The loss Dan felt as a boy had eventually been supplanted by rage, overwhelming him with paroxysms of feeling. He’d had his moments of smashing things in anger, staving in the side of a filing cabinet at work and once, in a private moment of drunken grief and rage after being dumped by a partner, he’d grabbed a ball-peen hammer as it flashed through his mind to hit himself senseless, though he’d checked the urge. Rage was a glaring red eye in the darkness, a fury coming at you from out of nowhere. It exploded when you least expected it, and got bigger and more menacing when you tried to repress it. The last thing Dan ever wanted was for his son to have to live with it, but in his drinking years it had been there until Ked told him to stop. Stop drinking, Dad. And he had. So far, he had.
He’d looked into the darkness and lived to tell the tale. The rage had largely dissipated on discovering the circumstances of his mother’s early death, a dismal tale of drunkenness and betrayal, but now and then it returned with a vengeance, startling even him and making him drift off in the middle of conversations, averting his gaze to avoid eye contact with people he despised, where once he would have stared them down. From waking sweating from traumatic nightmares through to anxious nights where sleep never came, all he knew was that his subconscious was at war with itself. Despair had been a keynote for many years; now it was an undercurrent running through everything he did, a battle he’d been fighting for years.
What had Donny said? That he was a saint. Not true, Dan thought. Rather, he was a shepherd keeping track of wayward sheep. To him, his life seemed unremarkable, or nearly so. He’d spent the first half as a lost boy, the second half finding others who got lost, as if it were a given that loss should be at the core of his existence. But if he got lost, who would come looking for him? Ked, of course. Donny, too. Yes, and Kendra. So, three people. That wasn’t bad. Some people had no one.
After a while, he turned the car around and headed for the ghetto. He’d spent many afternoons there knocking back a few in the days when he used to drink. Domingo had joined him from time to time. She never encouraged his excesses, though. In fact, he recalled how she once told him in a gently reproving tone that he needed to put fatherhood above his indulgences. She was right, of course, though at the time he thought she was overreacting.
Getting drunk wasn’t his intention. He simply wanted to forget, if only for an hour. He also didn’t want to risk seeing Hank, so he went to Crews & Tangos, twin bars housed in a gaudy old mansion on Church Street. The place had a reputation for being a lesbian hangout. All the better, he thought, as he was less likely to have to fend off hopeful men thinking he might be the answer to their problems, if only for an afternoon.
He ordered a Scotch, barely registering the bartender’s queries as to whether he wanted it neat or on the rocks. A glass of yellow liquor — the drinker’s fool’s gold — was set in front of him and the bartender left him to his ponderings. Not everyone came in to socialize.
He turned his attention to the alcohol. It reminded him of all the long days and nights of one-too-many. The first went down without leaving a mark. The second barely registered. He was standing on the edge of no man’s land. Carelessness took over for an instant and he ordered a third, feeling its long, slow burn as he swallowed.
It occurred to him that he should hand over his keys now rather than take a chance later. He’d just pulled them from his pocket when the bartender leaned down to him and nodded to the far corner of the room.
“A friend over there says he’d like to join you.”
Dan looked over and saw Sergeant Trposki watching him. He nodded.
The cop came and sat next to him, dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt. He looked different from when Dan had seen him at police headquarters. He wasn’t sure why, but it was more than that he’d been in uniform then and was in mufti now.
“Bad day?” Trposki ventured, with a nod to the empty glass.
“You could say that.”
“I used to think maybe there wasn’t any other kind.” Trposki said. “By the way, I didn’t follow you here. I was just finishing up with a date when I saw you come in.”
That was the difference, Dan thought. He looked sheepish, as though he’d rather not be seen in a bar.
The bartender came by.
“Soda water, please,” Trposki said.
“Not a drinker?” Dan asked.
“I’ve had my regulation drink for the day.” The cop nodded ironically. “I’m a drinker when I choose. I prefer straight rye, doesn’t matter how old it is. But lately I’ve learned to hold back. Too many mornings after the blackout the night before.”
