I could do with a little less resistance from you, Dan thought.
“How do I know you are not trying to find out who our members are?”
“I’m not interested in finding out who your members are,” Dan said. “Perhaps you could speak on my behalf and inform them. At least one of the men who disappeared attended your group.”
“Who is that?”
“His name was Nabil Ahmad.”
“I don’t recognize that name.”
“Perhaps for the very reasons you just mentioned. He might have given an alias.”
“That is his right. But we do not want outsiders interfering with the group. No, I will not allow you to speak to our members. Goodbye.”
She hung up.
Dan sighed and looked down at his coffee. His stomach rebelled. There was such a thing as too much caffeine. He put the cup aside and did a search for the group online. There were several full-colour pictures of the group’s founder, who he assumed was the woman he had been speaking to. She certainly seemed to like publicity for someone who claimed to want to remain anonymous. From what he could tell, she was a high school teacher. Paranoid, too, by the sounds of it, but then she no doubt had her reasons for that.
A text dinged. It was from Terence. Good timing, it read. You caught me just as I’m about to board my flight for Paris. It included the information he wanted, an address right in the downtown core for a building called the Viking. He’d attached a photograph of Sam with a grinning Terence looking over his shoulder. In case it helps, he’d added. Dan looked over the photo. Smitten was how Dan interpreted the look on Terence’s face. The young man was attractive, but not highly memorable. The sort of face you would overlook in a crowd. I won’t forget you, Terence concluded. Hope you’re still single when I get back. Hmmm … I don’t mean that in a bad way. Au revoir — for now!
Dan smiled at the last remark.
†
He ditched his coffee and headed up Church Street, pausing as he reached Cawthra Square Park with its AIDS memorial. The granite markers listed the names of the plague’s dead beginning in 1981, proliferating through the crisis years from 1986 to 1996 before slowing again. A final untouched panel waited down the line like a hoped-for ending to the disease, or perhaps just the end of time. Dan doubted either would be coming soon, but even if they did, he reasoned, the memorial keepers could just as easily keep things going by inscribing the names of those felled by violence, either from others or self-inflicted.
Farther up the street, rainbow-coloured bands painted on the pavement showed through a dusting of snow, marking the limits of the gay neighbourhood. Not a yellow brick road leading to the Emerald City, but more like a warning you’d reached the end of the safe zone. In some ways, he thought of the ghetto as a psychological concentration camp. He recalled the woman on the phone and how she let fear define her world.
When he was younger he’d participated in Pride parades because they symbolized struggle in the face of oppression. He didn’t mind that they were now more about celebration than activism, though he still recalled an argument with a friend who insisted that with the arrival of same-sex spousal benefits, and the right to marry, all was well. That’s First-World tunnel vision, he’d snapped. Until you can safely walk down any street in any country in the world holding hands with anyone you choose, then all is definitely not well. Any fool could figure that out. Severing yet another relationship with a well-meaning but obtuse person.
Branches stretched overhead, skeletal fingers grasping for warmth from the receding sun. April wasn’t the cruellest month, he thought. December was.
The puppet maker’s building was a mixed-use, three-
storey walk-up on Gloucester Street. From outside there seemed nothing unusual about it. In a foyer that barely allowed for room to turn around, Dan cast his eye down the list of residents: K. Smith, David T., Fred’s Bicycle Repair, Carrie the Friendly Dog Walker. A transient-sounding bunch at best. There was just one full name in the lot, a Miss Prudence E. Fulcher. With a name like that, Dan was willing to bet she was nearing her centenary. There was a blank for apartment 102, where Terence had said Sam lived. With the current low-vacancy rates, empty apartments in downtown Toronto were all but unheard of.
He tried the door, wondering why such a heavy-duty electronic system was needed to guard an unassuming apartment walk-up. Drug addicts, perhaps. Or break-ins. At that time of day, with pedestrians coming and going, he couldn’t risk being seen tripping the lock.
Flagstones led alongside the building, a narrow pathway looking like it was perpetually in shadow. Dan glanced over his shoulder then headed down the walk, leaving tread marks in the unsullied snow. Never mind, he reasoned, they’d be gone with the next storm.
There were just two windows on the ground floor, starting a little above eye level. He got a good grip on the sill nearest him and hoisted himself up, using a hand to darken the reflection of the winter sky. It yielded a view of a sparsely furnished apartment with a sofa and a reclining chair positioned in front of a wide-screen TV. Two wooden chairs sat cockeyed at a kitchen table shoved against a wall. It was all thrift-shop decor, the home of someone who had little inclination toward design. The only thing adding a note of interest was the two marijuana plants carefully positioned to catch the falling light.
Dan lowered himself and took a breath. Time was telling on him. Ten years earlier it wouldn’t have been an effort, but now he paused before continuing. Thankfully, there were no dogs to avoid. Or at least none making their presence known yet. A surprise of that order was something he could happily do without.
He moved along to the next window, waited for his heart to stop pounding, then hoisted himself up again. Here the view was blocked by thick brocade curtains. Through a chink he could just make out another room off to the right. This apartment appeared larger than the other.
