She stepped off the porch, the snow already over the tops of her boots. Drifts like white waves curled and froze mid-air. The storm had blanketed the yard. No footsteps showed here, either. She pulled open the rickety screen door, checking her phone for the new code. He was always changing it then changing it back again. At least this time he remembered to tell her. Once he forgot to let her know. She’d showed up and couldn’t get in until he returned in his big blue Mercedes. Fine for him to make mistakes!
She punched in the numbers. A red light turned to green. The latch clicked and she pulled hard. The door crackled from the cold. Then she was inside, a beep registering her entry. She had twenty seconds to re-enter the code and shut off the alarm or she’d have security swarming over the premises. Or so he said. Maybe one day she’d let it go off and see what happened. What could they do? She re-entered the numbers and the beeping stopped.
Safe.
Inside, all was silent. She hoped she wouldn’t find naked bodies lying on the sofas and spare beds. It wouldn’t be the first time. Sin and abomination. Sodom and Gomorrah. God’s wrath on the sinful.
A quick glance told her the place was tidy. Maybe the boy, Santiago, was back. He was one of the few who bothered to lift a hand around the place. An illegal like her, he once said she reminded him of his mother. Sometimes he slipped her an extra twenty for her hard work. Malevski had taunted the poor boy by dangling citizenship in front of him, getting his hopes up. Men marrying men, imagine that! It was a crazy country she’d come to. But then they’d argued and he’d been out of favour for the past few weeks.
If not Santiago, then maybe it was that other boy who lived under the stairs. The one with the pale makeup, his face like a vampire’s. There was something not quite right about him. She didn’t like to be alone in the house when he was up there in that little room. She’d read his diary once, just a few lines: Dear Darkness, I want to die. Terrible!
She set her purse on a table in the hall then took off her gloves and coat, laying them over the big blue chair. It was cold. That was Malevski saving money on the heating bills again, no doubt. She flicked the thermostat and heard the furnace starting up.
Still no sign of her boss. If he was going to fire her for being late, surely he’d have been there to meet her when she arrived. Or maybe he intended to let her finish her day’s work then give her the sack without pay. It wasn’t as though she could complain to anyone.
The kitchen was dirtiest. The remains of a meal lay in the sink. She put on gloves and soaked the dishes, making sure the water was extra hot. The food was caked on and hardened. Italian? Lasagna, maybe. There was something sticky on the floor and a spray of dried sauce across one of the cupboard doors.
That was the worst of it. The dining room hadn’t been used since her last visit. A little dust only. Once again she wiped down all the surfaces, wringing the rags out, the water left clean in the pail. When she finished, she took the pamphlet from her purse and carried it to the long dining table. She always left one behind for him, but he never said anything. Someday he would read them.
She stopped abruptly. There he was already, the same pamphlet propped against the silver candlestick holders. Jesus with his purple heart staring back at her.
“Make him repent his wickedness!” she hissed, crossing herself.
She stopped for a moment to listen. Irma was used to being in empty houses, but this one gave her the creeps. She wondered if the strange boy was upstairs in his little room. Fortunately, he never asked her to clean it. He was rather neat in that regard, and kept the place spotless. Once, she asked if he would like her to wash the floor. I’m entirely capable, he told her. She wasn’t sure about that, but didn’t bother to contradict him.
A phone rang in another room, echoing through the place until an answering machine picked up. “This is Yuri Malevski,” came her boss’s voice with its distinctive pronunciation before clicking over to record.
Irma listened, thinking he might be trying to reach her. Perhaps he got delayed somewhere because of the snow and wanted to give her special instructions. But it wasn’t him. It was his accountant saying he was still out of town and confirming Saturday’s meeting.
The call ended. Almost immediately, it rang again. This time it was a florist saying he’d attempted a delivery on Tuesday, but hadn’t been able to use the entry code he’d been given. He was unwilling to leave the flowers because of the cold and left a number to reschedule. So it wasn’t just her. Yuri Malevski forgot to give the code to others, too.
