Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (3 page)

He signed off on the file and wondered about his Bosnian counterpart — the one who would contact the family with the news. No matter how a case ended, Dan seldom took pleasure from it. It was work. Whether he successfully tracked someone down or had to pass on bad news had little bearing on how he presented it. He offered his findings quietly, but unambiguously. “Your son died of natural causes.” “The dental work confirms it’s your daughter’s body.” “Your wife is alive and well, but no longer a woman.” His words fell with simple gravity, as though he were pronouncing a sentence the hearer must bear accordingly.

Some took the news quietly. Others cried or broke down, knowing their lives were changed forever, if not outright ruined. For some it came as a combination of pain and relief at finally knowing. Knowledge could stop the hoping, but it didn’t make things better. They were the ones who made Dan’s life hell, though he didn’t resent them. It was the ones who didn’t or wouldn’t grieve he resented, as though they’d made his work a failure, like a fireman saving a burning building only to learn it had been condemned. He hated futility — the feeling that his work amounted to nothing. “No return” was unacceptable.

In the course of his investigations, Dan was meticulous. A missing person’s past was like a shadow thrown against a curtain, all outline and little detail. Sometimes the smallest point was the telling one. He thought of the junior who’d missed out on the word
bog
. The mistake was understandable, but it was sloppy work all the same. Know thoroughly the nature of what you’re being asked to investigate and then look for the unexpected — that was Dan’s modus operandi. It was the only way to find the missing, especially if they didn’t want to be found.

He stopped and took another pull from the bottle, then settled in again. He brought up the last file and glanced at the overview. He didn’t have to read far. Why anyone was surprised when abused teenagers ran away, Dan couldn’t imagine. The fourteen-year-old, Richard Philips, had left his home in Oshawa following an argument with his mother and stepfather. The photograph showed a dark-haired teenager with wary eyes and a pouting mouth. Dan wondered who’d taken the shot.

The details were predictable. Richard’s problems had started when he was twelve, not long after his mother remarried to a man who never got along with her son. According to his mother, her son had been picked on at school. More importantly, he had sexuality issues. Richard’s stepfather threatened him after police nabbed him hanging around a gay cruising area. The boy disappeared two weeks later when the same officer picked him up again.

Dan sat back. He could easily imagine some sadistic homophobe getting his jollies by fucking with the kid’s nascent sex drive. At that age, it was hard enough to accept yourself for what you were. To have bullying cops, taunting classmates, and a narrow-minded stepfather harassing you might prove too much for some kids. Running away was one solution. Suicide was the other.

The report carried the usual protestations by the mother and stepfather: they’d given their son everything and didn’t understand how he’d become someone they barely knew — angry, resentful, and gay. The first two were usually easy to explain when the history was examined. The third wasn’t something you could rationalize to distraught parents, especially the ones who wanted to justify their actions: threats and beatings, doors locked at midnight to teach a lesson to the habitual latecomer and rule-breaker. Self-justification was one thing, but how did you forgive yourself if you locked your door and your kid ended up dead? It happened. Ask Lesley Mahaffey’s parents.

Dan looked at his watch — nearly time. He closed the file on the teenage runaway and went downstairs to see what Ked had done to prepare for his party.

Two

Modern Jazz

Ked was asleep in a chair next to the barbecue. Donny and Dan sat across from one another. The remains of a food platter, a dozen empty beer bottles, and a half-eaten birthday cake sat on the table between them. Coloured lanterns threw shadows around the deck. Sleepy nighttime jazz seeped from the speakers and wafted through the backyard.

Donny blew a smoke ring. “This Marsalis?”

“You got it,” Dan said. “Is he hot or cool?”

“I’m not sure he’s either,” Donny answered. “Wynton plays like a white boy. I put him in the same category as Chet Baker.”

Dan’s face was a question mark. “Are you saying that because he plays classical?”

“Not at all. I think Marsalis is a dynamite classical player. Except for that number two Brandenburg where he sounds like a synthesizer. It’s his jazz I have a problem with. It’s too stiff and intellectual.”

“You don’t like Chet either? He’s got great tone.”

Donny took a drag worthy of Bette Davis then stubbed out the cigarette. “He’s Ivy League. I don’t like anyone who thinks ‘Over the Rainbow’ is a respectable jazz number.”

Dan laughed and uncapped a beer. “You snob!”

