Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (55 page)

“This case I'm working on,” Pfeiffer began. “It didn't begin with the murder of that priest in Quebec last year. It started a long time before that. It actually started with the perpetrators. The real perpetrators.”

“Meaning?”

“The abusers.” Pfeiffer nodded, as though confirming something to himself. “We've been trying to clean up a group of molesters. There are some very big names in that file.”

Dan looked over.

“I can't tell you,” Pfeiffer said. “So don't ask.”

“I doubt I'd want to know.”

“Still, a few of them are real well known. I guarantee you'd be surprised if I named names.” He looked meaningfully at Dan.

“No doubt,” Dan said. “Despite my profession, I still have some faith in the human race, which is why I can occasionally be shocked and disillusioned when people do bad things. I always hope for better.”

Pfeiffer looked over at him and sneered. “Whatever.”

“So if you've got the goods on these guys, then why are they out walking around?”

“Not all of them are. Some got put away.” Pfeiffer nodded to himself. “But some of them were given clemency.”

“A deal?”

“Yeah, that's right. They turned in a few others. There was a list of kids they shared. Boys and girls. We eventually got the pimp and broke up the ring, but it still operates on a smaller scale.”

“Not surprising, if there's money to be made.”

“Then the first murder happened. We saw the blog. We all knew it was Bélanger, but no one expected him to come after anybody else. Especially not here. That was his mistake.”

Pfeiffer turned south on Yonge Street. The rain had stopped. He rolled the windows down and looked out. Bookshops, once a hub of the city's cultural activity, hunkered like dinosaurs on the strip, their displays overcrowded with second-hand covers. They were flanked with pizza-by-the-slice outlets, XXX porn shops, money marts, cheap cafés, and running-shoe retailers. Even these were looking ratty and on the downlow. Was there anything not being sold for less online now?

South of Gerrard, they passed the Evergreen Centre, a halfway house for street kids. Pfeiffer slowed to look at the crowd gathered outside, a dozen teenagers bantering and smoking. Several of them had dogs, but no place to go, apparently.

“Lotta kids out there,” Dan said.

He thought of Lester. Farther back in time, he saw himself in the glare of a car's headlights reflected on a homeless boy's face.

Pfeiffer interrupted his thoughts. “The RCMP missing child statistics over the last decade lists more than sixty thousand kids. Some of them end up here. At a guess, I'd say at least three quarters have tried drugs. Maybe half have sold themselves for sex. What do you think?”

Dan shrugged. He wasn't being drawn into this game. How far did this maniac's knowledge reach into his past? He shuddered to think about it.

Pfeiffer swerved over to the curb and switched off the engine. They sat in silence for a moment. At the end of an alley, a boy of about thirteen or fourteen appeared to be waiting for someone.

“That's one of the kids we're keeping an eye on. He sells drugs now. Ecstasy, meth. Whatever he can get his hands on.”

They watched as a car stopped, rolled down its window, and a head leaned out. The kid went over, looked furtively around then handed something to the driver. The driver handed back a bill and rolled his window up before driving off again.

“How do you know so much about Jags Rohmer?” Dan asked.

“Actually, through a personal connection. He dated my mother once.”

A surprise answer.

Dan turned to him. “Dated?”

“Yeah. She wasn't just one of his groupies, if that's what you're saying. He actually dated her.”

“Okay.”

The boy skipped off down the alley, disappearing into the night.

“You see these kids from time to time,” Pfeiffer said. “The hustlers. No one keeps track of them. I helped fish one out of the water on Toronto Island last year. He was twelve.”

Dan gave him a sharp look. “Are you saying there was an underage gay murder on Toronto Island? I never heard about it, if there was.”

Pfeiffer shrugged. “You never heard about it for two reasons. First, the papers weren't informed it was a ‘gay' murder. Second, they don't usually report deaths that get chalked up to suicide.”

Dan reflected on this. “I assume you know that Rohmer lives on the island. Are you suggesting it was him, because I'm pretty sure he's not gay.”

