LITMIR.BIZ

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Then he thought of Trevor again — so near, yet so far. He toyed with the idea of calling but decided against it. He watched part of a movie and a bit of news, then turned off the television and slept.

      The neighbourhood would have been hard put to say it had seen better days. Nor did it look like it ever would. It was a shameless, almost desperate mismatching of poorly constructed warehouses, chemical plants, and odd-fitting homes with yards buried under debris that seemed like they’d never had the temerity to hope for anything better. Nor, in all likelihood, had its denizens.

      Dan approached a row of townhouses that appeared to have survived a bombing blitz, but only barely, one of which bore the number listed as the last known address for Magnus Ferguson. The fenced-in front yard resembled a dustbin and suggested the wrecker’s ball would not be far off. To each his own, Dan thought. He knocked, but no one answered. The stillness that came back might have been the stillness of a mausoleum.

      A window lifted on the second floor of an attached house. A scruffy head poked out, little more than a skull with a wisp of grey fleece stretched over it. “Who is there?” called down a gap-toothed East Indian, a smile shifting his unshaven jowls.

      “I’m looking for Magnus Ferguson,” Dan said. “Do you know if he still lives here?”

      The man chuckled. “Maggie? No, sir — he doesn’t live here no more. I haven’t seen him in years.” He stopped to scratch his head. “He could be dead, for all I know.” He smiled, as if the thought brought him some small comfort.

      “Is there anyone else around who might know where he went?”

      The man shook his head. “No, sir. If I don’t know it, no one does. I see everything around here. Whatever goes on, I hear about it. I’m in the wheelchair, you see?” He lifted himself up by the arms and pressed closer to the sill, as if willing Dan to see the chair he claimed lay under him. His head and torso slumped back down.

      Dan pulled a card from his pocket and held it up for the man to see. “My name’s Sharp,” he said. “Dan Sharp. I’m going to stick this under your door. I’ll write my hotel number on it. If anything comes to mind, please call me.”

      “Sir, excuse me for asking, but does it pay?”

      Dan looked up from where he’d knelt to insert the card. “It could,” he said. “If it leads to anything, it could.”

      “I’ll see, sir, if I can turn anything up for you.” The man poked his head with a finger. “I am all the time having ideas.”

      “I’d be much obliged.”

      The second address turned out to be only blocks away, though Magnus Ferguson’s tenancy there predated the other by more than a decade. A pair of raggedly dressed men lay on the steps, their legs barring the doorway. One was an older man, small and wiry. He looked like he’d lived a long time on the streets. The younger appeared to have a few years to go before he caught up with his companion.

      Dan stopped in front of them. The younger man eyed him warily and motioned to his companion to let Dan pass.

      “You a cop?” said the older man, making a half-hearted attempt to move out of Dan’s way.

      “No,” said Dan.

      “See,” said the older man to the other. “He ain’t gonna hurt ya.” He put a hand out to touch Dan’s leg. Dan stepped out of his reach.

      “Don’t touch him, man!” his companion said, spooked.

      “I’m just being friendly,” said the other.

      “Okay, but don’t touch him, man. He doesn’t want to be touched.”

      “You two live here?” Dan asked, breaking up the pathetic charade.

      The pair looked at one another, as though to get their story straight before answering. “Nah,” said the young man, shaking his head. “We don’t live around here.”

      Dan mentioned Magnus Ferguson, but the name drew a blank. “Thanks, then.”

      He took the stairs to the third floor. The hallway reeked of urine and years of accumulated neglect. There’d once been carpet laid down, but that had been ripped out and remnants of an adhesive left stuck to the concrete floor. He knocked on a faded blue door that opened almost immediately. A thin woman in a pink sweater stared at him. Stringy hair hung down past her shoulders. Dan would have been hard put to say if she were young or old. The smell of something meaty and slightly sour caught his nose.

      She looked at him uncertainly. “Oh, I thought you were Mary,” she said, tucking a brown strand behind one ear. Then, “Can I help you?”

      “I’m looking for a former tenant, Mr. Magnus Ferguson,” Dan said. “I believe he lived here a number of years ago.”

      She scrunched her brow and appeared to be thinking. “Doesn’t sound familiar,” she said, turning back to the room. “Mom? Do you remember a Magnus Ferguson used to live here?”

      “Oh, yes,” came the feeble reply. “He used to live down the hall when we first moved here. You were still a kid, though, so you wouldn’t remember him likely.”

      “You’re right, I don’t,” the woman called out over her shoulder. She turned back to Dan. “I don’t remember him,” she said with a shrug.

      “Who’s asking?” came the mother’s voice.

      “My name’s Dan Sharp,” he called over the pink shoulder. “I’m a missing persons investigator. Would you by any chance know where Mr. Ferguson moved to?”

      “Let me think. I seem to recall he moved just a few streets away from here. I saw him once or twice after he moved.”

      Dan read out the address he’d just visited. “Would that be where he moved?”

      “That sounds right,” came the disembodied voice.

      “He’s not there now, but thank you.” He wrote Magnus’s name on the back of a card and gave it to the woman in the doorway. “Call me, please, if you or your mother think of anything else.”

      She scrutinized it then looked up. “Uh-huh. Okay. Will do.” She smiled sadly and watched till he reached the end of the hallway before closing the door.

      On the ground floor, the two derelicts were still lying on the doorstep. They looked up with glazed eyes at Dan’s approach. He seemed to register with them briefly before they turned away again.

      The doughy hotel clerk recognized him as he crossed the lobby. He hailed Dan and handed him a note. “I didn’t want to miss you, sir,” he said, as though he’d been waiting anxiously all afternoon for Dan’s return.

      “Thank you for being watchful,” Dan said, tipping him. He looked at the note: Call Ahmed Rathnam (“guy in wheelchair”), followed by a phone number.

      “Hello, Ahmed, this is Dan Sharp. I got your message.”

      “Hello, sir. Good to hear from you. Mr. Sharp, I think I may have some information for you, sir.”

      “About Magnus Ferguson?”

      “I have indeed, Mr. Sharp. I think you will be pleased. I have an address for you.”

      Dan’s ears picked up at that. “Is it recent?”

      The man laughed again. “Sir, I know it is recent.”

      “I’ll be right over,” Dan said.

      He was at the man’s door in fifteen minutes. Ahmed waved at him from the same window. He turned back to the room and Dan heard him call out. A moment later, a small boy opened the door and looked up with wide brown eyes.

      “Come in, please.”

      Ahmed appeared at the top of the stairs in his wheelchair. “Sir, I think you will be pleased with what I have found for you. It is an address. A current address.” He called out

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