Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (2 page)

“You got that one right, Dad,” Ked said, shouldering his knapsack.

Juggling his laptop, briefcase, and raincoat, Dan fumbled the key into the lock. As the front door swung open, he smelled something disgusting — like farts, only worse. His first thought was about the garbage. This was more immediate. He looked down and just missed stepping on a large brown turd.

“Not again! That goddamn dog!”

“I’ll clean it up.” Ked threw his knapsack on the counter and darted for the cupboard to retrieve a mop and a plastic bag.

“I just walked him at lunch time!” Dan fumed, knowing that had been seven hours ago.

Ked bagged the offending litter and knotted the handles together. “Maybe he’s mad because you neglect him too.”

Dan looked at his son. “Are you saying I neglect you?”

Ked looked up, his face serious. “No, Dad. I’m saying you could be a better dog owner. Even dogs need love.”

“He’s your dog —
you
love him.” He watched his son swipe at the spot with the mop. “He does it on purpose.”

Ked looked pained. “He’s old, Dad. He can’t help himself.”

“That’s not true. When it’s an accident, he hides it in the basement. When he does it at the front door like that — one big piece of crap right where I’ll step in it — then it’s a big ‘Screw you, buddy.’”

Ked giggled.

Dan looked around. “You see — he’s nowhere in sight. He knows he’s done something bad, otherwise he’d be here to greet us.”

“He probably knows you’re pissed and he’s hiding from you.”

Ked finished cleaning and put the mop away. They looked up at the sound of claws scampering over hardwood. The transgressor, a ginger-coloured retriever, stood at the living-room door, tail wagging.

“Here, boy!”

The tail wagged harder, but the dog held his ground.

“Son of a bitch!” Dan snarled.

The dog’s ears went down; the tail came to a standstill.

“He’s afraid of you,” Ked said.

“He’d better be.”

Ked knelt and stroked the dog’s silky ears. He pointed at the spot he’d just cleaned and looked at the dog. “Did you do that?” The dog’s ears went back down; he looked away. “That’s a bad boy,” Ked said gently.

The dog whimpered.

“He says he’s sorry,” Ked said.

“Right. Next time he can clean it up, if he’s so sorry.”

Ked looked at the dog. “Did you hear that, dude? You better behave or Dad’ll put us both out on the streets.”

The dog’s tail thumped enthusiastically.

“You have to learn to speak his language, Dad. Watch his eyes.” Ked turned to the dog and opened his arms. “What do you want, Ralph? Show me!”

The dog turned its gaze to the French windows at the rear of the house.

“You want out?” Ked said.

Ralph bounded to the back exit and stood waiting. Ked unlatched the door and the dog tore outside.

“You have to ask him what he wants,” Ked said. “He tells you with his eyes. If he looks at the treat cupboard, he wants a reward. If he looks at the fridge, he probably wants whatever you just had to eat. If he looks at his leash, he needs a walk.”

“Don’t tell me he speaks English.”

Ked looked at his father sympathetically, as though he might be just a bit slow. “No, but he can understand what you’re saying. You have to learn his language, too.”

Dan nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Hey, Dad! I got a new book today.”

Ked retrieved a paperback from his knapsack and tossed it on the counter. Dan glanced at a woman’s pensive face framed by dark bangs, her cigarette upraised and smoke curling artistically overhead. Harrison Ford’s sweaty likeness menaced a library barcode with a hefty handgun. Across the top in red letters:
Blade Runner
.

“It’s really cool. It’s about this guy who lives in LA after it’s been totally destroyed and hunts androids for a living,” Ked said. “The only problem is, they look and act exactly like humans, so it’s hard to tell who’s an android and who’s a real person.”

Dan grunted.

“You know it?”

“I know it,” Dan said. “Only in my day it was called
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep
.”

“Yeah — I think that was before the movie, though.”

“In the old days.”

“Right. Anyway, I think I’m going to like this one.”

The answering machine blinked red on the side table. Dan regarded it, appraising what it might hold. He pressed
play
. A cool voice emerged, the tones submerged beneath a wall of self-assurance.

“Hello, Daniel,” said the voice. “It’s Bill....”

“Speaking of androids,” Ked said quietly.

“He’s cancelling,” Dan declared, shaking his head. “I knew he would.”

