Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (105 page)

The Grain Silo

Dan strode through the lobby and headed up the stairs. Throwing his belongings together, he took time to check his face in the mirror, daub the gash on his cheek with toilet paper, then quit the room. Out in the street, he tossed the key into a mailbox and made his way to an ATM.

Cash in hand, he headed down the road to a small hotel he'd spotted on his arrival. A light gleamed in the front window, the vacancy sign still lit up. A lucky thing, Dan knew. At that time of year, most hotels were booked well in advance in the tourist quarter.

The old man who greeted him didn't hesitate to take his cash. He wrote out a receipt and showed him to a room.
Now this is more like it
, Dan thought, gazing around with admiration at the stone walls and wood beams. Pure
Vieux-Québec
. Probably owned by a descendant of one of the original
habitants
. It would suit his needs, but he couldn't stop and admire it for long. He'd finish his business and head home. Whatever his pursuers wanted from him, they would have it one way or another. But they'd have to find him first.

He kicked off his shoes and put his feet up on the bed, casting around for something on television he could understand. It turned out not to be a problem. With cable, there were far more English stations than French.
One more reason for them to hate us
, Dan thought.
But god forbid they separate and get swallowed up by the U.S. Then they'll really have something to scream about.

He settled in with good, sensible Jamie Oliver, righting the nutritional wrongs of the world one social class at a time. There was no sense going back out and showing his face on the street again tonight.

Sleep did not come easily. Wary of every sound outside his door, he finally nodded off before dawn. When he woke an hour later, his back felt as if it had been split open, with a rib or two puncturing his lungs for dramatic effect. That he'd hate to die in a Quebec hotel room was all he could think.

He called the
Sûreté
to confirm his meeting then packed and left. The chief of police was as old and wrinkled as a desert tortoise. He looked Dan over with jaundiced eyes as he opened a musty-looking file. Judging by its condition, it may well have predated computers. Dan watched as he turned the pages till he came to the one he was searching for, stabbing it with his forefinger.

“Ici.”

Dan saw a handwritten coroner's report in a script that might have been made with a quill pen. He followed what he could make out with his limited French.

He looked back up at the man. “
Mort?
”

“Oui, il est mort, bien sûr.”

“Quand?”

The man frowned and looked down at the report. Surely this idiot Englishman could figure that out.

“Le quinzième mai, deux mille trois.”

He looked back up with bleary eyes. Dan could practically smell the alcohol on his breath. The man should have been packed away in mothballs and put in a closet, not left sitting at a desk in some backwater provincial police station.

Fifteenth May, two thousand and three
.

Dan thought back and felt a chill. That was pretty much when Domingo had started saying she knew Lonnie was dead. He'd been sitting here on some police shelf all that time, waiting for someone to find him. Dan fought a sense of rage over the carelessness of such things. Probably no one had entered it into the police files.

He looked at the report and saw a first name only:
Lonnie
. Someone had added a blurry Polaroid of a boy turned away from the camera, looking back over his shoulder with a wide grin. Elfin. That was exactly how Dan remembered Lonnie. He'd found what he was after.

He wanted to ask what happened, but his French wasn't honed enough to extract such answers with precision. Instead, he tried to convey what he could with facial expressions. He shook his head and tried hard to look chagrined.
Chagrin
. It was a French word. Surely this old codger would understand that.

“C'est quoi?”

The old man looked at Dan as though he were the daft one.

“Qu'est-ce qui s'est passé?”
Dan managed.

“Ah!” Enlightenment shone in his eyes.
“Il est tombé.”

“
Tombé
. He fell?”

“Oui
.
”
The man used his hands to indicate someone climbing then falling in space. He pointed to a grain silo in the background of the photograph.
“Suicide,”
he pronounced slowly, the word taking on a cultivated gravity in French.

Dan picked up the image and examined it in his hands.

He turned to the officer again.
“L'addresse?”

“Oui, oui.”
The man made a snuffling sound, swiped at his nose, and then handed Dan a form with the address of the mortuary.

“No, the other.”

The man glared as though he were speaking a Martian dialect.

“L'autre addresse,”
Dan said. He pointed to the silo.
“Je veux aller ici
.
”

“Ah!”

Again, the look of recognition passed over the man's face. He bent and wrote something on the form and handed it back. Dan took it and thanked him.

