by Rene Natan
Fleeting Visions
by Rene Natan
For my sister, Luisa with love
This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to real people, events, establishments, organizations or locales are intended solely to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Copyright © 2013 Rene Natan
All rights reserved
ISBN 13: 978-0-9917451-4-2
Table of Contents
List of Main Characters
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-Two
Forty-three
Forty-four
Forty-five
Forty-six
Forty-seven
Forty-eight
Forty-nine
Fifty
Fifty-one
Fifty-two
Fifty-three
Fifty-four
Fifty-five
Fifty-six
Fifty-seven
Fifty-eight
Fifty-nine
Acknowledgments
Other books by Rene Natan
List of Main Characters
Cardel, Jocelyn Pharmacist
Cunnigham, Gisela Sex worker
Danton, Miriam Clairvoyant
Estorbar, Camilo Mob man
Lopes, Santos Constable
MacMillan, Charles Businessman
Miller, Rose The madam
Perdiz, Vicente Estorbar’s man
Primo, Nick Constable
Saura, Carlos Louis’ uncle
Saura, Louis Witness
Stevenson, Gordon Detective
Stevenson, Marta Gordon’s wife
Wengler, Harry Doctor, University Hospital
White, Debby Cashier at a drugstore
One
London, Ontario
Winter 2010
Snow pellets pounded the car without mercy, giving the wipers little time to clear the windshield in one sweep. The rear glass was packed with snow, and there was only partial visibility through the side windows.
So much for the forecast, Jocelyn Cardel thought with dismay. They’d predicted the tapering of the snowfall by early evening, but it was ten o’clock and the blizzard was still raging. Another complication after a day spent working two shifts, one after the other. If this wasn’t enough, her throat was on fire, her nose was completely stuffed, and frequent sneezes took precious seconds away from her driving concentration.
Fortunately, she was familiar with the road heading into Strathroy. She kept driving until she was close to the crossing that met Highway 81. Poor visibility hampered her ability to see traffic lights, so she slowed to a crawl until a faint twinkle of green appeared almost above her. Hands gripping the steering wheel, she turned right on Highway 81. One more turn, and she’d reach the drugstore that stayed open late. She’d stop there. She didn’t want to go through the night coughing and sneezing. Besides, she needed a snowbrush. She’d reduced the old one to pieces cleaning her car. The fourteen-hour blizzard had buried the city under a carpet of thick snow. The familiar marquee of the drugstore came into view. She’d jump out of the car and grab a small bottle of Tylenol and some Sucrettes.
She planned to park in the spot for the disabled in front of the store, when she spotted a police car near the shop’s far corner with only the parking lights on. Better avoid a fine and lose time, she thought. She couldn’t afford either. She parked on the street; grabbed her credit card, and lifted her coat’s hood before opening the driver’s door and venturing into the storm. Pounding on the fresh snow with her heeled boots in order to have a solid grip at each step, she reached the store’s door in a few steps. She mumbled a “hello,” and marched to the far end where pharmaceuticals lined the shelves. She grabbed the Tylenol and Sucrettes and doubled back. In a basket, close to the exit, were several snow scrapers. She picked up the most robust one, which was also the most expensive—fifteen dollars and ninety-nine cents.
“I was going to close up,” said the cashier. “Not one customer all night except for you, and I live in Parkhill—half an hour’s drive, and maybe more with this weather.” She quickly placed the items Jocelyn had purchased on top of the scanner. She swept Jocelyn’s credit card through a slide and gave her a receipt to sign.
“Need a bag?” the cashier asked.
“No.” She opened the container of Tylenol gels and tossed two in her mouth and freed one Sucrette and began sucking it. She slipped the two packages into her pocket and grabbed the snowbrush. “Take it easy when you drive,” Jocelyn said. “I came from London, and it got worse as I proceeded this way. I couldn’t see thirty feet in front of me. You may find it’s even more treacherous going toward the lake.”
“Well, I’ll give it a try. I have a friend in town; I may stay with her if I feel it isn’t worth the risk.”
“Good idea. It should be okay by tomorrow morning. ’Bye for now,” Jocelyn said, and sped toward the exit.
When the automatic door opened, a dark silhouette emerged from her left and tossed a small package on top of her hands, saying, “Here it is.”
“What? What’s this?” Jocelyn asked, but the silhouette disappeared in a vortex of white flurries. For a moment, she looked around, puzzled. Then the light inside the store turned off, plunging the parking lot into total darkness. Better hurry, she thought, and rushed to her car. She bumped into it, and the package fell onto the ground. She didn’t care—it was probably an advertising gimmick. She entered the car and turned on the ignition. Hopefully, she’d be in Watford in half an hour or so.
