| |
SHE DIDN'T LISTEN TO herself. She couldn't. Tori fixated on Dom's disappearing act for most of the previous evening and began over again in the morning. He'd gone into the restroom, but hadn't come out again. No way she would have missed the dirty clothes, the shuffle and the habit of kneading his left hip. Surely the man hadn't evaporated. Yesterday, she'd crossed the concourse to speak to the janitor who mopped the floor outside the restrooms. He'd stopped in mid motion when she asked about another exit from the restroom.
“Nope, no other exit.” The janitor had lifted an eyebrow, rolled his eyes, and resumed mopping the floor. She gave herself a mental shake. Brooding over the situation wouldn't help, but brood she did. All this leap-frogged in her brain while she munched on a Swiss cheese and ham on rye and sipped iced tea. Remembering to brown-bag her lunch had been an easier goal to fulfil than letting go of the conspiracy theory she'd woven around the homeless man. Why was she so obsessed with thoughts of him? 'Enough,' she told herself. 'Enough, stop this nonsense. Haven't you got a life? Go home.'
Could it be, Tori thought as she reached into the desk drawer to retrieve her handbag, that she was bored? She considered her life quiet, but not boring. She had her mom, step-dad, sister, best pal Annie, a son and daughter, a hobby business, and this job to keep her social and creative life at a steady simmer. Maybe she missed the daily excitement, drama, office politics, and interaction with all kinds of people in her former job. In the end, she'd been worn down and exhausted by it all. She'd gladly left that behind her. Perhaps brain cells not occupied with daily living itched for a challenge, a puzzle to decode. A challenge like how did a homeless man fade into thin air under her nose? Her fingers brushed against the plastic bag with her new-old clothes.
Tori squeezed her eyelids shut and waited for direction. Ice-cream. She could almost taste the smooth creamy richness of the soft serve from the Creamerie in the Gare Centrale. As if of their own volition, her fingers closed over the bag and she marched to the ladies' room.
Dressed again in her new spy uniform of jeans and white cotton shirt, she raced out of the Cathedral, adjusting the ball cap, fumbling with sunglasses, barely remembering to lock the door behind her. Dom was already halfway down the hill. Ball cap pulled low to meet the frame of the sunglasses, she ambled along half a block behind Dom. While he headed toward the men's room, Tori veered off to the Creamerie. A quick glance over her shoulder reassured her that Dom hadn't yet reached his destination. A woman ahead of her in line examined each tub of hard ice cream. Tori shifted from foot to foot.
Come on, lady. Decide. She directed an impatient glance at the restroom entrance.
The clerk's gaze swept over Tori and the line of customers gathering behind her.
“Madame, do you mind if I serve the others while you decide?” The woman shrugged and moved over.
Tori nodded her thanks and ordered an ice cream sundae with caramel fudge drizzle and whipped cream. As she turned to leave, the woman asked for a plain vanilla ice cream cone.
Tori's sucked in her lips and repressed an expletive. She threw the woman a venomous stare. The sundae, cupped between warm palms, had begun to melt around the edges. Thin rivers of chocolate and caramel sauce snaked down a soft white mountain of frozen deliciousness.
Momentary annoyance dissolved as she placed a generous mound of cold unctuous goodness into her mouth, and licked the spoon clean. She exhaled a sigh of satisfaction. Seconds later she remembered her mission, and her head jerked up toward the restroom. Hopefully he hadn't snuck out while she indulged in sensory excess. Tori strolled toward a bench with a clear view of the rest rooms and sat next to a woman with two suitcases and a duffle bag. Enough for two. Passersby will assume one of those bags is mine. The woman launched a suspicious glare at Tori and pulled her luggage closer to her knees.
With a nonchalant air that implied indifference to any possible infringement of space bubbles, Tori pinned her gaze to the arrival and departure boards while keeping the restrooms in view.
A man she hadn't seen enter came out, Dom's backpack slung over his shoulder. He wore a white tee-shirt, aviator style sunglasses and knee length khaki shorts. His features dissolved in the shadow of a long-billed baseball cap. He stepped onto the escalator that would take him to Place Ville Marie and on to the city center. What if she was wrong and this wasn't Dom? Then she saw it. The man rubbed his left hip as the homeless man had. This was Dom the homeless man, looking much less pitiful and in full control of his mental capacities.
