Shadow Puppet

by Jeffrey Round

  “Did Wendell mention drug use?” Dan asked.

  Prabin nodded. “Wendell said Joe took recreational drugs, mostly light stuff, but it didn’t seem to be an everyday habit. He never talked about dealers or scoring for the weekend or anything like that. He did say he thought Joe used steroids when working out, but whether that was excessive or minimal, he didn’t know.”

  “Okay, good. Continue, please.”

  Prabin nodded and looked around at the others. “The second was a guy named Adam Carnivale, who worked as a stripper at Remington’s. He disappeared sometime in the summer. We don’t know much about him, including who put up the posters. I called the number, but it was disconnected. Last week, as we know, Randy Melchior was stabbed to death in a back lane off George Street. His body was dumped in an empty parking lot. So far no one has been charged. Then two days ago I was contacted by the brothers of Nabil Ahmad. Nabil and I are gym buddies. The brothers said Nabil hadn’t been home since Friday evening. I asked about Nabil at the YMCA, but they wouldn’t give out information about him. Instead, I confirmed with some gym mates who remember seeing him on Friday, the day his brothers said he disappeared. No one seems to recall seeing him after that.”

  “And as far as you know, Nabil wasn’t into recreational drugs?”

  “He never mentioned them to me, and he doesn’t seem the type as far as I know him.”

  “What about steroids?”

  Prabin shook his head. “He used to point out the steroid users at the Y. He was very critical of them and said they led to heart problems and mood disorders. He even dissuaded one of the young guys who go to the Y not to try them.”

  “Great work,” Dan said. “Especially the YMCA check. If he was there Friday but not afterward then he likely disappeared from the neighbourhood as well.”

  “So, there are four men either missing or murdered,” Domingo said softly.

  “Possibly five,” Dan corrected. “Your friend Terence Hardy, the actor, was seeing someone named Sam who vanished recently, leaving behind a furnished apartment and no forwarding address.”

  “Why only possibly?” Donny asked.

  Dan smiled at his friend’s perspicacity. “Because on Nabil Ahmad’s computer calendar, he refers to someone he was dating recently as S. I think S is Sam.” He pulled out his cellphone and passed it around. “I found this selfie of Nabil on his computer. There are puppets in the background. Terence confirmed it’s Sam’s apartment.”

  “Did any of the others know each other?” Domingo asked.

  “In this little ghetto of ours, that’s entirely possible,” Donny said. He turned to Prabin. “You were friends with both Randy and Nabil. Did they know one another?”

  “Not that I know of, but I wouldn’t rule it out. Randy went to the Y, too, but not as obsessively as Nabil. Randy was more of a weekend guy. The other two, Adam and Joe, I know nothing about. And this is the first time I’ve heard of Sam.”

  “Here’s a third possible commonality,” Dan said. “They may all be associated with the leather community. Both Nabil and Joe were confirmed as part of the leather community by a friend of mine. Possibly Adam as well. I don’t know about either Randy or Sam.”

  Prabin’s brows contracted. “Randy wasn’t into leather back in university, but people change. To be honest, though, I highly doubt it. He was about as preppie as they come. And those two crowds don’t usually overlap, from what I know.”

  “Would you be comfortable asking his husband to confirm that?”

  “Absolutely. I want to offer Nathan my condolences in person, so I’ll find a way to bring it up.”

  Dan cocked his head. “Ask him about the Mr. Leatherman contest. Apparently Nabil is entered to compete in it.”

  “Really?” Prabin said. “I’m surprised to hear that.”

  “Then you might also be surprised to know that he makes money online posing on two soft porn websites.” Prabin started to speak; Dan stopped him. “That’s confidential, of course. It doesn’t leave this room, but I think it may be relevant.”

  “I guess I don’t really know this guy at all,” Prabin said.

  “Clearly, he isn’t as closeted as you thought.”

  “True,” Prabin concurred. “But there’s closeted to your family and then there’s closeted to everyone else. When you’re from a minority culture the pressure to conform is huge. We’re taught to hide our differences, not parade them.”