She paused with the dust rag to listen for sounds from upstairs. For all she knew, he could still be lying in bed. He expected her to get to his house by eight in the morning, while he idled away the day. He probably hadn’t any idea how horrific the weather was outside. And why would he? When he went out, he simply stepped into his car and zoomed off without feeling a thing. Life was easy for some.
She rinsed out her washcloths and emptied the bucket into the kitchen sink before going back out to the hall. The place was finally beginning to warm up.
It was the flowers that gave her pause.
She’d always thought it a marvel how you could be in the depths of darkness in that mausoleum, and then step through a doorway where all was light and airy, the windows stretching up twenty feet. Now petals lay curled and withered on the conservatory floor. He’d always been fastidious about his plants. Never touch my orchids, he told her when she asked if he wanted her to water them. They’re particular. Just like you, she wanted to say, but held her tongue. They required three ice cubes per pot, once a week, he explained. He preferred to do it himself.
Ice cubes!
They didn’t even grow in soil, just absorbent material that retained water after the ice melted. Now, looking over the petals strewn across the floor, she saw that nearly all the flowers had dropped. How could he not have noticed? Not that she cared. She disliked orchids. They were sinister. The leaves were waxy, the petals cool to touch like the flesh of the dead. One or two had kept their flowers, the blossoms curling around the centres as though shielding a tiny throne. They looked as if they concealed something evil, like in those horror movies where creatures emerged from things when people turned their backs on them.
He’d given her a tour the first day she came to work for him. Some of them cost a great deal of money, he told her. They’d been imported from far-off lands. She wasn’t sure if he said it to impress her or to make her wary of touching them when he wasn’t around. The name comes from the Greek orchis, he’d informed her in his precise English. Why is that? she’d asked in all innocence. He’d smiled his cruel smile and pulled one from its pot. Orchis means testicle, you see. There, dangling before her, were twin tubers looking for all the world like a man’s privates.
Wickedness!
He laughed to see her blush and cross herself. Ah, Irma! You’re so innocent, he told her, then turned back to his flowers.
But here they were now, fallen at her feet. She went to the pantry to retrieve the vacuum, sitting it upright while she trailed the long black cord to the wall and inserted the plug. The whirring noise was comforting. The blossoms were gone inside a minute. She just hoped he wouldn’t blame her for the damage.
She closed the door on the plants and lugged the vacuum to the foot of the stairs. Carrying it up was always a chore. Of course, he was too cheap to get a second one for upstairs. She stopped to rest a moment before continuing. Then she saw the stains. Like the ones in the kitchen, only darker. First on one stair and then another higher up.
“God in heaven!”
She left the vacuum at the foot of the stairs. Her hands shook as she continued upward. Dead flowers and a house in the deep freeze. Yes, there was evil in this place.
She felt it in her bones, and her bones were never wrong.
One
Izakaya
“Just talk to the guy, would you?”
Dan rolled his eyes. “I can’t get involved. This is police business.”
There was a pause followed by the telltale sound of a match being struck on the other end of the phone. Any excuse for nicotine, Dan thought. Where the hell does he get actual matches these days?
Donny was using his Reasoning with a Child voice: “No one’s asking you to get involved. He just wants your candid opinion. I know he would very much appreciate it.”
Dan sighed. It was no good arguing; he was useless at evasion. Drive the truck straight down the freeway, none of this mucking about in back alleyways stuff. That was his style.
“All right,” he conceded. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Thank you.”
“As a favour to you — no other reason.”
“So in other words, I owe you.”
“In other words, you owe me again.”
There was a breathy, pack-a-day chortle. “Let me know when you want to collect.”
“Oh, I will. Don’t worry.”
In any conversation with Donny, the smooth exhale of a well-smoked cigarette was a familiar sound. Being asked to participate in a case that had all the markings of a police-only investigation was not. If anything, Donny was the one to urge caution, advising Dan to keep a low profile on risky undertakings, but here he was encouraging Dan to step directly into the ring.
