Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (64 page)

“I got the photograph,” he said. “No more fires, okay? I know what you want. I'll deliver it when you give me the name I want.”

He swung around and faced Germ.

“Now we wait,” he said.

It was nearly morning by the time a name showed up on Gaetan Bélanger's blog. It meant nothing to Dan. He suspected it would mean nothing to anyone else.

Who Killed Cock Robin?

Dan was poking through the closet, pulling out clothes on hangers and holding them at arm's length as though he were considering buying them. Only nothing was in his size.

His search was quite tidy, all things considered. If he'd really been with the police and had a search warrant, as he'd claimed when he arrived at the door waving a Rogers cable TV bill without letting her look at it, then it would have been very different: books tossed from the shelves, clothes strewn across the floor, plants uprooted and the dirt spread around. Maybe even a few pillows sliced up for good measure, feathers floating in the air. If he failed to find what he wanted.

“What are you looking for?” she demanded. Her face registered shock and outrage. If she could still feel then maybe she wasn't that far gone yet.

“There was a fire. You may have heard about it on the news.”

She turned a blank stare at him. It was like it hadn't touched her at all. Whatever she was on, it barely left her a mind to think and respond with. He thought for a moment she was going to ask him what “news” he was speaking of. He was tired of her spaced-out addict routine, tired of her “bad mother” excuses. Instead, she nodded.

He turned his attention back to the room. For all intents, it was a typical teenager's room. Posters on the walls, an old-fashioned wooden dresser, shelves with model airplanes, spare linen stacked on top. Bright shadows hiding dark things.

He felt her watching him.

“I heard about the fire. What has that got to do with what you're doing here at this ungodly hour? You said on the phone you had something to show me, otherwise I would never have let you in.”

Dan took a breath. He'd waited till eight before phoning, and even that had taken all his patience. It was going to be hard to continue with this conversation. “I do have something to show you,” he said. “Just give me a moment.”

He found what he was looking for, yanked it from the hanger and laid it on the bed. “This was his?”

Knowing that it was.

“Yes. Everything in the room was his. I already told you that. I haven't changed anything since he left.”

He went over to the shelf. It held a few athletic trophies, a handful of photos in frames. There was a silence as he fingered one photograph in particular.

He turned to her. “Do you mind if we have a drink first?”

He saw the corners of her mouth turn up slightly. “Yes, of course. In the kitchen.”

He waited till her back was turned then he pocketed the photograph. With the frame, it barely fit inside his jacket.

They were sitting in the kitchen. Morning sunlight slanted through the blinds and lit up the room with a burnished glow. This was fall light, still rich and radiant, but no longer the full light of summer that seemed to burst open over everything it touched. A rich and possessive light, like the love of a mother for a child.

“I'm sorry for your loss, if I didn't say so earlier.”

She was staring at him.

“Yes,” she said in a dreamy tone. “They called yesterday. It was a shock. They told me they found his gun at the fire.”

In fact, Dan thought, she looked anything but shocked. Placid, resigned. But not shocked. He wondered how long he'd have to play this cat-and-mouse game with her.

“Did he ever marry?”

She seemed to be struggling with the question, as if she had to make a special effort to retrieve the memory from some long lost corner of her mind.

“No.” She shrugged. “Well, yes, briefly. But it didn't last.”

“No,” Dan said. “These things never do.”

He watched her fingers curl around the edge of her glass. Arthritic and swollen. Manlike. She'd poured good whiskey. He was thankful for that, at least.

“Any children?”

She gave him a blank look.

“Did he have any children?”

She shook her head. “There was a little boy. He was stillborn.”

Stillborn
. Dan counted back. He couldn't possibly be old enough, in any case. No matter. He was pretty sure he already knew what he needed to know. It was so obvious, he couldn't see how he'd missed it.

“I'm still curious about his interest in Jags Rohmer,” Dan said, leading her here and there, wondering how long till she told him the rest.