“Bien sûr,”
he said with a shrug, as though he expected no less.

At the mortuary, Dan was thankful to be greeted by a bilingual attendant who seemed to bear no grudge against him for asking his complicated questions in English. He'd anticipated more trouble on this end. Getting information was one thing, but asking for a cremation was quite a different set of affairs. He handed over his investigator's licence for identification. The attendant looked it over, glanced at Dan again, and then handed it back with scarcely a flicker of interest.

Dan signed a form and answered a few questions. Yes, a plain metal box was adequate. No, he would not mind coming to pick up the remains himself. Tomorrow morning was fine. Business concluded, Dan thanked the man and left.

On the way back to his car, he passed a florist and ducked inside. It was threatening rain as he drove past the Plains of Abraham, those tumultuous fields where the destiny of the country had turned decisively two hundred and fifty years earlier. On the outskirts of town, he parked and approached the silo. It looked tranquil, not the sort of place you might expect to find death. Then again, it was exactly the sort of place you might decide to kill yourself if you were determined to do so. From pain to peace in one short step, but with a world of difference between. Dan well knew the seductive urge. He'd never do that to Ked, but he often thought of the peace that would follow, a respite from the relentlessness of his dreams, should he ever get so desperate. People did all the time.

He stood looking up a sheer wall of cement. The handle on the door was rusted shut. That wouldn't stop him. He'd come this far. He put the flowers down and looked around for something to pry it open. Around back he found another door, this one red and covered in dents. It opened to his touch.

The carpet of dirt was soft and hushed beneath his tread. Inside, the air was stale but comforting, like the scent of an old sweater. The space felt welcoming, as though it had been waiting for a human presence. The shaft disappeared in darkness overhead. An arrow of light pierced the gloom, revealing wooden beams criss-crossing the interior far above. A set of rickety stairs tempted the curious to climb up into the shadows.

Dan looked around.
There should be something more here
, he thought.
The memory of a fall, the trajectory of a body arcing through the air. Something marking the spot where he fell
. As a boy, Lonnie was constantly on the move — bicycles, Rollerblades, running sports. There had to be something more. Not just this emptiness.

He held the photograph up.

“You were a good kid,” he said.

He caught the flicker off to one side. Then he turned and saw her. A barnyard Madonna, hair hanging down, classical features etched in the air. Not quite an apparition. She was watching him. No fear on her face, just curiosity.

“Bonjour,”
Dan ventured, wondering if he was about to be arrested for trespassing. Given the way things had been going, it wouldn't have surprised him. Either that or he was looking at a ghost.

“Bonjour,”
she answered brightly.

“Do you speak English?”

She smiled. “I am English.”

He held out the flowers. “I came here to leave these. A boy died here.”

The look on her face said she knew.

“Lonnie,” she said.

“You knew him?”

She walked to the centre of the space then looked up into the rafters and down again at the sawdust- covered earth.

“It was here,” she said, indicating the spot with her hands. “There were a bunch of us. We all lived here together for a few months one summer. Lonnie, me, and the others.” She looked back at Dan. “Lonnie said we'd found the end of the world here. I think he thought we could stay forever. We knew there was something wrong with him, but you sometimes went days without noticing it and you thought maybe he was all right.”

She looked him in the eye to see if he understood then went on.

“I think we wanted him to be all right. Then it would show up again. Just odd things, you know. Like one day he found a toad and went around with it all afternoon, cupping it in his hands like it was some kind of offering. I asked what he was doing. He said he was getting the toad acclimatized to being carried. When it was ready, he said, he was going to carry it through town as a symbol for animal-rights abuse. He wanted to walk across the country to make people aware that animals were being poisoned by pollution. That was how he was going to do it.”

She cocked her head and looked at him. “You knew him?”

“Yes,” Dan said. “I'm a friend of his mother. Can you tell me how he died?”

She looked back up at the gloom. “We were dancing one night. We'd lit a bonfire. Some of us were drunk. Lonnie climbed to the top of the silo. He said he was going to see the world from the roof. Some of the boys were yelling to him to jump and see if he could fly.”

Dan watched her as she told him all this with the bright, serene light in her eyes.

“They were laughing. We didn't think he would do it. Next thing I knew, something hit the ground. I turned around and there he was.” She looked at him. “It wasn't their fault. They didn't know he was going to do it.”