“So who is he again?”
“You remember Charles?”
“Sort of. Well, no. Not really.”
“He’s the lawyer I dated briefly after Jorge the Argentine soccer player.”
“Jorge I remember. Oh, yeah. The legs.”
“Right. Getting back to Charles.”
“Sorry. No facial here. Remind me.”
“Good looking. White. Square jaw and all that. Probably not exotic enough for you, that’s why you don’t recall him. Anyway, Charles started dating this guy, Lionel. An accountant. Also very good-looking. They’re the perfect couple. They had the most spectacular wedding on their penthouse balcony in Radio City a couple years ago. It was big enough to hold a hundred people. They’re both very successful, lots of money between them. And believe me when I say they lack for nothing.”
“Oh, I believe you.”
“Good. So when I say that Charles was panicked, you’ll understand why I thought of you. Guys like that normally don’t even sweat when they play handball, but Charles is an absolute mess. He wouldn’t even talk about it on the phone. Insisted we meet in person. With all his connections, he couldn’t think of anyone to call, so I mentioned you.” Pause, with intent. “I sort of offered your services.”
“Nice touch. So what exactly is the problem?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not helpful. Are you saying he wouldn’t tell you?”
“He was too afraid to tell me. All I know is it has something to do with the murder of Yuri Malevski, owner of the Saddle and Bridle.”
“The country-and-western bar on Richmond?”
“That’s the one. They’re a rough crowd to look at, but mostly pussycats when you meet them. They host the Mr. Leather Contest when it’s in town.”
“I heard they closed after the murder.”
“They did. Yuri was killed at his home in Parkdale, but the bar’s been locked up ever since. Apparently the police are looking for evidence of immigration scams, not to mention the usual narcotics aspect and anything else that comes to light. They think Yuri was running all that through the bar.”
“I’m sure they’ll be thorough, since it was a gay bar.”
“There was also a rumour Yuri was making payoffs to someone, so they’ll be looking for that, too.”
“Payoffs for what?”
“Ah.” Dan heard a sharp intake of breath as the cigarette swung into action. “That I do not know. For the answer, we must consult Charles. The reservation’s in an hour.”
The place was packed. Fifteen years earlier, Toronto had barely heard of sushi. When you could find the stuff, it was priced to the hilt. Now it was de rigueur at cocktail hour in all the stylish homes and there was an izakaya — or sake house — on every other corner. From feeling squeamish about raw fish and squiggly things on their plates to becoming connoisseurs in a decade and a half, Torontonians had made the leap and landed solidly on both feet.
Dan sipped his soda water and looked across at Charles the lawyer as he deftly scissored a maki roll with chopsticks and lifted it to his mouth. He was, Dan noted, expertly groomed and outfitted in the image of a successful man. His moustache looked hand-manicured. Donny was right, however. Despite being textbook-handsome, Charles wasn’t exotic enough for Dan’s recall. He’d met a thousand Charleses in his time, each indistinguishable from the next. In his opinion, they put more emphasis on their couture and professional alliances than anything that might reasonably be called a personality. Still, he reminded himself, it wasn’t their fault. They were programmed by their upbringings and choice of career. But this Charles at least was passionate about something: his husband’s security.
“He doesn’t actually know I’m here,” he confided to Dan.
“Lionel’s a very private guy,” Donny seconded.
“Even more than me,” Charles said, smiling broadly. “And I’m the lawyer in the family.”
“How do you think he’d feel if he knew you were discussing his private matters without his knowledge?” Dan asked.
Charles leaned in. “I’m counting on your discretion, Dan. If he felt you were on his side, or at the very least that you wouldn’t say anything about this to anyone else, I’m sure he’d be fine about it.”
A lawyer’s answer.
“And if I were meeting him to discuss your private concerns, how would you feel?”