  “Back in the islands, you don’t dare come out at all,” Domingo said. “On my street we grew up with a girly-boy named Jimmy. We all knew he was different, but we just accepted it. As he got older, though, he became more defiant about his sexuality. He was clubbed to death at a party when he was eighteen.”

  “That’s why we’re all in Canada, isn’t it?” Donny asked. “Compared to back home, this is Disneyland.”

  “You learn early not to rely on your family to protect you,” Domingo continued. “I thought my brother would protect me from these things, but he didn’t.”

  Dan turned to her. “In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never heard you talk about a brother,” he said.

  “That’s because I don’t. So please don’t ask.”

  Her expression made it clear that the subject was closed.

  “The pressure to have kids is strong in the Indian community as well,” Prabin added. “We’re all taught to honour our parents, and that means producing grandchildren for them. No matter who or what you are, family comes first. It’s a sense of duty that gets ingrained in you from a very early age.”

  “That fits with what I learned about Nabil,” Dan said. “My feeling is he was straddling two worlds and having a hard time doing it. According to his brothers, he disappeared once before back home in Oman when faced with an arranged marriage. That’s why I wondered if he might find it easier to bolt from his life with his brothers than confront them.”

  Prabin nodded. “It’s possible. Usually, with guys like Nabil, the brainwashing is so thorough it never really lets go. But I’ve met others who rejected everything about their former existence, completely detaching from their families. There’s no halfway. It’s all or nothing at all.”

  “For now, we’ll assume Nabil didn’t run away,” Dan said. “Though I note that at least three of these men were immigrants. Which makes me wonder: what did these men not have in common?”

  “Their socio-economic statuses,” Prabin said. “Randy was a highly paid doctor and cancer researcher. Nabil referred to himself as a self-made entrepreneur, though now we know what that means. As you said, Adam was a stripper, and Wendell said Joe was unemployed at the time he disappeared.”

  “And Sam, apparently, was a puppet maker. Freelance artists don’t make much money. What else?”

  “Their ethnicity,” Domingo said. “Randy was white Anglo-Saxon. Nabil is Middle Eastern. What about the others?”

  “Hard to say,” Prabin replied. “From the poster, Joe looks Italian or Portuguese. Joe’s a common-enough name with either of those communities. Adam might be Greek, judging by his picture.”

  “I suggest we narrow it down to a probable Mediterranean background and leave it at that,” Dan said. “Their body types varied greatly too. Joe and Nabil are bigger guys, weightlifters. Adam was a dancer with a great build. Randy seems to have been small and boyish with an average build. I don’t know about Sam.”

  “Which tells us what?” Donny asked, eyeing the balcony for a potential cigarette break.

  “It tells us that if the perpetrator is one and the same person then he doesn’t have a specific type he targets.”

  “Is that odd?” Domingo asked.

  “Some would say yes,” Dan replied. “Gay men often have very specific types. Though we’re assuming it’s someone gay doing this.”

  “But murder is madness,” Donny blurted out. “Does it have to make sense?”

  “Even madness has its logic. My guess is what it really tells us is that there isn’t just one perpetrator. This esp
ecially makes sense in light of the fact that we’re looking at three or four disappearances, but only one confirmed murder. If they were all abducted and killed by the same person, why weren’t their bodies dumped somewhere, too?”

  “Maybe the killer was surprised in the act of killing Randy and didn’t have a choice,” Donny said. “In that case we can’t know anything for sure until more bodies turn up.”

  Prabin winced.

  “Sorry,” Donny said, turning to him. “I sincerely hope they don’t.”

  Domingo turned to Dan. “What do we do from here?”

  “We’re all connected with the community in some way. Sometimes the best thing is just to ask questions of anyone you know who might have heard something. The Mr. Leatherman contest is coming up. I’m going to be there. I’ll also visit Remington’s to ask about Adam. In the meantime, I’d like Prabin to follow up with Randy’s husband to rule out any possible connection with the leather community.”

  Prabin nodded. “I’ll contact Nathan right after this meeting.”

