“Did you get a sense that he might try to go back and harm them?”
Kendra frowned. “Hard to say. He sounded angry, that’s for sure. Is he the violent type?”
“I can’t tell. He seems very simple, but sometimes those are the worst. They brood in silence and nurture imaginary slights. Whenever I’m at their house, Mustafa lets the other brother speak. It’s as if he doesn’t want to reveal his thoughts.”
“That fits with what I heard. He kept saying their brother Nabil was a good Muslim and a wonderful boy growing up, but since coming to Canada he has changed. If this Mustafa gets upset because men and women are praying together then what sort of things could he possibly find acceptable about North American life? Our ways must seem positively evil to him.”
She looked at her watch.
“I have to go. I’m sorry.”
“I’ll call you later.”
Dan waited till she left then phoned Khaleda back. She hadn’t calmed down. Her strident voice was back. She seemed to consider him personally responsible for what had occurred. He apologized again and promised to have a face-to-face talk with the brothers and explain that what Mustafa had done would get him in far more trouble than he could possibly deal with if he targeted the group in any way again.
He was sad it had ended this way. Obviously, whatever chance he might have had for learning more about Hanani and his trade in citizenship documents, whether legal or illegal, was gone.
He’d just closed his office and headed down the hall when his cell rang. It was Prabin calling to remind him they were set to go out to the bars that evening.
TWENTY-ONE
Pulling the Strings
IT SEEMED LIKE AGES SINCE DAN had agreed to accompany Prabin to the bars to round up a potential killer. Back then it hadn’t seemed like such an insane idea. Now he wasn’t sure, but so far Prabin showed no signs of wanting to back out.
Outside, a blustery darkness had fallen on the sort of chill wintry evening when the sun disappeared by five o’clock and solemn crowds made their way home from work, the odd straggler stopping in at a bar or a coffee shop, fending off the day’s gloomy end. Dan tried to think when he’d last been away for a sun vacation. It took a while to recall a Costa Rican excursion nearly a decade earlier. He wished he were there now, but there was work to be done and this was no time to let his mind get in a rut. Still, he reminded himself, it should be simple. As long as they both kept their wits about them, what could go wrong?
Prabin was waiting for him at Starbucks. His beard was approaching full-blown proportions. More than that, he’d found a leather vest, donning it as part of his trolling outfit. A good method actor always came outfitted for the part.
“I’d talk you out of this if I could,” Dan told him.
Prabin shook his head. “You know it’s not going to happen. The train has already left the platform.”
“And you’re on it.”
“I am. But if you want to give me a pep talk, go ahead if it will make you feel any better.”
“It might. In any case, you already know what I’m going to say. Don’t do anything heroic. The moment you get the feeling someone is trying something strange then you alert me.”
“I promise not to do anything stupid. I don’t want to end up dead.”
Prabin was to enter the bar first. Dan would follow after fifteen minutes, locate Prabin, then wander off without making contact. He would always be available, no more than a room away at any time. Neither of them was to leave the bar without alerting the other.
When Dan felt certain they were on the same page, he pulled the ta’wiz from his pocket and held it up to the light.
“Put this on.”
“What is it?”
“It’s called a ta’wiz. It’s a lucky amulet.”
Prabin grinned. “You think I need good luck?”
“Not you. Your Muslim alter-ego. Other Muslims will know exactly what it is.”
Prabin’s eyes lit up. “Where did you get it?”
“It was Nabil’s. I borrowed it from his brothers.”
Prabin’s smile vanished. He held the pendant aloft and closed the clasp behind his neck, leaving it resting perfectly on his throat. Soft, vulnerable. Dan already regretted giving it to him.
“How does it look?”
“It’s fine. All set?”
“All set.”
“I’ll see you there.”
After a quarter of an hour, Dan left the coffee shop and made his way down the street to Zipperz. An imposing figure in black leather stood on the doorstep smacking his hands together to keep them from getting cold. The bouncer gave him a once-over and nodded him inside.
