Fleeting Visions

by Rene Natan

  “What does the woman do?” Stevenson asked.

  “She owns and manages a massage parlor.”

  “Hmm. Those parlors are often smoke screens for prostitution.”

  “Could be, but the house was fairly modest, even if the subdivision is new and well kept.” Primo paused. “You know what? I’d swear Louis Saura was there—I mean, I saw a young man with an oversized worn-out coat, similar to the one Louis wore at the hospital. But he couldn’t be. This young man took off on a real motorcycle, not with that motorized bicycle of his.”

  “Right,” Stevenson answered. He sat at his place, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Louis works at a garage. He could have borrowed something different from the owner. We should check, Primo. Call Ms. Danton. She’d know.”

  The phone rang. It was the Detective Sergeant. “Yes, sir. I’ll come over right away.” Stevenson sighed. “The brass is on the war path—and all I can do is listen and try not to let it get to me.”

  Stevenson was back half an hour later, his demeanor the same as before.

  “I have something to cheer you up,” said Primo.

  “Oh, good. I need it.”

  “Louis is now driving an old motorcycle he restored with old and new parts. So, it was Louis I saw.” He paused. “Should we pick him up?”

  Stevenson twisted his dark moustache and remained pensive. “Nah. He wasn’t involved in the altercation, so there’s no reason to question him. Why was he there? I can tell you what he’d say—to enjoy a ride with his new toy.” He grimaced. “The boy is pretty clever at hiding his tracks. We have to catch him with something solid. Get more information on this Gisela. Ask the neighbors. I want to know what she’s done before, what kind of clients she has, if there’s a man in her life, those sorts of things.” He opened his cell and looked at the calendar. “Nothing planned for you tomorrow. Follow the woman in the morning; see if she goes anywhere interesting.” He sat at his desk and got a piece of paper out of the main drawer. As he scribbled on it, he talked aloud. “Let’s see what we have on our case. Both Louis and the dead girl have been abused; Louis only in the few months after his uncle died; the girl probably much longer. Louis is interested in a girl and is concerned about her safety. He made a trip to The Tranquility Resort. Camilo Estorbar was in business with Louis’ uncle, and is the owner of the resort, so there’s the link here we should be pursuing. Now Louis was around Gisela’s home.” He drummed his pen on the paper. “If Gisela is connected with The Tranquility, we have to find a way to look closely into Estorbar’s activities.” He looked up at Primo, who hadn’t moved. “In any case, we can take some preliminary actions. Two tasks for tomorrow morning—see where Gisela heads off to, and talk to the manager of this fancy Tranquility Resort. See if he knows what’s going on in that parcel of land behind the restaurant. It’s classified part farming and part hazardous land, so it’s pretty legit to ask if it’s, at the moment, cultivated, and what crops they grow, if any.”

  ***

  Gisela’s left wrist was sore after Debby White’s assault. Inside her house, she considered a stiff drink when a policeman knocked at her door and asked questions. Apparently, a neighbor had seen the ugly scene. She minimized the incident, saying it was all a misunderstanding, but she wasn’t sure the officer believed her. She claimed she didn’t know the woman—a beauty products saleswoman—and Gisela wasn’t interested. But the fact remained that she didn’t know what to do about Debby White and her request for money.

  Her day had been a catastrophe.

  The new arrival, a dark haired, thin teenager from Mexico City, slept for two days straight and acted as if she didn’t understand a word Gisela said. Then, the other girls had advanced specific requests about working hours. If that wasn’t enough, she had to cope with two unsatisfied clients, who had complained heavily and strode out, upset.

  She grabbed the phone and left a message for Camilo, saying the girls were restless and changes had to be made; cleaner living quarters, more abundant food, and fewer clients per day. She had come home to get more of her personal items, since she’d only packed a few of the things she needed when Camilo had busted in and coerced her to take over the girls’ supervision. She wouldn’t go back tonight. She’d silence her cell and spend a quiet evening at home.

