Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (45 page)

“Do you think this guy might have had dealings with any of the hardcore types?”

Germ shrugged. “Impossible to say. As I said, I only saw him the once. Didn't say a word to him, just nodded and went about my business.”

A phone rang. Germ reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cell. He flipped it open and listened without saying a word.

Dan looked around at the walls. The colours were lurid, mostly primaries with dull browns and greys splashed in between, the better to offset the subjects from their backgrounds.

He glanced over at the bank of screens. For the most part, they were static scenes he assumed had something to do with security. The watchful eye. Some were far too dark to give more than a glimpse of the terrain, providing blurry details of buildings and vacant lots. One showed the door Dan had entered, another gave a close-up of the interior of the freight elevator he'd come down on, a rickety contraption that always landed with a bump. The overall effect was of a vast security system designed to keep something in or out of the building. Most of the views were so uninteresting that Dan wondered why Germ bothered to keep tabs on them. A row of garbage bins, a grainy close-up of an entry phone. He presumed it was the one he used to gain access to the compound. For compound it was. Whatever Germ was avoiding, whatever required so much security, it wouldn't find him easily.

Dan looked over and saw the record player in a far corner. High-end, made for connoisseurs, sitting next to a rack of LPs. He fanned through them, mostly seventies with a few sixties records. Cult and collector's items, for the most part. The hard-to-score stuff that audiophiles went mad for.

He flipped through the covers until a face jumped out at him: Jags Rohmer early in his career. Boyish bangs, pouting lips, beret pitched rakishly on his head. Too serious looking to be misread as teen heartthrob material, for all the arty posing.

Germ grunted and said, “Okay.” He snapped his cell phone shut and watched Dan sift through the records.

“Vinyl is final, man. They've never made a product to equal it for sound reproduction. Richest, deepest recording playback you will ever hear.”

“I agree.”

Germ was rolling another joint. The paper twitched expertly between his fingers.

“Live music's a different story, of course. But that ain't the one I'm telling at the moment. The day of the great performer is gone and whether it'll ever come back is anybody's guess. You don't need to learn how to play an instrument any more, just how to press buttons. The music industry fucked itself when it went digital. Instant copying for the masses. I don't mind ripping off the corporations, but that hits the artists. And as we all know, it's fucking hard to live on art in this world.”

Dan thought he'd like to put Donny and Germ together for an audiophile chat. It would be one to remember. He held up the Jags Rohmer album.

“I've never seen this before.”

Germ came over to him. “Collector's item, my man. Not many of those around. Record company went bankrupt. Guy was fantastic. One of the best in his day.”

“Probably still is.”

Germ tipped his head. “Who knows? No one's heard a thing from him for years. He could be dead.”

Dan looked over. “I saw him this morning.”

“No way!”

“Way. He was at the station when I went in for my chat with the brass. I bumped into him in the hallway when I left.”

Germ's face was incredulous. “Jags Rohmer was at a police station? What did he do?”

Dan laughed. “Nothing, so far as I know. He was roaming the hallway on his own, but it was him for sure.”

Germ sat back on the ledge and lit the joint.
He crooned softly to himself: “
Sell me your dreams, tell me your pleasures. Open your heart, I want your treasures …
”

Dan waited while Germ was off in his other dimension.
Just let me know when you land, dude
, he thought.

Germ nodded. He spoke again. “Saw him once in '94 or '95. Back when I was a kid. Guy was in his prime then. Left a lasting impression, I can say that. All dressed up in black leather, S&M accoutrements. Had a reputation for being a hardcore rocker, but he always had an intellectual bent.”

His expression went all whimsical for a moment, looking off into the past again.

“Wouldn't mind hearing a little more from him before he hangs up his spurs for good.”

Dan handed over the album. “Write him a fan letter. I'm sure he'd appreciate it.” He winked.

Germ looked at him. “Funny guy.”

“Hey — even hardcore rockers like to be told they're appreciated.”

“Yeah, but I'd have to buy a stamp, which means fraternizing with the post office, which means …”

“… supporting the government,” Dan chimed in. “I know.”

“And we all know the bastard in power now is just one throw away from the Third Reich. You mark my words, that son of a bitch is going to leave a lasting legacy we will take years to dig out from.”

