Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (106 page)

Charles's face registered surprise. “I didn't know.”

“In any case, when it comes to Trposki, if you see him I think you should avoid him if possible.”

“I doubt I'd recognize him if I saw him again.” He put a hand on Dan's forearm. “How's your coffee?”

Dan felt the heat in his touch and recalled Donny's warning. Charles leaned forward, his handsome features caught in the light, a stage designer's
trompe l'oeil
that had seduction written on it. Intention lay all over this man, from the cut of his silk shirt outlining hard pectorals to the crease of his pant leg that said he could be conservative and coy if you liked, but better lay in wait if you didn't.

“I'm good, thanks,” Dan said.

Charles lifted the hand. Lionel snored lightly in his corner.

“I better go,” Dan said, bundling the file Lionel had given him.

If Charles was disappointed, he didn't show it. He stood and walked Dan to the door. A picture on the mantel caught the reflection of a pinspot: Charles astride a well-groomed horse.
Rich men and their hobbies
, Dan thought, determined not to let himself be added to Charles's list of amusements.

“That's Rocket,” Charles said, catching his glance.

“Nice-looking horse. Is that the stable in the valley?” Dan asked.

“Yes. Very near to where …” He shrugged.

“Right.” Dan paused. “With Santiago dead, I'm assuming you won't need my services any longer.”

“Let's take a few days and think it over. Lionel likes you. It might be in his best interests to keep you engaged for the time being.”

“To do what?”

Charles gave him an assured smile. “Maybe you can find out what really happened to Santiago. We can afford to keep you on.”

Dan held up the file. “I think my job here is done once I bring this to the police.”

“I understand.” Charles held out his hand. “Thanks for not worrying Lionel about your attack. And I won't underestimate the enemy, as you put it. Not for a second.”

They shook. The gap in the door narrowed until Charles disappeared behind it.

At home, Dan went up to his office. He pored over the documents Lionel had given him. Substantial amounts of money seemed to have been forwarded to various accounts on a regular basis. Judging by the codes, it would be impossible for anyone but an expert to determine where. As well, there were lists showing smaller amounts indicating what appeared to be a series of regular expenditures. One weekly entry had a cellphone number at the bottom. He dialled it, but the line was no longer in service.

He checked his watch. It was already past eleven. Inspector Johnston had said to call any time, but he wasn't surprised when the call went directly to her answering service, her voice softly compelling him to leave his name and number.

“This is Dan Sharp, Lydia. I got your message. Please call when you get a chance.”

She called back within two minutes. He could tell from her voice that she'd been sleeping. He imaged her lying there listening to him, trying to shake off the vestiges of sleep before she dialled his number. Nevertheless, she had called.

He gave her an update on his trip. She calmly offered a security contingent. He accepted it with a sense of relief. After his experience in Quebec, he wasn't going to take any chances.

“Are you home now?”

“Yes.”

“Would you prefer to stay there tonight or go to a hotel?”

“My son will be coming home soon.”

“I can have someone there after midnight,” she said.

That was unusually fast, Dan thought, but then he'd been directed to her by the chief of police. Obviously she commanded a measure of authority and knew when to use it.

“I've also advised my clients, Charles and Lionel, to hire private protection, since they don't seem to want any of yours.” He paused. “Ex-clients, I should say. I bowed out of the job this evening.”

She seemed to take the news with barely a moment's consideration. “Do you think they'll take your advice about hiring protection?”

Dan hesitated, recalling Charles's apparent disregard at his mention of the likelihood of danger. “I hope so. I can't say for sure.”

He told her about the file Lionel had given him. They made plans to meet the following morning, and then Dan wished her good night.

He had just got off the phone when he heard the front door open. Ked was home. It was time to face the music.

Alarmed Forces

His son stood at the foot of the stairs nodding in time to his iPod, earphones plugged into his head like the tendrils of zombie plants creeping in while he was unaware. It was a whole universe inside those ear buds, Dan knew. Considering the state of the world at large, it wasn't a wonder kids dissociated from it whenever they could. Dan's generation had protested
—
economies, racism, wars, unjust laws
—
because they'd been told they could change things. The new generation just wrapped themselves in cocoons and waited things out, like a nuclear winter, hoping it wouldn't get any worse. Their animated heroes fought greater and greater battles on computer screens, while the kids themselves seemed prematurely dogged, knowing they could never have even that much effect on the world.

