Chapter 5, section 3: spying on the neighbors

Time to find out. He trotted down the stairs, crossed the street and turned the corner. Between every block east and north of downtown Montréal there was an alleyway running north-south behind buildings. The asphalt was usually buckled and potholed. Tall fences were spaced just wide enough for a car to navigate. Behind the fences were tiny courtyards, mini-gardens and balconies, and everywhere clothing hanging out to dry.

From the rumpled pavement he couldn’t see much of the 3^rd floor flat. Storage room door was dead bolted, and that might be a wall calendar next to the top of a magnet-filled fridge door.

The kitchen window was open a crack, so maybe it was time to enter the action and take a look around. He heightened his senses until they were razor-sharp, then shifted gears on his consciousness until pure awareness was all he was.

He slipped up the buzzing heat of a sunbeam to the back porch with lidded metal trash bin and piles of newspaper: both English and French, but no other languages. Slipping under the cracked-open window was a formality. He could have just as easily gone straight through the glass, but he preferred the illusion that he wasn’t uninvited.

Inside, piles of pasta-and-tomato-sauce dishes lay unwashed with three glasses and two bottles of Chilean wine. Dish rack was full, with sushi dishware. Living room furniture was nothing unusual, except for a couple of carved Indonesian rosewood stools. Cosmo, Glamour and Elle Quebéc littered fuzzy rugs, accompanied by dumbbells, ankle weights and elastic pulley systems. Three bedrooms, each looking neat enough for busy women. Girlish remnants, satin, messy desks, photo albums, books, one wall with giant art deco poster of Provence in France and another with African masks lining dark red walls.

Nothing unusual for three amazon roommates. All three worked in security, signs were everywhere in badges, buttons, boxer briefs and photos. Only disturbing note—other than having three female cops living directly across from one of his private pads—was the binoculars in both front rooms. No sign of little black observation books, and he didn’t pry into private diaries, further than to make sure they were indeed private, and very personal.

Open up the mental channels and listen to residue of the girls’ conversations over the past few weeks? No, he was satisfied; nothing more was needed. Voyeurism had its time and place, and that was neither here nor now.

One down. Might as well stay in the action and flip-side his flat to the back alley behind 7635 Casgrain and on in.

Third floor, of course, and as Johnny’s gun had reported, only curtains in front room, table and chairs in the back kitchen. Tired flowers on table and two cups in sink. Beer in fridge: Ste-Ambroise Rousse, Blanche de Chambly and Maudite, all local microbrews. Nothing else except toilet paper. And an annoying beeping.

Where from? Downstairs neighbors were home, but the beep was inside apartment. There—what was that? Small black electronic box plugged into phone line. Beeped nine short and very long, then silence.

Mind remained still, still, quiet and still…

Nothing happened.

Back to his own apartment. In through back window, zip through and settle into norml daily senses at the bottom of the stairs at the entryway.