Eyewitness (Thriller/Legal Thriller - #5 The Witness Series) (The Witness Series #5)

by Forster, Rebecca

  The wagon jolted. She held her children tighter. Riches, she thought. She wished she had not listened to such talk. She had not believed what the government or her husband said. She wanted him to get his money back from the bankers now. He had promised to try. Meanwhile, she still traveled in a wagon drawn by a horse and what little money they had was sewn into the hem of her skirt.

  The wagon jolted again. Again she clutched her daughter who clutched right back. Teuta glanced harshly at the old man but he didn’t notice. He did not care if this was a hard road. If she complained he would have just told her to wait for a furgon, but the furgons did not run all the time and those that did often broke down. The cart was slow, but it was steady and it was what they could afford.

  Teuta sighed and looked off to the countryside. On the horizon was the concrete skeleton of what would someday be a home for many families. The stairs reached up three floors, but only the bottom level was finished with a door and windows and walls. When each son married, another floor would be finished. Teuta’s husband was a first son so they lived on the second floor of the family home. The second son, his brother, had died in prison before the government fell. Poor boy. At least she wouldn’t have to worry so much about her children being imprisoned for no good reason. Still, there were things to be afraid of. Her father would die afraid. Poor father.

  “Here is where you want to go”

  The old man’s voice startled her. Teuta was surprised to find that she had slept. Now she blinked as the cart stopped. She woke her older child. The old man lifted her down as if she were nothing more than air. He reached for Teuta and lifted her and the baby down, also.

  “Faleminderit.”

  She thanked him but kept her eyes down. It was bad enough to travel alone with a man who was not her husband. She would not shame herself by looking him in the eye.

  Teuta adjusted her skirts and gathered her children. She raised her eyes to the foreboding place that was her destination. Behind her the old man moved on. He had seen too much in his life to be worried about her one way or the other. If she needed courage, she would have to find it elsewhere.

  He climbed back into his cart and took the reins in his hands. He was missing three fingers on the right one. Times had been hard for so many who were older. When the man and his cart were out of sight, Teuta went into the hospital hoping she had arrived in time to bring some comfort to Yilli, her father, who had once herded goats.

  2013

  In the ICU the walls were glass so that the nurses and doctors could easily monitor the sickest of the sick. Inside the room that interested Josie was the woman they had found at Billy’s house, the one who had been attacked so ferociously that she hardly looked human, the one Josie and Archer assumed was Billy Zuni’s neglectful, selfish mother.

  Thanks to Mike Montoya’s suggestion, Josie now had her own doubts.

  The woman in the bed was all too human, petite, pale, and, above all, very young. It was her youth that had given Montoya pause and Josie had to agree it was a curious turn. Children gave birth to children all the time, but logic dictated that could not be so in this case.

  This girl topped out at twenty-five. Even if she were twenty-seven or eight that would mean she would have had Billy when she was ten. She and Billy couldn’t have survived without the help of family or friends. She couldn’t have worked, rented a house, or driven a car. If she tried to do any of that, she would have come to the notice of social services at the very least. She hadn’t. When pressed, Montoya offered no hard facts for his conclusion and that made Josie all the more curious.

  She checked out her surroundings: one nurse worked at the desk, another conferred with a doctor at a patient’s bedside, two rooms down a man slept in a chair next to a woman’s bed. The nurse at the desk got up; Josie Bates made her move and walked into the room.

  Up close the woman in the bed looked younger still. Her eyes were wide set, her nose short and round. Her cheeks were full, and her lips beautifully bowed and pitifully slack. There was a tube down her throat that attached her to a machine that breathed for her and IVs that fed her cocktails of nourishment and medicine. Josie tried to see beyond the neat rows of stitches snaking across her throat and behind her ear, the dressings on her face, and the cast on her arm. Josie looked hard, trying to find a definitive resemblance to Billy. Was it there in her coloring? This girl’s hair was light like Billy’s but her lashes, roots, and brows were dark. Perhaps if she opened her eyes Josie would see it; maybe if she spoke Josie would hear it in the sound of her voice. But it would be a long time before those eyes opened or that voice sounded.