***
In the Investigation Response Unit of the London Police Service, two officers, dressed in dark blue uniforms with the customary red line running along the trousers’ side, stood at attention; one, tall and husky, in his thirties; the other, tall and slim, twenty-something.
“What do you mean they got away? There were two of you!” Detective Gordon Stevenson banged his fist on the metal desk. “It took three months to get the time and location of the drop-off—and you blew it in one night!” He rose, his muscular frame imposing. Stevenson, forty-three, was known for his keen perception, dedication, and leadership.
The older officer, Constable Nick Primo, shifted stance. He hadn’t slept all night. He’d spent the morning filing a report, and now he’d been standing in front of his superior for half an hour. No hope he’d finish soon. His boss had more steam to let out, he knew from experience.
Stevenson was waving three fingers in the air. “Three months wasted!” He addressed the other officer, Santos Lopes. His crew-cut hair made him look younger than his twenty-five years of age. “Why did you both stay in the car? Why didn’t you s
hadow the woman as soon as she entered the store?”
“I got out and checked her car,” Santos said. “She had a parking sticker from the London Health Science Centre; she wore a white uniform underneath her short coat. She looked like…I thought she was a nurse…” He stopped under his boss’ menacing look.
“Wearing high heels? That’s what your report says.”
The first officer offered an explanation. “They were boots, sir.”
“One excuse after another! How did she manage to slip away?”
“She’d parked on the street, sir. Everything happened so fast…she was out of the store one moment; the man dropped a package a minute later; she kept running toward her car; meanwhile the lights went off…”
“And no idea where the man who delivered the package came from or went to?”
“The visibility was zero, sir. He was on foot—that gave him a big advantage. He appeared from nowhere, tossed a package into the woman’s arms, and cleared out. He disappeared as soon as we started the chase.”
“Of course, because you were both inside that nice warm cruiser of yours. Had you been on foot, you could have done something.”
There was silence, but the officers knew better than to interpret it as a truce.
“It took me a lot of wheeling and dealing to be in charge of this operation—Strathroy is out of our jurisdiction—and look what you do!”
“We got the license number of the woman’s car,” Officer Lopes finally said.
Stevenson sighed audibly. “Yes, I know, and I got the name and address of the woman. She’s on vacation for two weeks. In Cuba. Left this morning. I can’t even hope for the authorities over there to help us out.” He banged his fist once more. “A total disaster! Three months lost! And we were so close…”
In a very low voice, Officer Lopes said, “We can get permission to search her house. Maybe we’ll find clues.”
“The package, too? Maybe addressed to this police station?” He didn’t hide the sarcasm in his voice. “Our suspect, Jocelyn Cardel, will return in two weeks. Here’s her flight number.” He gave the officers a sheet. “Grab her the moment she sets foot in this country. Sequester her luggage, too. I want her here right away. Don’t give her time to talk or contact anybody, clear?” He gave the sheet to Primo who glanced at it. “Meanwhile I’m going to have a nice talk with the supervisor of this Jocelyn Cardel.” The officers were still standing.
“Go, now, go!” Stevenson reinforced his words by waving his hand toward the door.
***
Louis Saura had never been in this room. It was big, with windows on two sides, marble flooring, fancy rugs of different colors, and artificial plants that reached to the ceiling. Camilo Estorbar, his late uncle’s business partner, and Vicente Perdiz stood near a desk.
One look at them, and Louis knew he was in deep trouble.
Two big steps and Camilo closed up to him. “You said the woman came out of the store and took the package?” Camilo asked. He was fat and short. He wore dark trousers, a dark shirt with long sleeves, and an orange tie that hung halfway down his trousers.
Louis Saura bobbed his head.
“Did you look at her, as you were instructed?” Camilo’s dark pupils bored into his.
Louis bobbed again. He gave another furtive look at the two men in front of him. Camilo was smoking a cigar; Vicente, skinny and tall, stood a few inches from him, sipping from a crystal glass. The two men looked mad.
“The woman you were supposed to deliver the package to—she had an accident last night. She was never near that store,” Camilo said.
“Oh my God…” Louis murmured.
“We gave you the picture of the woman!”
“It was dark. The snow came down in big flakes. The wind…” He stopped. “The wind was strong.”
“Describe the woman,” the skinny man said.
“Big, no, tall. Young. Her hood covered half of her face.”
“The car?”
“Medium-size. I couldn’t see the make, and I couldn’t read the license number. It was snowing hard, and I was too far away.”
“That’s all you can say?”
Louis assented feebly.
Camilo addressed his partner. “Louis is in big trouble. You agree, eh?”
“He surely is, Camilo.”
“Do you know how much that package was worth?” Vicente asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Two hundred thousand dollars!” he screamed in Louis’ ear.