  “Good. Show him Nabil’s photo and ask if he recognizes him from around the neighbourhood. Try to push Wendell for more information about Joe, too. In the time he knew him, he must have learned something about where he comes from, his cultural background, anything like that.”

  “Will do.”

  “Is there any other unfinished business?” Dan asked, looking around.

  “Yes.” Domingo smiled. “Is it too pushy to ask how your date went last week?”

  “Date?” Donny cupped his ears with his hands and leaned in. “What date?”

  Dan smiled. “My date with Domingo’s friend Terence. And yes, it is pushy, but since you were behind it I will tell you that Terence is a very nice guy who will make someone a good husband one day.”

  “But not you?”

  “Sadly, no. He just got a part in a TV series shooting in France. Neither of us is interested in doing the long-

  distance thing.”

  “But still a man of substance, would you say?”

  “Definitely. I liked him immediately.”

  “So, I must be close to the mark. I’ve got a few others in mind if the first batch doesn’t pan out.”

  Donny leaned back, arms crossed, and regarded his best friend. “Really. Has it come to this? You need an introduction? Why don’t you just do it the old-fashioned way and slut around?”

  “Not my style.”

  “No, it isn’t, is it?” He made a face. “It’s your Scottish heritage. There’s always a whiff of the Presbytery whenever you enter the room.”

  “Don’t pick on Danny. He’s a nice boy,” Domingo defended.

  “I’m far too complicated to be nice,” Dan growled.

  Donny and Prabin rolled their eyes.

  NINE

  The Rose

  THE NAKED YOUNG MAN HOLDING the red rose over his genitals seemed not to mind that he was on display on one of the city’s busiest streets. Nor did he mind the afternoon’s cold, with its occasional snowflake drifting past his steady gaze, his eyes focused on you, his intended target. But only because he can’t feel it, Dan thought, as he strode past the larger-than-life poster and pulled open the doors of Remington’s.

  Inside, a skinny young man looked up from where he was bent over a pail, wringing out a mop. He was nowhere near as attractive as his outdoor colleague, a mane of shaggy hair framing a zit-spotted face beneath his baseball cap. Underpaid, minimum wage at best. Dan was reminded of himself at eighteen, a small-town boy escaping to the big city only to discover it was a lot harder to make things work there than it had been back home.

  “Sorry, we’re not open. The show’s not for another hour,” the boy announced softly with a look that said he hoped Dan would turn and march back outside.

  “I’m not here for the show,” Dan said, pulling up a bar stool.

  The young man stood, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I can’t serve you a drink. The bartender’s not here yet.”

  Dan pulled out his investigator’s licence and placed a fifty-dollar bill on the counter, keeping his palm on it. “You can spare me the drink. What I’d really like is a chat.”

  The boy looked around nervously. “What about?”

  “Adam Carnivale. He was a dancer here.”

  “Adam?” He eyed the bill. “I don’t really know anything about him.”

  “But you knew him?”

  “Sure. He was one of the best dancers in the place, till he disappeared.”

  “Was Adam his real name?”

  “Uh … we don’t really ask the dancers their real names. It’s not considered proper, you know?”

  “Okay, so now I know Adam wasn’t his real name. You see? You do know things.”

  “Sure, but —”

  “So, if the dancers aren’t known by their real names, is it fair to assume they aren’t paid employees of the club?”

  “Employees?”

  “You, for instance. Do you get a weekly paycheque?”

  The boy was looking more nervous by the second. “No, I get paid cash.”

  “So presumably you’re not on a payroll somewhere. What’s your name?”

  “My name?”

  “You do have a name, don’t you?”

  “Of course.” The boy grinned. “Everybody has a name.”

  “But some people’s names are proper and other’s aren’t.”

  “Yeah, it’s kinda like that.”

  Dan held out his hand. “My name’s Dan. What’s yours?”

  “Uh … it’s Corby.”

  “Okay, Corby, here’s the deal. I’m investigating the disappearance of Adam Carnivale, but I’m having trouble finding out about him because I don’t know his real name. So how would I go about finding it out?”