Pfeiffer shook his head. “We don't think it was him. This kid was strung out on crystal meth. There's no evidence anyone pushed him into the water. He was a casualty of his lifestyle, which included living with a very rich man who is immune to prosecution under the law. Nice system, eh?”

“Yeah,” Dan murmured. “Money has its privileges.”

“In this case, privilege has its privileges. This guy is well connected.”

He said a name that sounded familiar, partly because the family was a prominent one, but also because the man was a former cabinet minister under the Mulroney regime. Dan thought of the Mulroney era as the moment of no return in Canadian politics, when Canadian politicians went American-style, lying to voters and defaming their opponents. Dirty politics. Then again, was there any other kind? When the Conservative party folded, the man in question disappeared. His career had been on the upswing till then. After the bloodbath that saw the party reduced from 151 seats to two — the Canadian voters' punishment for being lied to — he never made it back.

“I know who you mean,” Dan said. “Rumour had it his personal habits were overlooked by Mulroney, but when Mulroney retired he was pretty much told not to look for re-election if he wanted to keep out of the papers. I gather he did as he was told.”

“Probably a smart move. For some reason, those people always feel an urge to become prominent in public affairs. Must be the ego. The end result is inevitably bad for everyone.”

“Should you be telling me this?”

“Why not? Playing by the rules only slows things down. It means a lot of wasted time and more corpses. Touch the right nerve and you can even make a dead man dance.”

“What are you telling me?”

Pfeiffer smiled a coy smile. For a moment Dan thought he wasn't going to answer.

“Sometimes you have to make things happen any way you can. The press, for instance. Personally, I'd like
to nuke them all. The way they portray us, the things they write about the chief. He's a good man, though they'd never say that.”

Dan wasn't so sure he'd concur on that, but he let it ride. Pfeiffer's conversation was getting a little too interesting to interrupt.

“I've got contacts, though.”

“At the
Star
?” Dan asked, wondering about the recent article. It didn't take much to put two and two together, if that's what Pfeiffer was telling him.

“There and other places. You want those bastards on your side. Sometimes it helps to do them a favour or two. Where'd they get certain little details from? The press talks things up, we talk them down again. All moves on the chessboard. Look busy and keep out of trouble till you bag someone for the crime. Done. Game over. If you don't tell them what they want to hear, they'll make something up. Better to tell them what you want them to know.”

Pfeiffer reached into his chest pocket and retrieved an envelope. With one hand, he flipped open the flap and handed it to Dan.

“Tell me what you think this is.”

Dan took the envelope and let a Xeroxed sheet fall into his hands. Frankly, he was getting tired of men handing him envelopes and asking him to guess their contents.

It appeared to be some sort of surveillance camera set-up. The shot had been taken through glass, possibly a car window or maybe even from a street café. The man standing on the corner in the photo appeared to be waiting for someone. The next three shots showed him greeting what looked like an adolescent, then the pair in conversation, followed by a shot of the two walking away together.

“Looks like a pick-up,” Dan said. “Possibly a drug deal going on or maybe a sexual transaction.”

“Both, as it turned out. This was our ‘known heavy' on the downtown streets for quite a few years. He operated a slick business. He picked 'em up and beat 'em up. Famous for it, really. His game was to take the kids in and feed them at first. The abuse started soon after, but by then they were trapped. He drugged them, made them dependent on him, and scared the shit out of them. We've never been able to get any of them to name him — they're all afraid of him.”

“What was his appeal?”

“Lost, lonely kid on the street. He played big brother to them. Promised them things: fancy lifestyle, splashy parties. Made them feel special. The kid starts dreaming of glamour, life off the streets, and they'd fall for anything. He also took photos of them, which he used to sell the kids on the Internet. A password-protected site.”

“How does he get away with it?”

“He's smart. His clients look online then let him know what they're interested in. As far as he's concerned, he's sending the kids out for entertainment purposes. Just a guy passing along a phone number to a kid who calls and gets an invitation to a party. The clients are respectable, wealthy. Above suspicion as far as the law is concerned. They're careful, don't get their hands dirty. No one knows their names. If there's any hint of scandal, they fade into the woodwork. Who's a kid going to complain to if anything happens? They know they're operating outside the law. And they need the work, so they won't say a thing. There's always a next time.”

