Grave Secrets

“We’re killing time until the rendezvous with Metalass.”

We both looked at our watches. It was six fifty-eight.

Civilians think of surveillance as adrenaline-pumping, heart-pounding policework. In reality, most stakeouts are as exciting as Metamucil.

We spent two hours watching Tim Hortons, Ryan from his car, I from a park bench. I saw commuters entering and exiting the Guy métro station. I saw students leaving night classes at Concordia University. I saw geezers feeding the pigeons at the Norman Bethune statue. I saw Frisbee throwers and dog walkers. I saw businessmen, vagrants, nuns, and dandies.

What I did not see was Chantale Specter.

At ten Ryan rang my cell.

“Looks like our little darlin’s a no-show.”

“Could Metalass have spotted us and warned her off?”

“I suspect Metalass has the IQ of a garbanzo bean.”

“He’d have to have the patience of one to wait this long.”

I looked around. The only male loitering near Tim’s was at least sixty-five. Several frappé drinkers at the Java U across de Maisonneuve fit the Metalass bill, but none seemed concerned about me or the doughnut shop.

“Now what?”

“Let’s give her another half hour. If she doesn’t show, we’ll mosey to Clém’s.”

The tiny triangle in which I sat was an island in the middle of de Maisonneuve. Cars hummed past on all three sides. Unconsciously, I began counting One. Seven. Ten.

Good, Brennan. Very compulsive.

I looked at my watch. Five past ten.

Why hadn’t Chantale kept her date with Metalass? Had the e-mail been a setup? Had I blown our cover? Had she arrived, recognized me, and split?

An Asian family approached the shop. The woman waited outside with a toddler and a baby in a stroller while the man entered and bought doughnuts.

I looked at my watch again. Ten past ten.

Or had we missed her? Had she hidden herself until Metalass arrived, then signaled to him? Had she come disguised?

Fourteen past ten.

I glanced across the intersection. Ryan met my eyes, shook his head slowly.

Two men entered the Tim Hortons looking like billboards for Hugo Boss. Through the glass I watched them choose then purchase a dozen doughnuts. Two elderly women drank coffee in a booth. Three winos argued at an outdoor table.

Seventeen past ten.

Doughnuts for a group of students. I checked each face. Chantale’s was not among them.

“Ready?” I looked up. Halogen and neon lit the periphery of Ryan’s hair, but the sky above him was dark and starless.

“Time to mosey?”

“Time to mosey.”

Chez Tante Clémence was located on de Maisonneuve, two blocks east of the old Forum. The center consisted of a three-story brownstone in a trio of brownstones, each garnished with brightly painted wood. Clémence was the lavender representative in the rainbow triptych.

But her fix-up squad hadn’t stopped with the trim.

Clémence’s porch was mustard, her window boxes cherry red. The latter housed knots of dead vegetation, the former a subset of Feeney’s flock.

Two girls painted their toenails on a second-floor fire escape. Both had short brown hair, heavy bangs, Capri pants, and enough pierced flesh to qualify for postsurgical coverage. Laverne and Shirley Go Punk. The duo suspended their pedicure to observe our approach.

The porch crew watched us from the steps, cigarettes tucked between fingers or hanging from mouths. Hairstyles included one Statue of Liberty, one Mr. T, two Sir Galahads, and a Janis Joplin. Though it was too dark to make out faces, all five looked like they were in preschool when the Berlin wall went down.

I noticed the statue nudge Mr. T. Mr. T commented, and everyone laughed.

“Bonjour,” Ryan greeted them from the sidewalk.

No response.

“Howdy.” He tried English.

From inside, I heard the intermittent blare of the Sex Pistols, as though someone were turning the music on and off.

“We’re looking for Patrick Feeney.”

“Why?” Mr. T wore a leather vest over a hairless, naked chest.

“Pops win the lottery?”

“He’s been nominated for a Nobel,” said Ryan in a flat, humorless voice.

Mr. T pushed from the railing and stood with legs apart, shoulders back, thumbs hooked into the belt loops of his jeans.

“Rouse the sleeping tiger,” said the statue, flicking ash onto the sidewalk. “Bad move.”

While Mr. T looked like he wanted action, the statue looked desperate for attention. His hair spikes were sprayed colors I couldn’t make out in the dark, and a chain looped from one nostril to its partner earlobe.

Ryan stepped forward and waggled his badge in Mr. T’s face.

“Patrick Feeney?” he repeated, his voice granite.

Mr. T dropped his hands, and the fingers curled into fists. Joplin reached up and wrapped an arm around his leg.

“À l’intérieur,” she said. Inside.

“Merci.”

Ryan placed a foot on the lowest tread, and the group parted a millimeter. We wove our way up, careful to avoid stepping on fingers and toes. I felt ten eyes follow our progress.