“You may be right in thinking my son had an obsession with Jags. I know I certainly did.”

Past tense on both counts. He had to give her credit for playing the game well.

She was smiling, looking back in time. Being totally candid for once. The drugs, the alcohol, and maybe the importance of the situation conspired to make her let down her guard. Who knew how long it had been since she'd been completely candid about anything?

He'd looked her up on the Internet. The IMDb site for actors and directors listed her credits. If the information was to be believed, she was fifty-nine. Not so old, but it placed her in her mid-thirties when she'd had her son. Her film career had spanned a mere five years, before she'd married. Her fame was brief, apart from one long-lived flame that everyone seemed to remember. It hadn't been hard to figure out how old she was when she met Jags Rohmer.

“You weren't really from Jags' world, were you? He was from a rough and seedy counterculture, while you were well brought up, I think. A real lady.”

A smiled crept over her face, the memory playing itself out.

“Yes, I was a lady. It's how I was raised. My family was quite well off. When I met Jags and entered his world, I had no idea how to behave. You have no idea what it was like to go from my world to his.”

“Is that why your son blamed Jags for your addiction?”

“Did he?” She looked off now, trying to piece together the fragments of her past. “That may be true. Yes, I can see why he may have thought that.”

Dan waited for her to go on. The smile had left her now. Her playful expression collapsed.

“I know I didn't blame him. I … I don't think I did, anyway.” She turned to him, wanting his understanding. “You had to know the times. They were different then.”

“That's what Jags said.”

Her face lit up. “Did he? Yes, of course. We did such extreme things. It seemed natural to us then.”

Dan waited.

She laughed again. “How could you blame someone like that?”

“That's just what I was wondering. How could anyone blame Jags Rohmer?” He shook his head, as though perplexed. “Do you know?”

Fear edged her eyes. She was fighting remarkably hard. A Herculean effort.
Impressive
, Dan thought,
even if it was just an actor's trick
. Who could say what was real and what not when your brain and your sense of morality were so fogged by drugs?

“Did you ever leave Jags with your son unattended for any length of time?”

She shook her head impatiently. “No. Never. He wasn't even born when I knew Jags.”

Dan stared at her. She understood what she'd told him. She stood shakily.

“I think …”

“So they never actually met?”

She gripped the back of her chair and shook her head. The word came as a whisper: “No.”

She brushed her hair from her face. He waited and watched. Her expressions came and went with such rapidity. How could you ever know a woman like that?

“Does the name Gaetan Bélanger mean anything to you?”

She appeared to be trying to recollect something, gathering the thoughts from some other time. Finally, she shook her head. “No. Nothing.”

He mentioned the other name, the one posted on the website several hours earlier. Again, she shook her head. He believed her. It probably wasn't even real.

He slid his hand inside his jacket and pulled out the photograph he'd picked up in the other room, laying it on its back. Three figures filled the frame. The first was a boy in a blue blazer: Little Boy Blue, looking at most a few years younger than he appeared today. It was remarkable. The second was a man in a police uniform. An arm lay around the boy's shoulder. His resemblance to Constable Pfeiffer was impossible to deny. The third figure was the man who had recently become the chief of police.

Dan nodded toward the picture.

“Recognize them?”

“Of course. Why wouldn't I?” Fear clouded her handsome features. “Where did you get this?”

Dan interrupted, pointing to the boy and the man with his arm around his shoulder. “Would I be correct in thinking them father and son?”

She looked confused for a moment. Then her eyes closed. She turned her face away.

“Yes.”

Her voice was dusky. The leading lady steeling herself for the dénouement, the explosive finale.

“And this man?” Dan asked, pointing to the other.

“He was … a friend of the family.”

“Did he know what was going on?”

“Not at first.”

Her hands were trembling. Dan waited. He didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe till it was over. You can make yourself believe almost anything, he knew.

“Some things are hard to accept, aren't they?” Dan asked. “I expect that there are some things you can't say to anybody. Not even to yourself.”