  Her ears were pierced, and her nails were short and ill kept. There were no tattoos or birthmarks that Josie could see. Since there wasn’t much skin visible it was impossible to tell if there were any existing scars. That was about to change. The stitches that had sewn this woman’s throat closed seemed crude and hastily done but Josie knew better. The surgeon could not waste time on aesthetics when a head had nearly been severed from a body, when arteries and vocal chords and muscle had been butchered.

  Josie closed her eyes and pushed against them with her fingertips as she tried to conjure up Billy’s face and match it to this woman’s. Sadly, Josie couldn’t remember what Billy Zuni looked like. In her mind’s eye she saw him blue with cold, his skin rubbery from immersion, his blond hair darkened by sand and grit.

  Josie's hand dropped, her head fell back as she tried to take hold of other memories; a kid waving at her from the beach, a boy waiting for Hannah’s attention as he followed along behind her, a boy surprised that kid stuff he pulled was against the law, a boy who seemed as if he never really belonged where he was -

  “What are you doing in here?”

  Josie's shoulders slumped; the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding pushed out of her. She faced the very unhappy station nurse.

  “I just came to find out if . . .” Josie waved a hand in the direction of the bed. She had no name to put with the woman. “How is she? Will she make it?"

  “Who are you?” The woman put herself between Josie and the patient. It was obvious the personnel were on high alert. Who was to say that the person who wanted this woman dead wouldn’t try to finish the job? Who was to say that person wasn’t Josie?

  “I found her,” Josie explained.

  “That’s tough.” The woman’s attitude softened slightly. “It’s nice you wanted to check on her, but you can’t stay.”

  “Sure. I'm sorry.” Josie bought time as she moved toward the bed. “I couldn’t sleep tonight unless I knew something.”

  “Only the doctor can update. I am sorry.”

  "Do you know who that would be?"

  "I think it's going to be Doctor Stern. The best thing is to check with the hospital advocate. She'll be coordinating with the police."

  The nurse tugged the blanket around the woman in the bed and then steered Josie to the door. With one last look over the nurse’s shoulder, Josie said:

  “Thanks. I feel much better just having seen her.”

  When Josie left the room, she was satisfied. She had seen the white board above the bed and had a name, height and weight for the woman.

  “Let’s find out who you really are,” Josie mumbled as she put her phone to her ear and waited for Archer to pick up.

  ***

  When Mike Montoya was sixteen and learning to drive his teacher opined that a speeding driver reached his destination only three minutes sooner than a law abiding one, yet a speeder was responsible for seventy percent more vehicular deaths than the good driver. Knowing that this statistic could have been an exaggeration employed to scare the living daylights out of pimply-faced kids, Mike checked it out. He found four statistical references corroborating what his teacher said. The exercise taught Mike two important lessons: first, question everything, and, secondly, more mistakes and little real progress were made when one rushed.

  Still, there was more than some urgency to the matter at h
and so Mike made it back to the station as quickly as possible, walked through the building, and made his way to his desk. He had barely taken off his jacket and sat down when someone put their hands on his shoulders and tipped his chair back. The scent of Chanel preceded a purr:

  “Guess who caught the assist, you lucky dog.”

  The perfume and the voice took the challenge out of the game. Mike dropped his head back and looked up to see Wendy Sterling’s blue eyes sparkling under impossibly long lashes. High cheekbones cut through a heart-shaped face, expressive lips balanced her delicate jaw, and her strawberry blond hair was long enough to fall over her shoulders if she let it loose. She belonged in Hollywood, she lived in Redondo Beach, and she had a thing for Mike Montoya. Mike, though, loved his wife, respected his work place, and was probably the only man in the world who did not lust after Wendy Sterling the second she entered his orbit.

