Pete was awake now, waiting for me to explain the call.
“It’s Nico,” I said to Pete. “I have to run over to his place for a bit. See you after work.”
I didn’t wait for the response. Instead, I grabbed my purse and hoofed it out the door.
Nico lives in a cute little condo on Caroline. It’s close to my jewelry shop in Hess Village. It’s a trendy area of The Hammer, full of lawyers’ offices, advertising firms and good restaurants.
The second I left the elevator, the problem made itself clear.
“Hoser, hoser, hoser. SQUAWK!”
Nico swung open the door before I could knock on it. He looked…frazzled.
“I don’t think I can take much more, Gina. This parrot really is insane.”
I nodded. “Poor thing.”
The big bird was sitting on a perch in a large steel cage. You know how some parrots are pretty? This one looked like a punk parrot. Wild green feathers stuck out everywhere, and the eyes were crazy big.
I cooed to the thing. It gawked at me and then turned around on its perch.
“Parrots live for fifty, sixty years,” I said. “They get really attached to their masters. Thing is, Seb went inside for three to five back in the late ’90s. Pauly, the poor bird, was in grief. Probably thought Seb had died.”
“Gina, that bird is mooning you.”
Darned if it wasn’t. How do you train a bird to do that? “That’s amazing.”
Nico groaned. “This isn’t as much fun as I thought it would be. I can’t get it to stop talking.”
“Pauly did stop talking when Seb went inside,” I explained. “I can’t remember who looked after him. And then, when Seb got out and collected him, the bird went nuts.”
“Probably thought it was seeing a ghost.”
“It’s a known fact, Nico. Parrots go insane if they’re left by themselves. Just like people. I think the poor thing was neglected when Seb was in jail.”
“So now…”
“Hey, baby, take it off. SQUAWK!”
“Shut up!” Nico yelled at Pauly.
“Hoser, hoser, hoser.”
“It’s simple, Nico,” I said. “He won’t talk if you put the cover on his cage.” I demonstrated.
It was suddenly quiet. Eerily quiet.
Nico sagged in relief. “Thank God. I always thought I was an animal lover, Gina. But this…”
“That’s not an animal. That’s a demon bird from hell,” I said. I flopped down on the black leather sofa.
“Want an espresso?” Nico offered.
I shook my head. “We need to talk about the painting. I was thinking about cleaning companies.”
Nico smiled. An odd reaction, but then he said, “I already checked. We don’t have the contract.”
“Drat.” Maids-a-Go-Go was one of the family businesses. If only they had the cleaning contract for the art gallery. Nico and I had similar minds.
Oh well. Moving on…
“What about the security guards?” Nico piped up.
I snapped my fingers. “What’s Stoner’s number?”
Stoner was a mutual friend of ours. His black standard poodle, Toke (short for Toker), was the talk of the town, with its Mohawk haircut. Stoner was a bright lad with a bad habit. But more to the point, his father owned Stonehouse Security. They dealt in high-end home-security systems. Did they also handle security personnel?
Nico picked up the phone and called Stoner. They launched into conversation.
I waited and watched the parrot. It was trying to destroy the cover of the cage with its beak. Sort of creepy, watching that beak poke at the cover through the bars.
Nico covered the phone with his hand and addressed me. “Stoner says they don’t have anything to do with the art gallery. They don’t do anything that big.”
I thought quickly. “Does he happen to know anyone who is an expert in this sort of thing?”
Nico repeated this to Stoner.
I watched a slow grin split Nico’s face. He lifted his head and his eyes were twinkling. “Stoner knows the best.”
“And that would be…”
“A friend of his father’s. Formerly of CSIS.”
Gulp. Okay, that would do, I thought. It might even be overkill. Ditch that last word.
Most people have heard of the CIA and MI6. Here in the great white north, we have little ol’ CSIS, the Canadian Security Intelligence Service.
After Nico hung up, he explained. “John” from CSIS was an old army pal of Stoner’s dad, apparently. He just happened to be “retired” and living in Burlington.
