“He’s definitely compensating for something,” I added. “Should we move on?”
“Yeah.”
We drove to Lukyan’s penthouse but couldn’t access the underground car park in the Jetta without a permit, so we parked a few blocks away and walked past the barricades, avoiding the security booth. After passing among rows and rows of cars and trucks, we concluded that Lukyan’s luxury vehicles were not there.
Although the Google searches hadn’t been promising, we aimed for the closest of his investment properties.
“What kind of meeting did Diem have?” Darcy asked when we were halfway to Mississauga.
Although sharing was a breach in confidentiality, I knew Diem wouldn’t care if Darcy knew, especially since he had wanted to drag him along. “AA.”
“Oh.”
“He wanted to bring you.”
“I’m not an addict.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not.”
“I don’t label people, Darcy. If you say you aren’t. You aren’t.”
Strangely, he didn’t seem happy with my nonchalant dismissal.
The property in Mississauga was a bust. The site was under construction but empty of workers on the weekend. No secure parking structure anywhere. I wanted to get out and circle the building. Peek in the ground-floor windows, check the security. If Lukyan was running a huge scam operation, it would require an accumulation of data. What if Lukyan used the site for other means? Where would he keep documents? Would he trust digital records over paper? Did he have staff? If the scale of this scam was as big as I suspected, proof would exist. I needed to find it and hand it over to the police.
Where had he been taking Darcy the previous night? Not here. He didn’t have any lakeside properties that I saw, but Darcy claimed they had been traveling along the lake.
I checked the time on the dashboard. “Diem will be home soon. How about we call a timeout for now and see what he thinks.”
Darcy didn’t respond. His entire body had gone stiff, and his attention was stuck somewhere in the distance. I followed his gaze to a U-Stor a block and a half away, where a familiar Bentley pulled into the street.
25
Diem
AA had a way of making me feel both melancholic and rejuvenated. It shone a light on my worst flaws while also inspiring me to keep going. I imagined it was how Jesus-loving churchgoers felt after a Sunday service. Forgiven for their sins and determined to be good Christians for the rest of the week.
“You’re quiet,” Aslan said as we crossed the parking lot after the meeting ended.
“I’m always quiet.”
Like the previous time, I passed when it was my turn to share. Shame that I couldn’t go one fucking week without slipping was not something I was ready to admit. Talking about feelings and emotions was a practice I exercised with my therapist, not strangers.
“Am I your sponsor, Krause?” Aslan asked.
“I thought so.”
“Me too. How many days have you got? Be honest.”
I inhaled sharply through my nose as I scanned the other members, chatting amicably as they left. “Less than twenty-four hours.”
“I figured. Call it a hunch, but when I got your text, I knew.”
“Congratulations. You’re a savant.”
“No. I’m a fellow addict who hears everything you don’t say.”
