Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (120 page)

The Canadian Mining Manual of 1890
followed one page over, with ads for the Hamilton Powder Company (“Manufacturers of Gunpowder, Dynamite, Dualine, and the New Eclipse Mining Powder”) and I. Matheson and Co. of New Glasgow, Nova Scotia (“The Best Place in Canada for Gold Mining Machinery”). Lockie was listed again, this time as director of the Haliburton Mining Company, incorporated with “a capital stock of $100,000 in shares of $1,000” to work mineral lands in the nearby counties of Haliburton, Victoria, and Peterborough.

A short article on architecture noted an addition to the house in 1892. Then, in 1905, another write-up stated that it “had passed hands to Mr. Frederick S. MacGregor, bachelor, age 35.”
Suspiciously old for a bachelor back then
, Dan thought. “Mr. MacGregor receives 1st, 2d, 3d Thursday of every month,” the piece noted, while mentioning the various sports groups he belonged to, including the Toronto Racquet Club and Toronto Canoe Club, where he was noted as a “vigorous and lively member.”

A portrait of MacGregor showed an intense, handsome young man with high cheekbones, well-formed ears, and deep-set eyes. His sporty build and muscular chest were well-defined by a collegiate sweater.
Well, Fred, you’re a real catch in my books
, Dan thought.
I’d visit you on just about any Thursday, even if you’re over a hundred now.

In the kitchen, two-fours of beer had been stacked against the far wall, revealing Malevski’s taste for micro-breweries and Belgian lager brewed by Trapist monks. The fridge contained water bottles, yoghurt containers, and a half-empty carton of eggs. A damp mop and plastic bucket sat behind an outside door, the inevitable attendant to late-night party-giving, as though Malevski had intended to be prepared for all eventualities. The bottom of the sink held a residue of dust and sand where someone had emptied a pail of dirty water, probably the last time any cleaning was done.

Dan followed the hallway to the far end. A final door led unexpectedly to a greenhouse. It was like entering a small jungle. Plants sat on the floor, hung from beams, reached to the sky. Cacti proliferated. Those were the lucky ones, Dan noted. Most of the others had been left to die, shrivelling like the skin of a nonagenarian. He recognized a peyote plant, its small, button-like formations sprouting telltale pink flowers. The waxy leaves of orchids, equally neglected, dangled above with their jointed, mostly-flowerless stems spiking the air. As a gardener, Yuri Malevski seemed to have lacked a green thumb.

For the most part, the house was in good order, not in any state of neglect or abandonment. It was clear that someone with taste and money had lived here, at least until recently. Dan wondered which had been the party rooms where Malevski’s guests took their drugs and played out their little dramas of the high life.

The second floor consisted of several bedrooms and a sitting room replete with a small library. A quick glance at the spines showed the man had been a fancier of biographies: writers, artists, actors. People of accomplishment. They seemed to accuse him, Dan felt, as if asking whether his life had been of any special significance compared to theirs.

It struck him the house was too big for one person. J.S. Lockie had had a wife and, presumably, a family. MacGregor, a confirmed bachelor, would have lived alone. Or had he? Perhaps he’d taken in a friend to relieve him of boredom and loneliness. Someone to help chase away the gloom. Maybe a squash-playing pal with benefits. It was no wonder Malevski had entertained. The problem was that the sort of company available for late-night get-togethers tended to want more than companionship. Sex, drugs, money. Clearly, Malevski’s pool of friends hadn’t been culled from the pages of
The
Society Blue Book
. His friends came from bars and were probably as transient and temporary as they got. Had he been trying to buy their affection? Put a roomful of drug users and sex addicts in the hands of a rich man and the inevitable problems would arise, expectations rising with them.

Dan snapped pictures with his cellphone as he went. There was nothing unusual, just a house that felt empty and, because it was empty, lifeless, as though its owner were away on a long vacation. As yet, he had nothing to report to Lionel and Charles. Fair enough. He still wasn’t sure he wanted to take on the job. Business of late had kept him flush enough that he could afford to be choosy.

Emptiness and silence weighed on him like a dull pressure at some underwater depth. As he opened a final door, ghostly laughter emanated from the walls. Dan started as he caught a dim movement at the far end of the darkened room. His hand flew to the light switch. Quicksilver galvanized the walls as he confronted his mirror image. He waved and saw his relieved-looking twin wave back, glad not to have to explain his presence to anyone more demanding.

