Minister Jones sat with Inspector Murphy at a sidewalk table outside Rituals Coffee House on Sweetbriar Road in St. Clair. Jones was having a cappuccino grande and Murphy, a regular coffee.

Jones smiled and nodded at a mother and daughter as they passed. The little girl, dressed in her neatly-pressed school uniform, walked with a little forward-tilt from the weight of her bulky backpack.

“You got any children, Murphy?” Jones asked.

“Yeah, boy and girl.” Murphy shook a yellow sachet of Splenda, ripped it open and poured some in his coffee.

“Who’s older?”

“Girl, by four years.” Murphy stirred his coffee, the spoon clinking against the sides of the mug. He laid the spoon on the saucer and, turning his head to the side so that no coffee would drip on his pants or shoes, took a careful sip.

“I got two boys.” Jones shook his head. “Idiots.”

Murphy sipped his coffee.

“Yeah, two blundering teenage idiots. Twins.” Jones shook his head. “Can you imagine my house on a morning? Freakin’ chaos.” Jones shook his head again and drank some of his cappuccino.

Rituals on Sweetbriar was a cozy spot. Tucked in the west corner of Briar Place, a snazzy office building, Rituals held its own against corporate-giant neighbors Royal Bank, Ernst & Young, British Gas. Like David facing off with Goliath, Rituals was up to the mammoth task, brewing cup after cup of coffee and tea for its exacting corporate clientele.

“So, what more do you have on our friend Mr. SS?” Jones said.

“Nothing new. We bugged his place last night, standard police work.” He dabbed his lips with his handkerchief and added, “We should get some solid intelligence later today.”

“Intelligence? Never would have used that word in the same sentence with police.”

Murphy glared at Jones, then took another sip of his coffee. A young attractive waitress came to the table.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. Who’s having the raspberry muffin?”

“That’ll be me,” answered Jones.

She put a square plate with turned-up sides in front of Jones. “And here’s your tuna sandwich, sir,” she said to Murphy. She smiled and hurried back past the long line of customers.

“Tuna?” Jones asked.

“Yeah, trying to lose some weight.”

“Why? To fit into that spanking new police commissioner uniform, I’d guess,” Jones chuckled.

Murphy did not respond. He took a small bite of his sandwich, put it down, then pulled a paper napkin from the side of his plate and wiped mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth.

“So what more did you get from your check on SS?” Jones asked.

“He doesn’t seem to be much of a professional. I’m beginning to wonder whether he’s still in the game.”

“Really? Why do you say that?” Jones broke off a piece of muffin and popped it into his mouth.

“My team tossed his place.” Murphy leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “They didn’t find anything that would suggest he’s still a hitman. His place didn’t have that hitman feel according to my police sergeant.” Murphy leaned back and shrugged. “Dunno, maybe he’s become just a simple con man. Less risk, I suppose.”

“Or he might be too smart for the police.” He took a loud sip of coffee.

“We’ll see.” Murphy offered a thin smile.

Two white men walked by dressed in dark suits and speaking with foreign accents. Probably Canadians working at the Canadian High Commission further down Sweet Briar Road, but Jones couldn’t be sure. He had only met the Canadian High Commissioner once at a cocktail party, and he hadn’t met any of the administrative staff.

“Well, keep your team on him,” Jones said. “All part of the reference checking. We don’t want any surprises, but I’m sure he’s our man. In fact, aren’t you the one who convinced me to hire him?”

“Yeah, but it’s not like you didn’t know him.”

“I knew about him. I didn’t really know him, if you understand what I mean.”

“Same difference.”

Jones shrugged, then sipped his coffee. “I got the impression from you that you guys were, I dunno, friends, buddies maybe.”

Murphy shook his head and ate the last of his sandwich.

The two white men strolled by holding their coffees, puffs of steam coming through the little triangle cut-outs in the plastic lids. The coffee smelled good, rich. Jones nodded at them and spotted their red maple leaf tie pins. They were Canadians for sure.

“Yeah, I know him. Well, maybe I should say I knew him, but I wouldn’t say we were friends,” Murphy said after dusting off some sandwich crumbs from his shirt. “I met him when he was a cop. I’d heard he left the service to get into the contract game, but the police could never pin anything on him.”

“He was a cop?” Jones raised his voice. “You never told me that.” He shook his head. “Fuck, Murphy, you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Too late now, not so, Mr. Minister?”

“Was he any good?” Jones said, gripping the sides of the table. Idiot Murphy. Why the hell didn’t he tell me this before.

“As a hitman or a cop?”

“Either. Both,” he said, rolling his eyes.

The waitress brought out two glasses of water. “So sorry I forgot your water, gentlemen. It’s really busy today.”

“Thanks, no harm done, my dear,” Jones smiled. The waitress rushed off. Jones frowned.

“What’s wrong, Jones?”

“Well, it’s just, well, the waitress. She didn’t acknowledge me as a government minister. I mean, not even a hint of recognition, or—”

“Poor little minister,” Murphy mocked. “Time to ramp up your PR, Jones, especially with elections coming soon. Imagine, not even a hint of recognition.” He chuckled. “Better tell your campaign manager to re-focus his efforts on Sweet Briar Road. He needs to hand out more pamphlets or something.” Murphy chuckled again and drank some water.

“As bad as it sounds, you might be right.”

“Not to worry, Minister. At least the coffee here is good.”

“Yeah, I agree with you, the coffee is really good.” Jones took a long sip of his cappuccino. “You’ve been to Rituals before, I suppose?”

“Not this branch. Only the one on St. Vincent Street near police headquarters.”

“Consistent quality, I like that.” Jones nodded.

“Yeah, that’s what I hear.”