Julian (7 page)

“Okay,” he said, picking it up. “Now, you push this button to call up the photo library and this one to scroll through the pics. You can practice later. Take a few shots, then erase the pics like this.”

The photo of the radio disappeared. He pushed the phone across the desk toward me. I left it there.

“So you want me to take pictures for you. Of what?”

He sat back and, with his thumb and index finger, smoothed his moustache and goatee.

“Not what. Who. I’d like you to follow a certain person, unobserved of course. Anyone she meets, anywhere she goes, take a picture. For people I want the face, for places the address—a photo that will identify the place. Digital pictures are always time- and date-stamped, so you don’t need to write anything down. With me so far?”

I’m not a moron, I wanted to say, but instead I nodded.

“If she gets in a car, photograph the license plate. If it’s a taxi don’t bother. If that happens or if you lose her, call me. Use the cell; it’s a prepaid unit. No need to use your own.”

No problem there. I didn’t have a cell. Chang hadn’t come across with the one he’d promised, and I figured he wouldn’t want me to use it for this stuff anyway.

“Who is it you want me to follow, and why?”

“The who is just someone we’ll call the subject. The why is nothing for you to worry about. I can’t divulge that. It’s privileged info.”

I must have looked doubtful.

“Don’t worry; I’ll make it worth your while. Keep track of your hours and any expenses—transit tickets, whatever—and you’ll be reimbursed. If this works out, there’ll be more work for you.”

“The same kind of work? Following people?”

“That, and other things. Look, why not give it a try? You have nothing to lose, right? Do this one job, then if it’s not for you we let it go. No harm, no foul. What do you say?”

“How do I find and recognize the, er, subject?”

“So you’re in?”

I nodded.

He slipped a photo from one of the file folders on his desk and handed it over. It showed a well-dressed woman
about Curtis’s age emerging from a revolving door in an office building, looking toward something in the street. The brass sheathing around the door frame indicated that it was an upscale place. The woman carried a briefcase in her hand and a purse hung from the opposite shoulder. She was pretty, with fair hair and an open face.

“She leaves this address,” the lawyer informed me, jotting some words on a sticky-note and pressing it onto the back of the picture, “every day at one o’clock. Give her until one-thirty, and if she doesn’t show, break it off and call me.”

I stood up, slipping the photo and note into my shirt pocket. “I’ll give it a try,” I said.

“Good man. Start tomorrow. Continue every weekday afternoon until further notice.”

I was almost out the door when he called, “And Julian? This is just between you and me, right? Client confidentiality and all that.”

A
FTER MY VISIT
to Curtis’s office I went home. I liked coming back to my own place—turning the key and climbing the stairs and letting myself into the silent apartment, where everything was as it had been when I left. If I had forgotten to turn out the light or close a kitchen cupboard door, I had no one to answer to but myself. The book I was reading lay on the table beside the chair by the window, my laptop—used, supplied by Chang—stood closed on the desk beside the bookshelves I had made of bricks and boards. From the kitchen, the refrigerator motor hummed quietly.

Sure, once in a while I sort of missed the twins tearing through the Foster-Boyd house and yelling for their lives, or the savoury aromas of Beryl’s cooking as she banged around the kitchen. I was never not lonely, but I was used to it.

Following habits learned early during my stays in foster homes, I kept the place tidy. Being neat and orderly had been a way to get fosters to accept me right away—every parent likes a tidy kid, and I discovered that a lot of people think neat equals good. I had made my bed every morning, folded my clothes and put them away in dresser drawers, kept my hair combed, lined up my cutlery in the proper manner beside my plate before I began to eat. Nowadays none of that was required, but old habits die hard.