“What happened?”

“One of the boys phoned the police. We all left after that. Before they could come and question us. We didn't know what else to do. We were trespassing. We didn't even know his full name. I still don't know it.”

“Rhodes,” Dan said. “Lonnie Rhodes.”

He offered her the flowers. She took them and laid them on the soft earth.

“I come back here sometimes. I live in town now, but I like to come back. I think about him. He was so sweet.”

The wind blew through a crack high above, making a mournful sound.

“Will you tell her I'm sorry? His mother?”

Dan nodded. “I will.”

The next day he made his way through Quebec, that rebel holdout from the seventeenth century, back down the Highway of Heroes, carrying the ashes of an unsung hero who would not long be remembered by many.

He had hoped to tell Domingo that she still had a child alive somewhere. That it was all a mistake. Her son had never died. But instead, this box. Ashes. Nothing to warm the heart of a dying woman or bring joy to a face already dazzled with pain and impending loss. Instead, what he was bringing home was grief and a crowd crying,
Jump!
It seemed unfair. Worse than no news at all.

I'd Rather Be High

Dan felt his heartbeat quicken as he turned off the 401 and headed south along the Don Valley Parkway. As the towers swung into view, Toronto had never looked so welcoming. Ked had stayed with Kendra while Dan was away. Dan mulled over the question of what to do with him on his return. Now he was home.

Lights blinked on the answering machine in his front hallway. The first call was from Lydia Johnston, asking him to get in touch as soon as possible. No doubt she wanted to update him on the case. She would be surprised by what he had to tell her. He pencilled her number on a pad and pressed
Next
. Lionel's voice came through, low and quiet. It wasn't the panicked Lionel of a few days earlier after being warned by a mysterious voice to keep things to himself. This was a sombre, spooked Lionel.

“… they said it was suicide. I don't believe them.”

For a moment, Dan thought he was referring to Lonnie. He'd mentioned his reason for going to Quebec, but why should that concern Lionel?

He strained to hear the words.

“I don't know how much more I can take, Dan. I'm terrified. Of course, I had to tell Charles this time. I couldn't keep it to myself.”

This wasn't about Lonnie. Dan turned off the machine. The eight-hour drive from Quebec had worn him out, but now he felt adrenaline coursing through his veins again.

He picked up the phone. Lionel answered on the first ring.

“Thank god, you got my message.”

“I just got back in town, but I'm free now. Could I come over? I'd like to discuss this with you and Charles. I'd rather not do it over the phone.”

“Yes, of course. Radio City, south building. We're in the penthouse. Ask for us at reception.”

Dan reached the stately towers in fifteen minutes. The powerful-looking man behind the desk appeared friendly and relaxed, though Dan was pretty sure he was armed with more than just a smile and some pricey muscles. If the bruise on his face registered, the concierge didn't show it.

“Yes, sir. I was told to expect you.” He nodded to the set of elevators. “Go on up.”

The lobby was as grand and silent as the tomb of any self-respecting pharaoh waiting patiently through the centuries. Dan walked quickly through and pressed PH over the illuminated buttons. He stared at the silvery walls during his ascent, trying to imagine all the floors in between, all the whispers of lives unseen and unheard except for a brief murmuring of gears. He pictured Lionel's worried face waiting for him to arrive. Dan had experienced threats of violence to the point where he was able to turn off the fear and simply deal with whatever needed to be dealt with, but, according to Danny, the perfect couple Lionel and Charles lived a tranquil life whose routine was seldom disrupted by such concerns. It wasn't easy to get used to intimidation.

The elevator opened on to high ceilings and a wide, open hallway. Silver and blue dominated the wallpaper's soft, shell-like patterns. More tranquillity. Understatement was the theme here, but Dan knew this was extreme luxury and comfort as far as downtown living went.

Like almost everything else about the building, the penthouse door was oversized, as though built for armies to come and go. In fact, it looked as though it could hold off an armed revolt if things ever came to that. It never hurt to be prepared for the revolution when it came to town.

“They killed Santiago,” Lionel announced before Dan had set foot in the room. “They said it was suicide, but I don't believe it for a second. It had to be Trposki or someone like that.”

