From upstairs came the sound of heartily shouted song lyrics under the shower’s stream. It was like having a teenager in the house again, Dan thought. After nearly two years, the ups had well outnumbered the downs of their relationship. Even their sex life had turned numerous corners, and it was still alive and well. A good sign for two men verging on middle age.
They slept together when Nick wasn’t on the late shift and ate meals together when he was. Now all Dan had to do was make sure he didn’t get fat and lazy. Nights spent in front of the fire with Nick seemed filled with all the bliss in the world. All that he needed, anyway.
Weekends, Dan felt no desire to stray from the idylls of his backyard, lounging beside the moss-covered wall beneath the locust tree and imagining the long-vanished snapping of goldfish foraging for food in the empty pond. Was there anything better?
The thump-thump-thump of footsteps announced Nick’s arrival as he came downstairs wrapped in a towel, sleek and glistening from the shower and suitably hirsute. Without a regular trim, his chest would sport a full-frontal rug. He kissed Dan on the top of his head, then disappeared into the kitchen, humming to himself before returning with a tray of drinks like an exceptionally polished waiter, minus the tux.
“Lounging again, your majesty? May I offer you a cranberry cordial?”
Dan took up a glass, admiring Nick’s torso. It made life easy when your partner had a certain physical appeal, but Dan was sure he’d still be in love with this man when he was eighty, should they both live so long.
“I could do with an appetizer,” he said with a wink. “Something hot and spicy.”
“All in good time, sire,” Nick said. “Supper’s in ten minutes. Let’s not ruin your appetite.”
With a quick bow he ran back upstairs to dress, leaving Dan to ponder his luck at having snagged the perfect partner. Nick had come to Canada from Macedonia as a teenager. In his twenties he’d picked up a wife briefly before deciding it wasn’t a life he was suited to. Before they could fight over the much-loved son their union had produced, the child died, precipitating a decade of alcoholic abuse on Nick’s part.
By then Nick had grown accustomed to Canada’s rights and freedoms, including the right to determine one’s own sexual behaviour, and came out. As if to make up for the ease of choice, however, the following year he entered a rock-solid bastion of homophobia — the police department. It had been hard at times, and it meant keeping his private life private, but he’d survived. Then came Dan.
Nick returned now, fully dressed. Dan let him in on the day’s news. Crisis one: he was being evicted from his office space. Crisis two: they needed to find another caterer for the wedding. Nick shrugged off both of these.
“If we start looking now, we can find you something suitable at a good rate in the next couple of months.”
Dan was inclined to be gloomy. “Have you looked at rental rates lately? I could end up in some godforsaken neighbourhood on the far end of town trying to match the price I pay now.”
“Then I’ll provide you with a police escort every morning. As for the other …” He glanced over Dan’s shoulder toward the kitchen. “Maybe I can put the menu together myself.”
“I suspect you’ll be too busy on the day in question to be producing a gourmet meal. In the meantime, I’ve come into a bit of unexpected revenue, so perhaps we can afford a little more than I thought.”
“Lucky day at the races?”
“In a manner of speaking. I got a new case. That’s assuming I want it.”
Nick cocked his head. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because it came with a very heavy cash retainer in a brown envelope. Ten thousand dollars heavy, to be precise.”
Nick whistled. “You think it’s gangster money?”
“Close. It’s political money. Ever hear of a guy called Peter Hansen?”
“Sounds familiar. Didn’t he run for a seat at Queen’s Park a while back?”
“He did, but he didn’t make it. Now he’s special assistant to the educational reforms minister. He’s gay and his husband has disappeared. Gambling debts, from the sounds of it. But he wants it kept out of the media. Apparently the legislature has had its share of scandal lately. An opposition critic committed suicide at Christmas.”
Nick’s eyebrows rose. “Yes, I remember. He hung himself in the ravine.”
“Not quite. You’re hung. He was hanged. There’s a difference.”
Nick tried to suppress his smile. “Okay, Mr. Pedant. But it’s a given — where there are politics, there are scandals.” He paused. “Any connection between the suicide and the missing husband?”
“Nothing I can see. Tony Moran isn’t in politics, just married to it. The suicide was cooking some books, by the sounds of it.”
Nick shrugged. “It’s always the Conservatives who get greedy when they’re in power. The Liberals are egotists who make a mess of things because they think they know better, and the New Democrats are a bunch of flakey do-gooders.”
Dan laughed. “Well, that pretty much covers the board. Between the crooks and the flakey do-gooders, I guess there’s no hope for the rest of us.”
“Don’t underestimate the Green Party. The future is green, I always say.”
Dan shook his head. “You’re a very funny policeman, Officer Trposki.”
“The way I figure it, as long as I can make you laugh you’ll stick around for the wedding. After that, it’ll be too late to change your mind.” Nick glanced toward the kitchen. “Supper’s ready. Let’s eat.”
They had just sat down when the hall phone rang. Dan stood to answer it.
Nick gave him a warning look. “Don’t be long.”
“I promise.” Dan picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
There was a brief silence, then a man’s voice said, “Is this Dan Sharp?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Sharp, I understand you’re working for Peter Hansen to find his husband, Tony.”
Dan’s mind went on the alert. “Who’s calling?”
The man’s name meant nothing to him. The caller continued. “Peter Hansen gave me your number. He said I could talk to you about the case. Do you mind answering a few questions?”
“I do mind. If you want to know anything then ask Peter Hansen.”
He hung up, fuming. First Hansen had showed up unannounced at his office, tossing money around while demanding discretion, and now he felt free to give out Dan’s private number to someone Dan had never heard of. Peter Hansen had all the makings of a nightmare client.
Three
Humpty Dumpty
Dinner over, Dan cleared the plates and brought them to the kitchen. To the consternation of nearly everyone he knew, he did not own an automatic dishwasher. And because he had no dishwasher, the person who ended up washing dishes was usually him. That was the accepted arrangement when he and Nick ate together: chef gets to relax after the meal. Donny and numerous other well-meaning friends had tried over the years to convince him that modern technology had its merits, but Dan merely scoffed.
“For one thing,” he’d say, “I don’t trust a machine to do as good a job