Vantage Point

by Scott Thornley

  Fiza got off the bed and picked up her jacket, trying to hide her pleasure in the victory.

  “One last thing. If you have wine, only one glass. Remember, you’re still taking pain medication.”

  * * *

  Le Hibou was nestled among the trees on Wilson Road on the outskirts of Ancaster. Mud-splattered SUVs and pickup trucks shared the parking area with motorcycles, small cars, and a battered Volkswagen van. Scanning the door and panel signage on some of the vehicles, MacNeice noted electricians, drywallers, house painters, plumbers, general contractors, and a landscaping company. Several bikes were locked to a galvanized rack that looked vaguely like overgrown paper clips. Off to the side, three motorcycles leaned on their kickstands.

  MacNeice pointed to the building’s mansard roof, where a two-foot plastic owl stood watch. Judging from the birdsong in the surrounding trees, its use as a bird deterrent was limited.

  The menu was beside the door. It promised Nouvelle cuisine de France. And below that, Dishes prepared in the new French style.

  “In the remote chance that our man is here, I want you to leave immediately and call it in from the car. Understood?” Aziz nodded as he handed her the car keys.

  The proprietors of Le Hibou were Agnes Gagnon and Chef Jean-Marc Gagnon. Agnes was the sommelier and manager, and she met them at the door. An attractive woman in her late thirties, she asked if they’d like a table or seats at the bar.

  The zinc bar played a starring role, taking up half the length of the restaurant. Though guests sitting there had their backs to the room, they could see behind them thanks to a series of framed mirrors that were tilted down for better viewing.

  “The bar’s lovely, but I think that table in the corner would be perfect,” said Aziz, looking to see if MacNeice agreed.

  As Agnes led them to the corner table, MacNeice played the part of tourist, pretending to look at the art on the walls but really keeping his attention on the faces of the people in the booths and at the bar. No sign of the killer.

  The lunch crowd was finishing up, and by the time Agnes arrived to take their order, the population of Le Hibou had been reduced to half of what it was when they’d walked in. MacNeice produced his badge and introduced himself and Aziz. Laying his hand on the envelope containing the police sketches, he asked, “Would you have time now to answer a few questions and look at an artist’s rendering?”

  Agnes looked at her customers, who were engaged in conversation or working through their slices of pie and coffees. “Yes, but I may have to cut it short. What’s this about?”

  MacNeice gave her a brief overview. “We’re looking for a person of interest, an artist who may frequent Le Hibou.”

  “Shall I ask Jean-Marc to come out? He knows most of the artists who come here.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, yes.”

  Aziz coughed into her hand.

  “Oh, and we will be ordering, if that’s possible.”

  “Yes, of course. You can order directly from the chef.” She smiled and disappeared into the kitchen.

  A short, slender man appeared. He was handsome, exuding confidence and flair in his tight white double-breasted chef’s jacket and houndstooth trousers. Gagnon wiped his hands on his torchon, picked up a chair from another table, and placed it next to Aziz. With a Gallic air, he took Fiza’s hand and introduced himself in French as Chef Jean-Marc. She responded in French and introduced MacNeice, before asking him if they could continue in English.

  “Oui, as you wish.”

  MacNeice gave the chef a brief overview. “Before I show you the sketch, can you tell me how you’ve attracted so many artists to Le Hibou?”

  “Ah oui. And here, on the road to Ancaster. The simple answer is I do not exactly know. I meet Agnes in Toulouse; she comes to my restaurant and we fall in love. A year later we marry and Agnes convinces me to come to Canada. I agree, only if she agrees to return to France if it does not work out. But, as you can see, it did. Three years later I do not feel so much in the wilderness, though still a bit. As for the artists and workers, it is the same as in France — they find you. Remote does not matter to them. And there is so much construction here.” His posture shifted. He sat close and tapped the envelope. “Alors, what do you have in there, Detective?”