“‘That son of a bitch'? Do you even know our current prime minister's name?”

Germ held up a warning finger. “Not mine, man. I don't vote. And not to be uttered within these hallowed halls, my friend. Spare me the negative vibes. You want to talk about him, take it outside.”

“All right. I'm going anyway. I've got to get back.”

At the elevator, Dan turned for one last look. “If you change your mind about helping find the kid …”

“You'll be the first to know about it.” Germ indicated the upstairs world with a quick nod. “Look around when you get up there. Make sure you weren't followed. I don't want any messes to clean up.”

“Got it.”

The elevator doors closed on a mass of purple and red swirls that made Dan think of an underground river of fire.

Whoosh!

Dan left the underground garage feeling slightly nauseated from the second-hand smoke. While some enjoyed the buzz, he recoiled from it like a pastor finding smut left behind in the men's room. Outside, the afternoon light rushed at him as he headed to the parking lot. The sky tingled with that brilliant luminescence it carries right before or after a storm. Darkness hovered over the west end of the city. No doubt they were in for a drenching. It would be a welcome relief from all the heat and humidity.

Dan was intrigued by Germ's description of the boy he'd seen in the deserted warehouse. He hoped Germ might happen upon him again, though the chances of that were small unless he was actively seeking him out.

He'd just got in the car when his phone buzzed. It was Donny.

“Finally I hear from you in person,” Dan said. “Do I get the real story of Lester's defection now?”

Donny chuckled. A match struck on the other end of the phone.

“The real story,” Donny murmured. “That's a good one.”

Dan waited for him to settle into his cigarette like a comfy sofa.

“You remember Lester telling us he got raped a few months before you rescued him last summer?”

“I sure do.”

“Well, he ran into the bastard not long ago. Twice, in fact. He wasn't going to tell me, but he started
having anxiety attacks and I knew something was up.
I asked him, but he said it was nothing. I waited a while and asked again. He started crying and finally broke down and said he'd seen the guy. The first time was on Church Street. The second time was right outside our condo. He was scared to death. He was getting
paranoid thinking the guy knew where he lived and might be looking for him.”

“Does Lester owe him money?”

“He says not, but the guy looked after him for a while. I gather he was something like a pimp to some of the street kids, only not quite. A go-between might be more like it. He provides party favours for some wealthy clients. I'm sure he gets a kick-back of some sort. Maybe he thinks Lester owes him.”

“Do you think he was coming after Lester?”

Donny hesitated. “My guess? It was a coincidence.”

“All right, but two times in a row?

“Yeah, I know. That's why the kid got scared.” Donny exhaled, deep in thought. “The guy's a real bastard. Violent, creepy. Anyway. Lester was afraid I might not be able to protect him if this bastard comes after him. Lester heard a rumour he was protected by the police. He says no one will touch the guy.”

“So he decided to take his chances with his evil mother and very unpleasant stepfather.”

“Not much of a choice, is it?”

“I'll say.”

“Anyway, that's the official story. For the record.”

“Have you heard from him yet?”

“No, not since he left.”

“Well, I'm sure he hasn't forgotten you. Hang in there. He'll call.”

“Oh, I'm sure he will. I just don't know what to tell him when he does. If this guy really is after him, maybe it's better if he stays away for a while.”

Dan heard him hemming over this one. “Let me know if there's anything I can do to help.”

“Find the guy and put him away.”

“If I had a name, I might be able to do something about it.”

There was a silence.

“I'll ask Lester when I hear from him,” Donny said.

“Okay, let me know. Thanks for dinner the other night. Trev and I both enjoyed it.”

“My pleasure. And for the record? I highly approve of the new boyfriend. You'd better not screw this one up.”

“I don't intend to.”

“Good to hear it. Ciao.”

Dan swung by Corktown, but there were no signs of life at the house. It was better that way, because whenever he dropped in he seemed to interrupt work for the duration of his visit. He checked his watch. Trevor had promised to cook tonight, but there was still time to pick up dessert. He got back in the car and headed south. In his search for a new home, he'd considered the nearby historic Distillery District but found it too chi-chi for his tastes. Corktown had the right balance of down-at-heels charm buried in a solid neighbourhood sensibility. The Distillery would serve as his neighbourhood market. Despite how it attracted the moneyed demimonde, with their insatiable appetites and imperious tastes, Dan loved its cobblestone walkways and stone buildings.

