Charles checked his watch. “You’ll excuse us. We’ve got a plane to catch in a few hours. Neither of us expects to see you again.”
“No, I …”
“Goodbye.”
Twenty-Eight
What Remains
Dan had a funeral to attend. Passing the Saddle and Bridle on the way, he wasn’t surprised to see a For Sale sign in its windows. The world was rapidly moving on, while he dawdled and wasted time on a matter his rational mind had told him was better left to the police in the first place.
The afternoon was sombre, with precisely the sort of weather befitting a funeral. As if knowing that, April showers began beading down against the thump of his wipers, dragging long lines across the windshield like some slow, sinister form of water torture. He barely made it to the church on time.
If Dan ever chose to attend a religious institution, it would be the progressive Metropolitan Community Church in leafy Riverdale. It had been on the front lines in the fight against AIDS discrimination and later hosted the world’s first legal same-sex marriage. He approved of the church’s activities, if not of religion’s many wars of flesh and spirit.
The MCC was also known for its musical performances, hosting an outstanding choir and guest artists. They were said to throw a rocking good party, too. It was no surprise Domingo had chosen it for her service. The service would be less an oration than a celebration of her life and loves.
As Dan entered, he saw two urns placed near the altar. One for Domingo, he presumed, and the other Lonnie’s. The teddy bear from the hospital sat between them.
Domingo’s brothers and sisters were there, as well as a few young nieces and nephews. They seemed oddly subdued, as though in the presence of God they’d submitted to a higher power. Domingo had told Dan how her fellow islanders embraced religion with a fervour that often included a strong dose of homophobia. When gays were dying by the bucketful during the AIDS crisis, the righteous wound themselves into a frenzy proclaiming that God had avenged himself on the sinners. But no one ever said God had avenged himself on the money-launderers when 9-11 happened, Dan thought. He recalled Irma’s pamphlets, her declaration that God’s love could be hard. Yes, he thought. God’s love is hard as hell, but better not to point fingers till after you’re dead.
On the far side of the church, seated in uneasy proximity, were the other righteous, a handful of hard-core lesbians seemingly willing to fight over the remains. They kept to themselves for the most part, shooting occasional watchful glances over at Domingo’s family. For the moment, there appeared to be a détente between the warring factions.
Dan made his way to Adele to extend his condolences. “She loved you very much,” he said simply. “Right to the very end.”
“Not enough to let me have my way.” Her expression was stony. She nodded to where Domingo’s family were clustered. “Look at them. They despise us. I can’t believe they came.”
“They’re behaving,” Dan said. “I doubt they would make a scene in a church.”
Adele sighed. “They’re only here because Domingo made me promise to let them come.”
“Of course. She was a peacemaker. That’s why she asked you to let them come to the funeral. Who knows? Maybe there’s one small girl here today who will see you and think that her auntie’s friend was a nice lady, and maybe grow up less afraid of being a lesbian because of what she witnesses here today.”
Adele’s mouth was down-turned. “That’s a bit optimistic, isn’t it?”
“You can’t change people overnight,” Dan said. “We can wish it were otherwise, but it isn’t so.”
She stared at him, struggling with her feelings. Dan wondered if his words had angered her. Instead, her expression softened.
“You’re right,” she said. “That’s what Domingo would have said. Thanks.”
Dan took a seat in the middle ground, among what he thought of as the non-religious and non-politically motivated. From the corner of his eye, he saw Donny and Prabin enter, holding hands as they passed down the aisle and sat behind the lesbians. A few of Domingo’s relatives took note of this pairing of black and brown seating themselves on the wrong side. What were they thinking? Dan wondered. The Bible had prohibitions on almost everything, including the intermarrying of races. Something to frown on for every occasion. No joy left unpunished.
At that moment, the minister began. This man was also a peacemaker, Dan knew, though he had a reputation for being a firebrand when necessary. You don’t get to conduct the world’s first same-sex marriage without a fight.
“Death is a profound force that can divide people,” he began solemnly, looking from one side of the church to the other. He smiled. “Or it can bring them together.”
Dan glanced around at the two minorities, both facing discrimination from the world at large. They should have had much in common, but they fought one another instead. If Domingo had been there, she’d be offering an ironic commentary on the combative elements brought together by this service in her honour. Perhaps death really was the only common meeting ground.
The minister’s words buzzed overhead as he described Domingo’s upbringing in her native Caribbean. Despite having shunned her, her family seemed pleased by this recognition that she’d been one of theirs. He then went on to say how she’d found a new home and family in a community reviled by many. The rainbow, he said, symbolized God’s love for all creatures, while declaring that the persecution faced by the LGBT community today was no different from that of early Christians. Dan heard a murmur among the family, whether in dissent or recognition of the truth of his words wasn’t clear. The pastor continued, captivating them with his voice and sermon. If all religious leaders were so engaging and inclusive, Dan thought, they might be worth listening to now and again.