He sounded calmer now, but still frightened. Charles seemed more self-contained. They were bookends of composure and discomposure, the tall, stocky lawyer and the lean, athletic accountant.

Charles registered the bruise and cuts on Dan's face with a curious expression as he ushered him inside. “Come in please, Dan.”

The central room was brightly lit, yet sparsely furnished. A wall of windows loomed behind, framing the night sky like a painting that overwhelms the space it hangs in. Outside, the darkness was edged by lights, sketching the horizon in a constantly changing chimera of colours and shapes that mere mortals on the ground could never conceive. Here was Valhalla presented for the entry of the gods.

It was the perfect showroom. It was also, Dan noted, the perfect opportunity for someone in the twin tower opposite to take a couple of clean shots, killing anyone inside with minimal effort and expert efficiency. An assassin's wet dream.

They sat astride cream-coloured couches centred on a geometrically patterned carpet, like figures on a Paul Klee canvas.

“When did the police call you?” Dan asked.

“Yesterday morning. He had my business card in his wallet when they found him. I have no idea why. I told them that. They said he didn't have any family in Canada, so I had to identify him.” Lionel ran a hand through his hair. “He looked awful. He was all swollen … his face …”

He grew more agitated as he described Santiago's appearance.

“I'm sorry you had to go through that,” Dan said. “And I'm sorry I didn't find him first while he was still alive.”

“It's silly. I shouldn't get so rattled by it. It's not like I haven't seen death before.” Lionel picked up a glass of water. His hand shook as he brought it to his mouth. “When I was five, I lost my older brother. It was a car accident. We were nearly home when we got hit by a truck. I remember the doctors telling my parents he had a fifty-fifty chance of surviving. I prayed all night. He died the next day. I kept wondering what happened to the other fifty percent. I realized then that life is just a numbers game. There's no morality, no god who makes things better or worse for you if you do or don't do what he wants. There's nothing more than the odds for or against something. Some people live, some die. How can you stop it from happening?”

“I have no answer for that,” Dan said.

Lionel finally registered the changes to Dan's appearance.

“What …?” He shook his head. “What happened to you?”

“Small accident. Nothing to worry about,” he said, brushing aside the question. “Where did they find Santiago's body?”

“Beneath the Overlea Bridge, not far from where we went running the other day. Close to the stables …” Lionel glanced at Charles. “That's why they thought it might be suicide. It used to be the Bloor Viaduct where these things happened. That was the most popular spot. But once they enclosed it with wire, people started looking for alternate locations. Overlea is closest.”

The city had covered the sides of the Viaduct, hoping to stop the spate of suicides, Dan recalled, but people simply found other places to jump. The numbers hadn't changed. He did some quick mental calculations. Overlea was at least seventy-five metres high. A falling body would hit the ground at more than a hundred kilometres an hour. At that rate, you'd be pretty much assured of an instant death. For jumpers, that was often a factor. No one wanted to injure themselves and just make things worse as a result of not having tried hard enough.

He glanced at the windows. A wide terrace ran alongside, the one-time scene of Lionel and Charles's wedding, as Donny related. At thirty floors up, it too would be a suicide's dream.

“There's more,” Lionel said, sounding strained. “While you were away, I kept looking into that file I told you about. I think it's for off-shore investments. Money was being siphoned off from the Saddle and Bridle. Lots of it. I don't know how Yuri managed to hide it from me.”

“Have you told the police?”

“No.”

“You will probably have to.”

Lionel nodded distractedly. “It always struck me as funny that Yuri never wanted me to do a full audit of the books. I never really questioned it.”

“Do you think Yuri was into more than just a regular bar and nightclub business? We know about the drugs. Could he also have been dealing in arms, for instance? Something that would bring in a lot of money that he needed to hide?”

“If he was, it was completely without my knowledge. I never saw anything like that going on behind the scenes.” Lionel nodded to a sheaf of papers on a sideboard. “See for yourself.”

Dan leafed quickly through the documents, noting figures and cryptic letters that could have been account particulars.

“Can any of it be traced?”

Lionel shook his head. “I doubt it. This stuff goes into one account and then disappears into another. After that, no one knows where it ends up. I doubt you'd even find a name attached to it once it left Yuri's hands.” He looked at his husband. “Charles has had experiences with this sort of thing. He could tell you about it.”