Ralph brushed past Dan down the stairs to greet Ked, who looked up and saw his father standing there. His smile faded as he caught sight of the bruise on Dan's cheek.

“Dad
—
!”

“I'm okay.”

“What happened?”

Dan saw the panic rising in his son's face. He would have to head this off quickly and deal with it as best he could.

“C'mon — let's sit in the living room. I need to talk to you.”

Ked followed as Dan led the way. He sat on the couch across from his father. Ralph flopped himself at Ked's feet. At least someone was taking this casually.

Dan clasped his hands. The gesture made him feel old rather than calm and secure. “I went to Quebec City, as I told you the other day.”

His son was holding on to his temper, but only just. “Dad! Just tell me what happened.”

“I got beat up.”

“Why?”

That, of course, was the million-dollar question. Dan didn't know why, precisely, and what he conjectured about the reasons for the attack could not fail to arouse fear in his son's mind. One of the classic triggers of PTSD was to be put in fear for one's own safety or the safety of a loved one. Was he putting his son on the very track that he'd fought so hard to get off?

“Honestly, I don't really know. I think it has something to do with a case I've been working on.”

Ked just sat there, looking more tense by the minute.

“Why were you even in Quebec City in the first place?”

“I was there trying to find Lonnie's remains.”

His son looked crestfallen now. “Lonnie Rhodes? The guy who used to look after me when I was a kid?”

“Yes. We —
I
— found his remains. He died there.”

Why was it so hard for him to say Lonnie committed suicide?

“How?”

“He fell from a tower. He killed himself, Ked. I'm sorry to tell you that. It happened a long time ago, only we didn't know about it until recently. That's why I went to Quebec, to bring him back.”

Ked nodded. Dan hated spilling it all out to him like this.

A memory flashed. One afternoon, when Ked was four or five, they'd been out in the backyard when a fierce squawking caught their attention. Turning, they watched a hawk lift off from the roof with a squirrel clutched in its claws. The bird flew to the top of a nearby tree and proceeded to tear the rodent apart. Dan saw the realization dawn in his son's face: something that had been alive was suddenly gone in seconds. It was his first encounter with violent death. The only thing worse than knowing was not knowing, Dan told himself.

“Why? Why did Lonnie kill himself?”

“He wasn't well emotionally. He may have been schizophrenic. We're not really sure.”

“And now his mother's dying in the hospital?”

Dan nodded. “Yes, in all likelihood.”

“This is what you were trying to tell me the other day, isn't it? When you said things happen to people and you can't always do something about it.”

“Yes. It is.”

“And that's why you do what you do? To try to change things for people? To make things better for them?”

Dan was grateful Ked had made the association, though he wouldn't have described his work in such terms.

“I do what I do to help people get answers. Sometimes. I don't always get answers. And when I do, it's not always enough, but that's what I try to do for them, yes.”

Ralph moaned and rolled onto his side, as though some secret had finally been revealed and a great weight lifted at having things out in the open.

“So who beat you up?”

“I don't know for sure, but I'm pretty sure it was nothing to do with Lonnie or Domingo. It has to do with a case I'm working on. That's all I know. Some people don't want me doing what I'm doing, because they don't want certain information to come out. I'm trying to find someone who may have that information.”

“Why did they follow you to Quebec?”

That was what Dan had been asking himself all the way back home. Why would they follow him to Quebec? Should he state the obvious, that it was just an easy way to get rid of him, by following him away from home where he'd be vulnerable and in need of protection? Because that was the only likely explanation why they would track him out of town when he was looking for the remains of a dead boy.

“I don't really know, Ked. But it means they're serious about wanting me to stop doing what I've been doing.”

“And will you stop now?”

Dan heard the fear in his son's voice, but he resolved not to lie to him.

“No.” He paused. “Listen, I want you to go and stay with your mother for a few days.”

Dan saw the flash in Ked's eyes.

“I know you hate it when I say that. I'm sorry.”

“Why? Why do I have to go?”

Just — to avoid complications.”

“Why?”

“I just told you.”

“You didn't tell me anything. Are you staying here?”

“I'll stay here, yes.”

Ked stood. “Then I'm staying.”

