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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.”
    â€œAnd that would be…”
    â€œA 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.
    â€œIs 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
    W e 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.
    â€œMorning, 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.
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œNico here yet?” A plate of antipasto sat waiting for customers on the steel counter. I was a customer. I snuck an olive.
    â€œNope. 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.
    â€œNico’s all right,” I said. “He actually has a gift.” I popped another olive into my mouth.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œIt’s really good of you