  “We’re hoping you’ll tell us. We believe he’s an artist.” MacNeice pulled out the composites and placed them before the chef and his wife. “Take your time. Like any rendering, they may be very close — or not.”

  Gagnon studied the sketches for several seconds before sliding them over to Agnes. She looked closely at the images before admitting that she didn’t recognize the man. Gagnon tapped one of the drawings twice and abruptly walked off to the bar. A minute later, he was standing over their table sipping an espresso.

  “Two years ago I cater a lunch for an arts group in Dundas. He was there, I am sure of it. He complimented my crème caramel.” Gagnon finished his coffee, put the cup on the bar, and returned to look again. “It is a good likeness. I am sure it is him, but I have not seen him here at Le Hibou. I am sorry, I do not know his name or his work.”

  “Are there any customers here now that attended the Dundas event?”

  Jean-Marc scanned the tables to focus his memory. “It was not modern art. More watercolours and oil paintings of farms and barns and streams — very skilled. They do not come here. We attract younger artists and writers.”

  “That far table — are they artists?”

  “Oui. Well, three are. The other two, one is a writer and the other, I think he is a musician.” He put the chair back and said, “I have to continue with cooking. I do not know what you like, but I have made two different quiches for tonight. They are still warm. One vegetarian, the other with pulled duck. Both have wonderful local white asparagus.”

  “Pulled duck and asparagus, please,” Aziz said, too quickly, she thought. Slowing it down, she added, “With a butter tart and crème fraîche to finish.”

  “I’ll just have the vegetarian quiche,” said MacNeice. “Thank you both for your time.” As they shook hands, he added, “It will help our investigation if you consider this conversation confidential.” He put the composites back in the envelope and moved it aside.

  Agnes asked, “Can I offer you a complimentary glass of Burgundy?”

  “That would be lovely, thank you.” Powered only by anticipation and adrenaline, Aziz was alert, sitting up tall, and happy.

  * * *

  When they’d finished their meal, Jean-Marc met them at the cash desk. “Here’s my card, Detective. On the back is the contact for that Dundas lunch, Jean Wishart. She is a fine painter and may know this person.” He smiled before adding, “Alors, in English you might say she is a ‘character.’”

  Outside, as MacNeice dialled Jean Wishart’s number on his cell, Aziz looked for cardinals in the cedars. She’d never noticed birds before she met MacNeice. He’d taught her many things, but this was a gift of pure joy.

  “Wishart’s in. I’ll take you home and loop back.”

  “I’d appreciate it. This was divine. The quiche was delicious, and I don’t think it was just in comparison to St. Joe’s white sauce.”

  As they were driving back to Dundurn, Aziz leaned against the door and fell asleep. MacNeice pulled over and lowered the backrest. She mumbled something but didn’t open her eyes. As the seat descended, she smiled a smile better seen from the inside of a dream.

  From then on MacNeice did his best to moderate his speed, avoiding rough patches on the road and anticipating stoplights. When they finally came to a stop at her apartment building, he turned off the engine and waited for the loud chatter of a nearby jay to fade before opening the door.

  Aziz woke up as he unfastened her seatbelt. “Oh, my . . . I think I was fast asleep.”

  He lifted her legs out of the car and told her to put her arms around his neck. Wi
th her head resting on his chest, he lifted her out of the seat and closed the door. “Are you okay to walk, Fiza?”

  “Oh . . . yes. Just give me a moment.” She took a deep breath and stood upright for a second or so before she began to fall back towards the car.

  Catching her, he said, “I’m going to carry you, Fiza. Just relax.”

  At the door, she punched in the entry code. Aziz had been in the same building for years and had managed to move to the top floor. At her door she asked to be put down. “It would be too much like carrying me over the threshold.”

  “Very funny,” MacNeice said as they stepped inside. “You’re all right getting into bed?”

  “Yes.”

  MacNeice went into the kitchen, where days-old breakfast dishes were sitting in the sink. He put them in the dishwasher, where they joined breakfast dishes from several days before. From the cupboard he retrieved a water jug decorated with blue cornflowers. He filled it with water and squeezed in the juice of a lemon. Before going back to the bedroom, he picked up a glass from the drying rack.