“Sorry for disturbing you,” he said, the reflection’s mouth moving in silent accord.

An echo of the laughter filtered in from the street, some passersby sharing one of life’s amusing little moments. He leaned against the wall and felt the urge for a serious drink. A good Islay Scotch with plenty of peat. Something that would burn as it went down. The yearning had come over him more often lately. He resisted, of course. Alcohol was a companion he’d learned to control only after it spent years controlling him. A promise to his son still hung over his head. Social drinking — one or two at most — was permissible. No more. But the urge to sit and drink in an empty room surrounded by silence had a pull that was hard to resist.

A soft padding pricked his ears, like raindrops on pewter. Only it wasn’t raining. He stopped to listen. Nothing came to him. What was it about empty houses that set the imagination stirring? He’d just convinced himself it was an illusion when he heard a soft
click
upstairs.

He crept down the hallway to a set of stairs, climbing carefully, lifting each foot and setting it down as quietly as he could. Halfway up, he stopped to listen once more. Again, there was nothing. He began to think his nerves were getting the better of him.

The only door led to the master bedroom. The furniture here was unexceptional, functional in the extreme. An outside wall angled down on a slant, its window well jutting outward. This, he presumed, was where the notorious bar owner had died.

Over the bed, a portrait of a rugged, attractive face in late-middle age arrested Dan’s gaze. The perspective was shoddy. The eyes stared straight ahead, bright blue forget-me-nots, with a wooden gaze and flat features common to amateur portraits. It looked recent, so this wasn’t J.S. Lockie or his successor, Frederick S. MacGregor. Dan guessed it was Yuri Malevski. Unlike the dining-room seascapes, this work had little artistic merit. Not art then, just someone dabbling with a brush in an attempt to create a likeness of a man who had in all probability paid him. It didn’t suit the mental picture Dan had of a fastidious collector with well-defined tastes.

The scrawl at the bottom right caught his eye. A flamboyant pair of
S
’s, with their tails twisting away beneath.
Santiago Suárez
, Dan was willing to bet. You wouldn’t put up with mediocrity from Sotheby’s, but you might from a sexy, young boyfriend, even if it meant hiding the painting upstairs out of view.

He wandered to the window and looked out over the back garden. A cherry tree was in bloom, smoky tendrils of whitish-pink spreading over the ground. Spring had taken a firm hold. He was about to turn away when a figure slipped into view. Dan felt a jolt run down his spine. He hadn’t been alone after all.

Someone in a dark overcoat and cap had just left the house by the rear door. From that distance, it could have been anyone, male or female, young or old. A quick backward glance over the shoulder revealed the face of a young male wearing pale makeup. Dan stepped back from the window. That was all he saw before the boy disappeared through the gate.

Six

Rich Men

He was back in the sports pub with Charles and Lionel. Lionel was pensive, making him seem even more appealing, while Charles simply looked out of place in his grey striped suit and wide pink necktie. (
Though a lawyer would probably call it coral
, Dan noted sourly.)

“He had dark, curly hair. Young. Early twenties, maybe even a teenager. Pale face. He wore a long, grey, trench coat and a newsboy cap.”

Lionel was listening carefully. He had been startled when Dan told him about the intruder he’d seen leaving Yuri Malevski’s Parkdale mansion.

“Sounds like Ziggy,” he said at last. “He was one of Yuri’s hangers-on. Just a kid, really, though I think Yuri said he was a drug dealer. Maybe even a heroin addict. Do you remember, Charles?”

Dan glanced at Charles, whose gaze seemed anchored to a potted plant on the windowsill. His face was expressionless.

“Not particularly,” he said at last.

“Any idea what he might be doing there?” Dan asked.

Lionel shrugged. “I have no idea. None at all. I don’t know why anyone would be there. He was sort of a sad kid, a lost boy. I used to see him at the Saddle, even in the daytime. It was like he had nowhere else to go.”

“How would he have gotten inside the house?”

Lionel looked bewildered. “He must have the code. You can’t get in without it.”

“Wasn’t it changed after the murder?” Dan asked.