“No, Ked —”

“Dad, I'm staying. I mean it!”

“It might not be safe for you. You need to leave. Just for a few days till I know everything is safe.”

“Then who looks after you?”

“I'll have police security. They'll be outside in a car.”

His son loomed over him. When had he grown so big?

“Do you think I'm going to be able to sleep at Mom's place knowing you're here alone in the house?”

Somehow, Dan didn't know when, his son had become an adult. Sooner or later, he was going to have to accept and deal with it. He knew his home was secure — strong locks on the doors and windows, an armed circuit that sent alerts whenever a breach was noted. No one could get in without triggering an alarm at the security division's head office, which was monitored twenty-four-seven. He was safe. But then that was probably what Yuri Malevski had believed at one time.

Dan stared up at his son. There was no getting around him. The time had come when his son could say “no” to him and hold his ground. That wasn't a surprise: Dan had raised Ked to think about what was good for himself as well as others. Tonight he was doing both, knowing they were inextricably intertwined. Ked could not go to his mother's and at the same time also not worry about his father. Nor would Dan have felt any different in his shoes. But the fact was they now had the assurance of an armed guard at their residence. If they went to Kendra's house or to a hotel, they would not even have that, and it might bring danger to her. It seemed as though the choice had been made for them.

“All right,” Dan said slowly, hoping he was doing the right thing. “We'll stay here together, you and me.”

Ked sighed with relief.

“I don't know what time the guard will be coming, so for now we have to remain vigilant,” Dan told him.

“I can do that.”

Dan had visions of his son sitting armed at a window, keeping watch over the yard hour after hour till the morning light.

“No tough-guy shenanigans. We don't have guns to protect ourselves. This isn't TV and we are not Americans. No vigilante antics, no crazy stuff. Just listen and keep alert. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“When we go to bed, we'll both be upstairs. All the doors and window are locked. The alarm is on. If you hear anything at all, you call 911 immediately. Then you call me. I'll keep my cellphone on all night, sitting right beside me.”

“Don't worry, I will. Good night.”

Dan heard the latch click into place. In fact, he realized with a smile, he could have done a lot worse for a personal bodyguard.

Rare Flowers

The plant was on the kitchen table when Dan got up in the morning. He opened a palm-sized envelope and read the card:
I'm sorry.
Then underneath:
Hank, xo.
As apologies went, it was neither original nor comprehensive, but Dan could tell Hank was genuinely sorry by the simple fact that he'd sent it. Still, it would do nothing to change his mind about seeing him again.

He looked over at Ked, who stood wrestling with a spatula, transferring pancakes from frying pan to plate.

“Good night's sleep?”

“Yeah, Dad. All good. You?”

“Yes, thanks. I take it this showed up this morning?” Dan said, with a nod at the brightly wrapped offering.

“Special delivery.” Ked said. “I signed for it. The guy wasn't going to leave it on the porch. He said it was too expensive.”

Dan looked at the flower; it was an orchid of some sort. The leaves were a deep, waxy green, the stems laden with violet blossoms dropping downward. Fleshy roots gripped the potting material like fingers poking through soil and groping hesitantly at the world around them.

“I saw the name on the delivery slip. Who's Hank?”

Dan smiled. It was like Ked to keep track of his amorous pursuits, even when Dan tried to keep them to himself.

“A nice guy who meant well, but not a contender, as they say.”

Ked hesitated. “Well, I hope you keep the orchid at least. It's nice.”

Dan turned over the instructions, noting that his new acquisition required select environmental conditions, liking it neither too hot nor too cold.
Goldilocks would approve
, he mused. This particular plant, it said, was known as
C. Purity coerulea
. The irony wasn't lost on him. Hank might be sorry, but he was still cheeky.

“Let's see how green my thumb is at keeping it alive,” he said at last. “Sounds like orchids are fussy about their environment.”

“I can lend you my sling psychrometer to measure the humidity.”

Ked pointed to the paraphernalia splayed out on the sideboard. It looked like a complicated child's toy.

“Is it finished?”

“I stayed up all night working on it.”

Dan noted the dark circles under his son's eyes with a mixture of amusement and fatherly concern. Nothing he wouldn't have done at that age. His raised eyebrows said Ked was supposed to have been sleeping, but that under the circumstances perhaps the behavioural lapse would be overlooked.