“I can understand that,” Dan said.

“And then there are the other kind. Guys who put their lives on the line trying to stop stuff like this from happening. Some of them are fucking heroes,” Pfeiffer said vehemently.

“You're talking about undercover cops?”

“Sure. Cops who pretend to be outside the law so that the criminals will trust them. We got our own on both sides, you know what I mean? Some of ours are working undercover but acting as though they're guilty.”

Dan was about to reply when he heard a buzzing. Pfeiffer grabbed at his shirt pocket and pulled out a cellphone. He stared at it.

“Shit.”

He flicked it open.

“Yeah?” Pause. “What do you expect me to do about it now? Okay, okay.” he grumbled. Another pause. “I said okay. I'm coming.”

He flicked the cell closed then muttered under his breath. He turned to Dan.

“I have a problem. I can either drop you here or you can come with me for the ride and I'll take you to your car when I'm done.”

Dan looked out at the bleak streets. The rain was coming down again, lashing the windows like some wilful dominatrix. The chance of catching a cab was about nil.

“I'll take Door Number Two.”

“Hold on.”

Pfeiffer flicked his emergency flashers back on and they rushed forward through the rainy streets.

A Wicked Witch

They headed east on Dundas, past Jarvis and over to Parliament. Pfeiffer shot through the intersection on a red.

“That was your neighbourhood back there, wasn't it?” he asked, still chewing his gum. “The gay neighbourhood?”

“Actually, I'm in Leslieville. They let some of us out of the ghetto for good behaviour.”

“Ha-ha. You're a funny guy.”

“We established that already.”

Pfeiffer reached a hand out the window and retrieved the overhead light, setting it on the console between them.

“Handy little thing,” Dan said. “I should get one.”

Pfeiffer glanced over with a smirk. “Yeah, right. Just you try using it and see what happens.”

“Nobody seems to be bothering you.”

They turned down Winchester and pulled into a darkened laneway. Tall trees overhung a large, empty yard. The building was stone, more mausoleum than house, and set back from the street. Even in the dark Dan could see it was run-down, the grounds neglected.

“Who lives here?” Dan asked.

Pfeiffer looked over at him. “Come in and find out.”

They headed up the walk. The outside light was off, but illumination streamed through a crack where the door had been left open. They entered and Pfeiffer closed it behind them.

A high ceiling did nothing to dispel the gloom. Neglect had crept into the place like a stain that wouldn't wash out. The wallpaper, crimson-and-cream candy stripes with fluted edges, looked as though it had been chosen for some period movie long since filmed and forgotten, its stars now has-beens or in the grave. A burgundy carpet threading along the hallway and up the stairs had seen better days, and those days circa 1870 Weimar. The ghost of Versailles lingered here and there amid gilt-framed mirrors and paintings of dour-faced forebears. A few of the ceramic pieces would still fetch a price, Dan thought, but only because of their vintage.

“I'm here,” Pfeiffer called out.

A dog barked. Dan heard it snuffling under a door leading from the hall.

“In here, darling.”

It was a woman's voice, its provenance indeterminate. It might have belonged to a disembodied spirit, hovering in the hallways and floating through the house.

Pfeiffer pushed the door open. A white puffball the size of a large rat came scurrying up to the two men. Pfeiffer pushed it aside with his foot. It gave a shriek and ran back into the room.

Across the floor, Dan spied a woman in a caftan seated on a tall-backed chair. He wondered how long she'd been sitting waiting for them to find her in that pose.

“Dan Sharp, this is my mother.”

“None of that ‘mother' stuff,” she commanded in a throaty growl. “It's Marilyn, thank you.”

Dan recalled Pfeiffer's remark that his mother had dated Jags Rohmer. He guessed her to be in her late fifties. He knew the type. She was part of a breed of women who came of age in the 1970s, caught between the sexual revolution of the sixties and the feminist movement that followed in its wake, women with gloomy eyes and smoky voices who had had a brief fling with a rock star or been discovered by some now-forgotten fashion designer while standing on a street corner and photographed in chic outfits during a modelling career that spanned approximately one week. The same women who ever after embodied a sense of entitlement that took them places they didn't really belong other than through the sheer force of their personalities. Pfeiffer's mother was one of those.