Charles looked uncomfortable for a millisecond then smiled his winning smile again. His eyes floated lightly over Dan’s chest. “I’d be fine knowing I was in your capable hands.”
Dan caught the flirtation under the remark, but let it pass. “Then let’s talk,” he said.
Donny relaxed visibly and leaned back. Maybe, just maybe, his best friend was not going to be the uptight prude he so often proved. Dan didn’t like to disappoint Donny, but he wouldn’t step outside the bounds of his profession without good reason. Having an attractive lawyer for an ex-boyfriend did not constitute good reasoning to Dan’s thinking.
Charles looked at Dan. “When we spoke, Donald assured me this would be kept in strict confidence.”
Dan shot a glance at Donny: Donald?
Charles continued. “When I told him why I was concerned, he explained that you might be the best person to turn to, all things considered.”
“All things considered?” Dan said.
Charles’s smile crumpled. “Sorry, I wasn’t … when you hear what I’m about to tell you, I think you’ll understand my hesitation.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
“As Donald has told you, Lionel was chief accountant for a bar called the Saddle and Bridle.”
“I’m familiar with it,” Dan said.
“Then you will know that the owner, Yuri Malevski, was found murdered a couple of months ago.”
“Yes. I’d heard.”
“Lionel was also Yuri’s personal accountant.”
Charles paused. It seemed a cue for something.
Dan cocked his head to encourage him to continue. “And?”
“Well …” Charles blinked and smiled again. It seemed to be his default when all else failed.
The penny dropped. “And being Yuri’s personal accountant required a certain amount of discretion on Lionel’s part,” Dan suggested.
Charles nodded and turned to Donny. “This guy’s good,” he said.
Dan got the message: saying things for Charles meant he did not have to make any potentially incriminating statements himself.
“Which is why Lionel is reluctant to talk to anyone,” Dan went on, half guessing. “But surely the police have already questioned him about the murder?”
Charles’s expression turned grave. “They did. Lionel is afraid because of
what he knows. When Yuri didn’t show up at their last meeting —”
“Sorry, when was this?” Dan interrupted.
“Two months ago. Right after we got back from Mexico. Lionel and Yuri were scheduled to meet the day after we returned. It was a Saturday. February twelfth, to be exact. Yuri called on Tuesday and left a message while we were away on a jungle tour. Lionel didn’t get it till Thursday. When he called back, the mailbox was full, so he left a message on Yuri’s home phone.”
“And Yuri was a no-show on Saturday. What happened?”
“Lionel called Yuri’s cell a couple of times in the morning, but there was no answer. He showed up at the bar for their meeting, but no one had seen Yuri. So Lionel tried his home. Still nothing. Nor had there been any further communication from Yuri saying he wanted to postpone the meeting. It was a monthly affair, so Yuri always knew in advance when he needed to change the date. Anyway, when Yuri didn’t show up, Lionel started to worry that something had happened to him.”
“Why?”
Charles shrugged. “He knew Yuri’s lifestyle: sketchy friends, drug users, and rent boys. You name it — if it was dirty, Yuri was into it.”
Dan nodded. “What did Lionel do next?”
“He called a few friends and business associates, including one of the bar managers who was off duty that day. Turns out no one had heard from Yuri for several days, in fact. They went over to the house and found the front door was double-locked and that he’d changed the entry code. That was odd, too, since Yuri always told Lionel when he changed the code. But this time he hadn’t.”
“Who found him?” Dan interjected.
“The bar manager called the police, who called the security company and got them to let them in. They found Yuri murdered in his bed. They’ve questioned a lot of people, but they haven’t named any suspects yet.”
Dan took this in. “So who do you think did it?”
Charles looked uncomfortable and turned to Donny again.
“Tell him,” Donny urged.
Charles clasped his hands. Dan resisted the urge to tell him to stop using over-obvious court tactics and get on with the story.
Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle Page 92