“Aunt Clemence’s is run by a defrocked priest named Patrick Feeney. Feeney allows no drugs or alcohol on the premises, otherwise kids are free to come and go. He provides meals and a place to sleep. If a kid wants to talk, Feeney listens. If they ask for counseling, he steers them to it. No sermons. No curfews. No locked doors.”
“Sounds pretty liberal for the Catholic Church.”
“I said defrocked priest. Feeney was booted from the clergy years ago.”
“Why?”
“As I remember it, the padre had a girlfriend, the Church said choose. Feeney decided to skip the ecclesiastical rehab and set off on his own.”
“Who picks up the tab?”
“Clem’s gets some money from the city, but most funding comes from charity events and private donations. Feeney relies a lot on volunteers.”
It clicked.
“You think Clem is Aunt Clemence.”
“I told you I was good at this stuff.”
Another ping.
“And Tim is the Tim Hortons doughnut shop on Guy.”
“You’re not bad, yourself, Brennan.”
“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 metro 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 frappe 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 Clem’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 Clemence 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. Clemence was the lavender representative in the rainbow triptych.