Donny’s eyebrows shot up. “Sugar, I work in the cosmetics industry. It comes with the territory. And you can’t touch me for that.”

It was Donny’s revenge for growing up poor, black, and — the ultimate disgrace for a Caribbean son — gay. Somehow he’d discovered he had a discerning nose for expensive scents, the perfumes and nectars of the gods. He now made a living turning up his nose for the same people who’d once snubbed him, advising them on the lotions, potions, and magic formulas they hoped would transform their looks. Maybe even their lives.

“Oh, yeah?” Dan countered. “How cool is it for some of these old black guys to be playing ‘Summertime’? That’s just tourist shite!”

“Hee-hee! You got me there.”

Dan thought for a moment. “Are you saying you can tell whether a player is black or white by how he blows a horn?”

“Sure I can!”

“No way! You’re going to have to prove that one.” Dan went inside and returned with a handful of CDs, tossing another bottle of beer to Donny. “Test time,” he said, slipping a disc into the player.

Chirpy bird-awkward notes wafted upward, drifting among the branches, cool and seductive.

“It’s Miles,” Donny said after a moment. “Probably from the mid-fifties, which means it’s the Quintet.” He listened again. “Yeah, that’s Coltrane. No mistaking that sound.”

Dan whistled. “Very good. It doesn’t even sound like the Miles Davis I know.”

Donny shook his head. “I can always tell Miles. Ellington called him the ‘Picasso of jazz.’”

“Does that make him hot or cool?”

Donny shot him a quick glance. “You have to ask? Miles Davis is the
epitome
of cool jazz. There’s no one better. Listen to that sound!”

A rap beat emerged from the player next. Pure street cred. Donny smiled. “Miles again. This is from
doo-bop
, am I right?”

Dan nodded.

“I don’t even need to hear the horn. You can’t shit me. This was his last album. I’m a true blue Miles fan.”

“Damn.” Dan shook his head and removed another CD from its case. “Okay, smart ass. Who’s this?”

A feathery drum brush dominated the speakers as a stuttering horn searched a pathway between the notes. Donny listened quietly for a moment.

“I’m going to guess Dizzy, and you’re a dead man if I’m wrong, ’cause I hate to be wrong when it comes to my horns.”

Dan grinned. “Right again.”

“I don’t know this piece. What is it?”

“It’s a live performance of ‘Lullaby In Rhythm’ from a Paris nightclub. Very early Dizzy. It’s a reissue I picked up recently.”

“Cool! Catch those brush strokes! That drummer’s making love to someone. So’s Dizzy. Hear those triplets? Whenever I hear Dizzy, I feel a whiskery set of lips moving to-and-fro across my belly till I’m ready to explode.”

“So is he hot or cool?”

“He is definitely hot. Listen to that sound — the man’s on fire!”

“Define Gillespie’s tone in three words or less.”

“Hmm....” Donny put a match to a cigarette, cocked his head, and listened. “Sexual … seductive … he’s all wet and slurpy. He gets right inside your skin with that splatter of notes.”

“Too many words. How about ‘slutty’?”

Donny exploded in laughter. “You got it. That’s exactly what old Dizzy is! Slutty! Whoo, boy! I can feel those bristles on my belly! Just don’t tell him he’s making love to a man, though. He might get upset.”

“You never know. He might like you.”

The laughter subsided. Dan switched CDs. A glittery baroque theme gilded the air.

Donny snorted. “Ah, man! That’s Marsalis again.”

“You sure?”

“You can’t fool me just because he’s playing classical.”

Dan shook his head. “Nope.”

“What? Sure it is. That’s Wynton Marsalis. I know this piece.”

“What is it?”

“Something about the Bright Seraphim. It’s by Handel.”

“No, man. You are dead wrong on both counts. It’s not Handel and it’s not Marsalis.”

Donny stared, cigarette smoke leaking from his nostrils. “It can’t be. Let me see that thing.” Donny looked over the CD case, shaking his head. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said softly.

“That’s Gerard Schwartz playing Scarlatti. He’s as white as they come.”

“You see? I told you Marsalis plays like a white boy.”

Dan smirked. “Gotcha!”

Donny raised a warning finger. “You say a word about this and I’ll tell everyone you gave Abe Pittman head in my bathroom because you felt sorry for him when Victor dumped him.”