“Oh my God…”
“Yeah—you do well to invoke your god, because you’re in a lot of trouble. Two hundred thousand dollars!” Camilo screamed in his other ear. He blew smoke in his face. “What do you suggest you do to compensate me?”
Louis stood silent, aware that he was shaking like a leaf in a windstorm.
“Vicente, send the punk back where he belongs. He can’t be a courier.”
Louis dropped onto his knees. “Please, don’t, Mr. Estorbar. Don’t send me back.”
Camilo shook the cigar’s ashes in Louis’ ear.
“No! Ouch!” Louis screamed and tried to push Camilo’s hand away.
Camilo grabbed the boy between his legs and kept him in his vise. He then extinguished the cigar’s butt in Louis’ ear. “Be thankful I didn’t go for your eyes!” Camilo opened his legs and kicked the boy until Louis rolled out the door.
Two
Jocelyn Cardel was no pussycat. She’d given the two police officers a hard time and agreed to come to the London Police Service headquarters only after they mentioned the issue at hand was of extreme importance. Once out of the cruiser, she’d stopped to look at the police building and said, “What a funny structure. Look how it spreads along the street. It seems put together with Lego blocks from different sets.” As she resumed walking, she added, “Don’t you have enough crime to support your business?”
Finally, Primo and Lopes had managed to escort her inside, to the conference room. To keep the meeting as informal as possible, Detective Stevenson would use this room instead of the interview room.
Jocelyn had immediately stated that, according to the Charter of Rights and Freedoms, she was only required to give her name and address. She stood before Stevenson, her back ramrod straight, her generous breasts keeping her windbreaker open at the front, her brown eyes scrutinizing each of the people present. Jocelyn had presence. A full figure, she was about five-foot-seven with a mass of dark hair that framed an oval face, a little nose curved upwards, and a heart-shaped mouth. She wore no visible make-up, no polish on her nails, and no jewelry. She hadn’t stopped chewing gum since she’d entered the conference room.
Detective Stevenson dismissed Primo and Lopes and asked her to take a seat. Ask wasn’t the right word: beg would be more accurate. The information he’d gathered while Jocelyn vacationed in Cienfuegos described her as a solid member of the community; diligent and hardworking. Occasionally, she served food at a hostel for the homeless. She was the boss at the hospital’s pharmacy; her only superior, the director of the hospital, spoke highly of her.
He had to get her cooperation, or she wouldn’t say a word. Pussyfooting wasn’t in his book, but this was a special occasion.
“Sorry to have dragged you here as soon as you deplaned,” Stevenson started. “We need you to enlighten us about what happened the evening of January twentieth when you stopped at the drugstore in Strathroy.” He looked at the sheet in front of him. “The Drugs&Gifts.” There was no answer, so he continued. “Why did you stop?”
“I needed something for my throat. My tonsils often get inflamed. I should get them removed, but I really hadn’t given much thought to it.”
Stevenson leaned across his desk. “You mean to tell me you were in one of the major hospitals of the province all day, you ran the pharmacy—”
“It isn’t called pharmacy anymore. It’s the Prescription Centre,” Jocelyn spelled out the last two words with special emphasis.
Stevenson waved off her interjecti
on. “The pharmacy of that hospital and you…you didn’t have access to a bottle of Tylenol and a few lozenges for your throat?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she uttered, and nodded.
“What does mmm-hmm mean, Ms. Cardel?”
She took her time retrieving a tissue from her pocket. Lifting it to her lips, she spit out her gum. “That was precisely the truth.”
“The truth of what?”
Jocelyn leaned toward him until her eyes were only a couple of inches away from his. “There was a blizzard; the suppliers with the meds hadn’t come in, and we ran out of almost anything. Visitors asked for over-the-counter pharmaceuticals. By mid-afternoon I was out of them. When I realized I needed some for myself, there was nothing left. I got a few aspirins from ER, but they told me not to come back for more. That’s why I stopped at the shop.” She leaned back into her chair. “It’s that simple.”
“I see. But you were down for the first shift. Why did you stay until seven?”
Jocelyn wiggled in her chair and grinned. “You didn’t do your job, detective. If you did, you’d know that the person due to replace me didn’t show up. I filled in for her.”
The woman was like his officers. She had a plausible answer for everything.
“I see,” he said, and leaned back in his own chair. “A man gave you a package that night. The moment you exited the store. Do you remember that?”
“Oh yes. I do.”
“What did you do with it?”
“It fell out of my hands. I didn’t bother to pick it up. I was running toward my car when the lights in the store were switched off; I took off as fast as I could.”
“I see.” The woman was well-prepared and very convincing.
“Did you get a look at the man who gave you the package?”
“Are you kidding? I had my hood halfway down my face. The wind was blowing hard—impossible to see.”
“Did you see any car in the parking lot?”
“Yes, a police car of some sorts—couldn’t tell from where.”
