out the word bog. Case closed.
He signed off on the file and wondered about his Bosnian counterpart — the one who would contact the family with the news. No matter how a case ended, Dan seldom took pleasure from it. It was work. Whether he successfully tracked someone down or had to pass on bad news had little bearing on how he presented it. He offered his findings quietly, but unambiguously. “Your son died of natural causes.” “The dental work confirms it’s your daughter’s body.” “Your wife is alive and well, but no longer a woman.” His words fell with simple gravity, as though he were pronouncing a sentence the hearer must bear accordingly.
Some took the news quietly. Others cried or broke down, knowing their lives were changed forever, if not outright ruined. For some it came as a combination of pain and relief at finally knowing. Knowledge could stop the hoping, but it didn’t make things better. They were the ones who made Dan’s life hell, though he didn’t resent them. It was the ones who didn’t or wouldn’t grieve he resented, as though they’d made his work a failure, like a fireman saving a burning building only to learn it had been condemned. He hated futility — the feeling that his work amounted to nothing. “No return” was unacceptable.
In the course of his investigations, Dan was meticulous. A missing person’s past was like a shadow thrown against a curtain, all outline and little detail. Sometimes the smallest point was the telling one. He thought of the junior who’d missed out on the word bog. The mistake was understandable, but it was sloppy work all the same. Know thoroughly the nature of what you’re being asked to investigate and then look for the unexpected — that was Dan’s modus operandi. It was the only way to find the missing, especially if they didn’t want to be found.
He stopped and took another pull from the bottle, then settled in again. He brought up the last file and glanced at the overview. He didn’t have to read far. Why anyone was surprised when abused teenagers ran away, Dan couldn’t imagine. The fourteen-year-old, Richard Philips, had left his home in Oshawa following an argument with his mother and stepfather. The photograph showed a dark-haired teenager with wary eyes and a pouting mouth. Dan wondered who’d taken the shot.
The details were predictable. Richard’s problems had started when he was twelve, not long after his mother remarried to a man who never got along with her son. According to his mother, her son had been picked on at school. More importantly, he had sexuality issues. Richard’s stepfather threatened him after police nabbed him hanging around a gay cruising area. The boy disappeared two weeks later when the same officer picked him up again.
Dan sat back. He could easily imagine some sadistic homophobe getting his jollies by fucking with the kid’s nascent sex drive. At that age, it was hard enough to accept yourself for what you were. To have bullying cops, taunting classmates, and a narrow-minded stepfather harassing you might prove too much for some kids. Running away was one solution. Suicide was the other.
The report carried the usual protestations by the mother and stepfather: they’d given their son everything and didn’t understand how he’d become someone they barely knew — angry, resentful, and gay. The first two were usually easy to explain when the history was examined. The third wasn’t something you could rationalize to distraught parents, especially the ones who wanted to justify their actions: threats and beatings, doors locked at midnight to teach a lesson to the habitual latecomer and rule-breaker. Self-justification was one thing, but how did you forgive yourself if you locked your door and your kid ended up dead? It happened. Ask Lesley Mahaffey’s parents.
Dan looked at his watch — nearly time. He closed the file on the teenage runaway and went downstairs to see what Ked had done to prepare for his party.
Two
Modern Jazz
Ked was asleep in a chair next to the barbecue. Donny and Dan sat across from one another. The remains of a food platter, a dozen empty beer bottles, and a half-eaten birthday cake sat on the table between them. Coloured lanterns threw shadows around the deck. Sleepy nighttime jazz seeped from the speakers and wafted through the backyard.
Donny blew a smoke ring. “This Marsalis?”
“You got it,” Dan said. “Is he hot or cool?”
“I’m not sure he’s either,” Donny answered. “Wynton plays like a white boy. I put him in the same category as Chet Baker.”
Dan’s face was a question mark. “Are you saying that because he plays classical?”
“Not at all. I think Marsalis is a dynamite classical player. Except for that number two Brandenburg where he sounds like a synthesizer. It’s his jazz I have a problem with. It’s too stiff and intellectual.”
“You don’t like Chet either? He’s got great tone.”
Donny took a drag worthy of Bette Davis then stubbed out the cigarette. “He’s Ivy League. I don’t like anyone who thinks ‘Over the Rainbow’ is a respectable jazz number.”
Dan laughed and uncapped a beer. “You snob!”
Donny’s eyebrows shot up. “Sugar, I work in the cosmetics industry. It comes with the territory. And you can’t touch me for that.”
It was Donny’s revenge for growing up poor, black, and — the ultimate disgrace for a Caribbean son — gay. Somehow he’d discovered he had a discerning nose for expensive scents, the perfumes and nectars of the gods. He now made a living turning up his nose for the same people who’d once snubbed him, advising them on the lotions, potions, and magic formulas they hoped would transform their looks. Maybe even their lives.
“Oh, yeah?” Dan countered. “How cool is it for some of these old black guys to be playing ‘Summertime’? That’s just tourist shite!”
“Hee-hee! You got me there.”
Dan thought for a moment. “Are you saying you can tell whether a player is black or white by how he blows a horn?”
“Sure I can!”
“No way! You’re going to have to prove that one.” Dan went inside and returned with a handful of CDs, tossing another bottle of beer to Donny. “Test time,” he said, slipping a disc into the player.
Chirpy bird-awkward notes wafted upward, drifting among the branches, cool and seductive.
“It’s Miles,” Donny said after a moment. “Probably from the mid-fifties, which means it’s the Quintet.” He listened again. “Yeah, that’s Coltrane. No mistaking that sound.”
Dan whistled. “Very good. It doesn’t even sound like the Miles Davis I know.”
Donny shook his head. “I can always tell Miles. Ellington called him the ‘Picasso of jazz.’”
“Does that make him hot or cool?”
Donny shot him a quick glance. “You have to ask? Miles Davis is the epitome of cool jazz. There’s no one better. Listen to that sound!”
A rap beat emerged from the player next. Pure street cred. Donny smiled. “Miles again. This is from doo-bop, am I right?”
Dan nodded.
“I don’t even need to hear the horn. You can’t shit me. This was his last album. I’m a true blue Miles fan.”
“Damn.”