“… I wanted to give you a heads-up. Something’s come up at the hospital and I can’t make it tonight. You and Ked have a good time without me....”

“We will, you dick-head.” Dan reached out and cut the message off.

“Why do you date him?” Ked asked. “He treats you like shit.”

Dan raised a warning finger. “I can say that — you can’t.”

Ked rolled his eyes. “I’m just saying ...”

Dan pressed
play
again. A second voice began. “Hey, Sis — how are things?”

“Does ‘Sis’ mean sister or sissy?” Ked said.

“Both.”

“Hey, Ked,” the voice continued. “Happy birthday, dude.”

“Cool! He remembered.”

“Danny, I forgot to ask if we’re having burgers or chicken for supper. I don’t know whether to bring white cream soda or red....”

Dan smiled.

“… so maybe I’ll bring both. See you tonight!” The message clicked off.

Ked looked up at his father. “Is ‘sissy’ a bad word?”

“Depends who’s saying it.”

Ked pondered this. “Did you and Uncle Donny ever date? I know he talks about what you look like nude....”

Dan raised a hand. “Don’t believe everything he says!”

“… but I wasn’t sure if you ever dated him.”

“We dated. It was a very long time ago.”

“But was it more than sex?” Ked persisted.

The topic of his father’s sexuality had never been off-limits, but of late Ked had become more curious about Dan’s private life.

Dan thought this over. “I guess it was, though we may not have realized it at the time. Maybe that’s why we’re still friends.”

“Then why don’t you still date him? Is it because he’s black?”

Dan shot Ked a look. “You know it’s not. Your Uncle Donny just likes to date a lot of men at once....”

“He’s a slut!” Ked crowed.

Dan eyed his son. “Ked — don’t talk like that.”

“Why? That’s what Uncle Donny says about himself.”

“Nevertheless.”

“And you like to date just one guy at a time, right?”

“Something like that.”

Ked thought this over. “Do you think you and Bill will ever get married? I mean, for real married, like in a church and everything.”

Dan reached over and tugged his son’s dark curls. “Why? Do you want to be my best man?”

Ked shrugged. “I would if you wanted me to.”

“I’ll let you know when we set the date. In the meantime, I’ve got a bit of work to do....”

Ked groaned.

“… and you’ve got at least one guest coming for supper, so let’s go get ready.”

Upstairs in his office, Dan set his laptop on the chair and cleared his desk. On the walls, Martha Stewart’s Corn Husk competed for calm with the green-and-white striped shade pulled down. A single upright oak shelf held investigative reports, half-read anthropological texts, and a handful of slim detective novels, book-ended by Joyce, Pound, Proust.

Dan had three cases to write up before the weekend. Donny would be here by eight o’clock, and that left only tomorrow and Friday morning. After that, the wedding would take up all his free time. If he didn’t work now, they might not get done.

He pulled up the latest: a seventy-six-year-old female who hadn’t returned from a day trip to Toronto. He scanned the screen. No physical or mental impairment. The woman’s daughter had tried to file a report with the Kitchener police; no one would take a formal statement. She’d been advised to contact the Toronto force, who confirmed they’d had notice of her mother’s whereabouts on two previous occasions. The bottom of the report carried a familiar name.

Dan flipped through his Rolodex and fingered a card. He had a good guess what had happened. If he were right, Sergeant Carmen Stryker could probably confirm it. He glanced at the clock — nearly seven. If Stryker was still at work, that is.

The phone rang once and someone grabbed it. “Stryker.”

“Hey, Carm. Dan Sharp here.”

“Sharp! How the hell are ya?”

“Plugging away at it.” Dan pictured the beefy sergeant sweating at his desk. “How about you? Still on the desk, I see.”

“Fuckers!” the cop growled. “I never get outta here before eight.”

Dan heard what sounded like a fist banged onto a desktop.

“You’re too good at what you do, my man. If you stopped solving problems indoors, they’d have you back on the streets in a flash.”

A hearty laugh. “You got that right! Anyway, what can I do you for? Your mother disappear again?”

“Close. You must be reading crystal balls. I got a misper who came through your office twice before. Wondered if you were keeping her holed up there again.”

“Name?”

“Edith Walmsley, age seventy-six. Kitchener address.”

