Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (64 page)

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?”

“Why would someone even care about what I did then?”

He looked so distraught Dan almost felt sorry for him.

“The motive for these murders seems to be because their names were on a list of registered sex offenders …”

“I’m telling you, I’m not!”

Dan cut him off. “I heard you. So if your name wasn’t on the list then it’s something else. Or it’s a mistake. I suggest you take that photograph back into the headquarters and tell them you require round-the-clock police protection.”

Jags turned to him with a pleading look. “In the meantime, what are we going to do about it?”

“We?” Dan shook his head slowly. “Hiring me to keep rowdy fans from pinching your ass at a book signing is one thing, but getting me involved in a serial killer’s fantasies are quite another. Consider me no longer in your employ, Mr. Rohmer.”

“No, wait. Dan, please! There’s someone out there who wants me dead. I need you to protect me. You’re the only one I trust!”

“I can’t do this.”

Jags watched as Dan went out the door. “If I die,
it’ll be your fault!” was the last thing Dan heard from him.

Fourteen

Cold as Ashes

Dan felt restless as dusk came on. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on his own for more than a few hours at a time. Trevor was in BC till Wednesday. Ked had stayed at his mother’s for another night. On the other hand, there was Ralph. Dan walked and fed him then, having done his duties, he left the house and headed for the Danforth. Nobody knew why it was called
the
Danforth. It just was. The Danforth was the
closest thing Toronto came to having a European
cultural ethos, its restaurants and bars reflecting the touristy cafés of Paris or Athens.

As he reached the busy thoroughfare that split the city’s east end, Dan looked around. Distant strains of music promised soft distractions, fun company. He found himself outside The Only Cafe, where a local band was putting on a set of funk-and-roll. So then. It was decided. This would be a test. He set himself a limit of two pints. If he could go into a bar alone and contain his thirst then he was doing well.

After years of unrestrained drinking, his son had finally confronted Dan’s alcoholic tendencies. Happily, that had coincided with Trevor’s appearance in his life. Sweet distraction. Since then, in private, he’d been able to keep his drinking to a minimum. With the noise and bustle of the world at his shoulder, however, it might prove a different story. When he left, he’d know whether he had any willpower to speak of or if he was truly a spectre in the purgatory inhabited by alcoholics.
There but for the grace of Trevor go I
, Dan told himself.

The Only was a hangout for would-be Rastafarians and a hip young crowd — stylish clothes, self-conscious hair — with the occasional middle-aged yuppie drifting in for a taste of remembered cool, before careers and mortgages and kids and stock portfolios interfered with all that fun and living.

An ambiguous sexual tone hung in the air, in keeping with the imported beer and gourmet sandwiches. The city had been taken over by an amorphous generation, unperturbed by definitions of any sort. The men looked at Dan with interest, if not outright desire. There was no telling in here. If nothing else, he probably looked as though he might prove a good dope deal. The women were coyer, glancing sideways at him before deciding he wasn’t their cup of joy, that he didn’t have the right moves after all. At least not for them. These kids had their own brand of gaydar.

Dan downed his requisite pint, teasing it out a full twenty minutes before deciding this wasn’t really his scene. Grabbing a souvlaki from a street vendor, he headed west toward the Don Valley and drifted into the Old Nick, an Empire Freehouse with a less trendy clientele who had fewer concerns about their hair. It might have been the sort of establishment Samuel Pepys had in mind when he declared pubs the heart of England. He was greeted by an insistent bass beat of raised voices, the clatter of cutlery, and the clinking of many glasses against the bar top. Tin ceilings, oak-planked floors. It was a good place to waste an hour, but the faded good humour of the staff was cut shorter with each successive demanding customer.
If it wasn’t for the money, I’d tell them all to…!
Here no one flirted with him but the bartender, a genuine troll of sixty or more. Whether or not the man was gay wasn’t at issue here. Dan suspected he’d flirt with anyone for an extra loonie tossed ringside at the end of the bout. Whether you lost or won at the game of love wasn’t his concern, so long as he saw you off with a laugh and a friendly wave inviting you to try your luck again tomorrow.
All the sad young men …

He sat and ordered.

Posters loomed overhead. Every bar had its dead heroes. This one was no exception. Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, and John Lennon topped the list. Farther down, Billie Holiday, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, Al Wilson, Bob Marley, and Sid Vicious all weighed in on the count. Dan had nothing against maudlin memories of the dead, but he had reservations about Vicious. What was there to mourn about a sadistic, anti-social murderer? Nothing. Sid had had no talent, so nothing wasted there. He’d done nothing in his short life to redeem his time on Earth. Just another self-styled Nazi who did the world a favour by topping himself before he killed again.

The list of the dead — many of them members of the notorious 27 Club — was long, but this one had an unusual variation: jazz guitarist Lenny Breau. A soft-spoken Canadian, Breau had been a real talent, unlike Vicious and his mates, who went looking for trouble. Strangled and thrown into an LA swimming pool, the crime was still officially unsolved, though Dan recalled that the wife loomed large on the list of suspects. It made no difference. Breau’s talent had burned out on drugs and bad company well before his time. A true waste, in other words.

Despite the morgue on the walls, this was more Dan’s scene. Overhead, CNN flashed across his retinas, a grab bag of arbitrary information crammed onscreen. There was the TSE index flirting with the weather girl, car accidents taking down prime ministers, floods and movie premieres all rolled into one flashing, twitching mosaic of
Here and Now!
All the while Father Time was ticking, reminding you the world was passing as you gawked and ate and gossiped.
What’s the hour? A quarter past eternity. Do you know where your life has gone?

