Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (108 page)

“Got it,” Dan said. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

He found Domingo alone in the room. Her face was outlined in the light coming from the window. There was a big teddy bear beside a heart-shaped card from Adele on the table. Dan sat and took her hand in his. Her breathing was relaxed, but she didn't wake. No one else came in while he waited. After an hour, he got up and left.

Clean

Dan made his way back to the Lockie House, glancing around the yard as he entered. The spring rains had caused the gardens nearly to double in size since his first visit. There were no creepy neighbours watching his every move today, but no doubt the P-Man was not far off. He made a mental note to ask Lydia if he'd been on the list of people questioned in the aftermath of the killing.

Inside, the late-morning light lent the interior an air of repose, despite the fact that Yuri Malevski had been murdered there and now his former lover, Santiago Suárez, was dead as well. Malevski may have died at his lover's hands, making Santiago's death a belated murder-suicide, if it was in fact suicide. As well, one of Dan's oldest friends lay in a hospital with her life running out, dreaming of trains. For the present, at least, Dan Sharp felt himself very much in the land of the living — last he'd checked.

In the sitting room, the silver candelabra had been removed from the piano top, leaving a faint ring in the dust. The portrait of the endlessly suffering Christ now lay on its back, staring vacantly at the ceiling. It seemed someone was pilfering from Yuri Malevski's estate. Dan thought he knew who.

Upstairs, he peered into the master bedroom. It looked the same as the last time he'd been there. He glanced at Santiago's amateurish portrait of his lover. Yuri's eyes seemed to glare in the dim light. Maybe he was angry about the intrusion.

“Tell me your secrets,” Dan demanded. “And I'm not talking about the drugs and the orgies. That's tame. I want to know about the guns and especially the money. Where were you sending it and why?”

The portrait failed to respond.

“In time, I'll find out. I guarantee it.”

Look closer to home
, Jan had said, sounding like a modern-day harpy playing Cassandra.
Well, here I am
, Dan thought.
What exactly is there to find?
A movie with a bridge and a bell tower. More melodrama or obvious truth? There'd been a death — either suicide or murder — from a bridge, but so far there was no bell tower in sight. Then again, who was to say the house didn't once have one?

Down the hall, he knocked on the hollow panel. No response. It opened at his touch. At first he thought the diary was missing, then he saw a corner peeking out from under the futon. He flipped it open. Ziggy had written in it the day of their encounter:
Met a nice guy today. He's older, sexy as hell, but he already told me he isn't into relationships. Or at least not with me. Typical. The younger guys think I'm a jerk and the older guys think I'm too much work. (Hey, that rhymes!) Too complicated, I guess. Still, he offered to help me sort out my shit. Thinks he can help me with my problems. Ha! I doubt it. I'm too fucked up, but I like him so it won't hurt to talk. Maybe I'll try to seduce him again.

Hardly a ringing endorsement, Dan thought, but it was something.

A day later, Ziggy's spirits plummeted:
Don't know why I bother. I have no idea what I'll do when I have to leave here. Yuri was the last good thing that happened to me. Why even keep trying when every day feels like lead skies? I'd rather be dead.

Though he was inclined to dismiss it as teenage angst, Dan was concerned all the same. This time Ziggy didn't surprise him by showing up out of nowhere, but sooner or later their paths would cross again. When that happened, he'd be prepared.

He turned to a later entry, made while he was away in Quebec:
Guess who called? He wants to meet at the Beaver!

Not me,
Dan thought.
Who else would he be so excited about meeting?

He flipped back to the February entries. According to the dates, Ziggy followed the cleaning lady back into the house on a Thursday, as Dan had guessed. By Saturday, Yuri was dead. Did that mean one of them was the killer or had someone else been there?

Dan went downstairs. He needed to find the cleaner. Where better to look than the kitchen? The outside of the fridge yielded a few sticky notes and a handful of photos evoking enough madness and mayhem to populate an entire Pride float. They included a garish assortment of hustlers, drag queens, musclemen on steroids, several shots of Yuri, and a face Dan recognized as the P-Man's, looking very jolly indeed. Obviously, the picture had been taken in the days before his encounter with a gaggle of randy DQs. But then again, according to Donny, the world of late had become a morass of fluid sexuality. Still, there was nothing that looked like a phone number.

