“Security cameras?” Pfeiffer asked, looking over at the building.
“Is that a question?” Dan said, thinking of the rows of monitors in Germ’s underground sanctuary. “Because I couldn’t tell you.”
Pfeiffer shrugged. “I could always tell your friends that you brought me here and showed me their set-up.”
They still wouldn’t help you, Dan thought.
Pfeiffer shrugged off his silence. “No matter. I can see a few good places where I’d hide them if it were my place. ’Course, my place is smaller, so they’re harder to conceal. I’ve got nearly a dozen inside and out.”
He waited a beat for Dan to pick up on this.
“Your place has a dozen security cameras?” Dan asked. “Why?”
“For security,” Pfeiffer said, laughing at his own joke. He shrugged. “You never know.”
“Wouldn’t one at the front and another in the back be sufficient?”
“Yeah, but this way I have a better chance of catching a facial if anyone tries anything. I’ve got some high up, some low, some head on. I learned it from a couple of guys who specialize in this sort of thing. They did that house on Carlton for Zundel after the pipe bomb blew a hole through his garage door.”
“Ernst Zundel?” Dan asked. “The Holocaust denier who claims that Nazis are behind UFOs?” He shook his head. “You’re kidding, right?”
Pfeiffer’s expression turned serious. “He’s a very bright guy. People don’t give him enough credit.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t say I blame them. He says some pretty crazy things.”
Pfeiffer put the car in gear and drove for a while.
“You should know about security. It’s important. You’ve got a family to protect, right? Couple of kids?”
Dan felt the fear creep into his gut. Was this a threat? The guy was a maniac.
“Actually, just one. But you’re right, I do my best to protect him. Whatever it takes.”
“Yeah, sure. Doesn’t matter if you’re gay or not. You people have kids these days. You can get married even. The whole nine yards.”
Dan waited, reluctant to antagonize him but knowing that was how threats worked. A word was spoken, a name mentioned, then the victim did the rest out of fear. It didn’t matter whether the threat was real, the effect was the same. Protection money didn’t protect you from anything, it simply guaranteed you didn’t need to be protected.
“Whether or not you help me, I will get this Bélanger kid.” Pfeiffer looked over at him meaningfully. “But I will remember afterward whether you helped me or not.”
“And here I was starting to think maybe you liked me, just showing up out of the blue and all.”
“Hey, you never know,” Pfeiffer said.
They were stopped on a red. The light went green and the car jolted forward.
“What’s Jags Rohmer got to do with any of this?” Dan asked to change the subject.
Pfeiffer looked him over. “Did you ask him?”
“Yes, and he denied having his name on the Sex Offenders Registry. Do you know something I don’t?”
Pfeiffer shrugged. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he doesn’t have anything to do with it.”
“You know what I mean,” Dan said, bristling. “Why did he receive a photograph with a severed ear? He said he showed it to you. That’s Bélanger’s signature. So why is he targeting Rohmer?”
Pfeiffer concentrated on driving. They were getting into traffic now, the streets less deserted. He pursed his lips at the question. Either he knew something and didn’t want to say what, or else he knew nothing and wanted Dan to think he did.
“I guess that’s something you’ll have to find out for yourself.”
“Rohmer swears he’s not into kids,” Dan said. “I believe him.”
“Well, there you are,” Pfeiffer said.
They were on Bloor Street near Clinton. The rain was still coming down, leaving shivery little trails of light on the pavement.
“Isn’t this city amazing?” Pfeiffer asked. “Here we are in the centre of Toronto and you look out the window and what do you see? Korean writing! We’re in Little Korea. A bit south of here we’d be in Little Italy.”
The wipers beat a tattoo rhythm in time with the music. The effect was hypnotic.
“What’s your background?” Pfeiffer asked.
“White trash,” Dan said. “Or is that politically incorrect?”
Pfeiffer laughed. “Yeah. I guess it is. Me, too.”
Amazing, Dan thought. I get picked up for a lesson in ethnicity.
“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.
Nineteen
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 neig
hbourhood?”
“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.
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