“You had a problem?”
“Still do. I just control it better. I knew it was a bad idea having a blind date in a bar, but it didn’t work out for more reasons than that.”
Dan sighed and pushed his glass aside. He called to the bartender. “Make that two soda waters.”
Trposki extended a hand. “I’m Nick, by the way. Please don’t call me Officer Trposki in public.”
“Nick it is. And I’m still Dan.”
They shook.
“There were days I used to drink until I thought my blood must be almost pure alcohol,” Nick told him. “Did you ever get like that?”
Dan nodded. “Pretty much for years. Can’t say I’m proud of it.”
“What made you stop?”
“My son. I knew I had to be a better dad.”
Nick’s face clouded over. “Mine made me start. My boy died when he was five. Leukemia.”
“I’m really sorry to hear,” Dan said. “That has to be about as rough as it gets.”
“It was. And I needed to forget. One day about ten years into it, I had a realization that not only had I lost my son, but I was also in the process of throwing my own life away, as if that could somehow bring him back.”
The bartender set two glasses on the counter. Icy cool, with lime wedges and straws.
Nick lifted his glass and drank. “When I saw you in action in Quebec,” he said, “I thought, ‘There’s one tough son of a bitch.’ But you’re not all tough guy, are you? You’ve got some soft spots. Your son, for one, and probably you bleed for your clients as well, trying to deliver the goods to stop their pain.”
Dan nodded. “I still feel things. How about you? Are you a cop for the love of the job? Making the world a better place and that sort of thing?”
Trposki gave him an assessing look. “I am, in fact. Bet you didn’t think cops were like that anymore.”
“I’ve known a few.”
“That’s how I got to know Lydia Johnston. I liked her rep, so I asked to work with her. When she told me about the anti-corruption detail, I said I knew a bar owner who was being hit up regularly.”
Dan’s gaze focused on Nick. “You knew Yuri?”
“From way back. Another lifetime. We went to school together in Macedonia.”
“No kidding!”
“No shit. When my folks moved to Canada, we lost touch. Then a few years ago I heard he was owner of the Saddle. We had a good laugh to know we both turned out gay and in Toronto. Me a cop and him a bar owner. When he told me about the payouts, I told Lydia and she got the ball rolling.” He stared off for a moment. “I was real burned when he got killed, let me tell you.”
“I hope you figure out who killed him,” Dan said simply.
“I will.”
Conversation faltered. The sad, doomed voice of Amy Winehouse, a fellow addict, took over the airwaves. The bartender looked over with no real expectations. They weren’t big spenders, but they were his only customers.
“You single?” Nick asked after a moment. “I only ask because you likely wouldn’t be drinking alone if you were. That’s probably another weak spot.”
“Guilty as charged. I just don’t want to drink at home where Ked could find me.”
“Ked?”
“My son, Kedrick. It’s Old English. His mother’s Syrian. Don’t ask. It all manages to work out somehow. Unlike th
e rest of my life. The romance, especially.”
Nick smiled. “Heavy drinking and relationships usually don’t mix. Or if they do, you’re doubly in trouble for having someone to encourage you. I only had one keeper among all my boyfriends. Best man I ever met, but alcohol got the better of me.”
“Stay friends?”
“Nah, it was beyond repair.” Nick shrugged. “My fault. No self-deprecation there. I destroyed it. Thought I was the tough guy. Couldn’t bear to see myself through his eyes, so I tried to prove I was right. He couldn’t stand me afterwards.”
“That’s rough.” Dan looked at his face. “How’s your jaw, by the way.”
Nick laughed, reached up and worked his lower jawbone back and forth. “A bit tender. It was a good workout, though. You?”
“Still a bit sore. That flip caught me by surprise. You’re good.”
“I keep in practice. Works on boyfriends, too.” He winked. “Okay, time for me to scram.”
Nick stood and handed Dan a business card. “Any late-night urges you want to resist badly enough, call me. I’m usually up howling at the moon.”