  Corby looked perplexed. “You can’t. They don’t allow it.”

  “So, no real name, no paycheque? They dance for tips, is that it?”

  Corby nodded nervously. “Right. And, um, private dances.”

  “In the back rooms.”

  Corby glanced up at the ceiling. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “So, who doesn’t allow them to use their real names?”

  “The, uh, manager? He brings these guys in, but most of the time we don’t even know who they are or where they’re from. Some of them barely even speak English.”

  “What about Adam? Did he speak English?”

  “I don’t … uh, not really.”

  “If you were to guess, where do you think he might have been from?”

  The boy wiped his hand across his forehead, leaving a smear of dirt. “Oh, gosh. I don’t know. He had an accent. Maybe Russian or something, but I really couldn’t say for sure. He and the manager used to speak the same language together.”

  Dan was inclined to believe the boy, if only because he looked too nervous not to be telling the truth.

  “Okay, Corby. Now here’s the prize-winning question. What is the name of the manager who brings in the talent? Does he have a real name?”

  Corby grinned again, as though Dan were a stand-up comedian. “Sure, he’s got a real name.”

  Dan waited a moment longer. Clearly, Corby did not have enough smarts to pick up his cues. “And his name is?”

  “Zoltan.”

  “Zoltan who?”

  “Zoltan Mirovic.”

  Serb, Dan thought, keeping his hand on the bill. To this boy, it might sound as if they were speaking Russian. “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

  Corby whirled around and grabbed something from a small container on the far side of the bar. He presented it to Dan with a satisfied smile. “That’s how.”

  The card had a photo of the naked boy holding the rose on one side and the name Zoltan Mirovic with a website address below.

  Dan pocketed the card and lifted his hand from the bill.

  “You win.”

  An hour later, back in his office, Dan turned on his computer and typed in Zoltan Mirovic’s website. It sho
wed the same boy on the poster outside the club, only this time the rose was slowly revolving. Fancy.

  The large-print warning told him it was an elite members-

  only site. He was prompted to put in a credit card number with the assurance he would not be charged until after he had reviewed and agreed to the membership rules.

  He made up a series of numbers and entered them. The rose grew and spun as the site considered his offering, finally rejecting the numbers with a flashing ERROR sign.

  Dan was about to press cancel when he noticed a logo at the bottom of the page: Sheikh IT! Designs. Intriguing.

  He inserted the USB stick with Nabil’s calendar and downloaded it, going through the diary entries more thoroughly this time. There was a note about wanting to enter the leather contest. Here he mentioned the mysterious R again, saying he knew they would eventually run into one another, but that he would face that when the time came. So R was a leatherman, too.

  From the calendar, Dan gathered that Nabil had had an on-and-off relationship with Sam from May through September. But what had started out with hope seemed to have gone sour. I feel used. S plays me like a puppet, Nabil had written. No wonder, if he was a puppet maker, Dan thought. At another point, he’d written: S keeps pushing me to help him with his visa, but when I tell him these things take time he gets angry. I made the mistake of telling him I know where to go, but I just don’t want to. I need to end this before it goes any further.

  Similarly, his feelings fluctuated with Hanani Sheikh, who at first designed websites for him then proceeded to stalk him when Nabil did not return his affection, though there was no further mention of the blackmail threat he’d feared.

  Sam’s name popped up again a few weeks before Nabil’s disappearance; he’d reached out to Nabil for help with his visa again. S said I was his last hope. Humbled myself and asked H, Nabil had written. The follow-up had been brief: H furious I asked by email. Told me never to contact him again.

  TEN

  The Popular Choice

  DAN LOOKED UP AT THE facade. The marquee read: TONIGHT — MR. LEATHERMAN TORONTO! He had spent many hours in this bar as a lonely young man, but almost none since becoming a father. Back then, when he was fuelled by alcohol and a newfound sense of optimism, the place had seemed to contain a world of amusement and good times. Now it was just another drab watering hole on the outside and a cheerless cavern on the inside.