The notes of a baby grand cascaded through the room. Over in the corner, a pianist provided distraction to any number of lonely souls willing to part with a few dollars tossed into a goldfish bowl in exchange for a snatch of their favourite tune. Nostalgia came cheap to some; to others it was priceless.
Dan made his way to the back of the bar, parting the heavy curtains separating Zipperz from its evil twin, Cellblock. On one side a singalong piano bar, and on the other a full-scale disco. As the evening progressed, the singers were forced to find up-tempo numbers to compete with the sounds battering the walls from the adjoining room. Dancing queens and karaoke lovers made for uneasy bedfellows.
Prabin sat alone on the far side of the room, a half-
empty beer bottle in front of him. Dan ignored him and continued down the hall to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, then left. Lights glittered over the half dozen men prancing on the steel floor, a magic carpet floating them to their dreams. Though long dead, Sylvester sang his heart out and reigned supreme in the Stardust ballroom, sprinkling the dancers with glittering memories. Dan caught a last sight of Prabin dancing with a young man as he stepped back through the curtain, the beat shifting abruptly from feeling mighty real to a sentimental ballad about a rose blooming bravely through the snow.
The patrons were mostly men, with here and there a woman, all of whom shared one quality: loneliness. Young, old, and in-between, these were the ones who couldn’t bear their empty rooms and empty beds. Dan had thought Prabin’s suggestion to go out mid-week misguided, as greater numbers of partyers went out on the weekends and the possibility of a killer blending in with the crowd higher. Now he realized Prabin was correct in saying that people who went out mid-week were likelier targets, more desperate for company and less likely to be accompanied by friends. A predator’s dream, in other words.
The drinks and laughs and singalong numbers were all about one thing: people disguising their emptiness. Dan knew the feeling, the urge to chug back one drink after another until you blotted out the feelings, the unwanted emotions, the corrosive fallout of going home alone.
The hilarity may have been a front, but it was loud. At that hour they were all just one step away from Alcoholics Anonymous, but the rowdier they got the less anonymous they seemed. Come on, get happy. Let’s chase those blues away. After three drinks, everyone was a talent waiting to be discovered. After four, all propriety went out the window. Dan felt a hand squeeze his butt. Proof that sticking to soda water was best.
He turned and mustered a polite smile. “Thanks, but I’m not interested.”
The man leering at him was drunk, but not too drunk to hope for a ride on life’s endless merry-go-round. “Oh, sweetie, loosen up and live a little! You don’t know what you’re missing.”
It was a variation on a hundred lines Dan had heard over the years, none of them compelling enough to make him take its speaker seriously.
“I’ll take your word for it, but I’m still not interested.”
The man’s expression changed to a snarl. “Asshole. You look like a waste of time anyway.” He stalked off, haughty and bitter.
Dan leaned on the counter and watched the crowd. As usual, there was far too much ice in his glass. He listened as funereal ballads crashed headlong into up-tempo numbers that in turn g
ave way to weepy blues songs. What the evening needed was a theme.
He’d just bought his second drink when a familiar face entered the bar. Scruffy and dissolute. This was Reggie’s pornography-director tenant.
Dan watched him lean into one of the bartenders, a small man with an impressive build. The bartender nodded to a clean-cut young man at the far end of the bar. Dan knew the type: naive, but with a natural sex appeal, and looking for validation in the form of flattery or anything else that came their way. Money didn’t hurt either. The director considered the boy for a moment before heading over to introduce himself. After a few minutes of conversation, he offered the youngster a card, then left. The boy turned the card over with a look of excitement mingled with disbelief.
Dan finished his drink and waited till the bartender caught his eye.
“More soda? Or you want to try something stronger this time?”
The accent was thick, Eastern European.
“I’ll stick with soda,” Dan said.
“Sure thing.”
“Did I recognize a director over here a minute or two ago?” Dan asked when he returned with his drink, once again piled high with ice.