The storm broke as he parked. Rain scattered the pedestrians, sluicing down the windows of bars and trendy cafés and the chocolate factory, forming a river along the cobblestone. Whatever Trevor had planned for supper, there was always room for chocolate. It gave Dan a warm feeling to buy him things, to show that he hardly stopped thinking about him all day long. He didn't want to consider whether this was a healthy expression of love or a subliminal form of bribery or merely an infatuation bordering on obsession, but somehow Trevor was never far from his mind.

Chocolate in hand, he made it back in time for dinner. A yeasty odour permeated the house with its warm-smelling goodness.

“Do I smell bread?” he called out.

“You do,” came the reply.

“You were out working all day and you come home and bake?”

Trevor grinned as he entered the kitchen. “You can thank my compulsive behaviour.”

“You don't have to do this,” Dan said, “though I appreciate it.”

“I can't just sit around waiting for you to come home like some bored housewife.”

Dan handed him the box of dessert. Trevor looked inside and beamed.

“Mmmm … tarts. This will go nicely with what we're having.”

“That's what I thought.”

Trevor wrapped a dishtowel around his hands and removed a tray of rolls from the oven. He offered one to Dan.

“Good day?” he asked.

Dan pulled the roll open and savoured the steamy release of air.

“Actually, yes. I finally talked to Donny and got the story about Lester. I'm not sure it's anything to worry about.” He took a bite. “
Mmmm!
Apart from that, I mostly played hooky after meeting with the police. Unlike you, I haven't done much of anything.”

“Lucky you.”

Dan took another bite. “These are fantastic.”

“I do my best. So you were saying about the police? Did they ask more questions?”

“They asked me to hand over my sources. I gather they were impressed that I was able to find Darryl Hillary so fast, even if I found him too late to save him.”

Trevor set the tray down and turned off the oven. “And?”

“I can't do it. If I give them names, those people will never speak to me again and they certainly won't help the police out. I went over to talk to one of my sources about it afterward, but I already knew the answer.
It's like asking someone to climb the Berlin Wall. It's
verboten
with that set.”

“Maybe it's better that way. To leave you out of it, I mean …”

The phone rang.

“I'll get it upstairs,” Dan said.

“Dinner's in forty-five minutes,” Trevor called after him in an admonitory tone. “So don't go anywhere.”

“Got it,” Dan said.

He bounded up the stairs to his office. He grabbed the phone and listened to the deep voice asking for Dan Sharp. Gravel-tinged, enigmatic. Like its owner was used to keeping people guessing.

“That's me,” Dan replied.

“You come highly recommended.”

“That could mean a lot of things.”

Dan heard a begrudging laugh.

“Well, what it means at this moment is that I would like to hire you. If possible, I would very much like to meet with you to discuss my concerns.”

Dan paused. Nothing further was forthcoming from the voice on the other end.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes,” Dan said. “Before we go any further, who am I speaking to?”

There was a long pause. Dan thought for a moment the caller was considering giving him a false name. Finally, he spoke.

“My name is Jags Rohmer.”

Now it was Dan's turn to be tongue-tied.

“
The
Jags Rohmer?”

Sarcasm crept into the voice. “How many do you know?”

“Okay, I will meet you, Mr. Rohmer.”

The voice turned coy. “Because I'm famous?”

“No, because now I believe you're serious.”

“Good. May I come by in ten minutes?”

Dan hesitated. “I'm free for another forty-five minutes. After that I've got a family commitment.”

“This won't take long.”

“Okay. My address is …”

“I have your address. I'll see you in ten minutes.”

He hung up and sat back in his seat.

Jags Rohmer was Canada's answer to David Bowie,
at least if you thought Canada couldn't afford stars who weren't copycats of somebody else. As far as Dan was concerned, Rohmer was a far more wide-ranging musician than the average pop star. He was a singer, songwriter, keyboard player, and performer on any number of obscure, indigenous instruments that gave his music its unusual tones. He'd emerged from the ruins of the punk scene in the late seventies. His career had been on the ascendant through the eighties, but he went silent in the mid-nineties, all but disappearing after that. A final, cryptic album emerged in the wake of 9/11, coming like a eulogy on the world and vanishing in the aftermath of the disaster. For many, it had seemed his epitaph. Most of his diehard fans hated it, but a few lauded it as a masterpiece of nuance and newfound maturity. They waited impatiently for more, but nothing had been forthcoming since. Many thought he'd died.