Dan eased himself down and walked around to the back. The building was narrow, with only a single window on each floor. He looked around carefully. A three-door garage stood at the end of the drive. It was locked and the windows darkened.
Gripping the sill, he raised himself up and peered in. The curtains were open, but it took a while for his eyes to adjust. He felt a sudden chill as he caught sight of a row of puppets hanging from a wire strung across the room.
That was all the time he had to contemplate the discovery. He felt his grip torn from him. His hands were scraped raw and he fell backward, hitting the ground, the breath knocked from him. Before he could fathom what had happened, someone was on top of him, pummelling his head and chest. Iron hands gripped his Adam’s apple, a pair of knees crushing the breath out of him.
Instinctively he fought back, adrenaline and shock adding to the fight. He was bigger than his attacker, but the other was wiry and had the advantage of surprise. Dan pried the strangling grip from his throat, peeling back the fingers one at a time. It took almost a minute to get on top and subdue his opponent.
“Whoa! Whoa!” he cried as the man flailed with his fists each time Dan got a hand loose.
“Who are you? What the fuck are you doing?”
“It’s okay,” Dan said, trying for casual as much as might be possible under the circumstances. “I’m looking for a friend.”
“Who are you looking for?”
“A guy named Sam.”
Dan felt the struggling ease up. “I’m going to let you go now,” he said. “Don’t try anything or I’ll hit you a lot harder.”
He let his attacker get to his feet, guarding himself from a surprise blow, but the man had given in. Dan looked him over. He wasn’t big, but he’d put up an impressive fight.
“Who are you?” the man demanded, wheezing and brushing the snow from his clothes.
“My name is Sean Peterson. I’m a private investigator. I’m looking for Sam in apartment 102. I’ve been trying to get in touch with him. He doesn’t answer his email or his texts.”
“He moved,” the man said.
; “Okay, fair enough. Your turn. Who are you and how do you know he moved?”
The man scowled, wiping the snot from his nose. “I’m the super here.”
Dan was beginning to see the light. “Can you tell me when you last saw him?”
“Few months ago. Maybe a little longer.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“No idea.” He shrugged. “It happens sometimes. In the city you can just disappear.”
“Is it possible he comes and goes without being seen?”
The man shook his head. “Not a chance. I’d hear him if he did. I live in the other apartment on the ground floor.”
“So, he just left his things here?”
The super hesitated. “His rent is paid up for six months. It’s not my business if he isn’t here.”
Dan looked at him, calculating his chances. “Would you let me in just to look around his apartment?”
The man’s eyebrows went up. “No way! I can’t do that.”
“You’re the super. You would have spare keys to all the units in case of floods, things like that.”
“Yeah, but —”
“I have reason to believe he was abducted.”
“Abducted? You mean, like kidnapped?” He stared warily at Dan. “Still, I don’t have a good excuse for going inside —”
“The man’s missing. He could be lying dead in there on the floor or in his bed.”
“I could lose my job.”
Dan thought of the marijuana plants he’d spied through the other window. It wasn’t the sort of thing a building superintendent would want on his record if he hoped to keep his job.
“I could come back with a warrant,” Dan said, wondering if the chief would go along with this.
A fearful look crossed the super’s face. “A warrant? You mean, like the police?”
“I’d have to go through legal channels, of course. It might take a day or two, but I could do it and come back with the police. They’d want to investigate the entire building.”
“I couldn’t let them do that.”
“You wouldn’t have a choice.”
That seemed to tip the balance in Dan’s favour.
“Show me your ID.”
Dan pulled out his wallet and flipped it open to the brass slug he kept for occasions like this, hoping the man wouldn’t take too close a look at the generic insignia. He didn’t.
“All right,” the man said hesitantly. “But just a quick look. And you can’t touch anything.”
“Agreed.”
Dan waited while the super went into his apartment then emerged a moment later with a large antique key.
“That’s an unusual key,” Dan said.
He laughed. “Yeah, right? They’re all like this. This place has all the original hardware, locks and all. The owners are restoration freaks.”
They went down the hall to the end apartment. A quick knock reverberated back from inside. There was no response.
“I’m Reggie,” the super said, extending his hand, as though the past few minutes had been simply a prelude to their introduction.
“Pleased to meet you, Reggie. Hope I didn’t hurt you back there.”
“Nah, I’m good.” Reggie gave an unexpected giggle. “Hope I didn’t hurt you either.”
“I’m tough.”
“Yeah, I can see. And built.”
Dan caught the flirtatious tone.
“You gay?” Reggie asked, inserting the key in the lock.
“Yes.”
“I thought so. I can usually tell.” Reggie pushed the door open and stood there framed by darkness. He frowned. “This better not get me in trouble.”
“You’re looking after the well-being of your tenant. It won’t get you in trouble.”
The door closed behind them as Reggie fumbled for the switch. He clicked it and the room sprang into view. They were in a sumptuously decorated apartment. Dan saw the swelling curves of a couch, richly upholstered, with hand-carved arms and legs. On the far side of the room, a sideboard with a glossy walnut veneer kept company with a hand-painted armoire. Someone with taste lived here.