Dan’s eyes flickered, taking in the panorama of life across the globe. All the news, angst and fashion that money could buy. There was the usual celeb-fest as the city prepared to host the annual film festival. Dan yawned. He didn’t care what Brad and Angelina were up to. Not that they weren’t nice people with good causes when they wanted to be. He just had more pressing concerns. Next, a police officer subpoenaed for breach of confidence had failed to surrender his laptop.
No doubt protecting his stash of lap-dance pictures or some such
, Dan thought.
Rotten luck buddy
. A photographic highlight contrasting Japanese and Canadian fashion trends failed to catch Dan’s interest.

His eyes flickered away. Across the room, a woman caught his glance. Attractive in the shadows, she might not prove so enticing close up, he realized. Such was life. But then he wasn’t wanting a closer look. Dan tried to guess what or who she was: a failed actor on the lookout for a private drama, a rewarding part she could cast herself in, no need for the director to glance her way and like her legs. Or maybe she was a single mom having second thoughts in mid-life, wondering again why she’d put her dreams permanently on hold for those ungrateful brats who had no idea that she’d once been young and carefree like them, while her deadbeat ex-husband still hung out at parties and ogled younger women as though he was still in his twenties. A real life version of
Jeopardy! I’ll take
Failed Lives
for a hundred, Alex
. The stories repeated themselves up and down the bar.

She gave up after Dan failed to respond on her fifth try, turning her attention to a heavyset man on the other side of the room. He seemed to appreciate the attention, downing his pint for a bit of extra courage.
Your luck, fellow
, Dan thought.

This wasn’t how he wanted to spend his night, single and desperate for company, whether in a gay bar or a straight one. If he wanted to, he knew he’d find oblivion in the bottle here. In a gay bar, after one drink too many it would almost certainly end with another man’s body beside his before the night was over. Given the choice, which would he choose: a sweaty, naked romp or a perspiring glass of gold and white froth? Both had their immediate appeal, but he was a one-man dog, when it came down to it. He’d far prefer to bed down with a cup of hot cocoa and a delicious man who was currently on an island somewhere off the coast of BC.

He was about to leave when a hard-looking pair of eyes flashed at him from the glare of a spotlight. He stopped to focus on the patina of glass overhead. There was the chief of police, staring down the barrel end of a TV camera. The tickertape below promised full updates on the city’s latest murder. Dan sat glued to the set as the chief glowered at him. The man was intense but clearly comfortable in front of a camera delivering his news, and equally comfortable if a bit more aggressive when fielding questions. He was a quarterback making a run in the world of sound bites, a soldier of fortune with the instincts of a stage actor. A media-savvy cop. And so the world turned.

Dan finished his requisite second pint and left without ordering a third, as he’d promised himself. It felt like a victory, however small. Heading home, he calculated how many hours till Trevor’s return. One more night alone with Ralph wouldn’t be so terrible. The dog couldn’t help that he wasn’t Dan’s choice of company. Oblivion couldn’t come too soon, though.

The curtains blew freely back and forth. Dan was stuck in a small, cramped space, waiting for someone. Outside, the rain ran down the window in slow, steady streams. Burgundy drapes reflected the colour of blood. The walls were every shade of black.

A candle flame appeared in the doorway, making his heart leap. Terror gripped him. Had he been bad again? He hid behind the altar to let whoever it was go by. Footsteps approached and stopped. Someone sniffed the air, as though sensing a presence. He peeked around the corner, surprised to see Jags Rohmer in a priest’s robe.

Jags moved past without seeing him. He was about to leave when a second figure appeared. It was Darryl Hillary. So he wasn’t dead after all. Dan sensed something stirring in his consciousness. He guessed he was dreaming, but he couldn’t wake himself.

He started at a noise behind him just as someone grabbed his arms and pinned him against the wall. He struggled to resist the offending lips on his face, the fingers on his body tearing at his clothes. He was thrown onto the floor of the altar, the marble cold against his face. The attacker lowered himself onto Dan’s body, forcing his legs open. Dan felt the searing pain, the agony of violation. The more he protested, the more urgent the other’s actions became as a hot poker raked his insides.

Dan twisted his torso around to get a glimpse of his abuser, but the man’s face was obscured by a hood. He opened his mouth to scream and his attacker forced something between his teeth. A wafer. Dan was choking on the body of Christ.

The man pounded into him, crushing him with his weight and forcing himself deep inside. Dan could barely stand the pain. An arm slipped free. His hand groped in a pocket and pulled out a Swiss Army knife. He reached up and deftly sliced off the man’s left ear.

His attacker screamed and leapt up. Dan watched the chief of police lurch frenziedly from the room. He struggled to his feet, squeezing himself into the darkness behind the altar while wiping saliva from his lips. He felt blood dripping, dripping on his hand.

He opened his eyes. He was sprawled on the living room couch. Ralph was licking his fingers and watching him with concern. Dan felt a wave of nausea and raced to the bathroom. He heaved and flushed, but it was only getting worse. He’d just managed to sit when a stream of burning liquid shot from his bowels. Hot poker indeed. That was the last time he’d buy souvlaki from a street vendor.

When the deluge was over, Dan got up and washed his face. He was grateful he was alone. Trevor would be compassionate, but Ked might worry he was drinking again. He groped his way downstairs. Coffee would help clear the cobwebs from his mind, but the cupboard was bare. He’d run out yesterday. Of course Trevor would have replaced it by now.

It was just past 3:00 a.m. He roused himself and went out to the back patio, staring up at the blackness. It was nearly as dark as the inside of the slaughterhouse. Had Darryl seen his killer coming? Had he recognized him? Dan stood there, imagining Hillary’s last moments. What was he thinking after the first blow, the first spilling of blood? Had he felt anger, fear, disbelief? Probably all three.