A buzz alerted him to an incoming text. He pulled out his cell. While some were being buried, life was quietly going on outside the church’s walls. Lydia had texted to say Yuri’s phone had been found in a pawn shop. Fingerprints check out as Suárez’s, she added. Dan experienced a brief curiosity as to what messages had been left on it, then forgot again as the service continued.
The minister raised his arms and Dan stood with the others. For a moment, he felt something like pride: pride in his city, pride in his community, pride in his country. All these disparate tribes coming together to celebrate the life of a woman born in a land and culture so different from his own. Yet here they were, in an openly gay church, commemorating their faith together in a place that represented every nation, even to the point of allowing all who came there to reshape and colour the fabric of the land.
“Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me,” intoned the minister.
Dan glanced at the heads bowed in prayer. He envied the untroubled faith of this man who extolled such brave words and the believers who calmly accepted them, even if he could not.
“In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you.”
A fervent Amen! rang out. Dan considered Yuri Malevski’s mansion. It too had been a place for all, even the outcasts: drug users, immigrants, transsexuals. It was a dream Malevski had believed in to the point of helping even those who sometimes despised him. He thought of Irma, who thought his life an abomination, even while he paid her bills and calmly accepted her censure. So too with Yuri’s young lover, also from another culture, whom he accepted under his roof where they once planned a future together.
“I go to prepare a place for you …”
And then there was the odd boy, Ziggy, who also relied on Yuri’s hospitality. Yuri had ministered to each of them, in his own way. He opened his doors and welcomed them all.
“And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.”
The minister’s sleeves billowed as his words echoed around the sanctuary: “And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again …”
He had his cell in his hand and heard the line ringing.
I will come again …
She answered. Dan listened to her impatiently, waiting for her to finish.
Look closer to home, baby.
“We found it. It took a lot of looking, but you were right, Dan.”
“Good, good!” He told her what he knew.
What movie has a bridge and a bell tower?
She listened carefully. “So you’re saying Santiago was there, too? In the house?”
The first death was faked …
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying! But earlier.”
“I don’t understand. Who brought the phone to the pawn shop? Santiago’s fingerprints were all over it.”
“And nobody else’s?”
“No, not even …” She was already with him. “… Yuri Malevski’s!”
Dan’s words fell out in a jumble, describing his encounter with the illegal immigrant who cleaned houses, of her passion for Christ, her intense dislike of Yuri Malevski. She had been there.
“Those weren’t Santiago’s fingerprints.”
“Then whose were they? Are you saying the cleaner stole the phone?”
“No, listen. I think we’re missing the boat here.”
He told her his theory. A missing phone, a missing candelabra, a missing immigrant. Even the missing fingerprints. Not what was there, but what wasn’t. She was harder to convince this time after his blunder at the mansion that morning, but she was willing to consider it.
“Can you prove it?” she asked.
“Give me half an hour.”
Twenty-Nine
Orchids
She started at the sound of his voice. “Please, no! I cannot!”
“Irma, you must help. What would Jesus have done?” Dan blurted out before she could hang up. “Would he have turned his back on the sinner?”
He knew she wouldn’t turn him down.
“I’ll come to you.”
He scribbled her address on a napkin and dashed to his car before she could change her mind. She’d been there, Dan realized. She was a witness to something, even if she didn’t know it. He himself didn’t know precisely what he was looking for, just that beneath the surface of a very clean house lay a clue that would help him unravel the mystery.
When he’d checked the weather, he saw it had snowed the previous evening and well into the night. The month had been terrifically cold, the temperature hitting a low of minus eighteen-point-three. Nothing unusual for February, but he thought the snow was the telling detail.
Yes, she said, watching him nervously. No one had been in or out of the house when she arrived that morning. No footsteps trod through the snow from either the back or front door. The drive hadn’t been shovelled. Anyone coming or going would have left a trail. It was impossible to cover the tracks. Ziggy hadn’t lied when he said he hadn’t been in the house before she got there. Donny had told him Ziggy stayed on his couch that week, even if he was a little cloudy on the precise dates. It didn’t matter, really, because no one could pinpoint exactly when Yuri had died. Still, that wasn’t it.
No. What he was seeking lay elsewhere.
Dan glanced around the minuscule apartment. It was neat and clean, pretty much as he’d expected. It was also barren. A poverty house with crosses adorning the walls in every room. The only true decorations were a couple of framed prints and several orchids just opening into bloom.
“Nice flowers,” Dan said, hoping to put her at ease.
“Yes, thank you. From son.”
She was far warier this time. Her dark eyes followed him, reading every gesture. Words could be made to say anything, all stories were half fiction, anyway, but a person’s movements did not lie.
“You said the house was very clean when you arrived.”
“Yes,” she said hesitantly.
“As though no one had been there for some time?”
“Yes.”