A door at the far end was closed. Dan went over and knocked. Again, there was no answer. He looked back at the super.
Reggie gave a resigned shrug. “Go ahead.”
Dan pushed the door open. He was met with more gloom, this time of the sepulchral variety. He strode over to the window and parted the brocade curtains until light flooded the room. A row of puppets hung from a wire, their mouths caught in a silent scream. Hand-carved, outfitted in dapper costumes with miniature buttons and jewellery —
this was the work of a master craftsman.
There were others, two-dimensional animal shapes, lions, water buffalo, tigers, hanging from invisible wires and floating in space. Shadow puppets. Dan held up his phone and took a shot. The flash lit up the room, making the outlines quiver against the walls. Forms given the semblance of life.
Framed photographs showed a family in a Middle Eastern city. Laughing, happy people whose likeness from another time had been carefully preserved. The entire room had the feel of a museum. Of things maintained and kept in darkness, not to let them fade or decay. Likewise with the bookcase pressed up against a wall, its volumes encased in richly grained leather. Arabic script ran along the spines like the ones on Nabil’s shelves. The pages were thick and unevenly cut in a style that had gone out of fashion in the middle of the last century, along with filigree passkeys and shadow puppets.
He picked one up and flicked it open. Inside the cover, in flowing English script, was the name Sam Bashir, written three times, as though someone had been practising his signature.
Dan replaced the book and stood at the window looking out at the snow, sullied where he and Reggie had grappled after his fall, but pure and crisp in the distance. He turned back to the room. Wherever he went, the puppet eyes followed him.
It was a zoo without a zookeeper. Where did you go? he wondered.
Dan returned and looked over the sitting room. A chair had been pushed right up to the divan. Anyone sitting in it would have touched knees with the sofa. A lone candle rested on a side table, as if an impromptu vigil had been set, someone worriedly watching the death of a loved one.
He turned to Reggie, waiting in the centre of the room. “What’s he like?”
“Who?”
“Sam.”
The super’s eyes flashed suspicion. “I thought you said you knew him.”
“Not well.”
Reggie seemed to accept the answer. He sneered. “He’s an ass. Pretentious little twit. But he doesn’t cause me no problems. That’s all that matters.”
“Is he rich?”
Reggie turned to look around the apartment, as though it had just dawned on him that the furniture was beyond the reach of ordinary tastes and bank accounts. He shrugged. “He said his family had money.”
“Did he say where they were from?”
He shook his head. “One of those Middle East countries.”
“Iran? Iraq?”
“Yeah, one of them.”
“What about visitors? Boyfriends? Girlfriends?”
“Nah, don’t think so. As I said, he’s quiet.”
“Those puppets. Is he a collector?”
Reggie shrugged. “Said he made them, I think.”
Dan went into the kitchen and turned on the light. The refrigerator emitted a quiet hum. He opened it and looked inside. A couple of bottles of carbonated water kept company with sealed cartons of juice and a tin of kippers. Nothing perishable. It was almost as if he’d known he was going away.
“All right, thanks for this.”
They stood outside in the hallway while Reggie locked the door, clearly glad to be out of the apartment.
“Can I get your phone number?” Dan asked. “In case I think of anything else I want to ask?”
Reggie looked him up and down. “Do you have a card?”
“I left it at home.”
“Okay. Let me get one of mine.”
He opened his door and went over to a desk, searching amid the clutter. Dan’s eyes picked out the pot plants beneath the window. Reggie caught his glance.
“It’s medicinal,” he said.
“Yeah, I’m cool.”
“It’s Sean, right? Sean Peterson?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay. Come around sometime. You like to smoke? We can get high.”
“Not when I’m on the job.” Dan looked at the card: REGGIE KANE, Superintendent. “Thanks for this.”
“Private investigator, eh? Is that like security?”
“Not really. I don’t guard things. I look for missing people.”
Reggie looked impressed. “Oh, yeah? ’Cause, you know, I think about what I’m gonna do when I leave this place. It’s all right here, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t want to be a superintendent forever.” He laughed as though they shared a joke.
“Well, the good thing about it is that I make my own hours. The bad thing is that if I’m feeling lazy and don’t find work, I don’t have an income.”
“Oh yeah. That wouldn’t be so good. Still … I gotta do something eventually. I can’t stay here forever.” Reggie looked as if he were staring through the bars of a cage. “I’d make a great detective. I see things, eh? People don’t think I see them, but I do.”
“What sort of things?”
“All sorts. There are some real characters in this building. Drug dealers and whatnot. There’s even a guy who makes his own porn.” Reggie giggled again. “It’s not exactly a high-class establishment, if you know what I mean.”
“Porn?”
Reggie giggled. “Yeah. Real characters coming and going at all hours.”
Dan nodded. “Maybe you could let me know if you see anything you think I should know about.”
“I might.” Reggie eyed him, wary again. “So, you don’t think you’ll need to get a search warrant now, right?”
“I don’t think the police are going to need to have a look now that I’ve been here.”
“That’s good. I mean, you can’t trust cops, right?”
Especially not when you’ve got something to hide, Dan thought.
Shadow Puppet Page 11
