After the Horses Page 9

  The door stayed open after he turned away. He could practically feel her eyes on him as he headed down the stairs. Someone had threatened her to keep away from Santiago. Dan doubted that was Yuri Malevski’s style. In any case, Santiago would not likely be coming around here for a while, unless he ran out of money and got desperate. Dan hoped he’d put enough doubts into Rita that she would call if the Cuban returned.

  Eleven

  My Life So Far

  Heading south from the corridor, Dan made his way down to Parkdale and pulled up outside the Lockie residence. The place looked as unwelcoming as it had on first sight. He traced the roof with his eyes, reconstructing the sloping wall in Malevski’s bedroom and following it along the eaves. Several antennae and a satellite dish sat cock-eyed above. Power lines joined in like snaking trellises, the gridlocked residue of the previous century’s technological onslaught. One of those wires connected with the security system. How had it failed so spectacularly, letting a killer trespass with the intention of silencing its sole inhabitant? Yuri had changed the code a week before his death. Had he felt threatened? Was it to keep Santiago out or someone else? In any case, it hadn’t worked. Someone who knew the code had got inside, unless there was another way in that bypassed the alarm system altogether. If so, it wouldn’t be known by just anyone, only an intimate who was aware of hidden entrances.

  Dan let himself into the yard and approached the house with a view to breaking in. There were three ground-floor entrances. The master bedroom had a small balcony, but surely that too would have been wired by the alarm system. If not, it was still a long way up and an unlikely bet for anyone trying to get inside unnoticed. Dan scoured the ground beneath. The garden looked undisturbed, the shrubs showing no sign of broken branches or damaged stems, so unlikely in that regard as well.

  He followed the perimeter, making a thorough circuit of the whole house. Each of the doors — front, back, and side — was clearly linked to the security system. Any attempt to breach the locks or bypass the code would set off an alarm, bringing whatever response was set up to stop an intruder. He kept his eyes peeled for an alternate route: a basement window or coal-delivery chute from days past. There was nothing.

  His attention kept coming back to the greenhouse. Once inside, you could get to any or all of the floors, the only problem being that you would still have to break a window, which again would be connected to the security system. Regardless, there were no broken panes. Could someone have removed the glass and entered the house, then replaced the window once he or she were back outside? It seemed a trifle elaborate, but no doubt it could be done with a little effort, in which case there would be signs it had been replaced. Dan ran his finger along the paint-sealed frames. Everything was intact and the silicone caulking undisturbed. Where did that leave things?

  He glanced back up. Something about the roofline seemed out of place. A small porthole showed near Yuri’s bedroom, a little lower down. Dan tried to reconstruct the hallway in his mind, but couldn’t recall seeing it from inside.

  Dan stepped back and turned around, nearly walking right into the figure standing behind him.

  “Whoa!” he cried, jumping aside. “What the —?”

  For a second, it didn’t register. Then he recognized the snub-nosed neighbour he’d seen watching him over the fence on his first visit. The man stood there, unmoving, dressed in a plaid jacket and dark jeans. He was creepy and ominous.

  “You’re back,” the man said.

  “Yes, I’m back. Why are you sneaking up on me?” Dan demanded.

  “I thought you could be someone trying to break in,” the man said. “Who are you again?”

  “Property maintenance,” Dan told him. “I’ve been hired by the estate.”

  “You looked like you were trying to break in.”

  Not an inaccurate description of what he’d been doing, Dan thought, except he wouldn’t have been so obvious about it if he were.

  “Well, I’m not trying to break in. I’m trying to see if anyone has tampered with the security system.”

  The man nodded. “Uh-huh. So you got the code and everything?”

  “Yes, I have the code.” Dan looked him up and down. He was just as grubby and rumpled-looking as the first time he’d seen him. If he met this man on the street, he might have thought him homeless. “So you keep your eye on the place. Ever see anyone coming and going?”

  The man grinned. “Not since the murder. Until then, all the time. Oh, yeah.”

  “Well, Mr. —?”