Dan’s lips curved into a smile, his first that day.
Twenty-Seven
Breaking Glass
Dan was surprised when he heard Adele’s message informing him of the arrangements for Domingo’s funeral. He’d expected to have to scour the newspapers for information. She couldn’t have disliked him that much or else she’d softened with age. He’d called to offer his condolences and inform her of Lonnie’s fate, arranging for the delivery of his ashes and suggesting a double service. She was stoic about it. Like Domingo, she’d accepted the probability years before, but the logistics of combining funerals must have given her pause, compounding her misery.
By the morning of the funeral, Dan still hadn’t heard from Ziggy since his text in Le Drague. There’d been a lot of water under the bridge since then. Maybe it was time to have another chat with the Goth-loving kid in light of what he now knew. A nagging feeling told Dan he should be wary of meeting him in private, but he’d deal with it when the time came.
He checked his watch: it was a little before 10:00 a.m. The funeral was at two. If he got dressed first, he could swing by Parkdale, have a chat with him and get back downtown in time for the service. He sent a text: Hey! In your neighbourhood. Coming over now.
There was someone on the stoop when he pulled up outside the Lockie House. For a second, Dan thought it was Ziggy, but this guy was heavier and dressed in the nondescript brown jacket of delivery drivers. Two potted plants sat at his feet.
He turned when Dan approached. Attractive. Nice build, dark hair. This was one of Yuri’s special deliveries of rare flowers, no doubt.
“Are those for Yuri Malevski?” Dan asked.
The man watched him curiously. “Yes.”
“I don’t know if anyone’s home.”
“Okay, thanks.” He stooped and picked up the plants. Orchids.
“If you want, you can leave them with me” Dan suggested. “I’ll make sure they get inside.”
The man shrugged. “I’ll come back.”
It’s okay, Dan thought. I wouldn’t trust me either, buddy.
“I don’t know when you’ll be able to deliver them,” Dan said.
“No worries,” the man said, turning and walking down the drive. “They’re too expensive to leave.”
Dan scratched his head. That was what the delivery man had told Ked on bringing Hank’s gift to the house. He tapped in the numbers, but the light stayed red. Someone had changed the code. His knocks resounded inwardly, but there was no reply. Maybe Ziggy was inside. He stepped back and looked at the house with a twinge of foreboding. His mind flashed on a passage in Ziggy’s diary: I’d rather be dead. It was disconcerting, especially combined with the boy’s bravado in declaring he would simply lock the doors and “unplug” himself.
Dan went around the house banging on each window, but it was futile. He tossed a clump of earth against the porthole in Ziggy’s bedroom. It burst open and showered him with dirt. There was no response, no pale face at the glass.
He went back to the front door and tried the code again, thinking he might have entered the numbers incorrectly. Still red. He pulled out his cell and dialled Lionel, but the call went straight to voicemail. He found the couple’s home number. Charles answered.
“It’s Dan. Dan Sharp. I need the new code to Yuri Malevski’s house. It’s important.”
“Sorry, what?”
“The entry code. It’s been changed. I think Ziggy might have done something to himself. He could be inside.”
Charles hesitated. Dan felt his anger building.
“Come on, Charles. What’s the code?”
“Dan, I —”
“The number, damn it! You must know the code.”
Charles sounded dumbfounded. “I don’t have the code. I’ve never had it!”
“He could be dying!”
“Dan, I don’t know the code,” he insisted. “Let me ask Lionel.”
Dan heard a terse conversation in the background. After a long wait, a groggy-sounding Lionel came on the line. More sleeping pills, Dan thought. Charles’s influence.
“Hi, Dan. What’s the problem?”
“I’m at Yuri Malevski’s. It may be nothing, but I’m worried that Ziggy might have tried to kill himself. I want to go in and check.”
“You think he tried to kill himself? Why?”
“Just something I read in his diary. The code’s been changed. If you have the new code, please tell me.”