I pulled on my running gear and left my apartment. I jogged over to Coxwell and turned south and followed it down to the lake, where I picked up the bike path and headed west toward Harbourfront. It was a sunny afternoon, with a light breeze off the lake. Once on the bike path and free of pedestrians and traffic I put on a little speed, cruising along at a comfortable pace while I analyzed my meeting with Curtis. There was something about him I didn’t like, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I tried not to let that influence my thinking. I knew that following a woman and recording her movements on behalf of a lawyer was just a sneaky form of information gathering. A divorce case, maybe. Or was Curtis working for an insurance company? Was the woman scamming the insurers, pretending to be injured and disabled and collecting payments? Maybe she had been in a car crash and claimed to have whiplash or something.

She didn’t look like a scammer, with her businesslike appearance and good looks, but that didn’t mean anything.

Nor did I have an answer to an even more obvious question—why me? If Curtis was collecting info on the woman for a client, why not use a real private detective?
The only answer I could come up with was that he was paying me minimum wage—in other words, getting me cheap. But why would he care about that? Wouldn’t he just charge the cost to the client? Unless he was doing just that: billing for a real detective, paying me—what? a fraction of the cost?—and pocketing the difference.

Or was there a client? Was this case personal? Was the woman his wife or a girlfriend who was two-timing him? If that was true I was being paid to stalk the woman—a pretty revolting thought. On the other hand, if I didn’t do it, he’d just get someone else. That was no excuse, though. If it turned out he was using me to stalk her I’d sign off.

And another question. Why the photos? I could easily and less conspicuously follow her and make notes on her movements and meetings. Therefore, he needed pics to be able to prove where she had been, at what time and with who—without involving me. He’d just hand over the photos to the client. Which, to my relief, probably cancelled the possibility that this was a personal thing.

As I passed Harbourfront, where the bike path ran parallel to the pedestrian sidewalk, I slowed to dodge tourists and shoppers. Could I follow someone without being seen by her? I had read enough detective and cop novels to feel pretty confident that I could pull it off. Unless she was alerted to the possibility that she was under surveillance and was looking for a tail, she’d have no idea. I had read lots of cases where the main character followed from behind, from across the street, even from in front of the subject. In one book the cop doing surveillance by following the bad guys in a car would take three or four hats with him and change headgear every little while. A subject checking his rear-view
mirror would see a different guy each time. I could do that. I could blend in. No problem.

I had to admit that I was a bit excited by the plan. Who knew, maybe it would be interesting.

The next morning was busy at the store. Deliveries from suppliers seemed to arrive at the alley door all at once, and soon piles of cartons filled up the back room. Gulun was in a bad mood and demanded I deal with all the new stock right away. It was slow work because I had to be sure I shelved the new stuff behind the old and turned the packages and cans so that the expiry dates weren’t visible. Gulun always insisted on that.

As soon as I shook free of the store I rode the subway to Union Station and walked up Bay Street and located the address Curtis had given me. It was an office block with the name of an insurance company over the door. I loitered in the doorway of a pub across the busy street, checking my watch every few minutes to make it look like I was waiting for someone. It was a sunny day—not that you’d notice easily; the soaring banks and office buildings blocked all but a thin rectangle of sky—and pedestrians schooled up and down the sidewalks like shoals of fish. Mostly suits and well-dressed women. On a nearby corner a bunch of bicycle couriers lounged around, their bikes within reach, tossing wisecracks back and forth.

At one o’clock sharp, just as Curtis had said, the woman emerged from the building. She was wearing a blue suit and her hair bounced on her shoulders as she strode down the street and turned at the first corner, heading west. I tailed
her, keeping in mind the tips I had picked up from books, like making sure that I was at least twenty or thirty metres back and that there was at least one person between me and her at all times. She kept up a brisk pace, her hand clamped on her shoulder bag, her body swaying easily as she walked, like an athlete or someone who made regular visits to the gym. At St. Andrew station she took the steps down to the subway.

I boarded the car behind hers and took up a position by the door. At the Dundas Street station she got off, took the stairs to the surface and strolled west, more slowly now, turning north on McCaul, striding along in the shade of the trees. She turned into a boutique restaurant—some kind of upscale Middle Eastern place, with a menu displayed in a glass-fronted box on a post outside. I walked past, realizing right away I couldn’t follow her in. The place was so small there would be no dark corner where I could sit and observe her secretly. Besides, I probably couldn’t afford even a glass of water in there. So I jaywalked across the street and stood beside a flower stall, in the shadows, leaning against the alley wall. I took out the cell and snapped a picture of the restaurant.