  At eight o’clock the following morning, well rested, she got the clothes, shoes and toiletries she needed and climbed into her car. She was in view of The Tranquility Resort when she realized a black sedan was following her. In cases like these, she’d been instructed not to proceed any further. She parked her car at the Resort and leisurely entered the building. They were serving breakfast, so she took a table, ordered coffee with a biscuit, and kept an eye on the entrance. The black car had stopped too, and a young man climbed out and entered the premises to talk with the receptionist.

  Gisela slowly finished her biscuit and accepted a refill of coffee. She glanced at her wristwatch. She was late; she should be at work, supervising the girls. Instead here she was, stuck in front of a cup of coffee, monitoring the movements of a suspicious fellow. Finally, the young man exited the building and walked back to his car, while talking agitatedly on his cell. She waited until the black sedan left, paid her bill, took the narrow gravel path that wound amid the woods and stopped at the parking lot reserved for the staff.

  When she entered the living quarters of the young prostitutes, she was surprised to find Camilo and Vicente standing in front of the girls—silence on both sides.

  Camilo was nervously flapping his yellow and blue tie, which contrasted with the khaki color of his suit. Vicente, as often, wore jeans, a white turtleneck shirt, and a suede jacket.

  “Oh, finally you’re here!” Camilo turned toward her and bored his dark pupils into hers.

  “Somebody followed me,” Gisela said, and threw her heavy bag on the floor. “I stopped at the restaurant and waited until he drove off.”

  Camilo neared her. “What kind of guy?”

  Gisela shrugged. “Young fellow, late twenties maybe, black sedan.”

  “Did he enter the restaurant?”

  “No. He just talked to the receptionist forever, then opened his cell and blabbed for about five minutes.” Under Camilo’s scrutinizing look, she rushed to add, “I waited until he drove away before coming here.”

  Camilo made a gesture to Vicente, who quickly opened his cell and stepped aside. “So, I talked to the girls,” Camilo said, addressing Gisela. “There are no problems. They’re ready to go to work.” He raised his voice. “Right, girls? You don’t want to be sent back to where you came from, right?”

  There was no vocal response—the girls blinked nervously.

  From the room’s corner, Vicente gestured Camilo to follow him outside.

  Gisela moved close to the girls, and took out the appointment book. “We all heard the boss,” she said, trying to sound jovial. “Come around the table, and I’ll give you the schedule for today. Don’t forget to turn on the computer and show off the pretty images before a client enters the cottage.”

  ***

  “What was that?” Camilo asked as soon as soon as they were outside. He took a cigar out of his breast pocket and freed it of its sleeve.

  “The fellow Gisela saw asked the receptionist if he could talk with the manager. When she said he was away for the day, he asked her what the land behind the restaurant was used for. He already knew it was classified part hazardous land and part farming. He asked which crops we grow.”

  Camilo stopped cold. “What did the girl answer?”

  “That she didn’t know; and it’s true. She doesn’t suspect anything.”

  “That’s not good enough. He already knows about the land’s classification. That means he’s been poking here and there. He’ll be back and take a careful look around.” He let out an expletive and then another. “Damn! It’s all Rose’s fault. That girl, Dolores, was on TV for four days. The police won’t rest until they find who brought her to the hospital and where she
came from.”

  Vicente remains silent for a moment and then said, “Move the op up north?”

  “How long would it take for the police to find us?”

  “Not long. When I watched the TV news and saw the face of the detective in charge of the investigation, I thought we might have problems. He looked pretty mad and very determined. I wouldn’t be surprised if he made it a personal mission to find who was responsible for Dolores’ death.”

  “Two days?”

  “I wouldn’t count on more than that.”

  “Moving the op is nothing; it’s informing our clients that takes time and tact. Is the new website up?”

  “Yes. Ballet classes for girls, gymnastics for young boys. The show lasts only three minutes, but it’s very appealing and, most important of all, innocent-looking.”

  “Great. We move the day after tomorrow.”