“No, I didn’t change it.”
Dan pounded a fist against the door and heard it shudder within.
“Do you have any idea who else might have done it?”
“Maybe someone at the bar. I could make a call …”
“It’ll be too late. I’ll call you back.”
He glanced over at the fence dividing Yuri Malevski’s property from his neighbour’s. Now would be a good time for the P-Man to make one of his unwanted appearances, but there was no sign of him.
He looked around. The greenhouse windows glinted ominously in the morning sun. He hung up and dialled Inspector Johnston’s number. She answered.
“It’s Dan Sharp. I’m breaking into the Malevski mansion,” he spouted at her. “I can’t wait for emergency services.”
“I assume you have a good reason,” she said calmly.
“Damn good,” he said, picking up the end of a hose and smashing a pane of glass. “I think there’s a kid in there who may be trying to kill himself.”
“I’ll send someone right over.”
He was upstairs in Ziggy’s room when he heard the sirens. He got back down in time to let the emergency crew in as the first of three vehicles arrived. Dan looked at them sheepishly.
“I was wrong,” he told them. “I thought there was a suicide in progress in here.”
The faces staring back at him were curious, not judgmental.
“Did you receive a call from someone in distress, sir?” an attendant asked.
“No, I jumped to a wrong conclusion based on a … a disturbing diary entry. Someone changed the entry code and I thought it was to keep me out.”
Fifteen minutes later, Lydia Johnston joined the gathering. Dan led her upstairs to the hidden room and the diary. It lay face-down on the pillow where Dan had last seen it.
“Okay,” she said, after reading the passage where Ziggy stated his wish to die.
“Okay?” Dan asked.
“I understand your concern. I would have done the same.” She gave him a long, hard look. “What made you panic?”
Dan shook his head. For a moment, he couldn’t remember.
“There was a delivery guy here when I arrived. Yuri used to give out the code when he had plants coming, but it was changed. It triggered something in me.”
“So who changed it?” Lydia asked.
“I have no idea,” Dan said. “I called Lionel, but he did
n’t know it had been changed, either.”
They went back downstairs. Lydia busied herself with the EMS drivers. Dan went into the greenhouse. The air was humid, as it had been on his other visits. He thought of Ked’s sling psychrometer as he looked over the orchids. Only two appeared to be thriving. The rest had died. Odd, he thought. He reached up and pulled out a tag, jotting the Latin name in his notebook.
Once a through search for Ziggy had been made in the house, Dan headed to Radio City. This time the concierge wouldn’t allow him in until he phoned up to be sure Dan was welcome, though “welcome” wasn’t exactly the word Dan would have used. Unexpected, certainly, but not welcome.
Charles opened the door. “You have a lot of nerve coming here.”
“I came to apologize,” Dan told him.
“Apology accepted,” Charles said coldly. He paused. “How’s Ziggy?”
“Good of you to ask. He wasn’t inside the house. I’m still not certain he’s okay. I wondered if you might have any idea where he is.”
“No,” Charles said. “I wouldn’t worry. He’ll turn up. He always does.”
Dan saw a pair of expensive-looking bags sitting at the end of the couch. Charles caught his glance.
“We’re taking a short trip,” he said. “Up north for a few days to a wilderness retreat. We thought it easier than hiring someone to look after us here in the city.”
Dan envisaged a smart little log cabin in Killarney, the park’s famous pink quartz throwing off a quiet glow in the sunset. He heard footsteps. The bedroom door opened. Lionel stood there, dishevelled, in a bathrobe. He caught Dan’s eye and quickly shook his head. Was it anger at his continued invasiveness in their lives that Dan saw there, or was it fear?
“A trip would be smart,” Dan said, though in the back of his mind there was something vaguely unsettling about the idea of Lionel being alone in the wilderness with Charles. He envisaged a canoe tipping in white-water rapids, news reports of an accidental drowning. Maybe a fall from the steep cliffs of Manitoulin. No one to hear, no one to see.
Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle Page 111