'That's the plan?' I asked as Ryan turned onto Sherbrooke.

'Cannelloni at La Transition.'

I just looked at him.

'And bread pudding. They make kick-ass bread pudding.'

'I thought we were trying to find Chantale.'

'Then doughnuts.'

'Doughnuts?'

'I like the ones with sprinkles.'

Before I could answer, he turned onto Grosvenor, parked, circled the car, and opened my door. When I joined him on the sidewalk, he took my elbow and began steering me toward a corner restaurant.

The secrecy was beginning to grate. I balked.

'What's going on?'

'Trust me.'

'I don't want to spoil your Spy Versus Spy moment, Ryan, but we need to find Chantale.'

'We will.'

'With doughnuts and cannelloni?'

'Will you just trust me?'

'What's the problem?' I yanked my arm free. 'Can't share classified police information?'

A woman with Coke-bottle glasses approached with a terrier that looked more rat than dog. Hearing my tone, she reeled in the leash, lowered her gaze, and quickened her pace.

'You're frightening the locals. Come inside and I'll explain.'

My eyes narrowed, but I followed. At the door I had a sudden flashback to my dinner with Galiano at the Gucumatz. If the maître d' seated us in an alcove, I was out of there.

The restaurant was Fusion Mediterranean. Dim lights, forest-green paneling, navy and cranberry linen. A young woman led us to a table by the side windows, flashing Ryan a broad smile in the process.

Ryan grinned back, and we both sat.

'Ever hear of Patrick Feeney?'

'We don't exchange Christmas cards.'

'Jesus, you can be a pain in the ass.'

'I work on it.'

Ryan sighed to indicate his enduring patience.

'Ever hear of Chez Tante Cleménce?'

'It's a shelter for street kids.'

Another young woman provided menus and more beaming teeth, filled water glasses, asked about drinks. Ryan and I both requested Perrier.

Ryan ignored his menu.

'The cannelloni is excellent.'

'So I've heard.'

When the waitress returned, I chose linguine pesto Genovese. Ryan stayed true to his vision. We both ordered small Caesars.

There was little conversation as we ate bread, then salad. I stared out the window, watching the day yield to night.

Children had disappeared from the sidewalks and yards along Grosvenor, called in to supper or homework. Porch and interior lights were glowing yellow in the duplexes lining both sides of the street.

Along Sherbrooke, banks and businesses were closing, stores emptying. Neon signs were blinking on, though most night establishments had yet to come to life.

Pedestrians were quickening their steps, sensing the chill promised by the deepening twilight. I wondered about Chantale Specter. To what destination might she be hurrying in the emryonic dusk?

After the food arrived, and we'd peppered and cheesed, Ryan spoke again.

'Aunt Clémence's is run by a defrocked priest named Patrick Feeney. Feeney allows no drugs or alcohol on the premises, otherwise kids are free to come and go. He provides meals and a place to sleep. If a kid wants to talk, Feeney listens. If they ask for counseling, he steers them to it. No sermons. No curfews. No locked doors.'

'Sounds pretty liberal for the Catholic Church.'

'I said defrocked priest. Feeney was booted from the clergy years ago.'

'Why?'

'As I remember it, the padre had a girlfriend, the Church said choose. Feeney decided to skip the ecclesiastical rehab and set off on his own.'

'Who picks up the tab?'

'Clem's gets some money from the city, but most funding comes from charity events and private donations. Feeney relies a lot on volunteers.'

It clicked.

'You think Clem is Aunt Clémence.'

'I told you I was good at this stuff.'

Another ping.

'And Tim is the Tim Hortons doughnut shop on Guy.'

'You're not bad, yourself, Brennan.'

'We're killing time until the rendezvous with Metalass.'

We both looked at our watches. It was six fifty-eight.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Civilians think of surveillance as adrenaline-pumping, heart-pounding policework. In reality, most stakeouts are as exciting as Metamucil.

We spent two hours watching Tim Hortons, Ryan from his car, I from a park bench. I saw commuters entering and exiting the Guy metro station. I saw students leaving night classes at Concordia University. I saw geezers feeding the pigeons at the Norman Bethune statue. I saw Frisbee throwers and dog walkers. I saw businessmen, vagrants, nuns, and dandies.

What I did not see was Chantale Specter.

At ten Ryan rang my cell.

'Looks like our little darlin's a no-show.'

'Could Metalass have spotted us and warned her off?'

'I suspect Metalass has the IQ of a garbanzo bean.'

'He'd have to have the patience of one to wait this long.'

I looked around. The only male loitering near Tim's was at least sixty-five. Several frappé drinkers at the Java U across de Maisonneuve fit the Metalass bill, but none seemed concerned about me or the doughnut shop.