  “Got anything good for me?” he asked.

  “You know I do.” She released his chair. It bounced like a good mattress as she planted herself in the one by his desk and crossed her bare legs.

  “Keep it up, and I’ll have to report you for sexual harassment.” Mike gave no indication whether this was a warning or a joke.

  “You can take it. Besides, what kind of settlement could you get off me? I probably make less than you do.”

  Wendy sent a mega-watt smile his way. As always, he wondered what made some men so darn strong and others so ridiculously weak; some dumb and others too smart for their own good.

  “Good point,” he muttered.

  “Practicality is such a turn on,” she clucked, but Mike was done. He looked at his watch. It was time to work, but Wendy liked to finish up on her own terms. “Someday, I’m going to get you to crack. Come on. Give me a smile.”

  Mike reached for his coffee. “How much time before we’re expected at Newton’s office?”

  Wendy’s sigh and disappointment that playtime was over were both exaggerated.

  “I told him between three and four.”

  Mike checked his watch. “That doesn’t give us much time. Let’s see what you got.”

  Wendy handed over the first sheet of paper for Mike to follow along.

  “The guy in the living room was Jak Duka. Works for Fed Ex, but he's also a daily with local #927. Lives in San Pedro.”

  Mike put a star on the employment information. Being a daily meant union, and you didn’t get to be a full-fledged brother unless you were pretty tight with someone. It wouldn’t be hard to track down his friends; getting them to talk would be another matter.

  “You take Fed Ex, and I’ll follow up on the union,” Mike directed. “Anything else?”

  “Duka was married. I caught the wife just as she was coming back from the grocery with her two little kids.” Wendy paused before adding. “I hate that.”

  “I’m glad you were the one to break the news.”

  “My specialty. Telling people that other people are dead.”

  Wendy grimaced. Mike had seen her impart the news of a murder, an accident, an unexpected natural death and leave the survivor with a sense of peace and direction. Of all Wendy’s natural gifts, that was the one Mike most admired. Hers was a unique position. Though she was a senior criminal analyst, the department had recognized she was also valuable in the field as the first contact with victim’s families.

  “Did the wife have anything to say about why he was in that house?” he asked.

  “She figured he was making a delivery.”

  “In the wee hours of the morning? Using his own car?” Mike’s brow beetled. “No one could be that gullible.”

  “Sometimes you don’t see what’s in front of your nose. Wives are especially susceptible to that.” Wendy handed him another sheet of paper.

  “Victim number two is Greg Oi. Quite the Barbie Doll all decked out in a satin dress and heels. I would expect that kind of thing in Los Angeles or San Francisco, but this is the first time I’ve seen it down in the South Bay.”

  “Nothing surprises me,” Mike noted.

  “Wouldn’t you like to be surprised just a little?” Wendy’s pretty eyes stayed on her report for a millisecond. When she raised them, her lashes threw shadows across the top of her cheeks.

  Mike considered her longer than he should. When he couldn’t reconcile her professionalism with her audacity, he folded his arms and leaned on the desk.

  “You do know what you’re saying, don’t you?” He was genuinely curious.

  “That I do,” she answered.

  “Then why do you say it?”

  “’Cause you are the sweetest, Mike, and there aren’t many of you around. Who knows, maybe someday you’ll take me up on the offer.”

  “Jesus, Wendy,” Mike sighed. “That’s no answer.”

  “Yes, it is. I’m selfish. I want what I want. Men have been like that forever. Just say I’m a liberated woman.” Wendy leaned close to him and he could smell soap.

  “There’s an office pool on when you’re going to cave.”

  “What are the odds?” he asked, unable to help his amusement.

  “Not good,” she admitted as she pulled a sad face.

  “In whose favor?”

  “Not telling.”

  She laughed and, as she sat back, she knocked a bag off his desk. They both went for it at once. Mike got the bag, and Wendy came up with the contents.