She had entered the place alone. If she was meeting a friend, they’d probably leave together. I could get a shot of the two of them. All I had to do was wait. So I pulled a paperback from my pocket and tried to read, glancing across the road every few minutes. Captain Alatriste was chasing the Pirates of the Levant—which was a funny coincidence, because the restaurant was called Foods of the Levant. The book told an old-fashioned story, part of a series that took place mostly in Spain a long time ago,
with lots of adventure and sword fights and beautiful women and tough, brave men who would draw a sword or dagger in a flash to defend their honour, or the honour of one of the beautiful women. As I read I was conscious of people passing, drifting into the edge of my vision, momentarily blocking my view of the restaurant, then slipping out of sight. It happened dozens of times. Then someone stopped. I paid no attention. Until I heard a voice I recognized.

“Well, well. A literary loiterer.”

She stood there blocking my sightline to the restaurant, hands on her hips, the sun behind her. She had rolled up her camo jacket and tied it around her waist. The military pants and boots were the same—and so was the blue beret, worn at a rakish angle. But it wasn’t her clothing that made everything around her seem to disappear.

At the Van Gogh exhibit I had glimpsed her eyes only briefly, and in dim lighting. Now she stood—in my way—drenched in early afternoon sunlight that set her thick auburn hair blazing, highlighting her amazing green eyes. She was about shoulder-height on me, slender, with a faint spray of freckles under her eyes and a mischievous look on her face.

I closed my book self-consciously and jammed it into my pocket.

“Remember me?” she smirked.

“Sort of.”

Which was an understatement. I had thought more than once about her, the mysterious thief with the French accent who had sneaked into the gallery and stolen at least one wallet from unwitting women before she disappeared.
She had been the brightest part of a day that was—to say the least—eventful.

I took a step sideways to keep the restaurant door in sight.

“A month ago, wasn’t it?” she asked.

“More like two. It snowed.”

“Not in the gallery.”

I forced a laugh at the lame joke. How could I get her to stay? I rummaged around in my brain for conversational ploys.

“I was on a field trip,” I explained. “Art. Well, obviously.” I felt the blush rising into my face.

Her look was full of challenge. Come on, it seemed to say, impress me. Give me a reason not to move on. Or was I misjudging her? After all, it was she who had stopped to talk. She could have breezed right on by and, intent on my book and my stakeout, I wouldn’t have noticed. I made myself try again.

“Anyway,” I began.

“I owe you one,” she interrupted.

“Er—”

“For warning me. At the gallery. About the guard watching me.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.”

“So how about I buy you a coffee or something?”

“Sure. Yeah, good,” I stumbled. “I’d like that. You can tell me more about the sky in Provence.”

She smiled again. The girl who had asked a few minutes ago if I remembered her. How could I forget?

“Well, let’s go. I know a place near here.”

Just then the subject came through the door of the
restaurant. With a man, who held his hand in the small of her back, as if guiding her to the street. They turned south, walking side by side.

Dammit. Now what to do? Break off the trail and go with the girl? I could tell Curtis the subject hadn’t shown at one o’clock, that I’d hung around for a half-hour, as he instructed me. But he’d demand to know why I hadn’t called him. Or I could say I had lost her—and he’d never hire an incompetent like me again. While I wavered, the man and woman continued along, moving farther and farther away. In a few minutes I really would lose them.

“You coming?” the girl asked.

“Er, I just need to make a quick call first.”

I took out the cell, pretended to key in a number. “It’s me,” I said to the silent phone. “Now? Can’t it wait? Alright, yeah.”

I shoved the phone back into my pocket.

“Sorry, I gotta go. Maybe—”

Her face clouded. Her eyes hardened. “I get it. Some other time.”

“I mean it,” I blurted. “I want to.”

But she had already begun to walk away.