And now he'd just been resurrected on the other end of the phone.

Dan went downstairs where Ked had just returned from his mother's.

“Hey, Dad!”

“Hey, sonny boy!”

Ked gave him a funny look. “What is this? An episode of
Father Knows Best
?”

Dan snorted. “Maybe. It sounds like something they ought to consider making a national holiday.”

“Yeah, as if.”

A few minutes later, Ked was helping Trevor set the table when the doorbell rang.

“I'll get it!” Ked yelled, as he dashed to the front door.

They heard a mumbled conversation then Ked returned to the kitchen.

Ked: “Dad, um, Jags Rohmer is at the door?”

Dan: “Thanks, son. Please tell him I'll be right there.”

Ked: “Uh, yeah. I will.”

He turned to Trevor. “Did you know about this?”

Trevor shook his head.

Ked took a big breath and headed for the hall. Before he reached it, he turned back and looked at Dan. “Is this for real?”

“Yes, son.”

“Whoa!” they heard him say as he rounded the corner and headed for the door.

Dan's first impression was how tall Jags Rohmer really was, though his presence defied logic and seemed to suggest he was even taller than his six foot three.

“Come in,” Dan said.

“Thanks, but …” Rohmer peered over Dan's shoulder and waved at Trevor in the next room. “If you don't mind, I'd prefer to conduct business in my car.”

Dan looked at him blankly.

“If that's all right with you. Just a preference.”

Dan shrugged. “Sure.” He turned to the dining room. “I won't be long,” he called to Trevor, closing the door behind him.

A Porsche Carrera GT was parked outside the house. Dan had only a hazy idea of the vehicle's cost, but he was pretty sure it easily equalled the price of his new house.

“Nice car,” Dan said. “But if you ever come back, park it around the side so my neighbours won't start getting strange ideas.”

Jags smirked. They got in the car.

“Shall we take a little ride?”

“Sounds good to me.”

He turned the key and the car drifted away from the curb. Jags manoeuvred a corner and headed south. The car felt airborne as the towers of the city approached. The ride was smooth, like a razor on glass.

“Do you know anything about Porsches, Dan?”

“Not a lot. Other than that I will never be able to buy one. That's all I need to know.”

“Fair enough. Let me tell you a few facts then. Just because I like to do that.” Jags looked over at him and winked. “Manufactured in Germany, as you probably know, this car has a 5.7 litre V10 engine. Six-twelve horsepower.”

“Sounds very impressive.”

“It is. The Porsche people claim you can accelerate from zero to a hundred kilometres in less than four seconds, with a maximum speed of 330 kliks. Fast, huh?”

“Scary fast,” Dan agreed.

“Personally, I've never managed to get from zero to a hundred in less than eight seconds, give or take a few nanos. On the other hand, I've had it up to 340 kliks, going full-out on a deserted stretch of highway in Joshua Tree National Park.”

The city drifted by, soundless, outside the windows. Dan waited for Jags to tell him the reason for his visit, but he concentrated on driving. Traffic was thinning. They drifted lazily from lane to lane. Jags kept a light foot. The car moved along effortlessly.

“As I said on the phone, you come highly recommended.”

“Glad to hear it. What exactly have I been recommended to do?”

Jags looked over. “I want to hire you to look out for me.”

Dan was puzzled. “To look out for you?”

“Watch my ass and keep me out of trouble.”

“I think you've been misinformed. That's not my field. I find missing people.”

“Yes, that's what I was told. What I want is something more proactive. I want you to prevent me from going missing.”

Dan laughed. “I'm not a hard-ass. I'm not trained to fight to prevent anyone from being kidnapped, if that's what you're saying.”

Jags turned in his seat and made a face. “Ach, it doesn't have to be so intense and noirish. Nothing sinister in the wings. Mostly I want a babysitter — someone to keep on his toes when I can't. I don't want a SWAT team. I just need someone to watch my back.”