“Is his last name Doe?” I asked.
Nico smirked. “Stoner will make the connection and get back to us. I told him to make it quick.”
EIGHT
We arranged to meet with John for lunch at La Paloma. I arrived early and went back into the kitchen to see Aunt Vera.
She dropped her wooden spoon and rushed over to kiss me.
“Morning, bella. Sammy tole me. That Seb. Ay-yi-yi. He made things difficult. All the time, he made things difficult.” She shook her head. Vera was clearly not part of the Seb fan club.
I shrugged out of my all-purpose leather jacket.
“You going to do it, cara mia?” she asked.
I didn’t pretend not to know. “I’m thinking of it,” I said honestly. “I have to weigh the risks.”
Aunt Vera nodded. Her two chins nodded too. She went back to the pot on the big commercial-size stove. “You’re a good girl. You’ll do your best.”
“Nico here yet?” A plate of antipasto sat waiting for customers on the steel counter. I was a customer. I snuck an olive.
“Nope. That boy is a worry. Why he care about draperies? What man care about draperies?” She threw up her hands in an age-old gesture.
“Nico’s all right,” I said. “He actually has a gift.” I popped another olive into my mouth.
“You watch out for that boy.” Vera raised the wooden spoon out of the pot and took a lick. “He listens to you.”
I sighed. Great. Once again, I was expected to be the good influence.
God help us all.
When I returned to the dining room, Nico was having an animated discussion with the man seated across from him. I hurried over to the table.
The stranger rose to greet me.
“I’m John,” he said, reaching out a hand. I took it and introduced myself. We sat down, and I struggled with first impressions.
I don’t know what I was expecting from a former CSIS operative. This man certainly wasn’t James Bond.
He was about average height and a tad on the heavy side. Not handsome but nice-looking. His brown hair was going to gray. His eyes took me in with one glance. He seemed to like what he saw. A thin smile lit his face.
Quite abruptly, it hit me. This was everyman. John would fit into a crowd and not stand out. Perhaps that had made him good at his job. And he had been good at his job, I was sure of that. There was just something about him. All his movements were careful and deliberate. It made you feel he could take care of himself in a bad situation.
“It’s really good of you to meet with us,” I said once we had settled. “I need to know about art-gallery security.”
John lifted one eyebrow. That was it. One eyebrow.
It did the trick.
“We’re not planning a heist,” Nico said quickly. “We’re not stealing anything.”
“It’s more like…” I hesitated. How far could I go with the truth? This guy was a stranger. “Let’s just say the art gallery is missing something of value. And they don’t even know it.”
I met his eyes. They were a steely gray, but I could see a dash of humor in them.
“What do you want to know?” was all he said.
“Let’s start with…what kind of security systems do they usually have in place?”
He leaned back in the chair. “CCT cameras. Probably motion sensors. Most do.”
I felt my heart fall. How
could Nico and I get around those?
“How old is the gallery in question?” John asked.
“1970s,” I said. “It’s one of those monuments to the god of concrete. Parts of it were renovated about ten years ago, I think.”
“The alarm system may be original,” he said. “Probably was state-of-the-art when installed. Most don’t get updated like they should, especially the nonprofit sites. Easy to tell.”
Nico shot to alert. “How?”
John shrugged. “Take a walkabout. Look for wires along the floor. Check to see if they are painted over. That will signal a system that has been there a long time. It may not even be working.”
Made sense. “But what about the CCT cameras?”
John cocked his head. “They probably link back to a monitor in a security room. At least, that’s what most people think. Television paints us a nice picture, but reality is quite different. There may be only one guard on duty. Those poor sods are paid minimum wage. How diligent are they going to be about watching every camera, every minute of their shift?”
Good point, I thought. Not to mention, if they only made minimum wage, they might also be working two jobs.
“Probably they have other things to do. Make the rounds. Visit the loo. Have a nap.” John appeared to be reading my mind.
