Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle

by Jeffrey Round

  then Germ was your man. A sophisticated urban guerrilla, he knew the terrain better than anyone Dan had ever met.

  “Anyway, I just wanted to pass the idea by you. You could be doing something significant to help others escape harm.”

  The shaggy head nodded. “Which I have no problem with. Just that helping them means participating in the System. And I know you understand my position on that entirely.”

  Dan held up a hand. “No need for the lecture.

  I know the score.”

  Germ grinned and took another toke. “You probably know it by heart by now, right?”

  “Nearly,” Dan said. “Hey, I come from the dirt. I’m no fan of the System either. My father and his father both lived and died in the mines.”

  “Which makes us brothers under the skin. My old man? A sanitation engineer. That’s garbage collector to the rest of us. So I come by my trade legit.”

  By “trade” he meant street art as much as picking up the cast-offs that people above ground considered waste. His underground bunker was outfitted with salvaged furniture and electronics.

  While Germ thought of himself as a social critic, he was also a highly talented photographer. His online galleries of abandoned places and discarded objects had the aura of high art. Unmoved by ordinary beauty, only the lowest of the low received his loving adoration: peeling paint, mould-covered surfaces, rusting fixtures, broken furniture, shattered glass, rotting mattresses, dangling wires. Here was Jackson Pollock with a camera and a social vision. With the right agent, his work might have been showcased anywhere: New York’s MoMA, London’s Saatchi, or any prestigious gallery worth its name featuring the avant garde. Instead, he spilled his work online, where anyone could access it for free.

  Dan had come across him by accident while tracking a young drug addict. His mother had warned him her son was suicidal. Dan put all his effort into finding the boy, who had a penchant for hiding out in abandoned buildings. He needed an expert on the city’s abandoned sites and found one through a site called Germ Warfare.

  Germ — short for Germaine — was its author and creator. Dan contacted him and asked for his help, explaining the urgency. Off the top of his head, Germ named ten buildings that had recently been vacated — meaning their interiors were up for habitation by anyone looking for a free place to sleep. He’d been correct in helping pinpoint the building in question, but not in time for Dan to prevent the young man’s suicide.

  The connection continued. Dan found reason to draw on Germ’s specialized knowledge several times in the intervening months. Germ eventually trusted Dan enough to invite him to his secret hideout, introducing him to his girlfriend, Velvet Blue.

  Germ and Velvet Blue inhabited their underground lair like a pair of happy moles, making their way to the surface only when necessary. A slight girl, Velvet Blue could take care of herself in a scrape. She was the martial arts expert in the family, where Germ handled the creative-espionage side of things. They lived in abandoned warehouses and underground tunnels, planning raids and industrial sabotage, taking the city’s pulse from below ground level.

  “So you said you’re looking for someone,” Germ said.

  “Was. I was looking. He’s dead. I think one of your contacts called to tell me where he was, but I got there too late. He was murdered.”

  Germ contemplated this with a grim expression. “Taking a life, man. That is definitely not cool.”

  “No, I think not. So tell me about your last visit to the slaughterhouse.”

  “Right. Like I said on the phone, it was a little weird. I was doing one of my photo essays on urban decay. Places like that usually you find, like, these kids. You know — the stoner type looking to get away from their parents.” He glanced at the roach in his hand and laughed. “Been there, still doing that.”

  Dan waited patiently for Germ’s thoughts to get back on track.

  “Anyway. Saw this strange kid there. Something odd about him, something a little off. Not sure what.”

  “In what way ‘odd’? Physically?”

  Germ shook his head. “Just … something. Couldn’t put my finger on it. You know when that little voice inside says something isn’t right, but you can’t always tell what it is? Something says, ‘Be wary, stay alert.’ New York subway style. Like that. Looked like he was waiting for someone. Only it felt odd somehow. Like he already knew whoever he was waiting for wasn’t coming.” He shook his head again. “But then why would he be waiting? You know what I mean?”

  Dan shrugged. “Not exactly.”

  Germ seemed to lose focus for a moment. He ran his hand over a long blue outline on the wall behind him, following the minute convolutions of his mind.

  “Wow, cool.”