Then she leaned forward. Dan caught a glimpse of her in the light, the planes of her face shifting into focus for a moment before she backed into the shadows again.
Marilyn Pfeiffer
. Suddenly the name rang out in a brilliant cacophony. She'd been famous once, he recalled. A leading role in an iconic Canadian film thirty years or more ago.

“
Chance Encounter
,” Dan said.

Marilyn seemed suddenly animated. “All that was a long time ago,” she said. “But really? You remember?”

“You're a Canadian icon.”

She demurred. “Yes, always a pity about that adjective
Canadian
.”

“Dan's client is Jags Rohmer,” Pfeiffer told her.

She regarded him with greater interest now, her attention focused on his face, as though scanning for headline news.

“What do you do for Jags? Are you his agent?”

“No, I'm his personal bodyguard.”

She stiffened, as if the answer had somehow made her wary. “Well, tell him Marilyn says ‘hello.'”

Pfeiffer fidgeted in Dan's line of vision. “Show him the record.”

“Show him yourself. It's over there somewhere.”

Dan turned to see a cabinet stuffed with magazines, books, and knick-knacks. Here and there, the spines of record albums jutted out at irregular angles, as though an eccentric librarian had made a half-hearted attempt at organizing them by some arcane system of reference: colour coding, perhaps, or thematically by mood. Who knew what treasures it held? Donny and Germ would have a field day here, he suspected.

“Mother's got an album autographed by Jags. One of his first.”

“
The
first.”

Pfeiffer held something out to his mother.

“Here are your cigarettes. Don't you keep a spare pack around here somewhere? It might save me from having to drop by at midnight.”

She gave him a sour look. “What difference does it make? I knew you weren't working.”

“I could have been.”

She accepted the cigarettes and waved her arms wearily, with an affectation of disdain. “I'm sure I have some somewhere, but could you find anything in here? I dare you to try.”

She turned to Dan. “And he calls himself a policeman.”

She pulled off the cellophane and slid a cigarette between her lips. Pfeiffer leaned in and lit it for her. The gesture was oddly intimate. She inhaled and sat back, then exhaling slowly as she regarded Dan. She seemed more than a little drunk.

“It was his choice, you know. I would never have wanted him to take on such a career. He could have been anything. Anything at all. But he chose law enforcement.”

Pfeiffer scowled. “What's wrong with law enforcement?”

She sighed heavily. “Just like your father. I suppose
I shouldn't be surprised. You were always happiest bossing people around and telling everyone what to do.”

Pfeiffer beamed. “That's because I'm good at it.”

“Did you get that promotion yet?” she demanded.

He frowned. “I told you I got it last year.”

“Ah, yes. You did. I forgot.” She stared at him. “Offer your friend a drink.”

“We're not staying.”

She gave Dan the kind of look he was used to getting from desperate men in bars at closing time.
“I would hate for him to go back to Mr. Jags Rohmer and say he didn't receive adequate hospitality from me on his arrival.”

Dan smiled. “I won't say anything of the kind.”

“Have whatever you like,” she said, waving imperiously at a bar in the far corner. “We have the best of everything. My son can vouch for that.”

Pfeiffer shook his head at Dan.

Marilyn looked over at her son. “I left something for you in the dining room on the table.”

“What?”

“Go and see.” She shooed him with her hand.

When he was gone, she turned to Dan, focusing on him with careful gravity.

She gestured in the direction her son had gone.
“I sent him to UCC, you know. He was a good student.
Not the best, but still, he could have been anything he wanted.”

Dan wondered if that last comment were true. Pfeiffer hadn't struck him as the intellectual type. He was familiar with the boys at Upper Canada College. He'd even dated a couple. Snotty and privileged, they kept to their own when they weren't slumming it.
He had no time for that set.

“I understand your son is highly regarded in the force, Marilyn. I'm sure he'll make something of himself.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, but is he happy?”