From the look on Charles's face, Dan sensed he had no intention of talking about it.

“Nothing that would be of any help here,” Charles said. “But if the police get wind of this, they may target Lionel for running illegal financial operations for Yuri. So far, they haven't said anything, but that could change. We have to be careful to protect his reputation.”

And his life
, Dan thought. He held up the file. “I think it might be wisest to let them know first. Can I take this with me for now?”

Lionel shrugged. “Sure.”

“We need to make sure you both are protected for the next while. The police have offered to help with that.”

“We've already discussed it. I'm not sure what they can do,” Charles said, sceptically. “Nor do I particularly trust the police. Not now, not ever.”

“Then I strongly advise you to hire somebody privately. Get yourselves a bodyguard.”

“We're well protected here,” Charles said. “You might not be able to tell from the lobby, but you'd need a SWAT team to get in. Why would we need anything more than what we have now?”

Dan nodded over to the windows. “It's pretty open up here. You never know what someone is capable of doing. Don't underestimate the enemy, whoever it may be.”

Charles scowled. “Can you recommend someone?”

“I can ask around and come up with a name or two by tomorrow.”

“All right. Send them to me and I'll check into it,” Charles said. He looked at Lionel and shrugged. “It's what lawyers do, after all.”

Dan glanced back and forth between the two. Charles seemed a bit cavalier, though perhaps he simply didn't want to appear to be rattled by the situation.

Lionel's elbow slipped on the arm of the couch. He steadied himself.

“Your sleeping pills are kicking in,” Charles said. He turned to Dan. “He's been a wreck the last few days. I think it's starting to take a toll on him.”

Lionel nodded to Dan. “I needed to calm myself down. I took them right after you called.”

Charles stood and turned to Dan. “Can I get you something to drink? A beer?”

“No, thanks.”

“Tea? Coffee?”

“A coffee would be good,” Dan said.

Charles went to the kitchen.

Lionel leaned back into the couch. “Sorry if I seem a little out of it. Charles thought it would be a good idea if I really knocked myself out and got a good night's sleep.”

“Just don't overdo it,” Dan said. “I've had some pretty bad insomnia the last few years, but I still have to be careful how many pills I take.”

“I was really worried before, but now it all seems a bit silly. I think maybe I'm feeling a little high.”

Dan noticed the edges of a bruise peeking out from under his sleeve. “You hurt yourself,” he said.

Lionel looked down and pulled his sleeve over it. “I banged into some workout equipment yesterday. Clumsy.”

“Looks like a bad bruise,” Dan said.

“Don't worry, I'm okay.” He smiled. “Thanks for coming by this evening. We both appreciate it. I'm starting to feel better.”

He struggled to keep his eyes open a moment longer, then gave up. His breathing was softly rhythmic by the time Charles returned with the coffee.

Dan took a cup. “Looks like Lionel has had enough for this evening. I'll just finish this and leave.”

Charles glanced over at his husband's sleeping figure.

“I hate to see him going through this. He's very sensitive. More than me, at any rate.” He studied the cuts on Dan's face. “What really happened to you?”

“I was attacked while I was away.”

“In Quebec?”

“Yes.”

His brow furrowed. “And you think it has something to do with what happened to Yuri?”

“I suspect it does.”

Charles nodded. “Get me those names. I'll look into getting some kind of security for the time being.”

“I guarantee you'll be happier knowing you're both safe rather than worrying about it.” He nodded to Lionel. “I can help you carry him to bed before I go.”

“Don't worry about Lionel. I can handle him. But I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

“No problem,” Dan told him.

“I don't trust the police,” Charles continued. “I've said that already. Still, I'm just not convinced that Santiago was murdered. That seems a bit far-fetched. What do you think?”

Dan considered the question. Despite his experience in Quebec, he was undecided. “I'd like to hear from the police whether or not they believe the death to be suicide. They may not want to reveal too much about the investigation just yet. It could be they think it's in their best interest at present to go along with the suicide theory. At any rate, they can't all be corrupt —”

Charles cut him off. “What do you know of this Trposki character Lionel keeps mentioning? He seems to be at the heart of things.”

“I agree, but I don't have an answer for that. I've asked about him at police headquarters, but I don't get much back by way of an answer.”

“You have an inside source there?”

“I'm friendly with the chief,” Dan said.