Because in all likelihood no one had been there, Dan thought. No one living, at any rate. He saw the dawning, the realization in her eyes. She’d seen something.
“He is —”
“He is what, Irma?”
“He is still there!”
Curiosity turned to fear. Her eyes darted around the room, like a trapped bird looking for a window.
“Who?”
A hand rose to cover her mouth.
“Jesus!”
She uttered the name with quiet vehemence. For a second, Dan thought she was cursing. Or worse, losing her mind. She’d be hopeless as a witness. Who did you see? the prosecutor would ask. Jesus! she would respond, staring out at the court like a madwoman. He needed to bring her back to sanity for a few more minutes, until he’d finished questioning her.
“Mr. Malevski doesn’t take away,” she said.
“Take away what?”
“Every week I leave pamphlet, every week he put in garbage. Wicked man. But this is same pamphlet I leave on table one week before. Why he doesn’t throw out?”
Dan shook his head. “You’re saying you left a religious pamphlet and Mr. Malevski didn’t move it or pick it up from the previous week?”
She nodded fearfully. “Yes!”
“So when you got there, the house was the same as it had been when you cleaned the week before?”
“Yes! Except kitchen. I wipe …”
Someone had to clean up that mess.
“You wiped up the blood?” he asked.
A sob escaped her. She nodded.
“Tell me what you found when you arrived.”
She sat silently for a moment, collecting herself. “House is very clean, except kitchen. But greenhouse is not normal.”
Dan turned to her. “The greenhouse?”
“Flowers are dead. I wacuum. So many on floor.”
Dan nodded, thinking of Hank’s peace offering. “They all died, didn’t they?”
“Maybe one, two is okay …”
Dan thought of what he’d learned on the Internet. There was such an amazing variety of orchids. They were like immigrants, of every race and colour, brought from shore to shore by travellers, traders, and buyers. Ziggy had told him how much some of them cost. Dan hadn’t believed it until he read it online. One particular plant had sold for two hundred thousand dollars. Most of them lost their flowers when exposed to cold, but others — a handful — actually thrived, one or two varieties out of thousands. Yuri had owned several such orchids.
“Was it cold when you arrived? In the house?”
He already knew the answer.
“Yes, is freezing. Like refrigerator.”
Sensitive to temperature, humidity and light, the orchids had suffered with the lowering of the thermostat. But not all.
He thought back: Lionel left for Mexico on the third, but Charles had stayed behind, joining him two days later. What had Lionel said of Charles? That he was afraid of him. That Charles had experience making money disappear into foreign accounts. He thought of the sleeping pills Charles insisted Lionel take to relax. Another piece of the puzzle fell into place: Dan suddenly knew who Santiago’s other boyfriend was. Charles had known, too.
Irma waited until Dan asked everything he needed to know. There wasn’t much time left. On his way out, a photograph caught his eye. Irma, looking much the same as she did right now, only smiling and with a handsome young man at her side, his arm thrown over her shoulder.
“Son?” he asked.
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“A good-looking boy.”
“Thank you.”
“Family is important,” Dan said.
She smiled.
Thirty
The Unravelling
Dan knew he had to move fast
. At least one life was at stake. There was no sense going back to the Lockie House. The code had been changed and he thought he knew by whom. It wasn’t necessary to break in to confirm anything. Even if his theory proved correct, as he was sure it would, there were limits to what the police would accept. He’d simply have to prove to Inspector Johnston what he knew to be true.
He pulled out his phone as he turned his car around. Johnston was with him now. She agreed he had a point. A big point. And he was closer to Radio City than she was.
“I can get there first,” he said.
“Be careful!”
Charles and Lionel were just crossing the lobby, bags in hand, when Dan arrived.
Fury rose on Charles’s face. “I told you to leave us alone!”
“Please, Charles!” Lionel grabbed his husband’s arm to quiet him. “Dan? What’s this all about?”
Dan gave him a rueful look. “It’s about …” He shook his head. “It’s about orchids.”
“What?”
“Yeah, it’s about orchids.”
“What are you talking about?” Charles demanded.
Lionel quieted him again and said softly, “I don’t understand.”
Dan took a breath. “To understand, you have to work backwards. A man is killed in his own home and the door is double locked. Makes you wonder why. Why go to the bother of locking a door when you know someone’s going to find the body eventually? The easy answer is, to give the killer plenty of getaway time. Sure, why not? It’s the likeliest reason, but in this case it wasn’t the real reason because nobody was trying to get away. Then I thought maybe it was a sign of veneration. Of love, even. It fit Ziggy’s story. Maybe Santiago’s, too. He and Yuri had been together long enough. In any case, either of them could have done it. It might have been an accident and the killer later sealed up the place like some kind of shrine. But that wasn’t it, either.”
“How do you know?” Charles asked.
“Because this murder was meticulously planned. The only thing that didn’t fit was the timing.”
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