  “They call me the P-Man. Short for Pig, if you wanna know.”

  He gave a hyena-like snort.

  “Well, P-Man. I’m glad to know someone is keeping an eye out.” Dan pulled out a notepad and wrote his name and number on it. “If you see anybody hanging around trying to get in, please give me a call.”

  The P-Man looked over the note. “All right, Dan.”

  Dan left him standing there and went to the front door. He tapped in the code, watched the light turn green, and then went up to the third floor. It struck him instantly that Yuri’s bedroom door was closed, though Dan had left it open. Had someone been inside since his last visit? It was an old house, so it could have been a tilt that slowly closed it on its own. Dan had lived in enough wonky places to know that was a possibility. He opened it and flicked on the light. Nothing seemed to have changed. He took a photo to check against his previous shots.

  A bevelled lead window threw coloured light rays at the end of the hallway, but that wasn’t what Dan had noticed from outside. Red roses dominated the pattern, intertwined here and there by green stems replete with thorns. Even in artistic expression, the impulse to preserve life’s menacing aspects remained. If it had been a landscape with a cloudy horizon, no doubt one of them would be a thunderhead, grey and heavy with the threat of rain. Was it human nature to imagine perfection and leave the worm in the bud?

  The walls were finished with raised wainscoting, all very old and pricey to reproduce. The lacquer had cracked and wrinkled, yellowing with age. Anyone wanting to gut this house would walk away with a fortune in reusable material in top shape. The salvage business would always be booming so long as the past was in vogue.

  Dan’s eyes followed the panelling along the corridor and stopped where he presumed the missing window would be. Right there. It was easy to spot once you knew what you were looking for. A single panel of wood that appeared less worn than its fellows. His knock resounded on the framework. He pressed and felt a slight give right before it sprang open.

  Inside, the space was small and cozy. Light filtered through the window and splashed over an unfinished floor. It was little more than a cubbyhole, but one that had been afforded the luxury of a small porthole. The attic beams were drywalled over. It would probably retain heat in winter, at least enough for sleeping. The ceiling wasn’t quite high enough for standing, but sitting wasn’t a problem.

  A narrow futon lay across the floor with a single pillow, a sheet, and hand-knitted throw draped over it. A small lamp sat on the floor beside a baggie of cannabis — what was referred to as a private stash. Hardly a drug dealer’s den. Dan recalled the mysterious odour he’d smelled on his first visit. Someone stayed here, no doubt about it.

  A child’s school report, pale blue, lay under the window. What he’d called a “scribbler” in grade school. Dan flipped it open to the title page: My Life So Far by Ziggy. Lionel had been right. Dan wondered if the police had discovered the room, but he doubted it. Otherwise, the notebook would have been seized along with Ziggy and his magic bag of tricks.

  Dan quickly scanned the pages. It was filled with daily happenings, ranging from April of the previous year right up until a few days ago. It began with an account of how Ziggy came to take up lodgings in the Lockie House, describing his introduction to Yuri at the Saddle and Bridle, and how thrilled he was when Yuri offered him a place to stay. There was no mention of sexual favours or payment in return.

  Further al
ong, he wrote about going to clubs and trying to fit in, or how he wanted to be a journalist. Subsequent entries dealt with day-to-day minutiae of the house: Yuri received another shipment of orchids today. They’re worth $10,000 each! Santiago fusses over them like he owns them.

  Then Dan turned a page and saw a name he recognized: Small party here tonight. I made it in the bathroom with a lawyer named Charles while his husband was downstairs. He said I looked like Santiago’s younger brother. Amazing how everyone’s in love with Santiago!

  So much for the perfect couple routine, Dan thought. He wondered if Lionel was fooled or simply turned a blind eye to his husband’s doings.

  Another entry stated: Day 30 of being clean! I am finally through with drugs. I told Yuri and he congratulated me. That was the condition he let me stay here: that I keep off the hard stuff.

