Grave Secrets (25 page)

“Think the kid’s having an identity crisis?”

The room was a schizoid blend of little girl whimsy, adolescent angst, and adult curiosity. I tried to picture Chantale in it. I’d experienced her punk manifestation, seen the
Father Knows Best
photo. But I had no sense of the real Chantale, had no idea who she was in this room.

I heard the CPU beep and whir as it powered up.

Did Chantale like gingham? Had she asked for the dolls? Had she spotted the orangutan in a mail-order catalog, insisted it be hers? Had she won it at a carnival? Had she fixed her eyes on the plastic stars at night, wondering what life held in store? Had she shut her lids tightly, disillusioned by what it had so far revealed?

The waterfall announced Windows. Ryan worked the mouse, typed something. Something else. Crossing to watch, I could see that he had launched AOL and was trying various passwords.

He tried another key combination.

AOL informed him his choice was invalid, and suggested he reenter.

“That could take a lifetime,” I said.

“Most kids are unsophisticated.”

He tried the first name of each family member, then their initials, the initials in reverse order, then in varying combinations.

No go.

“What’s her birthday?”

I told him. He tried the digits forward and backward. AOL would not budge.

“How about the cat?”

“Guimauve.”

“Marshmallow?”

“Don’t look at me. I didn’t choose it.”

G-U-I-M-A-U-V-E.

AOL thought not.

E-V-U-A-M-I-U-G.

The welcome screen flashed, and a melodious voice announced waiting mail.

“Damn, I’m good.”

“You didn’t know the cat’s name.”

Ryan clicked an icon, and Chantale’s mailbox appeared on the screen. She had two unread e-mails. We scanned them silently. Each was from a school friend in Guatemala City.

Ryan shifted to Sent Mail. Chantale had e-mailed [email protected] seven times since her release on Friday. Each communiqué spoke of her unhappiness, and begged for help. She’d also appealed to Dirtdoggy, Rambeau, Bedhead, Sexychaton, and Criperçant.

Chantale’s Old Mail contained two entries, one dated yesterday, the other today at 3 P.M. Both were from Metalass. Ryan opened the earlier message.

“Terrific,” said Ryan, clicking on the second e-mail. “The guy’s a closet James Taylor fan.”

“Do you think Clem, Tim, and Guy could be the cyber punks she e-mailed?”

Ryan was lost in thought.

I picked up Chantale’s phone and hit redial.

Nothing.

I looked at the orangutan, wanted to shake it into divulging where its mistress had gone.

Ryan shut down the computer and stood.

“Idea?” I asked.

“A dandy. Let’s boogie.”

“
WHAT'S THE PLAN?” I ASKED AS RYAN TURNED ONTO SHERBROOKE

“Cannelloni at La Transition.”

I just looked at him.

“And bread pudding. They make kick-ass bread pudding.”

“I thought we were trying to find Chantale.”

“Then doughnuts.”

“Doughnuts?”

“I like the ones with sprinkles.”

Before I could answer, he turned onto Grosvenor, parked, circled the car, and opened my door. When I joined him on the sidewalk, he took my elbow and began steering me toward a corner restaurant.

The secrecy was beginning to grate. I balked.

“What’s going on?”

“Trust me.”

“I don’t want to spoil your Spy Versus Spy moment, Ryan, but we need to find Chantale.”

“We will.”

“With doughnuts and cannelloni?”

“Will you just trust me?”

“What’s the problem?” I yanked my arm free. “Can’t share classified police information?”

A woman with Coke-bottle glasses approached with a terrier that looked more rat than dog. Hearing my tone, she reeled in the leash, lowered her gaze, and quickened her pace.

“You’re frightening the locals. Come inside and I’ll explain.”

My eyes narrowed, but I followed. At the door I had a sudden flashback to my dinner with Galiano at the Gucumatz. If the maître d’ seated us in an alcove, I was out of there.

The restaurant was Fusion Mediterranean. Dim lights, forest-green paneling, navy and cranberry linen. A young woman led us to a table by the side windows, flashing Ryan a broad smile in the process.

Ryan grinned back, and we both sat.

“Ever hear of Patrick Feeney?”

“We don’t exchange Christmas cards.”

“Jesus, you can be a pain in the ass.”

“I work on it.”

Ryan sighed to indicate his enduring patience.

“Ever hear of Chez Tante Clémence?”

“It’s a shelter for street kids.”

Another young woman provided menus and more beaming teeth, filled water glasses, asked about drinks. Ryan and I both requested Perrier.

Ryan ignored his menu.

“The cannelloni is excellent.”

“So I’ve heard.”

When the waitress returned, I chose linguine pesto Genovese. Ryan stayed true to his vision. We both ordered small Caesars.

There was little conversation as we ate bread, then salad. I stared out the window, watching the day yield to night.

Children had disappeared from the sidewalks and yards along Grosvenor, called in to supper or homework. Porch and interior lights were glowing yellow in the duplexes lining both sides of the street.

Along Sherbrooke, banks and businesses were closing, stores emptying. Neon signs were blinking on, though most night establishments had yet to come to life.

Pedestrians were quickening their steps, sensing the chill promised by the deepening twilight. I wondered about Chantale Specter. To what destination might she be hurrying in the embryonic dusk?

After the food arrived, and we’d peppered and cheesed, Ryan spoke again.

“Aunt Clémence’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?”

“Clém’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 Clémence.”

“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 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.

A single red bulb glowed above the front door. Though the porch sagged badly, in the crimson light I could see fresh boards sandwiched among the old. Someone had turned the soil in a window planter, and a flat of marigolds lay to the side. Though Chez Tante Clémence would never win any design awards, a caring hand was clearly at work.

Clémence’s interior was in keeping with her public face. Lavender on the woodwork, crude murals on the walls. Animals. Flowers. Sunsets. The colors were those I remembered from the tempera paints of my lower school art classes. The furniture was Salvation Army, the linoleum different in every room.

Ryan and I crossed a front parlor containing several futon couches, passed a wooden staircase on the left, and entered a long, narrow corridor directly opposite the front of the house. Doors opened onto bedrooms on both sides, each with battered dressers and four to six single beds or cots. From one I could see the silver-blue shaft of a TV, and hear the theme music of
Law and Order.

Halfway down the hall, we came to a kitchen. Beyond the kitchen, I could see a dining room on the left, two more bedrooms on the right.

Feeney was on his knees in the kitchen, helping a teenage imitation of Metallica dismantle or assemble a boom box.

Like African chameleons that turn green and sway to imitate leaves, youth counselors often take on the traits of their clients.

Denim, ponytails, Birkenstocks, boots. The camouflage helps them mix with the populace.

Not Feeney. With tortoiseshell glasses and thick white hair parted straight as a runway the man might have blended at a home for seniors. He wore a cable-knit cardigan, flannel shirt, and gray polyester pants hiked up to his armpits.

On hearing footsteps, Feeney turned.