She'd been right. He was pretending to be homeless. Curiosity now at full throttle, she wracked her brain for the next step. Confrontation? Definitely not. Without further thought, Tori tossed the empty sundae dish into a trash bin and followed him up the escalator. Outside, momentarily blinded by the bright afternoon sun, she lost sight of Dom until, wearing her sunglasses, she spotted him strolling toward the rue Sainte-Catherine. She ambled along on the opposite side of the street from Dom, stopping in front of store windows as she caught up to him. Keeping him in view while feigning interest in window displays, she let him get ahead, then resumed tailing him.
Fifteen minutes later, mesmerized by an intricate necklace in a window, she almost forgot about Dom. A sharp blast of car horn snapped her focus back to the task at hand. She caught sight of Dom's backpack as he ducked into a narrow brown building sandwiched between a shiny new construction and a run-down, sagging dwelling. No mistake, this was Dom without his disguise. Tori didn't believe it was coincidence that this man massaged his left hip the same way as she'd seen Dom the homeless man do.
The sign on the door advertised rooms for rent. Where did he get rent money? Did street begging supply enough? Unlikely. He had another source of income. Which meant his situation as a homeless man was temporary. Probably a cover for something else going on in his life.
She stopped to consider her next move. If she followed him in, he might recognize her at close range through her thin disguise. Flapping the front of her shirt to create a breeze, she scanned the street for a good cool spot from which to keep an eye on the rooming house. Two doors down a coffee shop advertised the best coffee, pastries, and free Wi-Fi. Stepping into the air-conditioned coffee shop, she ordered an iced tea and a scone. Sipping the icy, tangy tea, she glanced around the almost empty room for a window seat.
As she sipped tea and nibbled on the scone, it occurred to her to document with photos. Tugging the mobile out of her tiny purse, she pointed the lens at the rooming house door. Too late now, but she should have snapped a photo of cleaned up Dom at the train station.
After forty-five minutes, another iced tea and a lot of boredom, the plate-glass door opened. Dom stepped out wearing dress slacks and a white shirt. He carried a briefcase and a dark suit jacket was draped over his arm. She snapped a couple more photos and steeled herself to follow him even though her bladder now burned with the need to relieve itself. Thigh muscles clenched, knees tight together, she focused on Dom. A businessman moonlighting as a homeless man?
She shivered with gratitude when the man got into a recent model black sedan and drove off. She snapped a photo of the license plate and bolted for the restroom.
As she squatted over the toilet bowl, in the afterglow of an empty bladder, she reflected on the facts as she knew them.
Dom lived a double life. He masqueraded as a mentally challenged homeless man. He lived in a rooming house and drove a recent model of automobile. Why? Was he an author or a journalist researching the homeless? A social worker? Why work from a rented room, not from the comfort of home?
The missing pieces to this puzzle were surely in his room at the boarding house. Manuscripts, or a journal. But how to get in? Which room was his? What name had he used to rent it? These questions roiled in her mind all the way back to the Cathedral, distracted her while she changed into her day work clothes and during the walk to the commuter bus terminal.
Familiar landmarks flashed by as the bus sped along the highway. The still waters of the Peel Basin, disturbed only by a raft of ducks diving for their dinner, didn't hold her attention as it usually did. Tori's brain gnawed on the conundrum of Dom, the homeless man who wasn't.
––––––––
AFTER ANOTHER RESTLESS night, Tori was not pleased to discover the Bishop's assistant had called in sick, and he assumed Tori, underwhelmed with work, would be delighted to take on the long list of tasks he needed done.
After every completed assignment, her mind cycled back, analysing Dom’s possible motives. What was his real name? Even if she could get past the watchdog at reception and sneak in, how would she find Dom's room? She could pretend to be his lady friend, but bile rose in her throat at the thought. No, they wouldn't allow just anybody into a guest's room, even in a low-end boarding house.
Frustrated by her inability to find a solution, she forced herself to focus on the next task. How many times had she told herself to forget Dom. It was none of her business. Why was she stalking the poor man? It was that quiet voice from deep in her mind that whispered – because it doesn't make sense. There's more to this business. Was it gut instinct, or obsession that drove her mind back to Dom?