  Eighteen

  Camilo drove along Highway 4 and turned on Highway 7, heading home. He’d built his luxurious house on the hilly part of a large property north of New Hamburg. He’d grown up in this neighborhood, the only son of two immigrants. His parents worked hard in order to pay for food and the rent of a small basement apartment on the outskirts of New Hamburg, while saving money to send him to college. He still remembered the humiliation he’d suffered when his friends at school teased him because of his old, baggy trousers, discolored shirts, and worn-out boots. One day, when the school had bussed his class to Stratford for an educational trip, he’d wandered off on his own. At some point, he’d grabbed a stick and approached the Avon River. Without any particular reason he’d begun to flog the shrubs that flanked the shoreline until he’d reduced them to mere pulp.

  A voice behind him had mouthed, “That angry, eh?”

  Camilo had turned, a vamp of heat rising to his face. A sturdy man, wearing a suede coat and a baseball cap stood a few feet away. He offered him a stick of gum and gave him a crooked smile that showed only half his upper teeth. Camilo took the gum in silence.

  “Where do you live, son?”

  “In New Hamburg.”

  “Are you with the school bus?” Camilo nodded and began chewing the gum with alacrity. “Do you own a bike?”

  Camilo nodded again. He drove an old bike with a rusty chain that made the noise of ten.

  “Do you want to work for me?” Camilo didn’t answer, and the man said, “Nothing dangerous, just carrying stuff to different places.”

  Camilo still remembered that encounter, a milestone in his life. He’d entered a life of crime smoothly, almost inadvertently, and climbed the steps that had brought him to own his profitable business.

  He had a lot to be proud of.

  When he arrived close to home, he drove around the property that almost duplicated the setup of The Tranquility Resort, except there was no motel and no barn. The office from which he handled the prostitution and drug trading was inside his home; the bawdy house was only a hundred feet away, giving him an opportunity to keep a close eye on how Gisela managed the young prostitutes. He was counting on keeping most of the clientele he had in Delaware, with the addition of tourists from the steady crowd that flocked in the area during the good season. The Stratford Theatre, with its Shakespearean plays, attracted an incredible number of tourists from mid-April to October, most of them with plenty money to spend.

  ***

  After office hours, Stevenson was still at his desk, organizing files and sipping an old, cold coffee. He wasn’t in a hurry to go home to an empty house. He’d hoped to get a special call, the call that would authorize his team to make use of a helicopter and fly over Camilo Estorbar’s property in Delaware. He was about to grab his coat and leave when the phone rang. He lifted the receiver and identified himself. It was Dr. Harry Wengler from the University Hospital. He’d been away for a few weeks, the doctor explained, and wanted to know if Stevenson had any news regarding Louis Saura.

  “Good news about his health,” Stevenson replied, “but not about the cause of his malnutrition or abuse. He wouldn’t say a word about any of those issues.” Stevenson paused. “I know you hoped for some kind of investigation, but we couldn’t do anything officially. For a while, we’ve been keeping track of his whereabouts, hoping he could lead us to the people who abused him—him, and other teenagers, we suspect.”

  “I see. Peter, the volunteer who helped Louis to apply for a subsidy, says he was approved, so Louis will be able to feed himself properly for the next three months.”

  Stevenson had forgotten about the application the volunteer had filled out on Louis’ behalf. “Happy to hear he got financial help. He actually looks good, still a bit thin, but that might be his constitution. He’s working at a garage at the moment, and keeps out of trouble.”

  “Wonderful. And luck with the other investigation.”

  “Thanks. We’re working on it; we do the best we can.” Dr. Wengler didn’t click off as Stevenson expected, so he ventured a question. “What do you know about Jocelyn Cardel, the pharmacist who works at UH? She came to Ontario only a few years ago, if I’m correct.”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. People really like her, she’s down to earth, helps when she can, doesn’t hesitate to go have a beer with the guys. She takes everything in stride.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Sometimes a bit too much to be real. She doesn’t have a boyfriend, or any family, if that what you’re aiming at.”

  “Not really. Just curious. She helped Louis after he left the hospital, so she’s involved in the inquiry—only marginally, of course.”

  “Oh, yes, that would be her style. She’d never deny a helping hand to people in trouble.”

  “Thank you, Harry. I’ll let you know if anything new develops.”