  “Are you decent?” He smiled, an acknowledgement that this was the first time in his life he’d ever asked that question.

  He put the jug on the bedside table, noting a small stack of the London Review of Books on the lower shelf. Filling the glass, he asked, “What medications have they given you?”

  “Just the antibiotics. They offered something for the pain, but I didn’t take it. I’m fine with ibuprofen. It’s in the medicine cabinet, but I don’t need it now. I’ll just sleep for a bit.”

  MacNeice opened the window to let in some fresh air and the certainty of birdsong. Then he closed the curtains, immediately plunging the room into a sleep-­inducing blue dusk.

  Aziz was struggling to keep her eyes open, making him appreciate how difficult it had been just for her to get in bed.

  “Shall I do your hair before I leave?”

  “Oh, how nicely put. You may, sir.”

  If closed eyes can smile, hers were beaming. He sat on the edge of the bed, consciously avoiding any contact that would put pressure on her lower back. MacNeice ran his fingers gently through her hair until all its resisting strands were free and aligned. He hadn’t noticed the tension in her face, but after a few minutes he could see that, like a young girl, she’d fallen into a deep, worry-free sleep.

  [39]

  Jean Wishart lived in a small 1880s home on Augusta, where the living room doubled as her studio. A short and sturdy woman in her sixties, she was wearing a long, paint-stained smock when MacNeice knocked on the door.

  “Come in, come in.”

  She directed him to sit on a sofa, sharing space on one side with several large books and on the other with a curled-up grey cat. The animal managed to open one eye in his direction, although its bisected yellow pupil didn’t follow him. It simply registered that something had happened and then closed again.

  “Don’t bother petting Stein. She doesn’t like it and you wouldn’t enjoy the experience. I’ll just be a moment.”

  MacNeice sat with his knees together, the envelope containing the police sketches resting on his legs. He felt as if he were in someone’s waiting room. Wishart was doing something with her painting kit, perhaps to keep it from drying out while they spoke. While she worked, MacNeice reassured her. “I won’t take much of your time, Miss Wishart.”

  “Oh, I know you won’t.”

  MacNeice’s eyes were drawn to a cord tethered to the wall beside the window and coiled in a neat circle on the floor below. He followed the cord to the ceiling, where it dropped through a small galvanized pulley to a wooden chair that was rotating slowly. He looked up at the rest of the ceiling; six identical chairs were hanging like bats above his head and around the room.

  “It’s a modest solution to the need for space, Detective.” Her head poked around the easel in his direction. “If I could manage it, I’d hoist up that sofa too. Mind you, it’s been almost a century since that old thing has shown its bottom to the world.”

  He felt like Alice about to enter Wonderland. While there weren’t any framed paintings, detailed studies of butterflies, flowers, and vines snaked up the walls. They were taped to the wall the way detectives tape up investigation photographs, though unlike those, the studies looked as if they should be framed. The easel was turned away from his view, and she wasn’t inviting him to see what was on it.

  MacNeice looked at her shoes and stockings, visible under the easel. The shoes were the type of lace-up oxfords that likely hadn’t changed since the early 1900s, when nurses and teachers wore them. The stockings were thick support hose, vaguely pink, though probably beige. She wore a pleated grey skirt, the hem of which fell six inches below her knees.

  “That should do it.” She came towards him carrying the paint-stained stool from behind her easel. Sitting down in front of him, she said, “Your call seemed urgent, which suits the work I’m doing. Let’s avoid unnecessary pleasantries and get down to it.”

  He watched as she picked up the composites and the Durand Park sketch. “Yes, I have met this man. Jean-Marc’s memory impresses me.” She put her hand on the composite’s cheek. “He was there ostensibly to join our merry band of dinosaurs.” She looked over her glasses at MacNeice. “He didn’t, of course.”