  He left off with whatever had captivated him and looked back at Dan.

  “Anyway. Like I said, I saw him twice. First time, I was making a preliminary run of the place for when I came back to take the photos. That’s another thing.” He looked meaningfully at Dan. “He seemed to freak a little when I took out my camera. You know? You could tell he was up to something, because he acted like he didn’t want to be seen — you know the way kids do — though he didn’t go to any great length to hide himself. He was just … there, but sort of removed at the same time.”

  He paused and seemed to get lost in his thoughts.

  “You said you saw him twice.…”

  Germ waved the roach around, took one last toke, then stubbed it out on the floor.

  “Yeah, right. Second time, when I came back to take the rest of the photos, he was there in almost the same spot. It was as if he hadn’t moved from one week to the next. Like he was frozen in place. That was part of the weirdness, I guess. Everything about him registered as odd on some level. Even his clothes. He was all dressed up like a proper little British schoolboy. So what was he doing in a derelict old place like that?”

  Dan nodded. “Maybe he was doing the same thing you were doing — getting stoned and exploring.”

  Germ laughed. “Yeah. So true.”

  He turned back to the console and typed in a command. A series of thumbnail images popped up onscreen. He scrutinized them for a moment then brought up three.

  “Here, have a look. That’s the kid.”

  Dan examined the photographs. All were shot from behind or in profile. Germ was right — the boy seemed purposefully to be avoiding his camera. Dan noted his slight figure, the navy blazer and hair poking out from under his cap. He might have been any kid wandering around a deserted spot. There was nothing to distinguish him in the photos, nothing particularly unusual except the setting.

  “I can’t see much of him,” Dan said. He pulled out the photo of Gaetan Bélanger that Ed had given him. “Could it have been him?”

  Germ focused on the snap, picked it up, and moved it around in the light. He scowled and scratched his head. Then he nodded.

  “Could be. Wrong clothes, of course,” he said, referring to the sweatshirt and jeans Gaetan had on. “About the same age, though. But if I place him in context, there is a similarity.” He put the photo down. “Who is he?”

  “A teenage boy wanted for the murder of a priest back in Quebec.”

  Germ picked up the photo again. “This kid? He looks too cute to be mean.”

  “Cute but strong, apparently. He garrotted his victim.”

  “No shit?” Germ looked down at the shot with greater respect, almost reverence, as though he might be considering changing his photographic interests from social decay to physical violence. “Yeah, it coulda been him now that I think of it. I’ll take a closer look if I see him again. Guess I better be more careful running around these old places. Never know who you’re going to run into.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” Dan said.

  Germ looked up at Dan. “Why’d he do it?”

  “The priest molested him, but the boy felt he hadn’t been punished enough after he got out of jail, so he tracked him down and finished him off, if what I’ve
heard is correct.”

  “Wow! As lurid as they come. There’s a headline for the Sun.” He brushed aside a lock with his hand. “Velvet Blue was molested by some guy when she was, like, thirteen.”

  “What’d she do?”

  “She kicked him in the balls and told him next time she’d break his neck for him. Never tried it again, apparently.”

  Dan tossed down the photo of Darryl Hillary.

  “What about this guy? Ever see him at the slaughterhouse? This was the guy who was murdered a couple days ago.”

  Germ looked it over. “Nah. Not him. For sure I didn’t see him there. I recognize him, though.”

  Dan’s interest was piqued. If Darryl was such a recluse, it seemed odd that Germ would know him. “From where?”

  “Scored our dope from the same source. He showed up at the guy’s porch when I was there one day. Can’t say why I remember him, but I just do. Something about how frightened he looked. Something in his eyes that reminded me of a beaten dog. Yeah,

  I guess that was it.”

  “Do you think he was afraid of the pusher?”

  Germ laughed. “No, man. Not Dudley. He’d never hurt a fly. Guy’s a nervous little wreck of a man. Kids rip him off all the time. Just cuts off their credit and puts them on his black list, but he never goes after them. Not the type, man. Not the type.” He thought about this. “Killing’s not his thing. That’s more for the hardcore drug dealers.”

  “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.

  Nine

  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.”