Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (29 page)

“No thanks.”

“What’s your story, honey?” she asked.

“No story — just looking for directions.”

She smiled hopefully. “You want directions to my place?”

Dan shook his head.

“I got beer,” she said.

“I can see that. Thanks anyway.”

His hotel lobby was bright and cheerful, but the effect ended there. A doughy young man handed Dan his keys and pointed down a dim hallway with a carpet one shade away from dog vomit. It bulged when he stepped on it, as though he were walking on something alive. Irregular stains indicated either an errant house pet or water leakage. He looked up. Sure enough, the ceiling bore telltale signs of dripping.

At first glance his room appeared fine, apart from a faint odour of wet fur that permeated everything. Dan opened his suitcase and hung up his clothes. Jet lag was hitting him in the back of the neck. At home it was already past midnight. He stripped off his shirt and pants and lay on the bed in his underwear. He looked up at a sudden sound. Ten feet outside his window, a very large woman appeared on a balcony and began to pull laundry from a line. She was backlit, dressed in a shift that emphasized her shapelessness. Dan crept sheepishly over and drew the curtains.

He thought of Bill and laughed, imagining his distaste at being stuck in such a place. Then he thought of Trevor again — so near, yet so far. He toyed with the idea of calling but decided against it. He watched part of a movie and a bit of news, then turned off the television and slept.

The neighbourhood would have been hard put to say it had seen better days. Nor did it look like it ever would. It was a shameless, almost desperate mismatching of poorly constructed warehouses, chemical plants, and odd-fitting homes with yards buried under debris that seemed like they’d never had the temerity to hope for anything better. Nor, in all likelihood, had its denizens.

Dan approached a row of townhouses that appeared to have survived a bombing blitz, but only barely, one of which bore the number listed as the last known address for Magnus Ferguson. The fenced-in front yard resembled a dustbin and suggested the wrecker’s ball would not be far off.
To each his own,
Dan thought. He knocked, but no one answered. The stillness that came back might have been the stillness of a mausoleum.

A window lifted on the second floor of an attached house. A scruffy head poked out, little more than a skull with a wisp of grey fleece stretched over it. “Who is there?” called down a gap-toothed East Indian, a smile shifting his unshaven jowls.

“I’m looking for Magnus Ferguson,” Dan said. “Do you know if he still lives here?”

The man chuckled. “Maggie? No, sir — he doesn’t live here no more. I haven’t seen him in years.” He stopped to scratch his head. “He could be dead, for all I know.” He smiled, as if the thought brought him some small comfort.

“Is there anyone else around who might know where he went?”

The man shook his head. “No, sir. If I don’t know it, no one does. I see everything around here. Whatever goes on, I hear about it. I’m in the wheelchair, you see?” He lifted himself up by the arms and pressed closer to the sill, as if willing Dan to see the chair he claimed lay under him. His head and torso slumped back down.

Dan pulled a card from his pocket and held it up for the man to see. “My name’s Sharp,” he said. “Dan Sharp. I’m going to stick this under your door. I’ll write my hotel number on it. If anything comes to mind, please call me.”

“Sir, excuse me for asking, but does it pay?”

Dan looked up from where he’d knelt to insert the card. “It could,” he said. “If it leads to anything, it could.”

“I’ll see, sir, if I can turn anything up for you.” The man poked his head with a finger. “I am all the time having ideas.”

“I’d be much obliged.”

The second address turned out to be only blocks away, though Magnus Ferguson’s tenancy there predated the other by more than a decade. A pair of raggedly dressed men lay on the steps, their legs barring the doorway. One was an older man, small and wiry. He looked like he’d lived a long time on the streets. The younger appeared to have a few years to go before he caught up with his companion.

Dan stopped in front of them. The younger man eyed him warily and motioned to his companion to let Dan pass.

“You a cop?” said the older man, making a half-hearted attempt to move out of Dan’s way.

“No,” said Dan.

“See,” said the older man to the other. “He ain’t gonna hurt ya.” He put a hand out to touch Dan’s leg. Dan stepped out of his reach.

“Don’t touch him, man!” his companion said, spooked.

“I’m just being friendly,” said the other.

“Okay, but don’t touch him, man. He doesn’t want to be touched.”