“Reasonably, I'm sure,” Dan said, not wanting to give her grounds for an argument, either way.

“‘Reasonably,'” she repeated with a look of disdain. “I guess that's all any of us are entitled to, a
reasonable
amount of happiness.”

She stared off into the distance. Dan was beginning to think she'd forgotten him or perhaps had dismissed him. That was when he saw it: the amphetamine glare behind the eyes. The dreamy distance on a long,
empty road.

She spoke again. “I was a bad mother. I suppose I can't expect much in return.”

Dan said nothing.

She looked over at him. “What has Jags said?”

Dan looked confusedly at her. “I'm sorry?”

She stared. “About me. What has he said about me?”

“Ah.” He took his cue. “I never discuss his private life with him.”

“Then you don't know him.” She looked scornfully away. “Well, he will talk to you about me eventually. Don't listen to a word he says. I'm warning you now, it's all bullshit.”

The word seemed oddly harsh coming from her.

“I'm sure he won't be unkind,” Dan said, wishing Pfeiffer would hurry so they could leave. “He never speaks ill of anyone, to tell the truth.”

“Really?” She seemed disappointed. “How shocking.”

Pfeiffer came suddenly back into the room. “There's nothing on the table,” he said.

“No?” Marilyn didn't bother to look surprised. “Well, never mind. I just needed to talk to your friend for a moment.” She turned her gaze on Dan again. “And we had such a nice conversation, didn't we?”

Dan bowed his head slightly. “Yes, indeed we did.”

“‘Yes, indeed we did,'” she repeated in a mocking tone.

Pfeiffer looked at her sharply. “We've got to go, Mother.”

“Well, thank you for stopping by. I won't get up.”

“Good to meet you, Marilyn,” Dan said, turning.

“Goodbye then.”

Pfeiffer kissed her on the cheek. He followed Dan to the door. The dog kept its distance, watching warily as they left.

Outside in the car, Pfeiffer turned to him. “What did you think of her?” he asked like an overeager child.

“She's a very attractive woman,” Dan replied, hoping it would suffice for an answer.

“People always say that,” Pfeiffer said in a way that suggested he expected everyone to be impressed.

“I'm not surprised,” Dan said.

“What did she say to you while I was out of the room?”

“She asked if you were happy.”

“She always asks if I'm happy.”

“She's your mother, so she would be concerned.”

“I'm very good to her,” Pfeiffer said petulantly, as though someone had suggested otherwise.

“I'm sure she appreciates what you do for her,” Dan said. “After all, you came running to bring her cigarettes at midnight …”

“I didn't
run
,” Pfeiffer cut in tersely. “I never run. And I asked if you would mind going with me first.”

“Yes, no argument about that.”

“She didn't show you the album cover?”

“Jags' album? No. Did she date him long?”

Pfeiffer turned to him. He seemed to be studying Dan's face. “Long enough. We were kind of family for a while. We used to go to church sometimes. We'd take the host together.” He looked over. “Are you Catholic? Do you know what the host is?”

“I'm not Catholic. I know what the host is.” He thought about it for a moment, recalling his odd dream. “Jags was religious?”

“Sure.” Pfeiffer shrugged. “What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing. It just doesn't jive with the Jags I know. People change, of course.”

Pfeiffer turned the key and backed out of the drive. “I'll take you to your car.”

“You know where it is?”

Pfeiffer smirked. “Sure. I had it towed just a few streets over from where I picked you up.”

With the lights flashing, it took fifteen minutes to get back across town. As they approached the empty warehouse, Pfeiffer swerved down a narrow back alley, emerging onto a street hosting a handful of forlorn houses and a drab row of container buildings. Dan's car sat beneath a streetlamp.

As Dan got out, Pfeiffer rolled down his window.

“Thanks for coming with me.”

“We'll have to do it again some time.”

Pfeiffer laughed again. Dan felt as though he'd just made friends with a wild animal. Feral. Instinctive. He just wasn't sure what to do about it.

“Tell your friends I'm hoping to hear something from them about Gaetan Bélanger very soon,” Pfeiffer said.

The car roared off.