“Sounds familiar — she has a history, you say?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Dan heard the tapping of keys. Stryker grunted. Then, “Oh, shit — her! Crazy bitch. Yeah, she’s here. This time we’re keeping her till we make sure her family knows what she does with her spare time. I don’t want her coming back with that poor little old lady story.”

“Shoplifting again?”

“You got it. More jewellery. This latest price tag might just put her in the big league.”

They had a chuckle over the foibles of little old ladies then Stryker had to take another call. “Say hi to the wife for me,” he said, hanging up.

“If I had one I would,” Dan said to the empty air.

One down, two to go. A drink would serve him well now. He slid the drawer forward and reached for the Scotch. He twisted the top and hesitated. When was the last time he’d worried that he couldn’t be bothered to use a glass? Too long ago. Anyway, it was just one. The initial gulp tasted medicinal, iodine on an open wound. The second went down easier.

The next file was more difficult. Two years earlier, a male vic had been found in the Don Valley with gunshot wounds to the face and head. The description was laughably commonplace: white, 175 centimetres tall, 22 to 25 years old, brown hair, heavy tattoo work on the chest and arms. Numerous calls had come in for someone with that description; it never turned out to be him. The case languished in the John Doe files before showing up on a junior officer’s desk. It was another month before it was transferred to Dan’s.

Dan and the junior officer had perused the photographs together. A tattooed word caught Dan’s attention:
bog
. Dan thought he saw what the problem was.

“What kind of moron tattoos
bog
on his chest?” the underling sneered.

“Maybe a Serbian moron,” Dan said. “It means ‘God’ in Serb. You ask off continent?”

The man’s face fell. “How the hell was I supposed to know that?”

“Never assume anything about a man who can’t tell you how he ended up on a morgue table,” Dan said.

The underling stared at Dan as though he were God in any language. Dan wasn’t about to tell him he knew only two words in Serb, thanks to a former lover who’d come and gone with the greeting “Pomoz’ bog.”
God help you
. Though in this case, it appears God hadn’t.

The call came from Bosnia a week later. A woman had reported her son missing two years before. He’d left home looking for employment in March. He hadn’t said where he was going but maintained cellphone contact with her until August 16, the day the unidentified body turned up in the Toronto ravine. The Serbian police forwarded the report and a dozen snapshots. The only thing that didn’t fit was the age. According to his mother, her son was thirty-two when he disappeared.

Whether he was twenty-five or an underdeveloped thirty-two wouldn’t make much difference. Dan looked over the photograph of a mop-haired young man in a navy T. Spiky tattoos peeked from under the sleeves. Dan pulled up the morgue photos. The dead man’s face was too damaged to confirm anything, but the tattoos showed a similarity.

The photographs supplied by desperate relatives fascinated Dan. Of course, with hindsight you could read whatever you wanted into them. Those sad eyes might be holding back a lifetime of misery and despair, or maybe they were just bloodshot from drink. That grim stare could belong to someone who’d finally found the determination to leave a hopeless situation, or it might have been masking a simple dislike for the photographer.

The “why” could be more difficult to determine. Some disappeared to punish whoever kept them from whatever was “out there.” Occasionally they returned on their own, without finding what they were seeking. Dan wondered if the ones who never showed up again had been more successful. Still others claimed not to know why they’d left or even to have considered who might have been hurt by their actions. Sometimes it was sheer desperation, a last chance to escape whatever held them back. It didn’t matter — they just went. Then there were the ones who didn’t have a chance to think about it, because vanishing was the last thing on their minds. They had futures, careers, families — and every reason to stay. They turned up in ditches and farmers’ fields years later, a pile of bones, a tag of cloth, a collection of dental records. What had made them the target of murderers, the victim of rapists who felt they had no choice but to finish a job gone wrong? These were the most intriguing ones.

The second-last photograph showed a group of young men playing ball near a line of bleachers. Marker arrows pointed to a shirtless figure, his right arm thrown back and a ball in hand. The torso was wiry, the ribs too prominent. A blazon of hair ran up his belly and across his chest. Dan’s eyes lingered. If the boy had been alive, he might have found the photo erotic. Being aroused by pictures of the dead made Dan queasy, however. He brought out a magnifying glass and leaned in. On the left pectoral over the heart, he could just make out the word
bog
. Case closed.