“How would you get past the motion sensors?” I asked.
“That’s the tricky part. Those sensors can be really sensitive. For instance, a cat let loose in the building can trip them. And trip them. And trip them.”
For a second, I just watched his face. It changed from impassive to tricky. One might also say…playful.
“The old ‘crying wolf in the art gallery’ trick,” said Nico, getting excited. “Oh really, that’s brilliant.”
“The security guard goes to check when the first alarm goes off. And the second. But eventually gets fed up,” I said. “I like it.”
My mind was already devising a plan. How could we get into the gallery after dark? Or maybe…we’d go in at the end of the day and hide. Wait for the gallery to close. We’d have to bring a cat in with us, maybe in a bag. How would we keep the cat quiet? No, that wouldn’t work…
“Of course, the easiest way would be to do the job when the motion sensors are off.”
I straightened. “When do you mean?”
Now I got a genuine smile from him. “During the day, when the gallery is open.”
Nico gasped. “With all sorts of people about? Isn’t that brazen?”
John leaned forward. “The trick would be to create a diversion. A really big diversion.”
My mind shifted to warp speed.
* * *
An hour later, the three of us had finished the pasta verde (best in the city). We said our thanks and goodbyes. I headed back to the store. I snuck into the back office while Tiff dealt with a customer out front.
A plan was buzzing in my head. It was the sort of plan that would require a specific kind of talent. Time to call in the big guns.
I picked up the phone and called Sammy.
“How do I get in touch with cousin Jimmy? You know, the old one who got sent down for burglary. He’s out of the clinker, right?” I was pretty sure there had been a party for him a couple of years ago. I’d probably skipped it—one of those phases when I was determined to throw off the family connection.
Like that worked.
“Jimmy the Cat? He’s living at Holy Cannoli Retirement Villa now. But tonight is his pole-cat night, and he won’t want to be disturbed.”
“What are you talking about?” Jimmy didn’t do jobs anymore. I knew that. His walker got in the way.
Sammy sighed. “You know your great-aunt Rita started that group—Speed Dating for Geezers? They meet the first Thursday of every month at the Bing-Bong Room. You know, the nightclub downtown that plays big-band music. Jimmy never misses.”
“Speed Dating for Geezers??” First I’d heard of it.
“Yeah, well the real name is the Last Chance Club,” Sammy said. “I just call it that. It’s been a huge success. Who woulda guessed? Of course, they’re all batty. Nobody can remember who they’ve been with before, so it’s like the first time every night.”
I choked. “A dating club for the nursing-home set?”
I tried to think of a bunch of old men and ladies getting tangled up with their walkers.
I shook my head. It wasn’t working for me.
“Yeah, that little blue pill has a lot to answer for,” said Sammy.
Now it really wasn’t working for me. Holy cannoli, the thought of Last Chance wizened wieners…YIKES.
“Watcha want him for, doll?”
Okay, now it was time to fudge.
“I’m pretty sure I don’t anymore,” I said with a shiver. “The creep factor is out of hand.”
Sammy was chuckling as I clicked off the phone.
Next, I called Nico. “I think we’re in business.” I explained what I needed him to do.
“No problem,” said Nico. “I’ll phone the retirement home. Jimmy and I are tight. He was my mentor before he went in.”
I should have guessed.
“How many do you need for this?”
“Try for seven,” I said. “I think the van holds ten. We both need a seat.”
“I’ll arrange the whole thing, Gina. Call you back.” He rang off.
A short time later, the phone sang “Shut Up and Drive.”
“All set,” said Nico. “Here’s what I arranged.”
I listened for a while. Then he stopped talking, and I gave him the necessary details.
“Leave the bird at home,” I said.
“No kidding. See you later.”
Finally, I called Pete.
“Do you mind doing without me tonight? I have to help out with the Last Chance Club.”
Silence. I could almost hear the gears in Pete’s mind working. “Tell me this isn’t anything to do with the family business.”