Next, Dan pawed through papers and letters stacked on the kitchen counter. Inside a drawer, a messy assortment of bills and flyers dominated. There was little of interest until he came to a single sheet of note paper with a flowery frill around the edges: a record of payments under the words
Irma
—
home
and a phone number.

“Gotcha!”

He dialled.

“Hello, is that Irma?”

“Who is it, please?”

The Bela Lugosi accent Ziggy had described.

“Just a person with a very dirty house. A friend gave me your number. He said you were reasonably priced.”

“Yes, I am cleaner. What you need?”

“Just a little light housework. We can work on a cash basis, if you prefer.”

The words came quickly. “Yes, is good. Where, please?”

He gave her the address as he checked his watch. “This afternoon? Two o'clock?”

“Yes. I am coming.”

She hung up. Now all he needed was to go home and wait.

The woman who arrived at his door was small and neat. Plaid skirt and pink blouse. Dove-grey hair. Hardly a killer, but then again, you never knew. Hadn't Ziggy said she was a religious fanatic? Sometimes that was all it took.

She gave him a tentative smile and held out a gloved hand. “I am Irma.”

They shook.

“Hello, Irma. I'm Dan.”

He watched as she entered and sized up the room. Her face showed approval: this was the home of someone who took pride in his possessions and kept them in good order.

Her eyes lit up when she saw the teak table. “Is nice,” she said, running a finger along the grain. She turned back to him. “I am good worker, very clean. Never steal.”

“Glad to hear it,” Dan said. “I approve of honesty.”

She frowned, as though he'd made fun of her. “I am good woman,” she assured him. “Where is wacuum?”

Dan showed her to the pantry. She smiled when she saw the Dyson. Undoubtedly a reliable brand. She pulled out a mop and bucket.

Dan left her and went to his office. From time to time, the sounds of cleaning reached his ears. After an hour, she called up to say she'd finished. She waited while he examined her handiwork, the miracles she'd wrought with a vacuum and a few household cleaners. Everything gleamed.

“I leave windows open for fresh,” she said. “Upstairs now?”

“Later,” he said. “Irma, I know you worked for a man named Yuri Malevski.”

A hand flew to her mouth.

“Don't be frightened,” Dan said, though the words had little effect. “I just want to ask you a few questions.”

“Please — I am afraid!”

He indicated a chair. “Please sit.”

She slumped into the seat, rigid with fear.

“You worked at his house in Parkdale?”

She stared at him a few seconds then nodded.

“Was the alarm always on?”

“Alarm?”

“Security system.”

She nodded again. “Yes.”

“Was there any other way into the house? Any way to get in without tripping the alarm?”

She shook her head. Tears welled in her eyes.

Dan knelt beside her and spoke softly. “I am not with the police. I'm not with Immigration. Do you understand?'

She removed a Kleenex from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.

“Yes, thank you.” She grasped his arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “I don't want to sent back.”

“Please tell me about the house.”

She looked off, as though seeing it from a distance. “Is much evil. So much drugs and sex. Now murder. So terrible!”

“I understand. That's not why I'm asking these questions. I just want to know about the security system.”

“There is no other way inside. Mr. Malevski has code. Numbers code.”

“I know about the code. You punch in four numbers and the light turns from red to green.”

“Yes, is always code.”

“And Yuri texted you a new code whenever he changed it?”

“Yes, before I am coming.”

“Did you ever give the code to anyone else?”

She clutched her breast in a portrait of shocked indignation. “Never! I never give this —!”

“It's okay. I just wondered. What about this boy, Santiago Suárez? Do you know him?”

“Yes.” She managed a smile. “He is nice boy.”

Dan toyed with telling her that Santiago killed himself, but she already looked too frightened. “He had the code?”

“Yes. Is living in house. Nice boy. Very clean.”

“When did you last see him there?”

Her face took on its worried cast again. “He is not coming to house after they are fighting.”