'Now what?'

'Let's give her another half hour. If she doesn't show, we'll mosey to Clem's.'

The tiny triangle in which I sat was an island in the middle of de Maisonneuve. Cars hummed past on all three sides. Unconsciously, I began counting One. Seven. Ten.

Good, Brennan. Very compulsive.

I looked at my watch. Five past ten.

Why hadn't Chantale kept her date with Metalass? Had the e-mail been a setup? Had I blown our cover? Had she arrived, recognized me, and split?

An Asian family approached the shop. The woman waited outside with a toddler and a baby in a stroller while the man entered and bought doughnuts.

I looked at my watch again. Ten past ten.

Or had we missed her? Had she hidden herself until Metalass arrived, then signaled to him? Had she come disguised?

Fourteen past ten.

I glanced across the intersection. Ryan met my eyes, shook his head slowly.

Two men entered the Tim Hortons looking like billboards for Hugo Boss. Through the glass I watched them choose then purchase a dozen doughnuts. Two elderly women drank coffee in a booth. Three winos argued at an outdoor table.

Seventeen past ten.

Doughnuts for a group of students. I checked each face. Chantale's was not among them.

'Ready?'

I looked up. Halogen and neon lit the periphery of Ryan's hair, but the sky above him was dark and starless.

'Time to mosey?'

'Time to mosey.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

Chez Tante Clémence was located on de Maisonneuve, two blocks east of the old Forum. The center consisted of a three-story brownstone in a trio of brownstones, each garnished with brightly painted wood. Clémence was the lavender representative in the rainbow triptych.

But her fix-up squad hadn't stopped with the trim.

Clémence's porch was mustard, her window boxes cherry red. The latter housed knots of dead vegetation, the former a subset of Feeney's flock.

Two girls painted their toenails on a second-floor fire escape. Both had short brown hair, heavy bangs, Capri pants, and enough pierced flesh to qualify for postsurgical coverage. Laverne and Shirley Go Punk. The duo suspended their pedicure to observe our approach.

The porch crew watched us from the steps, cigarettes tucked between fingers or hanging from mouths. Hairstyles included one Statue of Liberty, one Mr. T, two Sir Galahads, and a Janis Joplin. Though it was too dark to make out faces, all five looked like they were in preschool when the Berlin wall went down.

I noticed the statue nudge Mr. T. Mr. T commented, and everyone laughed.

'Bonjour,' Ryan greeted them from the sidewalk.

No response.

'Howdy.' He tried English.

From inside, I heard the intermittent blare of the Sex Pistols, as though someone were turning the music on and off.

'We're looking for Patrick Feeney.'

'Why?' Mr. T wore a leather vest over a hairless, naked chest. 'Pops win the lottery?'

'He's been nominated for a Nobel,' said Ryan in a flat, humorless voice.

Mr. T pushed from the railing and stood with legs apart, shoulders back, thumbs hooked into the belt loops of his jeans.

'Rouse the sleeping tiger,' said the statue, flicking ash onto the sidewalk. 'Bad move.'

While Mr. T looked like he wanted action, the statue looked desperate for attention. His hair spikes were sprayed colors I couldn't make out in the dark, and a chain looped from one nostril to its partner earlobe.

Ryan stepped forward and waggled his badge in Mr. T's face.

'Patrick Feeney? ' he repeated, his voice granite.

Mr. T dropped his hands, and the fingers curled into fists. Joplin reached up and wrapped an arm around his leg.

'Á l'intérieur,' she said. Inside.

'Merci.'

Ryan placed a foot on the lowest tread, and the group parted a millimeter. We wove our way up, careful to avoid stepping on fingers and toes. I felt ten eyes follow our progress.

A single red bulb glowed above the front door. Though the porch sagged badly, in the crimson light I could see fresh boards sandwiched among the old. Someone had turned the soil in a window planter, and a flat of marigolds lay to the side. Though Chez Tante Clémence would never win any design awards, a caring hand was clearly at work.

Clémence's interior was in keeping with her public face. Lavender on the woodwork, crude murals on the walls. Animals. Flowers. Sunsets. The colors were those I remembered from the tempera paints of my lower school art classes. The furniture was Salvation Army, the linoleum different in every room.

Ryan and I crossed a front parlor containing several futon couches, passed a wooden staircase on the left, and entered a long, narrow corridor directly opposite the front of the house. Doors opened onto bedrooms on both sides, each with battered dressers and four to six single beds or cots. From one I could see the silver-blue shaft of a TV, and hear the theme music of Law and Order.

Halfway down the hall, we came to a kitchen. Beyond the kitchen, I could see a dining room on the left, two more bedrooms on the right.