She reached out and took his hand across the table. She wasn't acting now. “Then don't. Don't say it.”

“It's simpler to make up the truth, isn't it? To create stories?”

Dan waited. She sobbed.

“It happened to him, too, didn't it?”

Would she be able to admit it? The eyes were withdrawn. Drugs may have been able to numb her senses, but they couldn't kill the memories.

Finally, she spoke. “Yes. It happened to him. It was
my fault.” The tears were falling. She looked up, focusing directly on him. Accusing the accuser. “That's what you wanted to hear, wasn't it?”

Dan nodded. “Will you come with me to the police station?” he asked.

Everything was arranged. Coffee cups sat on the table between them. All that remained was to call Jags. It would help smooth things over in case anyone was listening in, which Dan thought likely. In all probability, there would be more than one interested party waiting to hear what he was about to say.

He picked up on the first ring.

“Hey, Jags. It's Dan. Where are you?”

There was a hesitation.
It's okay, buddy
, Dan thought.
I wouldn't trust me either
.

Finally, Jags answered. “I'm at the penthouse,” he said. “What did you find out? Did she tell you anything?”

Dan spoke clearly and slowly. “I'll tell you everything when we meet. I want you to meet me on the island. We need to have a little talk. Just you and me. What time works best for you?”

Jags took his time answering. He seemed to be thinking it over.
This is where it all fucks up
, Dan thought.

Then Jags spoke. “Around four o'clock should be okay. Have you got the key to my place, in case you get there first?”

“Yes, I have the key. I'll let myself in.”

“Good. I'll see you there.” A pause. “This better be worth it.”

“It will be.”

Jags hung up. Dan waited. Maybe he was just being paranoid, but you never knew. He thought he heard a very faint click on the line right before it went dead.

The island seemed to waver in the distance, that insubstantial bit of sand that had floated downstream and accumulated for hundreds of years. Did nothing stay put? Coils of mist eddied up from the dark water as he motored along the estuary between the islands, found an empty dock and leapt out. It was late enough in the season that he needn't worry about some angry cottager showing up and making a fuss. Even if they did, who cared?

Next to the dock, three children playing at being sailors in an old beached rowboat. Dan watched as they jumped in and out, pretending the sand was water and that they were drowning or swimming, whichever action seemed appropriate to their character. No one was content just being themselves these days.

He climbed up the bank, feeling the sand shift beneath his feet till he reached the sidewalk. He followed Dacotah Avenue till he came to Jags Rohmer's island retreat. It could be such a handy little place, he thought. Except for the inconvenience of getting over here and the isolation that made it a natural death trap.

He stood on the porch and looked around. All was quiet except for the drone of a plane coming in for a landing at the island airport. His cell rang. He put the phone to his ear and listened for a moment before pocketing it again. He let himself in with his key, leaving the door unlocked.

“Hello?” he called out. “It's Dan, Jags. Are you here?”

No response.
Good
.

He sat and waited. A clock ticked so loudly it began to get on his nerves. He felt jittery. So many things could go wrong. Timing was crucial. He knew they had the ferries covered. There were scanners in place on all the docks. If he came armed, they would know.

His nerves were getting the better of him. He went over to the bookshelves. He'd been too distracted to pay attention to them the last time he was here. Now he read with fascination: there were titles obscure and erudite. Here were first editions of Darwin and Freud, Dickens and Mann, political tracts that had spawned revolutions and scientific treatises that had cured previously incurable diseases. If Dan had walked into anyone else's home and found such a collection, he'd have thought it a put-on, that they'd been purchased along with the house rather than collected. But not Jags Rohmer.

Here was the source of Jags' impressive lyric-writing
skills, his erudition and the range of subjects he tackled.
A title caught his eye. Dan reached up to grasp a leather spine on the top shelf. It was a seventeenth-century tract on sexual psychosis, with chapters on every supposed sexual deviance, fetish, and the various sexualities once classified as “insanities.”