“Sure you did. He is a big name in local porn.”
“Xavier Something?”
“This is correct. Xavier Egeli.” He gave Dan a knowing look and leaned in. “Are you looking to get into the biz? If you like, I can set you up with him.”
“I might be interested.”
“Very good — here is my card. I am Sasha.”
“I’m Sean.”
“Great, Sean. Give me a call sometime.”
Dan looked down at the image of the boy holding the rose.
He headed to the far side of the room. From there he had a vantage point to see the entire bar. The space had filled up considerably. He watched in the mirror as Xavier headed for the back room. There was something feral about him that was only enhanced by the ponytail hanging down his back. The curtains parted and he disappeared like a duck slipping underwater.
Dan was tempted to head inside, but held his curiosity in check. Prabin knew not to do anything dangerous. After ten minutes, when the pornographer hadn’t returned and there was no text from Prabin, Dan got up and headed for the curtained entrance. On the other side, the lights had gone down considerably. Apart from the dance floor, the room was in shadow. Prabin was nowhere to be seen.
He wandered past the DJ booth. Still no sign of Prabin. Nor could he see Egeli. The only other place they could be was in the washroom. Dan headed down the hall, aware that he might appear to be searching for someone. There would be time later for apologies if he disrupted anything.
There was no one in sight. Two of the stalls were open, the last one closed. The smell of crystal meth wafted up from behind the door. Dan knocked. A startled voice called out. “Busy, man.”
“Sorry,” Dan said, rushing back out.
Out in the hallway, he looked around, fighting panic. Then he remembered the outdoor smoker’s patio. Turning left, he walked straight into the path of the drunk he’d rebuffed earlier, clearly a tad more drunk now.
The man locked eyes with Dan, pushing him with one hand. “Think you’re too good for everyone else, do you?”
Dan wrenched the hand aside. The drunk let out a shriek worthy of any beer hall floozy.
Timing was not with him. Just then the bouncer appeared, saw Dan’s hand on the other’s wrist and grabbed his arm.
“Problem?” he demanded.
“No problem,” Dan said. “I was just removing this man’s hand from me.”
“He pushed me,” the other lied.
“I think you both need to take this outside,” the bouncer said, releasing Dan.
“I was just going to find my friend on the patio and leave,” Dan said.
The bouncer looked him over. It was obvious Dan could prove to be a handful if he wanted to. On another day, the leather-clad doorkeeper might have been more inclined to get rough and see what happened, but today he seemed to think it not worth his while.
“All right — get your friend and leave.” He turned to the drunk. “And you, don’t start anything. If you’re past your limit then it’s time to go.”
Clearly a regular.
The drunk drew up to his full height. “I’m not past my limit. I know when it’s time to go.”
“Then make sure you do.”
Dan pushed open the back door and stepped onto the patio. It was covered in a dusting of snow. Footprints led to the street entrance. Dan unlatched the gate and looked out, but there was no sign of Prabin. He reached for his phone and sent a text: Where are you?
Back inside, the bouncer stood at the end of the hall watching him.
“Your friend gone?”
Dan shrugged. “Seems to have. Do you mind if I just have a look around inside for him?”
“Fine with me. Stay away from that little creep. He’s a troublemaker.”
Dan nodded. “Will do. Thanks.”
He’d just passed through the curtain when his phone beeped. Dan looked down: Sorry for alarming you. All good here. I’m back at Starbucks. He buttoned his coat and left.
Prabin sat on a stool by the window. He looked up sheepishly when Dan entered. “I’m sorry for leaving without you,” he said. “Donny called twice. The first time I ignored it. The second time I thought I’d better answer, since he’d be wondering where I was. I didn’t want him to hear the music, so I exited by the patio. When I tried to get back in, the gate had latched behind me. There was a lineup outside the front door and they wouldn’t let me back in.”
“I was worried. I saw the pornographer from the apartment where Sam lived, but he vanished around the same time as you.”