Feeney was on his knees in the kitchen, helping a teenage imitation of Metallica dismantle or assemble a boom box.

Like African chameleons that turn green and sway to imitate leaves, youth counselors often take on the traits of their clients. Denim, ponytails, Birkenstocks, boots. The camouflage helps them mix with the populace.

Not Feeney. With tortoiseshell glasses and thick white hair parted straight as a runway the man might have blended at a home for seniors. He wore a cable-knit cardigan, flannel shirt, and gray polyester pants hiked up to his armpits.

On hearing footsteps, Feeney turned.

'May I help you?'

Ryan flashed his badge.

'Detective Andrew Ryan.'

'I'm Patrick Feeney. I run the center.'

Feeney looked at me. Metallica did the same. I half expected the four of them to jam into 'Die, Die My Darling' in high, cracky voices.

'Tempe Brennan.' I identified myself.

Feeney nodded three times, more to himself than to us. Behind him, the boys watched with expressions ranging from curiosity to hostility.

Two girls appeared in a doorway across the hall. Both had fried blonde hair and looked like they ate a lot of potatoes. One wore jeans and a UBC sweatshirt, the other a peasant skirt that hung low on her hips. Given her poundage, it was a bad choice.

Feeney struggled to rise. As one, Metallica reached out to help him. He crossed to us, walking with feet widely spaced, as though bothered by hemorrhoids.

'How may I help you, Detective?'

'We're looking for a young woman named Chantale Specter.'

'Is there a problem?'

'Is Chantale here?' Ryan said.

'Why?'

'It's a simple question, Father.'

Feeney bristled slightly. Out of the corner of my eye I saw peasant skirt disappear. Moments later, the front door opened, then closed.

I slipped from the kitchen and hurried to the parlor. Through the window I could see that only Mr. T and the statue remained on the steps. Peasant skirt was talking to them. After a brief exchange, Mr. T flicked his cigarette, and the three headed west on de Maison-neuve. I waited to allow a safety zone, then set off after them.

The Montreal Canadiens had lousy luck with their early accommodations. From the 1909 to the 1910 season, the hockey team was headquartered in Westmount Arena at the intersection of Ste-Catherine and Atwater. When that rink burned to the ground, the Habs returned to their roots on the east side of town. Following another fire, the Mont-Royal Arena was thrown together, and the boys slapped pucks there for the next four years. In 1924, the Forum was built directly across from the old home ice. Construction took just one hundred and fifty-nine days and cost $1.2 million dollars. In their opener, the Canadiens trounced the Toronto St. Pats 7-1.

Hockey is sacred in Canada. Over the years the Forum acquired the aura of a holy place. The more Stanley Cups, the holier it grew. Nevertheless, the day came. Management needed more seats. The Habs needed better locker rooms.

The team played its last game in the Forum on March 11, 1996. Four days later, fifty thousand Montrealers turned out for the 'moving day' parade. On March 15, the Habs hosted their opener in the new Molson Centre, defeating the New York Rangers 4-2.

It may have been the last game the bums won, I thought as I hurried along de Maisonneuve.

The old Forum sat empty for a while, forlorn, abandoned, an eyesore on the western edge of the city. In 1998, Canderel Management bought the project, brought Pepsi on board as title sponsor, and began a massive face-lift. Three years later, the building reopened as the Centre de divertissement du Forum Pepsi, the metaphor changed from spectator sport to food and entertainment.

Where scalpers once hawked rinkside seats, and stockbrokers and truckers jockeyed for beer, under-thirties now sip Smirnoff Ice and bowl on sonic alleys. The Pepsi Forum Entertainment Centre contains a twenty-two-screen movie megaplex, an upscale wine store, restaurants, an indoor climbing wall, and a big-screen altar paying homage to the good old days.

Mr. T, the statue, and peasant skirt turned left on rue Lambert-Closse and entered the Forum on the Ste-Catherine side. I trailed them ten yards back.

Sighting on the statue's hair spikes, I dogged the trio through a handful of bowlers and moviegoers milling about the lobby. I watched the spikes ascend the escalator to the second floor and disappear into Jillian's. I followed.

Tables and booths filled the right half of the restaurant, a bar occupied the left. Though there were few diners, every bar stool was filled, and a dozen drinkers stood in twos and threes.

When I entered, the Clémence trio was making its way toward a young woman at the far end of the bar. She wore a black lace blouse, long black beads, and fingerless black gloves. The lace securing her topknot looked like an enormous black butterfly perched on her head.

It was Chantale Specter.

On seeing her friends, Chantale smiled, jerked a thumb at a man on her left, and rolled her eyes.

I looked at the object of her disdain.

It couldn't be.

It was.

I reached for my cell phone.