  “Books on tape? A little chick-litty for you, aren’t they?”

  Mike took the CDs back and put them in the bag.

  “They’re for my wife. Our anniversary is in a few days.”

  “You charmer,” Wendy drawled. “How many years?”

  “Twenty-five.” Mike opened a desk drawer and put the bag inside.

  “I don’t think you’ll be getting lucky with a gift like that. You want some action? Jewelry. Every woman loves jewelry,” Wendy said.

  “I think she’ll like these,” Mike said.

  Wendy shrugged. It was clear the conversation was over, but Wendy was not going to give up. Twenty-five years was a long time to be with the same woman and audio books weren’t exactly a passionate gift choice. Still, Wendy knew when not to push her luck. She tapped the paper on the desk in front of him.

  “Greg Oi, the victim with the platinum wig and the size 12 pumps? In real life, he owns Marshall Fasteners out on Lomita Boulevard.”

  “Union shop?”

  “Funny you should ask that. Local #927 has a lock on the place. They make stuff for airplanes, cars, and motorcycles – nuts and bolts. You’d think he’d be a little more macho, considering.” Wendy editorialized but she was back on track a minute later. “Seems Oi's been having labor trouble. The contract is up for renewal and the sticking point is benefits. Oi was standing firm on not upping them and bringing in new hires at much a lower hourly. He also wanted them to contribute a whole lot more to retirement and allow the dye cutters to work on multiple projects. The brotherhood is royally pissed.”

  “Maybe Duka was sent out to put some pressure on Oi and things got out of hand,” Mike suggested. “It can’t be coincidence that Oi and Duka were in the same place at the same time.”

  “It could be anything with this guy. Oi is really rich. I just started checking him out, and already there’s a web of subsidiaries, all of them privately held by Mr. Oi. He has some loans but they appear to be for tax purposes. The man could pay them off. Oi lives behind the gates in Rolling Hills.”

  “Family?”

  “I talked to his wife briefly and gave her the news. I have you down to see her tomorrow at nine,” Wendy said. “Don’t know if there are children in the family, but Oi is involved in a nonprofit that works with needy kids from overseas.”

  “What kind of needy kids?” Mike asked.

  “Don’t know yet. I’m getting the public records. All I’ve got is a website so far and it’s pretty lame.” Wendy twirled her pencil giving Mike the minute he seemed to want. “What are you thinking? Some connection with the ki
d in the ocean?”

  “I’m not thinking anything. I want to start with why Mr. Oi was on the wrong side of Hermosa. Our surviving victim was young, but she is not a child. Her name is Rosa Zuni, and I don’t think Oi was doing charity work in that house.”

  “He was slumming. Being naughty where he thought no one could see. Everyone does it.” Wendy handed him the third page, her suggestiveness more a matter of habit than real flirtation. “More than likely Oi’s wife didn't like him prancing around like a Flamenco dancer and for a fee this little lady didn't mind. Our survivor works at Undies, by the way. You know, the strip joint near the airport?"

  "I'm liking this," Mike muttered as he made more notes.

  “I spoke to the manager. He said he was sorry to hear about what happened. He thought Rosa was a nice girl, but he doesn't know much about her. The club only gets involved if someone’s coming on to the girls on the premises. All of them are independent contractors. No insurance, no workman’s comp. Smart business."

  "Yeah, but he still had to have a social security number for her."

  “He did,” Wendy said. “It’s bogus. As of right now, this woman doesn’t exist.”

  CHAPTER 7

  1996

  Teuta pulled her six-year-old daughter along as they searched the hospital for Yilli. Room after room it was the same: dirty beds, attendants who seemed to be more wardens than nurses, relatives feeding patients food they had brought from their homes since the hospital provided none. Blood had stained the sheets and had dried where it fell on the floor. Old and young alike languished. They did not look so much sick as starving, lonely, and surprised to find themselves in such a predicament.