  Interesting, Stevenson thought as he deposited the phone in its cradle. Louis had gotten a subsidy, so he’d likely stick around for a while, hopefully long enough to give him the information he needed to proceed in the investigation of the dead teenager. Things were coming together. Louis had been around Gisela Cunnigham’s premises; Gisela had gone to The Tranquility; Camilo Estorbar owned the property—both the motel and the land behind it.

  It was imperative he take a close look at what lay behind the fancy motel. He’d already grabbed his coat when the screech of his cell stopped him cold. This time it was the call he’d expected and hoped for. Tomorrow, a chopper would take him to Camilo Estorbar’s secluded property; the imaging system aboard the aircraft would allow him to take all the pictures he deemed necessary.

  That was good news. It was time to connect the dots.

  ***

  Louis was worried. Miriam had said only a few words at supper, and had gone to bed early, instead of retiring to the living room to watch TV. This morning she wasn’t up yet, and Goldie lay quietly outside Miriam’s bedroom, her muzzle between her front paws. It was Sunday, and the students had taken off for the weekend. Louis, Crumb under his arm, put an ear against the door, hoping for some sound. There wasn’t any. He knocked on the door. No answer. Finally, he opened the door.

  Still dressed in her day clothes, Miriam lay in her bed, a pillow on her stomach. Louis crept inside as Goldie jumped on the bed. Miriam stirred and stretched a hand to pet the dog.

  “Miriam?” Louis called. “Are you okay?”

  She opened her eyes. “Oh, it’s you. I can’t get up by myself.”

  Louis let go of the pup, put an arm under her shoulders and another under her waist. Lifting her half-way was easy, but it took all his strength to get her on her feet.

  “Take me to the bathroom.”

  Louis did as he was told, called for the dogs to come to him, and closed the door.

  “You can go now,” Miriam shouted from inside.

  “It’s Sunday, and I have no special place to go. I’ll wait here and take you downstairs to have breakfast.” Louis sat on the bed, surrounded immediately by the dogs. Crumb, as usual, wasn’t short of wiggling and licking, but Goldie seemed starving for attention, too. After a whi
le, Louis called Miriam’s name and got no response. This time he didn’t hesitate. He opened the door to see Miriam sprawled on the floor. He rushed downstairs and called for help.

  Within minutes, an ambulance arrived. Miriam looked completely inert on the stretcher. Louis raced to his motorcycle and followed the vehicle to the hospital.

  He sat in the waiting room for more than an hour, leafing through the old, crumpled magazines spread out on the low tables set between the chairs.

  Finally, an orderly acknowledged his presence. “Your mum had a stroke,” he said. “You did well to call for help when you did.”

  “She’s my landlady. Is she going to be okay?”

  “The doctor will come and talk to you. I can’t say much.”

  Louis thanked him, picked the copy of NASCAR Illustrated, hoping the doctor would show up soon. His stomach rumbled with hunger.

  “Louis Saura?” a voice called from a short distance.

  Louis raised his eyes and saw the round face of Doctor Wengler. Oh no! He’d start to ask questions, he was sure. The doctor was short, half-bald, with two piercing eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Sure, it’s you. You look good.” He kept his hands inside his white coat. “You grew up some in the last few months, right?”

  Louis nodded. “How is Mrs. Danton?”

  “Oh, yes, you brought her in. Can’t say much at the moment. She responds, so that’s a good sign.” He sat close to Louis and stretched his hand to tap on the magazine. “Interested in cars, eh?”

  “Yes, motors, really. Motors of any kind.” Louis deposited the magazine on the table. “I should be going,” he said and rose. “Be back tomorrow.”

  The doctor took hold of his wrist. “A girl was taken in a few weeks ago. She was in a condition much worse than yours, but similar, nevertheless. She died, you know.” Louis remained silent, so Dr. Wengler continued, “You should let Detective Stevenson know who was responsible for your situation. It could be a step forward to bringing justice to a poor girl, who didn’t have one single person—not one—who cared for her. No name either.” He paused. “Listen. If you tell me something, even a little detail, I’ll pass it on without mentioning your name.” The doctor relinquished his grip while giving him a pleading look.