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-viewmirror 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 tailedher, 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
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 tailedher, 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
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