As often happens, the mind, released from the pressure to resolve a puzzle immediately, serves up a solution. While she spoke to a customer service rep, an idea formed and zipped around her brain until she asked the rep to hold a moment, while she wrote it down. Tori clicked off the call and picked up her mobile phone. She flipped through the images from the previous day. There it was. A clear shot of the door and the telephone number. She took a deep breath, searched the ceiling for inspiration, scrawled down some talking points and tapped out the number. A deep voice, which could have been male or female, repeated back the number upon picking up.
“Bonjour,” Tori said in French. “Excuse me for disturbing you, but I'm looking for my younger brother and I have information he may have rented a room in your establishment. He's had mental problems and stopped taking his medication. I don't know what name he's using, but if I went over and showed you a photo, would you be able to help me?”
“Sorry, Madame,” The voice sounded bored and resigned, as if hundreds of females called about their errant brothers daily. “I don't know who you are, and this establishment respects the privacy of its guests. Unless you're the police and have authority, I can't help you.”
“Merci.” Tori stabbed the end button to disconnect. Nowhere as satisfying as slamming a receiver into its cradle.
Really, does Mr. Snooty think he works for the Ritz?
Damn, back to the drawing board. And to Bishop Laridy's phone calls. Now that she knew where Dom bunked down, there was no need to follow him. She'd find a way to get access to the supposed homeless man's room. There, she'd surely find clues to why this man cleaned up so well, owned a late model car and masqueraded as a challenged homeless man. If he was a journalist researching homeless people, there would be journals or notes. Why, then, was it necessary to rent a seedy boarding house room as a base of operations? Why did he change out of the homeless man disguise into casual clothes, and change again in his rented room? So many questions, so few answers.
She tapped out Sasha's number.
“Aunt Tori.” Sasha's tone was guarded if not downright suspicious. “Have you called to nag me about not visiting grandma?”
“I'm sure your own conscience is doing that job nicely. No, I'm following up on the Reverend McAdam case. Have you any suspects?”
“Tori, I can't discuss the case with you.”
“I understand that, but I was there, I saw Reverend Andrew's dead body. And there's this homeless man....”
“A homeless man? Between the churches, the Bell Center, the fast food joints, and the high pedestrian traffic, it's a prime location for homeless people and scalpers. One needs money to eat, the other, well, we won't go there.”
“Yes, of course I'm aware of that, but this one is special. He changes out of his homeless get-up in the restroom at the train station, then walks five blocks to a rooming house, where I'm sure he lives. At least part of the time.”
“For crying out loud, Tori,” Sasha growled. “First, what are you doing following a strange man around the city? If he's leading a double life, it's his business, and obviously, he doesn't want to be identified. That's stalking. It's against the law. Besides, you're exposing yourself to danger.”
“There's something not right about him. I see him every morning. Sometimes he forgets he's supposed to be challenged because he looks very lucid to me. Isn't that unusual for a supposedly challenged individual to tip back and forth between sound mind and not so sound? And I didn't follow him on purpose. We happened to be going in the same direction during my lunch hour. A couple of days in a row, he went into the men's restroom, but didn't come out. A man came out who rubbed his left hip just like the homeless man, and carried the same backpack. I followed him out of curiosity.” She could almost see her nephew palm his forehead and shake his head.
“It's okay, though,' Tori added, hoping to redeem herself. “I changed into a casual outfit I bought at the thrift store, so he wouldn't recognize me.” Sasha groaned.
“So, what then? You followed him into the men's rest room?”
“Of course not, Mr. Sarcastic, I'm not a fool. I waited until he came out, then followed him to his boarding house.”
“And you're convinced he didn't spot you?”
“No, I stayed across the street and some distance behind him. When he got to his rooming house I ducked into a coffee shop and took photos. Then he came out wearing a sport jacket and dress trousers, threw a briefcase in the back seat of a newish black car, and drove away. I've got photos of the plates, but they're blurry. I suppose your people can sharpen them up.” Tori waited out the silence on the other end of the line until she suspected her nephew may have hung up on her.
“Hello? Are you still there?”
“Okay, send them to me.” Tori pumped her fist in triumph. He was taking her seriously.
“If this comes to nothing, will you stop badgering me?”