“You two live here?” Dan asked, breaking up the pathetic charade.

The pair looked at one another, as though to get their story straight before answering. “Nah,” said the young man, shaking his head. “We don’t live around here.”

Dan mentioned Magnus Ferguson, but the name drew a blank. “Thanks, then.”

He took the stairs to the third floor. The hallway reeked of urine and years of accumulated neglect. There’d once been carpet laid down, but that had been ripped out and remnants of an adhesive left stuck to the concrete floor. He knocked on a faded blue door that opened almost immediately. A thin woman in a pink sweater stared at him. Stringy hair hung down past her shoulders. Dan would have been hard put to say if she were young or old. The smell of something meaty and slightly sour caught his nose.

She looked at him uncertainly. “Oh, I thought you were Mary,” she said, tucking a brown strand behind one ear. Then, “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for a former tenant, Mr. Magnus Ferguson,” Dan said. “I believe he lived here a number of years ago.”

She scrunched her brow and appeared to be thinking. “Doesn’t sound familiar,” she said, turning back to the room. “Mom? Do you remember a Magnus Ferguson used to live here?”

“Oh, yes,” came the feeble reply. “He used to live down the hall when we first moved here. You were still a kid, though, so you wouldn’t remember him likely.”

“You’re right, I don’t,” the woman called out over her shoulder. She turned back to Dan. “I don’t remember him,” she said with a shrug.

“Who’s asking?” came the mother’s voice.

“My name’s Dan Sharp,” he called over the pink shoulder. “I’m a missing persons investigator. Would you by any chance know where Mr. Ferguson moved to?”

“Let me think. I seem to recall he moved just a few streets away from here. I saw him once or twice after he moved.”

Dan read out the address he’d just visited. “Would that be where he moved?”

“That sounds right,” came the disembodied voice.

“He’s not there now, but thank you.” He wrote Magnus’s name on the back of a card and gave it to the woman in the doorway. “Call me, please, if you or your mother think of anything else.”

She scrutinized it then looked up. “Uh-huh. Okay. Will do.” She smiled sadly and watched till he reached the end of the hallway before closing the door.

On the ground floor, the two derelicts were still lying on the doorstep. They looked up with glazed eyes at Dan’s approach. He seemed to register with them briefly before they turned away again.

The doughy hotel clerk recognized him as he crossed the lobby. He hailed Dan and handed him a note. “I didn’t want to miss you, sir,” he said, as though he’d been waiting anxiously all afternoon for Dan’s return.

“Thank you for being watchful,” Dan said, tipping him. He looked at the note:
Call Ahmed Rathnam (“guy in wheelchair”),
followed by a phone number.

“Hello, Ahmed, this is Dan Sharp. I got your message.”

“Hello, sir. Good to hear from you. Mr. Sharp, I think I may have some information for you, sir.”

“About Magnus Ferguson?”

“I have indeed, Mr. Sharp. I think you will be pleased. I have an address for you.”

Dan’s ears picked up at that. “Is it recent?”

The man laughed again. “Sir, I know it is recent.”

“I’ll be right over,” Dan said.

He was at the man’s door in fifteen minutes. Ahmed waved at him from the same window. He turned back to the room and Dan heard him call out. A moment later, a small boy opened the door and looked up with wide brown eyes.

“Come in, please.”

Ahmed appeared at the top of the stairs in his wheelchair. “Sir, I think you will be pleased with what I have found for you. It is an address. A current address.” He called out to the boy, who ran nimbly up the stairs and snatched a paper from his hand and back down again, handing it to Dan.

Dan read it over and looked up. “I’m grateful. Will fifty dollars compensate you for your troubles?”

The man bowed his head. “I humbly thank you.”

“If you don’t mind my asking — where did you get this?”

The man laughed. His index finger touched his forehead and pointed up. “I told you, sir, I am all the time having ideas. This woman comes to collect the mail once or twice a month. I sent my grandson Naveen out to find her and he came back with this.”

“And this is where she sends his mail?”

Dan read the rural route and postal box number on Vancouver Island. There was no guarantee Magnus Ferguson would be there, but it merited a try. He might be seeing Trevor sooner rather than later.

“It is, sir. It is.”

Dan handed the boy the reddish bill.

