Free Lake on the Mountain: A Dan Sharp Mystery by Jeffrey Round

going home soon. When he’d left, it had probably been a merry send-off — women in babushkas and kerchiefs smiling and sipping Turkish coffee, bristle-faced men offering their worldly wisdom and passing the šljivovica from hand to hand while the children romped around the room, not understanding why they were celebrating their older cousin’s leave-taking, but glad for the sweet rolls. Dan didn’t want to think about the bumpy coffin ride back in the bottom of a cargo plane, the seven-hour flight to repatriate him, the teary return that awaited him in his homeland two years too late.
    The sky threatened drizzle as he walked north on Yonge Street, keeping his distance from passersby who seemed to have nothing better to do than throng the intersections looking fashionable. He stopped for lunch at Spring Rolls. The downstairs was filled with a noisy young crowd who seemed to think it a glamorous social event rather than simply a quick, cheap eat. He bypassed the clamorous lunchers and went upstairs, where it was only slightly less crowded. A waiter waved him curtly to a window table. The man’s face betrayed annoyance at having one customer take up a spot for two. Dan could remember when the place barely got half full. Whenever he found a convenient location to eat, it turned trendy in a couple of months. Then the wait time increased, the food went downhill, and the service got snarly. So much for Toronto’s exalted dining experience.
    He ordered a drink before he was seated. One beer to take the edge off. It wasn’t that he needed it, he reassured himself. Just holding the tumbler in his hand made him feel better.
    Two tables over, a rugged-looking guy in denim caught Dan’s eye. Black T-shirt, chiselled cheekbones, thick moustache. Face like a motorcycle cop from the backend of a seventies porn catalogue. He looked familiar. Dan wondered if he was undercover, possibly someone he’d worked with before. He kept catching Dan’s glance. The third time it happened the man smiled unexpectedly. Dan blushed and turned away.
    He sipped his beer and kept his gaze averted, wondering how long the guy would keep at it before he gave up.
    The waiter returned for his order. Dan stumbled over the name of one of the Asian fusion dishes. The waiter corrected his pronunciation and regarded him gravely, as though he’d asked for a side order of blowfish.
    His meal had just arrived when the denim-clad mannequin laid a bill on the table. Dan kept his head turned as he walked past and dropped a slip of paper beside Dan’s fork. Out of the corner of his eye, Dan watched him disappear down the stairs before turning it over — the name Chuck and a phone number. He finished his lunch and left the number on the table. Maybe his hurried waiter would think it was for him. The two of them could work it out.
    Outside, the day had turned bright. The sun made a sudden appearance as Dan crossed through Allan Gardens, noting the unusually large number of addicts looking up uncertainly at the light, like seals left stranded by a retreating tide. He thought over the early morning meeting with his former neighbour at the donut shop, and wondered again why Steve had given Glenda the house, especially since she made more money than him. Is that what straight men did?
    There was no reply from Bill when he reached the office. He tossed his coat over a chair then made a few calls about the young runaway, Richard Philips. At four o’clock he signed off on the file of a woman missing for five years who’d recently turned up — schizophrenic and amnesiac — on a Hawaiian island. She’d been living in an abandoned milk truck. Her appearance had altered so radically, it had taken a DNA test to convince her relatives she was the same woman. Sometimes that was as good as it got.
    He opened another file and read over his notes without taking anything in. A fourth cup of coffee failed to revive his concentration. He’d been staring at his computer for some