  She held it at arm’s length. “It’s a fairly accurate rendering. Of course, you’ll want to know his name, but alas, I cannot provide it. He called in and I never made a note. I suppose I thought he wouldn’t appear. If it’s helpful, I think he had an unusual name, said it was Spanish. I’m happy to ask the other members if they might recall.”

  “That’d be very helpful. Can we do it electronically?”

  “By email? Yes. I will send you their contact information early this evening. You may introduce yourself using my name.” She handed the composites back to MacNeice and picked up the Durand sketch. Moving the glasses to her forehead, she peered closely at the drawing. For the first time since he’d arrived, her face melted into a smile.

  “This drawing . . . It’s a mere wisp of a thing, isn’t it. And yet so charming. It’s the graphic equivalent of the smell of lilacs on the breeze. I can see why he came to us. He shares more with John Constable than he may feel comfortable acknowledging. These days it’s flash and dash and the almighty ‘concept.’ This man has skill; he sees things most pups in the art racket would not. And yet, alas and alack, he never came back.” Wishart slapped her thighs, either enjoying her rhyme or signalling it was the end of their meeting.

  “How old do you think he is?”

  “He’d lived a life, I do remember that. You could see it in his eyes, but you can also see it here.” She pointed to the composite. “I’d say in his early to mid-forties.”

  MacNeice gave her his card, thanked her for her time, and walked out the door. Elapsed time since entry: twelve minutes.

  As he approached the Chevy, his cellphone rang; it was Maracle. “Hold on, Charlie.” He got inside and waited for the call to emerge through his car speakers. “What have you got?”

  “I’ve been watching that alley footage in slow motion.”

  “And?”

  “He’s military, sir, most likely Special Forces. Rank-and-file foot soldiers don’t learn those moves. And no one else trains for that — not cops, thugs, or security. I suppose it could be eastern training, some Bruce Lee black-belt move.”

  “Do you know any Special Forces personnel, by regiment or name?”

  “They came from different regiments, but they never mingled with people like us. They all wore non-regulation gear. They’d chow down by themselves, hit the weights by themselves. They don’t look up, not even if you walk by. And if you said, ‘Hey, what’s up?’ you were greeted with silence. And then they’d be gone and no one — I mean no one — seemed to know where they went.”

  [40]

  He wasn�
��t satisfied with her thigh. It needed to rise slightly, as in the first moment of defence, not enough to suggest that she was cowed by terror. While it was true she didn’t know what was coming, she might have guessed it wasn’t going to be the usual $500 slam-bam in the sack.

  It took her a moment — less time than it took to remove her kimono — to recognize his face from the grocery store. The Kit Kat man. Still, money talks, and even an asshole needs to get laid. That he knew DeSouza and had called from his cellphone meant that Paolo had personally cleared him. But to further reassure her, he flashed the black Exotic Escorts business card from the pocket of his hoodie.

  Her mother had taken the boy for the night to cover for her regular sitter. A movie and a pizza would do him right. As for her, she’d mastered the moans of ecstasy while dreaming about her real job, the one she hadn’t attained: hairdresser for high-fashion models. Actually, that was her fallback dream career. In her early teens she’d really wanted to be a high-fashion model herself. But as her body developed, the only offers that came her way didn’t require any clothes.

  Kit Kat Man. What was it he’d whispered in her ear? No matter. A buck’s a buck, a fuck’s a . . . “So, you met with Paolo and Gary. I sent them looking for you.”

  “I did. He said you told him about the chocolate bar.”

  “Oh, yeah. Hey, that was nothing.”

  “I agree. Anyway, after we talked, he handed me his cellphone and you were on the other end. Consider this a makeup session, where we can both benefit.”

  “Yeah, but he’ll take his cut from our pleasure.”

  “That’s business. Anyway, my request is a little bit different.”

  There’d been many men, and even some women, who just wanted to look at her naked. But this time, hopefully, she wouldn’t be asked to do the things no working girl wanted to do — like the woof-woof stuff.