“Thanks, Sasha. I just know in my bones something is off.” Tori hoped her bones were right. If not, her credibility with Sasha was shot.
“Hello?” Doris said from the door. Tori's heart fluttered in her chest as she looked up, wild-eyed.
“Sorry. I did it again.” Doris's fingertips flew to her lips. “I didn't mean to scare you.”
“Oh Doris, I didn't expect to see you until next week. How are you feeling?” The older woman gave no sign of having overheard Tori’s conversation with Sasha.
“Much better, thanks. I just can't sit around the apartment anymore. I called the Bishop and told him I can come back today. He said to come afternoons because you were working in the morning, and he wants somebody here all day.”
“Business-wise it makes sense. No boss, less work. The routine tasks only take a couple of hours.”
Doris chuckled. “They need me. If there's a minister or not, the dust doesn't stop, and those flowers won't replace themselves.”
“I meant to help out with at least the flowers. I got distracted by a young man sobbing in the church.”
“Was he slight, a little taller than you, brown hair and eyes?”
“It was too dim to see him clearly. I got the impression he was slight, but as to the rest, I couldn't tell. He sat and wouldn't look at me. I asked if I could help, but he shook his head and stared at the floor. He seemed so distraught, I hated to leave him. I saw him later walking up the street with someone.”
“It was Evan, I'm sure of it. The boy Reverend Andrew was helping. Poor lad. Reverend Andrew was the only person he talked to. I think it's worse now, since the Reverend... let's pray our Lord walks with him and helps him heal.” Doris looked toward the late priest's office. “He was a good man.”
She bowed her head for a moment, then looked at Tori, blinking sadness from her eyes.
“I brought lunch to share if you like.”
“That's so kind, thank-you. I have a sandwich, but we can share that too.” Tori followed Doris into the kitchen. The older woman tipped two chicken, vegetable, and rice casseroles onto microwave safe plates, and put one in to heat.
“Yum, smells good. That's a lot for two people.”
“One for us, one for Dom.”
“You are the kindest person I know, Doris Amadea,” Tori hugged the elderly woman.
“Oh, it’s nothing.” Doris scraped the hot food from a plate back into the tin container, topped it with a lid and gave it to Tori. “Would you mind bringing this to Dom?”
Tori sucked in her lips. She needed to be anonymous and invisible to Dom, not recognized as the nice lady from the church who gave him food. As she walked down the aisle to the front door, her mind raced to find a solution. To respect Doris' kind deed, meant Tori must jeopardize her own interests.
The big front doors stood open in silent welcome. She peeked out toward the intersection where Dom hung out, but he wasn't there. Relieved, she walked out toward the corner, scanning the street. When she saw him at the bottom of the hill, she exhaled a long whoosh. On her way back into the Cathedral, a movement in the shadow of the side entrance caught her attention.
There was another homeless man, a real one, she'd seen shelter there occasionally. She walked over and gave him Doris's chicken and rice casserole. He thanked her and tore the lid from the container. Tori couldn't watch him wolf down the food. No question this man was hungry. By contrast, Dom had the means to buy his own meals and then some. Jaw tense, she was more determined than ever to expose Dom's deception.
Back in the kitchen, Doris spooned casserole on each plate, accompanied by half a ham sandwich and set them on the table.
“He was gone. I gave the food to the other homeless man.”
“Oh, my goodness, I forgot about him,” Doris said, her fingers pressed against her mouth. “He's almost never there.”
“Lucky for him he was there today and got Dom's lunch.” Tori, relieved to have dodged a face-to-face with Dom, sat opposite Doris, who bowed her head and began to say grace.
Several moments after Doris finished grace, Tori still sat, head bowed, eyes closed.
“Tori dear, you can begin now,” Doris said, a spark of amusement in her gaze.
“Sorry, in my head again.” She wondered about this second homeless man. Had he been here the morning of Reverend Andrew's murder? This obsession was taking over her life. There was nothing more she could do. Sasha had the plate numbers, and she'd shared her information with him. Except now, this second homeless man might change things.
