THEY HAD APPARENTLY dosed Ray with the same stuff as King. There was no trace of the taped-together sheet music, nor any other music. There was, however, an empty manilla folder by the body. He had pulled the folder from the stacks deep beneath Robarts. The label on the folder read “Pastorela No. 8 in G Minor.” The author of the work was one “Padre Juan-Sebastián Mateus.” Even if I was able to find that piece again, there was no way I’d know what to do with that information. But it sounded like two things were certain: Ray had found something that resembled the piece of music I found in that wastebasket. And they killed him over it.
Unlike King, Ray wasn’t a heroin addict. The police obviously knew that. And they knew I wasn’t responsible for this death. Probably not the other one, either. Still, I got a stern warning from Detective McDonald while he ate my friend’s sandwich. Stay away from this. More people will die.
And with that, I drove home, and flopped on the couch, and slept until early afternoon the following day.
Again, Lacroix woke me up.
“Virtue!” he shouted at me.
“What?! These aren’t the droids you’re looking for!”
“Nice. Have you seen the news?”
“Sure. Climate change is happening, there’s trouble in Washington, and the prime minister has embarrassed us again.”
“You’re a person of interest in two murders in Toronto.”
I sat up. “That was in the news?”
“Well, your name wasn’t. But my Toronto contacts mentioned you.”
“Oh good. The cops talk about me behind my back.”
“Oh, it’s okay. You’re just an eye-witness, they say.”
“That’s good. You ever talk to a Detective McDonald?”
“Is his name Ronald?”
“No.”
“Then, no. —Want to know what else is in the news?”
“No,” I said, honestly.
“Three people committed suicide. Three patrons of your jazz club.”
I sat up harder this time. “What?”
“At least, they thought they’d committed suicide. Now, with all the stuff in Toronto, they’re treating these deaths as suspicious.”
“Were they overdoses?”
Lacroix paused for a second. “No. That was the keyboardist. One guy slit his wrists, one guy hanged himself. The third used a gun.”
“That’s interesting. And plenty suspicious.”
“Well, they’re looking into it because there were so many suicides from that evening. Also, that thing with Curtis King. And the other one at the university.” Lacroix paused, and I thought for a moment that he’d disconnected.
“You still there?”
“Yeah. You know, Virtue. This is quite the body count. Even for you.”
“I think they’re all connected. There’s this song.”
Lacroix chuckled. “A song? Look, bud, whatever your deal is with the two deaths in Toronto, try not to get worked up about these suicides. I mean, these people were in a dive bar. It’s not like their lives were going well.”
“It’s not a dive bar, Lacroix, it’s a jazz club. A pretty respectable one.”
“It’s a bar with links to organized crime, Virtue. Bikers.”
“What, really?”
“Yeah, well, nothing concrete. But there are rumors.”
I mentioned the call from the bartender at the club. The bikers who were looking for me.
“It’s a safe bet the bartender isn’t in on it, then. It’s unlikely he’d be calling you and warning you about it.”
“Do you think the gangs might be killing off patrons and disguising it as suicides?”
“I dunno. Sounds pretty subtle for bikers. Usually, they just kill you. Guns and knives, and stuff like that. I’m still betting on a bunch of deadbeat losers just synchronized their own deaths.”
“Still, that’s a lot of suicides.” I paused for a thought. “You weren’t there, Lacroix. It was a really weird song. It made me feel awful.”
“Look, Virtue, I know you’re not the type to just leave it be. But maybe consider it this time?”
“Maybe.”
“But you’re not going to.”
“No. Look, Lacroix. One of those murders was a friend of mine. I’d like to at least figure out why whoever it was who killed him, uh, killed him.”
“Whatever, dude. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
“Let me know if you need anything. I’m always willing to break at least some of the rules.”
“Probably won’t come to that. But thanks.” I stood up. “Ugh, I’m dreading what comes next.”
“Getting your fingernails peeled off by a bunch of bikers?”
“Worse. Calling my father.”