“No.” He looked sheepish. “Once the police finished the investigation, I reset it to the original code. Just an accounting thing.” Lionel turned to Charles. “You don’t remember Ziggy? Sort of a Goth look?”

Charles shook his head. “Not specifically, no. Yuri’s place was a zoo, with all kinds of people hanging around.” He turned to Dan. “Is it possible you left the door open and he followed you in?”

Dan shook his head. “I was careful to latch the door behind me when I arrived. I didn’t want anyone to know I was on the premises, apart from a nosy neighbour who didn’t seem to care for Yuri.”

Lionel shrugged. “Then there’s no question: he has the code.”

“How would he have got it?” Dan asked.

“Yuri must have given it to him. There were always a few people who knew it. If it became a problem, he just reprogrammed it for a while. That happened a couple times a year, but he always set it back to the same code afterwards. His birth date. Easier for him to remember.”

“Who else had the code that you know about?”

Lionel considered. “Off the top of my head, I can think of a few people. Santiago always had it. Probably one or two of the kids who hung out here.”

“And presumably they could have given it to others?”

Lionel nodded. “I suppose.”

Charles snapped his fingers. “What about that trannie?” He looked over at Dan. “There was one in particular I took a strong dislike to. I think he — she — it — whatever the correct term for a transgendered person is —”

“I believe the correct pronoun is ‘ze,’” Dan said.

“Okay, then
ze
was probably a transsexual, but I never had my suspicions confirmed.”

“Do you recall a name?”

“It was one of those neutral names.” Charles looked at Lionel. “Wasn’t it Jan?”

Lionel nodded. “Yes, that’s it. Jan used to work there from time to time.”

“Doing what?” Dan asked.

Lionel looked perplexed. “I couldn’t really say. I got the idea Yuri hired Jan as some sort of party warden.”

“A drug enforcer,” Dan offered.

“Maybe. All the kids were in awe of Jan, though I never understood why. It was as if Jan had some hold over them. Whatever it was, I never learned.”

“Can you give me a description?”

“Besides scary?” Charles smirked. “Well, at first glance you’d probably say woman. Spiked hair, shaggy eyebrows, lots of piercings and make-up, but if you looked long enough you’d start to second-guess yourself. Big shoulders, muscular arms. That’s what I recall. There were enough qualities of both sexes to make things confusing. As often as I ran into Jan, I could never say for sure what sex I was looking at.”

“How did Jan and Yuri get along? Any bad blood there?”

Lionel thought this over before answering. “Nothing I could put my finger on, but I once overheard an argument they were having. Yuri said, ‘If you can’t do this for me then you can find another donor to bleed dry.’ That was the phrase he used.”

“Do you have any idea what wasn’t being done to Yuri’s satisfaction?”

Lionel shook his head. “None at all, though I remember I was instructed not to pay Jan that month. Jan must have known not to expect anything, because I was never asked for anything.”

Dan considered. “It might be interesting to find out what it was.”

“I can try, but Jan pretty much stopped coming around after that. As I said, there were a lot of people Yuri might stop speaking to for a period of time, then resume just as suddenly for no apparent reason.”

“What about this policeman you mentioned, the one you saw when you and Charles had the accident? Did he have the entry code?”

Lionel frowned in concentration. “Not that I know of, but I couldn’t say for sure. And by the way, I looked him up, as I said I would. I was right. His name was Trposki.”

“Was he one of the cops taking bribes?”

“I’m sure he was.”

“And then Yuri stopped paying him. So, if anyone were to get hot under the collar about it, it might be this Trposki.”

Lionel nodded. “It makes sense.”

“So there were a number of people, some of them at odds with Yuri, who had access to the house. Besides Ziggy and other occasional partygoers, there was an ex-boyfriend, a transsexual who was hired and then fired, and a corrupt cop taking bribes. It’s not a very exclusive list, even if you consider that Yuri changed the code from time to time.”

“Sadly, no. He even gave it out to delivery men and such. There was always a shipment of something coming around. Alcohol, food, flowers. Exotic plants were Yuri’s passion. He didn’t want them left outside, so he gave the florists the code and told them to leave the goods inside the door.”

“I saw his greenhouse. It must have been impressive when it was in bloom.”