“Watch this,” Ked said excitedly.

He gripped the psychrometer at the base and twirled it overhead. A pair of arms lifted and whirled like helicopter blades. After a minute he stopped and placed it on the table.

“Now we check it.”

He pointed to two thermometers encased in glass.

“The first one is dry,” he said. “It measures the actual room temperature. The second is wrapped in a wet cloth. It calculates the temperature as the water evaporates, so that should be cooler. Now we take the two numbers …” He leaned over a numeric table in a textbook. “… then we do a calculation and
voilá
! We have the relative humidity of the atmosphere. In this room, it's 22.3 percent.”

He looked up expectantly. “Are you impressed?”

“Of course,” Dan said. “Everything you do impresses me.”

“Cool. I can never tell from looking at your face. You don't show much emotion.”

“Well, I am very impressed. And I wish you luck in the science fair.”

Ked looked at the flower. “I don't know if this guy is going to be happy here. The card says orchids like a humidity level between 40 and 80 percent. We could get a humidifier, but at that level it might peel the paint off the walls. What we really need is a greenhouse.”

Dan thought of the moisture-laden atmosphere in Yuri Malevski's lush, indoor garden. “I don't know if one plant translates into a greenhouse, but I'll keep it in mind.”

“Actually, I did a bit of research,” Ked continued. “If we put a few flowers together on a tray covered with pebbles and then pour water onto it, it produces a micro-climate that keeps the humidity levels higher. They sell orchids at Loblaw's. I could get a few more.”

Dan gave his son a curious glance.

“You know, to make the house a bit greener.” Ked put a plate mounded with pancakes on the table. “To make it feel more homey. Or something.”

“Okay by me,” Dan said, reaching for a fork.

“Good?” Ked asked.

“You bet.”

Pancakes were a shared culinary passion dating from Ked's childhood, when Dan made them as a Saturday-morning treat. Now he was getting them served to him in return. He wondered how far Ked would take the campaign to look out for his well-being. From making sure he didn't spend the night alone, through negotiating the reckless passage of his romantic interests and seeing his nutrition was looked after, his son had Dan's best interests at heart.

He checked his watch: he just had time for a second look at Lionel's file before meeting Lydia Johnston. Coffee in the village appealed to him.

“I have to go soon. I'd like us both to leave together. I can drive you to school, if you like. That way I won't have to worry about you while I'm out.”

Ked's expression said he concurred. While his father's face might not show much emotion, Ked's did, and clearly this openness was a good thing as far as he was concerned.

“I'm ready any time you are.”

The Second Cup was dead, but that was just as well, as far as Dan was concerned. No noise was good noise. He sat in one of the stuffed armchairs in front of the gas fire, spreading his coffee and paperwork on the table before him.

He struggled with his fold-up reading glasses, the latest encumbrance in his fight against mortality. Untangled at last, he set them on his nose then went through the accounts methodically, stopping to note Lionel's penciled
!!!
's in the margins directing him to hidden errors, strange codes, and numbers made to look like something other than what they were. Wormholes where the dollars trickled away unseen by any but the most observant. Dan felt as if he were filching a corpse's secrets, hauling Yuri Malevski and his dark secrets back from the grave.

Half an hour later, he scooped up the papers and stuffed them into his briefcase. He'd just stepped out into the sunlight, blinking away the brightness, when a half-familiar face passed by.

“Excuse me,” Dan called out.

“Yes?” came the throaty reply.

There was nothing pretty about it: heavy eyelids, coarse skin, the mouth downturned at the edges. Instead, there was a commanding gaze and black eyes set slightly too far apart, pitiless as a hawk alert for prey from a thousand feet up. All the features were over-pronounced, like a burlesque queen in full makeup, as though the proper distance for viewing this face would always be from a stage. The scent of frangipani at midnight was the only hint of femininity.

“Are you Jan?”

Dan wondered what life must be like on the street for a transgendered person. Being gay was hard enough when it came to dealing with the world at large, but this was a notch above.

“I think so. And you would be?”

“Dan Sharp. I'm a private investigator.”

Jan's expression turned from surly disregard to one of interest.

“Really? A private dick. I didn't think they existed outside of the movies.”

“I exist. Have you got a moment to talk?”

“About what?”

“Yuri Malevski.”