“Santiago and Mr. Malevski?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know about the boy who lived in the small space under the eaves?”

She nodded again.

“His name is Ziggy?”

“Yes. This is correct.”

“Did they fight? Did Mr. Malevski hurt Ziggy?” He raised his fists. Irma started in fright. “I'm sorry, I won't hurt you. Can I make you some tea?”

“Please, I must go now.”

She made a move to rise from the chair.

Dan held up his hands. “Not yet. Please.”

She sank back.

He waited till she was calm, reading her body language like a wild animal's. “The boy, Ziggy. Is he a good boy?”

“He is …” She trailed off, as though words had escaped her.

“Different?” Dan suggested.

She touched her head. “Yes. Here.”

“Do you think Ziggy killed Yuri? Mr. Malevski?”

Irma winced. She knew something, Dan felt, but how to get her to say it?
You better look closer to home, baby.
What exactly did that mean?

“Yes,” she said at last.

“Why? Why would he do that?”

“Sometimes …” She looked away, as though trying to find a place to disappear, to get away from this madman who had trapped her with his questions. “Sometimes we suffer. Love is hard. God's love is hard!”

God's love!
Dan thought of the pamphlets she left on the piano, the ones Ziggy said Yuri laughed about.

“Always God is testing us,” she said.

“You cleaned the house on a Thursday?”

“Yes, Thursday always is my cleaning day.”

“Thursday always is your cleaning day,” he repeated. He named a date. “And that was the last time you were there. Is that correct?”

“Yes. I think so is true.”

“Did you see Mr. Malevski that day?”

A quick shake of the head. “No. Upstairs bedroom is locked. Maybe he is sleep.”

“So you let yourself into the house with the new code he texted you?”

“Yes, on day before, but front door is locked two times. I must go to back.”

Dan's brows knit. “Two times? You mean double-locked?”

“Yes. Always I come and go in front doors, but this time is locked.”

He recalled Lydia's comment that the door had been locked from inside. Yuri texted the new code on Wednesday, but before Irma arrived on Thursday someone double-locked the doors. Why? Had Yuri been trying to keep someone out? Or was it something more?
God's love!

What if Ziggy had lied? He could already have been there when Irma arrived. Perhaps Yuri had met him and let him in. Dan considered: a boy kills an older man who showed him kindness then locks the house up tight. Not simply to hide the death, but out of consideration for the man he loved. He thought of Yuri lying in bed, all dressed up.
Almost as if he was going somewhere
, Lydia had said. Killers often professed to love their victims, dressing them in special clothing and laying them out in poses suggestive of peace and repose, as though a final act of grace had been granted them in death. An immolation, a final dignity, as though to say, “I killed you because I loved you.” More than a fetishization, it was an act of veneration:
I loved you enough to kill you. Consider the benefits: you can never grow old, never get sick or suffer pain, never again be abused by anyone, including me. I have granted you immortality. I have given you a clean slate. Nothing can besmirch or dirty you ever again. Thanks to me, you are perfect.
For someone a little off in his thinking — someone like Ziggy — it might make sense.

Irma sniffled.

“What about the week before?” Dan said. “The previous Thursday?”

Her mouth broke into a relieved smile, as though sending her back to that earlier time was a pleasanter memory. A better place to go.

“Yes, always I clean Mr. Malevski house Thursday.”

“Was Mr. Malevski there then?”

“Yes, is there.”

“And everything was okay?” Dan pressed. “On the previous Thursday?”

“No.” Her brow furrowed at the memory. “Is arguing!”

“With who? Santiago?”

“No. Is coming lawyer.”

She pinched her mouth with her fingers, as though to stop the words, fearful of the outcome.

“A lawyer came to the house? Charles?”

“Yes. Is angry. Much shouting.”

“Mr. Malevski was shouting?”

“No. Lawyer is shouting to Mr. Malevski. Then I turn on wacuum not to hear. When I am finished, lawyer is gone.”

After Irma left, more than well paid for her efforts, Dan called Lydia for an update and to give her Irma's number.

“Go easy on her,” he said. “She's an illegal. She's very panicky.”