Oh yeah. Last Chance. I got it.
I swallowed. Then laughed. I hoped it didn’t sound too nervous. “It’s a dating club for the retirement home. Speed dating for geezers.”
“Speed dating for—”
“My great-aunt Rita runs it. None of the old dears have their licenses anymore. I offered to drive them to the Bing Bong Room tonight in the Cannot Hotel.”
That was me, the Good Samaritan. It was a nice story. Hey, it was almost true.
“The Bing Bong Room. You’re making this up.” The words were scolding. But I could tell Pete was smiling.
“Am not! They play big-band music there once a week. It’s kinda fun. We should go sometime.” But not tonight.
Pete laughed. “Have to pass for now. Got a game. But you have a good time, babe.”
Oh, I was going to have a brilliant time. Me and my seven heavy dates.
NINE
One thing about growing up in this family: you learn how to drive all sorts of vehicles. A lot of my godfather’s businesses require moving merchandise around. Which is to say, we have a lot of trucks. I have access to most.
For this adventure, I picked a ten-seater van. It came with the optional upgrade to bulletproof glass, which I wasn’t expecting to need on this occasion.
When I pulled into the retirement-home lane, they were already waiting. From the van window I caught sight of a sea of gray hair and walkers. A kindly male attendant stood by to help with the loading.
I shifted the van into Park and came out to greet them.
“Big outing for them,” said the support worker. “Hope they don’t cause you trouble.”
Trouble? This bunch of elderly dears? I had to smile.
The attendant stood ready to help them board. I got back in the van to help the unsteady from my end. One by one, the Last Chance Club climbed aboard and found their way to seats.
“We’re short a few birds,” Jimmy announced as he shuffled by. “Rita can’t make it. She twisted an ankle belly dancing.”
“I warned her,” said Mrs. Bari, who was right behind him. “Rita, I says, you gotta lay off the pasta.”
Great-Aunt Rita was sort of ample. The picture of her in a belly-dance costume was not doing a lot for me.
Mrs. Bari herself was thin and spry, like Jimmy. The usual gray curly hair came with an assortment of face wrinkles.
She sat herself down on a seat behind me. Jimmy plunked down beside her. This put him within conversation range. So I took the opportunity to ask Jimmy something I’d been wondering about all day.
“Okay, Jimmy. Why speed dating?”
“Sweetheart, it has to be fast. Not like we got a lot of time left or anything.”
I sighed and took my seat. The support worker put the last of the walkers on board. I shifted the van into Drive.
On the way downtown, I stopped to pick up Nico. He had dressed up for the occasion. Black pants, white dinner jacket and spiffy bow tie.
“Channeling Sinatra tonight?” I said to him.
“Don’t be silly, Gina. I’m Bogie.” He fiddled with the tie and sat down in the tour-guide spot.
“Of course!” I grinned. “The Maltese Falcon. Or, in your case, Parrot.”
He beamed a smile.
“Hi, Jimmy,” he said. “Hi, ladies and gents. All ready for the big event?”
“I’m not a lady,” cried one elderly voice. “And I can prove it.”
“No!” I yelled. “Wally, do NOT remove your pants on this bus.”
Luckily, I was driving. I had to keep my eyes on the road.
“Here. See? I’m a guy.”
“Oops. Oh dear,” said Nico. “I can see that.”
“Can I see that?” said Mrs. Bari.
“PUT THAT AWAY,” I yelled. “Nico, do something.” I stopped at the red light. It turned green. I started up again.
Already I was getting bad vibes.
“Jimmy, are you sure we can we depend on them?” I asked.
“Were we supposed to wear Depends?” said one.
“I never wear Depends to speed dating. Takes too long to get out of.”
“You don’t go commando!”
Gasps all around.
“Gertrude, you always were loose,” said one disapproving voice.
“The loosey bird gets the worm,” said Gertrude, giggling.
Gack!
The Artful Goddaughter Page 4
