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.”
EIGHT
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
“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.”
EIGHT
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
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