The boy grinned as he held it out before him. “Five-zero. Fifty. That’s a lots of money!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, it is,” Dan said. “Make sure your grandfather buys you something nice with it.”

The boy nodded, smiling. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Oh, yes! No more kurta pyjama. I want Game Boy!”

Out on deck, the engine’s hum filled the air. A blurry moon burned a bone-white path along the darkened strait. Mountains loomed black on either side of the boat, deceptively close. Mayne Island was somewhere ahead. If Trevor sounded welcoming, Victoria could wait a day or two.

He flipped open his cell phone and dialled. Trevor’s reassuring voice answered.

“Hi there, sexy guy.”

There was a pause. “Dan?” The voice was hesitant.

“Correct. How are you?”

“Great! I’m really well, thanks! How are you?”

“I’m doing all right, too. I thought I’d call and say hi.”

“Well, I’m glad you did. It’s good to hear from you. It sounds really windy, by the way. Where are you?”

“Outside on my cell phone.”

“It’s nice to hear your voice.”

“And yours. I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately.”

Trevor laughed softly. “That’s sweet. Though it would be nicer to hear you say it in person. I was serious when I said you could visit any time.”

“I know. I’ve been thinking about that.”

“So?” Trevor’s tone was jocular, half-taunting. “When are you coming?”

Dan pretended to mull this over. “How does now sound?”

He heard Trevor laugh. “Now what?”

“How does right now sound for a visit?”

There was a pause. Dan waited. “Um, explain?”

“I’m on the ferry. I’ll be berthing at Village Bay in fifteen minutes.”

“
What?
”

“….and I sure hope there’s a hotel on your island if you’re too busy to see me.”

“Is this for real?” The ferry’s three-toned wail sounded over the engine’s roar. “Oh my god!” Trevor exclaimed. “Are you really here?”

“How far are you from the terminal?”

“Ten minutes by foot, if I start now.” He paused. “You’re not kidding, are you? I mean, I hope you’re not, you bastard.”

“I never kid. See you soon.” Dan clicked off and went back inside.

Dan couldn’t remember ever having driven in such utter darkness. It could have been the blackness of death, deep and irrevocable. Here and there cottage windows glowed like fireflies, winking in and out between trees. Trevor talked excitedly all the way, pausing briefly to announce an upcoming turn Dan could barely make out. A long, narrow drive elbowed into the forest, turning perpendicularly before lurching upwards over rocks and weeds. High above, a roof jutted from a hilltop like a misplaced runway. Lights sheared off from the windows and into the trees.

“Even in the dark I can tell this is quite a piece of architecture,” Dan said.

“Thanks. I designed it myself,” Trevor said. “We have to park here and walk up.”

The headlights died and everything disappeared outside the car.

“Sorry it’s so dark,” Trevor said, swinging the flashlight back and forth on the path ahead. “My garden lights stopped working last month.”

They navigated the stone steps studding the hill. The climb brought them to a metal walkway spanning a gully and leading to the front door.

“In the daytime this gives a great view of the harbour,” Trevor said. “You can stand here and see clear across to Pender Island.”

At the door Dan waited for Trevor to step forward with the keys. “Go ahead — it’s unlocked,” Trevor said with a laugh. “It’s always unlocked.”

Dan put his bag down inside the entryway. Trevor scooped it up and trotted off with it. “I only have one bedroom, and you’re sleeping in here with me,” he said, “so don’t get any ideas!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Dan replied. “I didn’t come all this way to sleep on a couch.”

Three walls of windows flanked an open space whose ceiling sloped up at the far end. The blackness outside seemed to press in on them. Sleek lines and clean surfaces lent the interior a modern tone, but the old-fashioned feel of wood and tile kept it comfy and warm. Dan suspected it mirrored its owner’s personality.

“You’ve done well,” he said.

Trevor shrugged. “Back when I had a real job....” He removed a bottle of wine from the fridge and held it up. “White okay?”

“Sounds great.”

Trevor uncorked the bottle and set it on the counter. He looked at Dan with an odd smile. “I can’t believe it.”

“What can’t you believe?”

“You. That you’re here!”

Dan stood in the middle of the room. Trevor came over to him. The kiss started as a question but quickly turned insistent, the flat of Trevor’s hand on his back urging Dan closer. Trevor broke it off with a sigh.