After the Horses. Jeffrey Round
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not to hear a fresh perspective.
“So I guess it’s true what we’re hearing about his lifestyle.”
“Pretty much, yes.”
“Was there anyone in that circle who seemed a little to the left of shady, in your estimation?”
Lionel gave a big, friendly laugh. “Just about all of them on any given day! Do you want me to make a list?” He grew serious. “I didn’t make a point of getting to know any of them. It wouldn’t have been worthwhile. I’d never have trusted them enough to want to be friends. Yuri seemed not to worry about such things.”
Dan looked up as two fresh pints arrived on the seal’s well-balanced tray.
“I’ve got it,” Lionel said, handing over a twenty rather than a credit card designed to inspire awe.
He was, Dan noted, a quietly attractive man, unlike his flashier husband. His ruminations were interrupted as the air suddenly issued with resounding boos. The game had ended, but not to the satisfaction of everyone in the house.
“Were you familiar with any of the police officers who might have come by the bar to pick up their payments?” Dan asked.
Lionel looked up, amazement written all over his face.
“Wow!” he said. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier.”
“What?”
“One of the regulars at Yuri’s late-night parties was a police officer. I only found that out when I saw him in uniform by sheer coincidence. About a year ago, Charles and I were in a small accident and he was the first officer on the scene. I don’t know if he knew who I was or not. Charles was driving, so my licence wasn’t in question, but I never forgot him after that.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Yeah — it was something like Trposki.” He spelled it. “It’s one of those scrambled Eastern European names. But he was a gay cop. I was shocked to find that out.”
Dan nodded. “There are a few. For the most part they try to stick together. It’s pretty hard being out and gay in the police force. From what I understand, you’re better off if you don’t make an issue of it.”
“I can imagine,” Lionel said. “The world isn’t that progressive — not yet, anyway. I’ll look on the ticket for the spelling to be sure. I keep everything. I’m a dot the i’s and cross the t’s kind of guy. For sure it’ll be in a file somewhere.”
They quaffed their beer and looked around at the disgruntled faces. Impossible to say what bets had been won or lost in this crowd, but clearly the tone was downcast overall.
“Tell me a bit more about Santiago,” Dan said. “Had he and Yuri been going out for long?”
“About four years,” Lionel replied. “Though, as I mentioned, it ended recently.”
“Do you know why?”
“Nothing I could put my finger on. All I know is that they quarrelled and Santiago disappeared.”
“And no one has seen him since the murder?”
“Well, no one I know.” Lionel smiled. “You could ask around.”
An idea struck Dan. “Can you get me access to Yuri’s house?”
Lionel looked at him curiously. “You think Santiago is hiding out there?”
Dan shook his head. “Not if he’s on the run, but it might help if I had a better idea who Yuri was. To do that I’ll need to get a look at what’s inside the house.”
Lionel nodded slowly. “Sure, I can arrange that. Until it changes owners, I still have access to the house.” He looked Dan over. “So, are you saying you’ll take on the case?”
“I’m saying I’m curious about it. I’ll do some preliminary looking around. I’m not promising anything yet.”
“Fair enough. When do you want me to get you into Yuri’s place?”
“The sooner the better,” Dan said. “Assuming the police have concluded their investigation and won’t show up while I’m there.”
“I can’t promise you that,” Lionel told him. “But I’ll see what I can do about getting you in for a look around. How would tomorrow morning suit you?”
“Perfectly.”
Five
Due Diligence
Dan rattled the gate with his bare hands then glanced up at the stone mansion towering over its neighbours. It got top marks for atmosphere. This was a scary witch’s sort of house, with granite walls, slate tile roof, and a widow’s walk. The veined outline of elm trees flailed their branches around it, as though protecting it in an airy embrace.
He fished through the bars until he felt the heavy lock, retrieved the key Lionel had given him, and unfastened the clasp. The gate swung open of its own accord, as though urging him in before he could change his mind. A wide, unpaved drive led up to the front steps. Spring had released tulips and daffodils from their underground hideaways, bright blotches of colour arcing over the damp earth. Someone had cleaned up last season’s dead leaves, either recently or back in the fall. It was still early for the gardens to look overgrown and abandoned, but they were clearly luxuriant. A month or two of neglect would turn them into a jungle of weeds and drooping flowers, as sad as an untended grave.
This was one of the city’s grandest houses, though it lay far from the protective enclave of wealthy Forest Hill. A plaque beside the front door proclaimed its historic significance as having been built by “noted entrepreneur J.S. Lockie” for his wife, Edna.
Parkdale had always been a contentious community, Dan knew. A mid-nineteenth-century census showed barely enough inhabitants for it to claim status as an independent village. Afterwards, the cry went round that someone had paid a band of gypsies to sign on as local residents to make up the numbers. The Toronto Home for Incurables on Dunn Avenue added to the area’s reputation with its gloomy, eponymous title. Dan pictured parents of the time passing the forbidding structure, pointing stern fingers in warning and spreading fear into the hearts of wayward children who refused to heed admonitions about personal hygiene and the eating of one’s vegetables.
The neighbourhood’s proximity to Lake Ontario and the Canadian National Exhibition made it a desirable place to live, expanding significantly in the 1920s with infill and sidewalk extensions. It prospered further with the opening of movie theatres, the Sunnyside Amusement Park, and Palais Royale, the latter becoming a favourite venue for big bands in subsequent decades.
All that prosperity came to a crashing halt in 1955 with the building of the Gardiner Expressway, itself a controversy as much for its exorbitant cost as for cutting the neighbourhood off from the beachfront. Parkdale’s popularity plummeted and it faced a decline from which it never recovered. Of its once-glorious mansions, few remained, but Yuri Malevski’s was one of the most notable.
Dan took the yard in at a glance as he made his way up the walk. A pair of curious eyes watched his progress toward the house. A pudgy face, unshaven and lined. Funny turned-up nose. It was the sort of mug you distrusted on sight, he thought. What his Aunt Marge would have called “unsavoury.”
Dan nodded an acknowledgement. The man had been raking leaves. He stopped now.
“You a prospective buyer?” he asked from across the wood fence.
“No, just a bit of maintenance.” Dan paused. “Do you know the owner?”
“Yeah. Dead now. Got what was coming to him, that’s for sure.”
Dan expressed surprise. “Not a nice guy, I take it?”
The man snorted. “The worst.” With that, he turned back to his raking.
Dan