––––––––
TORI'S CURIOSITY DIDN't dry up just because her nephew lacked enthusiasm for her suspicions. When she didn't see Dom the following morning, she speculated he was done with his flirtation with homelessness and slithered back under the shelter of his rock. If Dom was the duplicitous character Tori suspected, he'd take advantage of society's neglect of the marginalized to vanish when it suited him. She sipped coffee while she chuckled over the email from the Bishop that released her from extra tasks because his assistant was back at work.
“Sure, dragged her martyred self and a box of tissues to work today,” Tori snorted. ‘Be nice,’ she cautioned herself. ‘You used to do it too.’
By ten o'clock Tori had completed all the routine clerical tasks. Now she was at loose ends until Doris arrived at noon with enough lunch for ten.
Thinking of lunch made Tori hungry. She craved her old favorite, an English muffin, layered with fried egg, bacon and topped with a slice of yellow cheddar. Voice mail on, the corridor entrance to the church locked, she left by the rear exit. Early morning sun had sipped the dew from every leaf, blade, and petal it touched, and promised to turn up the heat by early afternoon.
She shivered once inside the neighboring building. The lobby, all granite and stainless steel, seemed to have absorbed the icy conditioned air. A cacophony of sound drifted from the café. The clatter of dishes, and conversation, echoed off high ceilings and glass walls. The fragrance of coffee and toasted baked goods sucked up by the ventilation system, sterilized the air to match the decor. Such a contrast to the comforting aura of the Cathedral's wood and sandstone, soft old carpet, and lingering scent of wax swished about by ceiling fans.
When her turn came, she ordered her favorite meal, with a vanilla hazelnut coffee. She strolled to the floor to ceiling window while she waited. Across the street, a strong breeze ruffled the leafy heads of ancient trees. Their dappled shade danced on a group of Tai chi devotees who practiced their disciplined moves underneath.
Tori's gaze drifted to the notorious intersection where too many accidents happened; vehicles mowed down pedestrians and cyclists alike, fender tore into fender. The street was a favorite artery for protest groups, who shouted slogans and goaded riot squad officers. The street was wide enough to accommodate organized legal marches that finished in the park with speeches and music blasted through super sized speakers. Tori had watched the cycle repeat itself over a twenty-year span from her office window on the fourth floor in this building.
The instant she heard her name, thoughts of the past fled and she spun toward the counter to pick up her food. That's when she saw him on the curb. Dom shifted from foot to foot, extended his hat, his lips moved, then his features fell when he was ignored. Her lips tightened. An act deserving of an award because she knew the real Dom. She picked up her order and took it to a table with a view of the intersection. Brown tinted shades, lowered against a stronger sun, made faceless shadows of patrons who sat by the window. By the last bite, she'd eaten food and drank coffee she'd looked forward to, without tasting it. Her stomach was full, but her taste buds had not experienced the joy.
Damn this obsession with a pseudo homeless man. She tossed the packaging into a trash bin and exited through the back entrance of the building.
Back at the office, she called Sasha.
“Aunt Tori,” he said without preamble. “I ran the plate. The car belongs to a respectable citizen without a record. Nothing suspicious about him.”
“But Sasha, he's impersonating a homeless person. Isn't that suspicious?”
“Perhaps, but it's not illegal. Maybe it's research for an article, or he needs to enlighten himself, how is that any of our business? If you did it, for example, I'd question your mental state, but I couldn't arrest you unless you pulled down your pants and peed in the middle of Saint Catherine street in front of the Holt Renfrew. Even then, you'd be given a small fine and a stern recommendation to visit a therapist.”
“Very funny,” Tori said, more offended than amused. “What's the man's name? I only know him as Dom. Can't you visit his rented room?”
“I can't violate a citizen's rights, Aunt Tori. I'd need a warrant, and for that I'd have to prove malfeasance. And no, I can't tell you his name. Just forget it, Aunt Tori. He's not obliged to explain his desire to experience homelessness.” Tori's eyes narrowed, then grew wide.
“Okay, thanks Sasha. Sorry to have wasted your time.”
“Just don't do anything I can arrest you for, right?”
“Okay dear. Have a good day.”
Tori tapped her fingertips on the desk. Sasha said it wasn't illegal to impersonate a homeless person. An idea was born. Locking the office door, she headed down to the thrift shop in the basement. She sincerely hoped what she was about to do wouldn't get her arrested. After all, she hadn't promised her nephew anything.