Lynn and Gary D, Junior and Rachel T, aunts Shirley, Elsie, Evie, Kathy, and Helen, uncles Don, Edgar, and Jim, grandmother Evelyn, and cousins Susan, Judy, Steve, Barb, Diane, and David, each of whom contributed something of value to my wayward Sudbury years. And finally, to the memory of Allen Brooker, whose struggle to be with his sons tragically led him to take his life.
About the Author
Author photo by Don McNeill
Jeffrey Round has published five previous novels, including Vanished in Vallarta, his third Bradford Fairfax Murder Mystery. He has also written plays, directed short films, and served as a producer and writer for Alliance-Atlantis and CBC. He lives in Toronto.
Copyright
Copyright © Jeffrey Round, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
Editor: Allister Thompson
Design: Jesse Hooper
Ebook Design: Carmen Giraudy
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Round, Jeffrey
Lake on the mountain [electronic resource] : a Dan Sharp mystery / written by Jeffrey Round.
Electronic monograph in EPUB format.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN 978-1-4597-0002-4
I. Title. II. Series: Castle Street mystery (Online)
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and Livres Canada Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.
Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.
J. Kirk Howard, President
www.dundurn.com
Upcoming Dan Sharp Mystery
From Pumpkin Eater,
Jeffrey Round’s Next Dan Sharp Mystery
Prologue: Toronto 2008
This Little Piggy
Darkness gripped him like a vice. The hush in the room was as soothing as a hand run over velvet. In the faint light filtering in from outside, everything was black on black, broken here and there by minute variations in grey. Uniform, minimalist. Against a far wall the outline of a girder dipped from the roof, twisted and warped like a giant DNA strand or a blackened starlit stairway to heaven. Closer up, the shell of a processing unit stood off to one side, vaguely threatening, like some obscure technology on a low-budget sci-fi set, impossible to say what it was if you didn’t know what spaceship you were on or what series you’d landed in.
Dan sniffed the air. The scent of smoke lingered, a disquieting charred odour, though it was more than two years since the fire that gutted the slaughterhouse’s interior. He took a step forward. From off to the right came a curious grinding noise, like a pebble crushed underfoot. Or maybe it was just his imagination. He froze.
“Darryl Hillary?” he called out. “My name is Dan Sharp. I’m a missing persons investigator. I’ve been hired by your sister.”
More silence.
It was just past two a.m. on a hot, humid August morning. Not the best weather for sleeping, though any bed would be better than this, Dan thought. His eyes searched out movement. He felt no fear on being there. It occurred to him that he was more at home here in darkness than in the light.
After fifteen years in the business, he was still surprised where he might end up looking for someone. During his first week on the job for a previous employer, a lifer with a big mouth informed him of the likelihood that a) he probably wouldn’t last a month, and b) he would never be able to predict where the job might land him on any given day. He’d long since proven the first wrong, but the second prediction had shown itself right time and again.
As anonymous tips went, the one that brought him here had seemed routine. At just past midnight his cellphone buzzed, registering a number at a phone booth. He heard what sounded like a fast-food outlet in the background — orders being called out over the din of communal eating in a room echoing with restless diners. In the foreground, a voice hard-wired by an indeterminate sexuality — it could have been a young man, his pitch notched up by nervousness, or a woman who’d smoked herself into a good baritone — puffed out the details of where to find his prey: a young man named Darryl Hillary.
Dan knew better than to ask the caller for personal details. He’d long since learned that the bearer of these messages often had something to hide or something to gain by passing along the information. You seldom learned what it was, but the information was usually good, when it wasn’t downright crazy or just implausible. But, hey, it took all kinds.
“That guy you’re looking for? Hillary? He’s hiding out in the old slaughterhouse near Keele and St. Clair. He’s there now.”
Dan’s mind went into overdrive: something about a suspicious fire, a big investigation into arson, allegations of insurance fraud involving unpaid government loans.
Play dumb, he told himself. “Didn’t that burn down a couple of years ago?”
“Yeah, North York Pork. That’s the one. But the building’s mostly still there.”
“What’s he hiding from?”
There was a pause. He shouldn’t have pushed. That was all he’d get now. He’d lost whoever was talking.
“Don’t you know?”
“Maybe, but I wondered what you could tell me.”
“Nothing. That’s it.”
The line went dead, the food court disappearing into oblivion. In his mind, Dan followed the trail backward: fast-food outlet, supermarket, meat distributor, slaughterhouse, and, finally, the farm. This little piggy goes to market. A curious connection but ultimately meaningless, he suspected. He recalled the newspaper photos of the fire engines, hoses turned skyward