“Well, let's see. Did you make an appointment? Hmm? I don't believe so. I'm on my way to the Hassle-Free Clinic at the moment.” Jan paused and leaned against the wall with all the poise of a first-class hooker. “The sexual health centre? Apparently they want to counsel me not to go around spreading filthy diseases. Not that I would.”

“I was wondering what you could tell me about your relationship with Yuri.”

“I don't have one. He's dead.”

“But you used to know him.”

“That was a long time ago. Before he decided he didn't need friends. Permanently.” Jan gave an impatient shrug. “Yuri was all right. He was just too temperamental for his own good. We got along for a while and then one day we didn't. There's nothing to tell.”

“What did you disagree about?”

“He thought I made a pass at his boyfriend.” Jan's eyes rolled dismissively. “I didn't, if you're wondering.”

“Did you like Santiago?”

“Not by a long shot. But I don't speak ill of the dead.”

“You heard then.”

Jan shrugged again. “What can I say? Word gets around.”

Two skateboarders in ragged jeans and T-shirts zoomed past, the pace of life on the street revving up.

“What about a kid named Ziggy? He was living at Yuri's place and might have sold drugs out of the Saddle and Bridle.”

“Sure. Tell me something I don't know.”

“So it's true?”

“That Ziggy sold drugs or that he lived with Yuri?”

“Either. Both.”

“Then ‘yes' to both, as far as I know. Though I don't think Ziggy is what you'd call a big-time drug dealer. He sells the odd joint. He used to be a heroin user, but he quit last I heard.”

“Do you think drugs had anything to do with Yuri's murder?”

Jan snorted. “There may have been drugs going through that home, but Yuri's murder wasn't about drugs.”

Dan watched the expressions flitting across Jan's features, the face no doubt reshaped and rebuilt. How much would have been impossible to say. Charles had been right in saying it would be difficult to make a snap judgment about gender.

Jan caught the look.

“You're wondering whether I am or not? Well, don't get yourself all bothered about pronouns and such. I am a full-blooded woman. You wanna feel my boobies to make sure?”

The question was followed by the same throaty cackle Dan had heard the first time he saw Jan on the street.

“It's all right. I'll take your word for it. So it wasn't about drugs. What was it about then?”

“You better look closer to home, baby. That's all I can tell you.”

“The Lockie House, I assume you mean. You used to work there, didn't you?”

“A lot of people worked there. I was one of them.”

“Do you know the security code for the house?”

“I used to, but not lately. Not for a long time before Yuri was killed, if that's what you're implying. I couldn't remember it now to save my life.”

“Do you know who else had it?”

Jan sighed. “As I said, look closer to home.”

Something occurred to Dan. “Do you know a guy called the P-Man?”

“You mean Pig?”

“So you know him?”

“I
knew
him. Sure. He's quite the piece of work for a straight guy. He was a regular at the Lockie House, once upon a time.”

“Really? I got the distinct impression he didn't like Yuri Malevski.”

“He did and then he didn't. Just like me.”

“Why?”

Jan smiled. “It could have something to do with the night a bunch of drag queens got him so drunk he passed out. When he woke up, he wasn't wearing anything except a lot of lipstick kisses all over his body. And I mean
all
over. He never spoke to Yuri after that.”

“Is he what you meant when you said to look closer to home?”

Jan shrugged. “Oh, baby — you look pretty smart, for a dick. You'll figure it out.”

Dan felt a flash of annoyance. “If you know anything relevant, you should go to the police before they come to you. Otherwise, you can be charged with withholding information.”

Jan brushed a length of hair over a shoulder. “Do you think I should turn myself into the police? I could do with a new set of head shots.”

“You should tell them whatever you know.”

“I don't
know
anything. It's all street talk. I'm just telling you — look closer to home. I think I heard that in a movie.”

“What movie?”

“The one with the bell tower and the bridge. Somebody jumps. I can't remember the name of it.”

Dan felt a jolt at the mention of jumping. “Who jumps?”

“Some blond chick.”

“And what would I find if I looked closer to home?”

Jan shrugged. “I surely don't know, baby. You should watch that movie and you might figure it out. You know somebody had to clean up that mess.”

Jan turned and sashayed down the sidewalk, hips sawing back and forth with as much conviction as Mae West exiting on a famous one-liner.