ONE THING THAT bothered me about the last coffee shop was that it was too cold. It’s like they cranked the air conditioning to Antarctic research facility. It’s a nice day outside, but it’s not that hot. It reminds me of working in an office. I remember it would be the middle of summer, maybe thirty degrees outside. Like, 90F for our American friends. But you’d be wearing long pants and a sweater, because the office was too cold for shorts. And they said shorts were unprofessional, for some reason.
So I’ve moved. I’m sitting outside at the City Café Bakery. It’s a little further down the Iron Horse. On Strange St. Neat name, eh?
Well, strange was where this case was going, that’s for sure. I’m reminded of a Clive Barker movie where the private eye is busy following some money launderer around, when the guy goes to a fortune teller, and then the whole thing switches to a supernatural story, focusing on the fortune teller and his cohorts.
There’s no supernatural element here, sadly. If only that were a thing. I get the appeal, sure. But there are enough scary things in the real world.
Still, a story about vampires, or werewolves, or something. That might be cool. Maybe once this blog’s done, I’ll try actual writing.
It’s getting pretty busy here. Good thing I’m outside. The café itself is pretty cramped, but they’ve got bagels and pizza, plus some excellent coffee. What’s unique about the place is it uses an honor-system payment model. They’ve got this old-school transit fare box you drop money into. They only take cash, and they don’t make change. Well, they do, but you have to call over the baker, who’s very busy. So you end up either dropping extra money in as a tip … or you’re an asshole who short changes them. Not too many people do that.
So, the sickness angle made sense. The loss of muscle tissue, the hair loss, the thyroid treatment, the supplements. Jim had cancer or was undergoing some kind of therapy. This would account for at least some of his behavior in the recent months. It was something I hadn’t considered, and it also explained why he was hiding things from his wife.
What it didn’t explain was his new social life, and the clandestine meetings with Wendy and Zander and possibly this new guy. Let’s call him Ahmed.
My next move was to get lunch. And then think about what my actual next move might be. I grabbed a falafel and figured I could head back to their office and see if either of them were there today. Other than that, go home and finish a painting? No, I’d rather take a punch in the face.
I bought a couple of small things that came in big boxes, then hit up a craft store for some brown wrapping paper and tape. The mall was pretty handy for putting a last-minute disguise together.
I returned to the office with my courier outfit and a couple of packages. The receptionist was there, so I flirted for a bit, then told her I had some deliveries for Jim and (I looked at my clipboard) Wendy. I didn’t tell her the packages were just a box of protein bars and a 6-pack of Vaseline. Don’t laugh; it’s what the drugstore had in reasonably sized boxes.
The receptionist said she hadn’t seen Jim in a few days, but Wendy had called and was coming in later. If I could just drop them on their desks, she would be thankful. I gave her a wink and headed in.
Wendy’s desk was spartan. But I gave it a quick once-over and found a thin pad of paper with a hotel on the letterhead. Some place out on the golden mile on Victoria St.—a place that offered honeymoon suites. I tore a sheet off and placed both packages on Jim’s desk.
It was in my best interest to switch up the rental car at this point, so I returned the car and got something else in a different color. I’d be following Wendy again, and she knew my car, so instead of a white Nissan Versa, I was now driving a grey Hyundai Elantra. It took about a half an hour of adjusting the seat and settings, but I felt confident I could chase someone down in it.
I returned to the office parking lot and found Wendy’s car. I parked nearby and leaned my chair back. It was likely going to be some time before she came out again. It took about fifty games of Fruit Ninja before I saw her inside the main doors, asking the receptionist something. Probably about the box of personal lubricant she was holding. I guess she found the package on Jim’s desk.
I laughed a little as she walked the package to her car and put it in the trunk.
She pulled out and headed for the expressway. I followed her. But not too close this time. It’s much easier to follow someone in town than on the highway; more cars means more places to hide. Although, on a remote highway in northern Ontario, everyone’s going to the same place anyway, so it’s harder to tell if someone’s actually following you. Now that I think about it, it’s a tough call.
Sure enough, she was heading to the hotel in the east end of Kitchener. I’m not going to name the hotel or anything—that would be irresponsible. Just know that it was close to strip clubs, car dealerships, and building centers.
As she pulled into the parking lot, I caught another glimpse of Zander’s truck. I was half expecting to see Jim’s BMW as well, but no such luck. I continued past the motel, then pulled a U-turn and parked in a nearby strip mall.
The DSLR camera stayed at home this time. It was way too conspicuous for a late afternoon in a seedy motel. I bet the motel management and staff specifically look out for guys with cameras, given the nature of the place.
Wendy’s car was parked beside the pickup, so they were most likely in one of the two rooms behind them. I approached slowly between the vehicles, checking inside each one as I did. There was nothing suspicious, except a map of Ontario carelessly thrown in the passenger seat of Wendy’s car.
The doors to the motel rooms had no windows, and the large bay windows on one room had their curtains drawn closed. On the other, there was a little gap I could see through. But gawking through a window is a little obvious, so I just walked by and glanced inside. Empty.
That left only one other room … unless they’d parked on the other end of the lot, and that seemed much too cunning for these guys. I approached the second room’s door and listened to the raised voices inside. Something about keeping someone alive, and something else about a package. I stifled a laugh about the packages I’d delivered to Wendy at the office.
Suddenly, the room went quiet, and I realized I needed to get out of there. I started walking away and winced as the door opened behind me.
“Come on inside, pal,” said the voice.
I stopped, knowing the voice had a gun. But I played it casual just in case I was wrong.
As I turned around, I saw that I wasn’t wrong.
Zander ushered me into the room, and I could see a dispassionate Wendy looking at me. Interestingly, I caught a glint of uncertainty in her eyes as I’m sure she wondered who I was; if I was even the guy following her the other night. Still, I was sure neither of these people had seen my face before now, and since the new car was nowhere nearby, they must have known they were taking a big gamble detaining me.
But the gun was out, and it’s hard to put a gun away after it appears.
They asked me who I was, and I gave them some pithy response. Then I felt a bag go over my head and everything went dark.
The stars came out after they hit me on the back of the head. Then it went dark again.