  Clean. Dan could relate. At twelve, it hadn’t been hard to get alcohol. There’d been plenty around the house and his father never missed it when Dan helped himself. He’d liked the light-headedness that came with a few gulps, the buzz that followed after a few more. He’d gone to school drunk a half-dozen times before he passed out in the locker room and his secret was discovered. Counselling followed, but he insisted it was just a lark, something he did for kicks.

  By the time he reached his thirties, it was a habit that followed him and dogged his footsteps like a shadow. His willpower was strong enough that he could control his drinking and function reasonably well at the best of times, but there were other times that weren’t so good. His son had seen it. So had Donny. Together, they helped him walk away from it, like stepping backwards from a car crash one footprint at a time.

  Ziggy probably didn’t have a family to shame him into sobriety, but it sounded like he’d had a friend in Yuri Malevski. He found other entries detailing parties, conversations with Yuri, and even small, essay-like pieces on Ziggy’s hopes for the future. Then: I fucked up! I used and Yuri found out. Not sure what he’s going to do. He said I had to leave until I get clean again.

  The pages that followed were blank. Dan skipped ahead, around the time Yuri was killed: Finally back in! Stayed with friends while I got clean. I’m through with that shit. Fucking H! It makes me a crazy person. It’s like I don’t even know who I am or what I’m doing when I’m on it. Yuri doesn’t know I’m back yet. Don’t know what he’s going to do when he finds out.

  Four days passed before he wrote again. Yuri’s dead. Fuck! I had to wait till the cops stopped coming around. That was a crazy few days. Not sure where I’ll go next. I don’t think they found my room.

  He wrote a short passage about death and what it meant. Then a single line at the bottom of the page: If there is no morality, is killing wrong?

  Dan took shots of the recent entries and replaced the book exactly as he’d found it. He had Ziggy’s diary, but where was Ziggy? And what happened during those blank four days? He withdrew from the space, closing the panel behind him.

  Twelve

  The Keening Edge

  Dan looked around from the embrace of a rocking chair, taking stock of the home he and Ked occupied. It wasn’t big, but it was cozy and comfortable. Even the backyard, glimpsed through the kitchen window, was an extension of their living space, at least in the temperate months. Compared to others, their lives were the envy of much of the world. They could eat and drink without fear of contagion, travel where they wanted, love and marry whom they chose, educate themselves, take up professions, aspire to public life without fear of assassination, spend or save as much as they could manage, and fall asleep without fear. What must their existence seem like to those outside the tiny bubble in which they lived? An impossible dream? It was difficult even to comprehend such good fortune while standing at the centre of the charmed circle.

  Ralph nuzzled his fingers, hinting that a treat would be appreciated, or even a walk should he feel so inclined. Dan and Ralph had long since made peace from their days of mutual antagonism. Dan suspected a good deal of Ralph’s newfound submissiveness had come with age rather than any testosterone reduction resulting from his neutering, which seemed to have little if anything to do with his outward behaviour and passive-aggression toward Dan in particular. Now when there was an accident in the house, Dan knew it was a senior moment on Ralph’s part rather than any youthful rebellion.

  Dan had several hours to kill before nightfall. They took a long, leisurely walk, with Ralph stopping to sniff at every opportunity and Dan taking time to reflect on the tranquility of his neighbourhood, still amazed by its growth spurt over the past decade. When he first moved there, Leslieville was in a deplorable state of physical and aesthetic decline. He’d been the first on his block to landscape. The following year, a few tepid attempts by the neighbours showed initiative to at least try to match his. Rotting roofs were replaced, paint splashed on walls. The skinheads at the end of the block moved out and a lesbian couple moved in. But it was a beginning. Now there were trendy cafés, film studios, and even — sign of the times — gelato shops.

  After unleashing Ralph, Dan went up to his office and dug out the file on Domingo’s son. His last correspondence on the subject had been more than four years earlier, when he sent out circulars with Lonnie’s photograph. All his queries were returned with nil responses.

  Dan reread the file, but nothing came to him. Without a fresh lead, there was simply nothing new to try. He’d have to ask the old questions again, hoping things might have changed on the other end. The Quebec area code was still the best bet.