“Actually, someone did approach me.”
“Greasy looking guy with a ponytail? On the small side?”
“No, just a cute kid. I danced with him a little to get in to the club vibe. He was watching me from across the room for a while before coming over. He seemed very interested in this thing.” He pulled the ta’wiz out from his collar. “I couldn’t remember the name of it. I was kicking myself.”
“What did you say to him?”
“Nothing. He spoke to me in Arabic. I don’t know a single word. When I told him I didn’t speak the language, he took off.”
“No harm done then, I guess.”
TWENTY-TWO
The Nature of Evil
IN THE MORNING, DAN DROPPED Nabil’s computer off at Donny’s. Lester was waiting for him. He’d taken the day off school to accomplish the task Dan had set out for him. Dan didn’t argue with him or try to talk him out of it.
Lester had become a handsome, respectful young man. Dan smiled to think of the dirty, distrustful kid he’d hijacked off the streets three years earlier, setting him on a path that would lead to something positive. It had led to an interest in music. Give a misguided kid a goal, Dan thought, recalling his own redemption following the birth of his son, and you give him a second chance.
“Do what you can,” Dan told him. “Anything you come up with may be helpful.”
“I won’t disappoint you, Uncle Dan,” Lester said. “This is child’s play.”
Dan had low expectations, but by afternoon he had a message from Lester saying he’d salvaged four deleted folders and had emailed their contents. “I can also tell you that someone has been monitoring this computer remotely,” he added. “Could be a hacker, but it looks friendly. Ever heard of Sheikh IT! Designs?” he asked.
Oh yes, I have, Dan thought, as he opened the attached files.
The first contained tax data, which jibed with what Amir told him. He deleted that without opening it. The second folder contained detailed plans for a business deal that went sour. There were a few angry outbursts in two emails between Nabil and a potential partner. That in itself might be worth looking into, he noted.
It was the third folder that caused him to pause. In it was the same nude photograph he’d found bo
th sexy and boyish. He studied it again: Nabil faced the camera, his hands gripping his feet, revealing everything and nothing at the same time. It was intimate and sweet, the sort of photograph where you would have to be fond of the photographer to allow it to be taken. And the photographer, no doubt, would have to be fond of you.
Alongside the photo, Nabil had saved an email thread. The first message in it said, To my little imp — hope you enjoy the attached! The second, Nabil’s reply, thanked the photographer: R. Whitman.
The R from the diaries who broke Nabil’s heart. The same R he knew he’d run into when he entered the leather contest.
Woody Whitman’s first name was Robert.
Dan’s mind went into overdrive. Why had his leather-
wearing friend not mentioned photographing Nabil? There could, of course, have been a dozen good reasons, the chief among them being an affair he hadn’t wanted to reveal. But to Dan it seemed a serious omission considering the circumstances in which he’d asked if Woody knew Nabil. And then there was Woody’s evasive reply: I see him around from time to time.
The fourth folder was of even greater interest, containing a scan of Sam Bashir’s visitor’s visa showing an expiry date from early that year. An appended email to Hanani Sheikh asked him, as a friend, to do whatever he could as a favour to Nabil. Dan recalled the special request Nabil had humbled himself to ask, and thus Sheikh’s fury that Nabil had emailed him. But it still didn’t answer the question of whether the designer had supplied the document in question.
Dan called the number on Hanani Sheikh’s business card.
“Mr. Sheikh, it’s Dan Sharp again. I called earlier about setting up a website.”
“I told you I am very busy. I can’t help you. I run a small business all by myself and take on my clients when and as I choose. You need to stop pestering me.”
“Then I suggest you make a space for me in your busy little schedule before I go to the police with information that will put you out of business for good.”
The premises did not look like the opulent preserves of someone who made his living exploiting other peoples’ misery, but Dan was more than willing to give Hanani the benefit of the doubt and let him prove he was as rotten as he believed him to be.
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