? Do you know him?”

“Yes.” She managed a smile. “He is nice boy.”

Dan toyed with telling her that Santiago killed himself, but she already looked too frightened. “He had the code?”

“Yes. Is living in house. Nice boy. Very clean.”

“When did you last see him there?”

Her face took on its worried cast again. “He is not coming to house after they are fighting.”

“Santiago and Mr. Malevski?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know about the boy who lived in the small space under the eaves?”

She nodded again.

“His name is Ziggy?”

“Yes. This is correct.”

“Did they fight? Did Mr. Malevski hurt Ziggy?” He raised his fists. Irma started in fright. “I’m sorry, I won’t hurt you. Can I make you some tea?”

“Please, I must go now.”

She made a move to rise from the chair.

Dan held up his hands. “Not yet. Please.”

She sank back.

He waited till she was calm, reading her body language like a wild animal’s. “The boy, Ziggy. Is he a good boy?”

“He is …” She trailed off, as though words had escaped her.

“Different?” Dan suggested.

She touched her head. “Yes. Here.”

“Do you think Ziggy killed Yuri? Mr. Malevski?”

Irma winced. She knew something, Dan felt, but how to get her to say it?
You better look closer to home, baby.
What exactly did that mean?

“Yes,” she said at last.

“Why? Why would he do that?”

“Sometimes …” She looked away, as though trying to find a place to disappear, to get away from this madman who had trapped her with his questions. “Sometimes we suffer. Love is hard. God’s love is hard!”

God’s love!
Dan thought of the pamphlets she left on the piano, the ones Ziggy said Yuri laughed about.

“Always God is testing us,” she said.

“You cleaned the house on a Thursday?”

“Yes, Thursday always is my cleaning day.”

“Thursday always is your cleaning day,” he repeated. He named a date. “And that was the last time you were there. Is that correct?”

“Yes. I think so is true.”

“Did you see Mr. Malevski that day?”

A quick shake of the head. “No. Upstairs bedroom is locked. Maybe he is sleep.”

“So you let yourself into the house with the new code he texted you?”

“Yes, on day before, but front door is locked two times. I must go to back.”

Dan’s brows knit. “Two times? You mean double-locked?”

“Yes. Always I come and go in front doors, but this time is locked.”

He recalled Lydia’s comment that the door had been locked from inside. Yuri texted the new code on Wednesday, but before Irma arrived on Thursday someone double-locked the doors. Why? Had Yuri been trying to keep someone out? Or was it something more?
God’s love!

What if Ziggy had lied? He could already have been there when Irma arrived. Perhaps Yuri had met him and let him in. Dan considered: a boy kills an older man who showed him kindness then locks the house up tight. Not simply to hide the death, but out of consideration for the man he loved. He thought of Yuri lying in bed, all dressed up.
Almost as if he was going somewhere
, Lydia had said. Killers often professed to love their victims, dressing them in special clothing and laying them out in poses suggestive of peace and repose, as though a final act of grace had been granted them in death. An immolation, a final dignity, as though to say, “I killed you because I loved you.” More than a fetishization, it was an act of veneration:
I loved you enough to kill you. Consider the benefits: you can never grow old, never get sick or suffer pain, never again be abused by anyone, including me. I have granted you immortality. I have given you a clean slate. Nothing can besmirch or dirty you ever again. Thanks to me, you are perfect.
For someone a little off in his thinking — someone like Ziggy — it might make sense.

Irma sniffled.

“What about the week before?” Dan said. “The previous Thursday?”

Her mouth broke into a relieved smile, as though sending her back to that earlier time was a pleasanter memory. A better place to go.

“Yes, always I clean Mr. Malevski house Thursday.”

“Was Mr. Malevski there then?”

“Yes, is there.”

“And everything was okay?” Dan pressed. “On the previous Thursday?”

“No.” Her brow furrowed at the memory. “Is arguing!”

“With who? Santiago?”

“No. Is coming lawyer.”

She pinched her mouth with her fingers, as though to stop the words, fearful of the outcome.

“A lawyer came to the house? Charles?”

“Yes. Is angry. Much shouting.”

“Mr. Malevski was shouting?”

“No. Lawyer is shouting to Mr. Malevski. Then I turn on wacuum not to hear. When I am finished, lawyer is gone.”

After Irma left, more than well paid for her efforts, Dan called Lydia for an update and to give her Irma’s number.

“Go easy on her,” he said. “She’s an illegal. She’s very panicky.”

“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.”

Twenty-Five

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.”