  He sent of a couple of emails and set the pages aside. His mind turned to Santiago Suárez and his recent interview with his girlfriend, if indeed she was his girlfriend.

  He called Lionel, giving a rundown of his conversation with Rita St. Angelo.

  “So she did exist,” he said.

  “Didn’t you believe in her?”

  Lionel laughed. “I thought it was just one of those rumours. I’m pretty sure he’s gay. I guess you can fake anything if you try hard enough.”

  “She claimed he was with her the entire week Yuri Malevski was murdered. I don’t know if I believe her, but at least he has an alibi.”

  Dan described his discovery of Ziggy’s hideaway behind the panelling, but made no mention of the diary or the entry detailing Ziggy’s tryst with Charles.

  Lionel was silent for a moment, and then said, “I guess it’s all right to let him stay for now, seeing how he’s been there all along. I’m legally in charge of the house until it’s sold, but I doubt there’s any point in making him leave.”

  “I don’t have any advice to give you on that count,” Dan said.

  He hesitated on the next point, Lydia Johnston’s request to be told the names of Dan’s clients. Lionel surprised him by being forthright on that one.

  “I spoke with Charles about it and we both agree it’s all right for you to use my name in your conversations with the police investigation, so long as they can guarantee confidentiality. We don’t want them to feel we’re being uncooperative or subversive in any way.”

  “Good, that’ll be helpful,” Dan said. “Are you okay with being contacted by them directly, if they request it?”

  “As long as you’re confident it’s the right thing, then I have no problems with it.”

  “Thanks, Lionel. I appreciate your trust.”

  The conversation concluded. Dan was left sitting in the vacuum of his home, contemplating a similar feeling he’d had in Yuri Malevski’s empty mansion.

  Afterwards, he called Lydia Johnston and told her his client had reconsidered his request for anonymity.

  “The chief was right,” she told him. “He said your client would turn out to be the accountant. My money was on the bar manager.”

  “I won’t take any bookie tips from you then,” Dan said.

  “Gambling’s not my thing. I only go for sure bets anyway.”

  He updated her on Santiago’s girlfriend.

  “So you think it likely there wasn’t m
uch in the nature of true romance there?” she asked.

  “I’d call that a sure bet,” Dan said.

  Downstairs again, Dan heard Ked breeze in and out, stopping long enough to turn down Dan’s offer to make supper. He was on his way to meet his girlfriend, Elizabeth, who had more or less become a permanent fixture in his life. Dan was glad he approved of her; he’d hate for a woman to come between him and his only offspring. He’d heard enough of the sort of tales that divided families to ever let that happen to his.

  Ked stood at the door looking guilty. “I’m sorry I won’t be here for supper.”

  Dan almost laughed. “Go. Enjoy yourself. My greetings to Elizabeth.”

  Ked lit up with a smile. “Okay. I won’t be late.”

  Alone again, Dan turned to the kitchen. Cooking for one was high on his list of dreary tasks to avoid. Just one notch above that was eating alone in restaurants. While he wasn’t a fan of cooking for its own sake, he had over the years become a decent hash-slinger with some culinary coaching from the ever-capable Donny. If need be, he could spend a half hour in the kitchen and retreat with a fairly respectable meal for his efforts.

  He opened the cupboard, picked out an unopened jar of pesto and a bag of pasta. A plateful of greens scooped from a plastic container did not dampen his enthusiasm for salads, fortunately, as this was the easiest way to balance his diet without a great deal of washing and chopping. In his estimation, food should be fun and not a chore.

  While waiting for the water to boil, Dan went to the living room and drew out the final volume of Proust’s In Search of Lost Time, which he was diligently making his way through for the second time. Proust’s love life hadn’t been all that successful, Dan knew. Mostly, it had been obsessive and unrequited. As a consolation, he reinvented and endlessly replayed it out in the pages of his massive epic. If he’d lived in the age of television, he probably wouldn’t have written nearly as much.