“Ooh!” Dan said. “That’s mean. Okay, I promise.”

The track came to an end. The night was silent again. Donny turned to look at Ked curled up on his chair.

“You think the kid enjoyed his party?”

“Party of three, with his father and surrogate uncle?”

“Doesn’t he have any friends his age?”

Dan shot him a look. “Do you think he’d want me to introduce them to gay Uncle Donny and his dad’s boyfriend Bill?”

“I see. We’re good enough to fuck, but not good enough to be family, is that it? And what happened to His Royal Highness, anyway? He stand us up again?”

Dan shrugged off the question. “You know — work. Something came up.”

“Uh-huh. Something’s always ‘coming up’ at work. When are you going to get wise to that one?”

Dan cocked a warning eyebrow. “Whatever that means, Bill is fine. For now.”

“Yeah? Then why’s he always running around half-naked, doing E at clubs and acting like he’s still in his twenties? He’s a doctor, isn’t he?”

“He’s still a big kid at heart.”

“I’ll say.”

Dan took a pull from his beer and set the bottle on the table. “Anyway, it’s not as if I have options.”

“And it’s not as though you advertise, either. When was the last time you went out to a bar?”

Dan shrugged. “I don’t get lucky in bars — I just get drunk. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m no beauty.”

“No, Sugar, you are not, but you have a very tight, trim body the older boys love because it makes them feel like powerful daddies, and the younger boys enjoy because it makes them feel desired by a hot, sexy man. So everyone’s happy.” Donny looked askance at Dan. “What about you?”

“Don’t be a spoilsport.”

Donny glanced over at Ked again. “The boy was asking how come you and I don’t date any more.”

Dan took another pull on his beer. “What’d you tell him?”

“I said I only fuck white boys to hear them scream, and I don’t date you because I couldn’t respect you if I did.”

Dan threw a hamburger bun at him. It glanced off Donny’s shoulder and rolled across the table.

“Asshole! You did not say that. And as I recall, you’re the one who screamed on our dates. Good thing I told Ked not to believe a word you say about me.”

“Well, I think I once told him his daddy was pretty sizeable for a white boy. He told me his mother said the same thing.”

Dan laughed quietly. “Bastard.”

“What? It’s true! It’s a monster.”

“You don’t need to tell my kid that.”

“Don’t you want him to grow up to be proud of you?”

“Not for that.”

“Suit yourself.” Donny crossed his arms and turned away. He waited a moment before looking back. “So you and Miss Doctor are getting along these days?”

Dan shrugged. “He’s unreliable and takes forever to return calls, but he’s great in the sack....”

“And you say
I
reduce everything to sex!”

“… which you do … plus I’m going to meet some of his friends this weekend. Did I mention that the wedding we’re invited to is on a yacht?”

“Ooh! A yacht even!” Donny made a face. “The girl’s classy for a low-down bitch. Where’d she buy these friends?”

Dan stabbed the air with a finger. “You are a total asshole.” But he was laughing.

“It’s my greatest charm....”

“You have no charm,” Dan said, emptying his beer. “One of the guys getting married is Bill’s oldest friend. They went to school together. Upper Canada College and a few years of university somewhere.…”

“You and your rich boys.”

“I was still born in the gutter.”

“And you’ll die there, if you don’t stop dating men like Bill. Like most poor folk, you confuse money with class.” Donny peered intently at Dan. “You used to be a regular prolie when I met you — rough around the edges and wet behind the ears — but somewhere along the line you picked up some pretty bourgeois tastes.”

Dan snorted. “Really? And what about you?”

“Moi?” Donny splayed a hand against his chest — Marie Antoinette before the tribunal, disavowing all knowledge of privilege. “I’m as middle-class as they come. Which is why you stopped dating me. It’s okay, though. I respect you now. But do tell about the wedding. It sounds very recherché.”

“Let’s have some Scotch first,” Dan said, rising.

Donny’s hand went up. “I’ve had enough for tonight. Haven’t you?”

“Maybe.” Dan sat back and cupped his hands behind his head. “Anyway, I don’t know much about the wedding yet, but it promises to be fun. I’ve never spent an entire weekend on a boat before. Just me and Bill and a bunch of rich folk.”

“Rich white folk, no doubt. And where does the prideful event take place?”

“Somewhere in Prince Edward County, half an hour east of Kingston. Ever hear of a place called Glenora?”