Fleeting Visions

by Rene Natan

  “Hmm. It may not be the best time to give her a full report,” Gordon commented. He shot Jocelyn a warm smile. “Thank you for coming.” He briefly gave her an update about Camilo Estorbar’s activities and added, “We have a plan for this young man, a covert plan, actually. Only the sergeant and my two collaborators, Primo and Lopes, are in. You too, now. For the time being, we let people believe we don’t know what happened to Louis. After all, he was just one of Miriam’s recent boarders, with no fixed job. I’m going to take him to my parents’ farm and leave him there until we sort out where Camilo has moved his operation and, hopefully, gather enough information to charge him.”

  “Why are you sure he’s moved this activity elsewhere? He could have stopped altogether and retired in some sunny place,” Jocelyn said.

  “Not sure, but if he intended to clear out, he wouldn’t have been so concerned about eliminating Louis.”

  “I see. Once you find him and his new place, do you think you may be able to collect enough evidence to charge him?”

  “We hope so. Louis has no doubt the girls who stayed at the brothel will be happy to talk about what he coerced them to do.” He paused and scooped two hamburgers onto Louis’ dish, and one on Jocelyn’s. “The man got away with child prostitution for the six months that Louis knows of, and probably much, much longer. The setup was ingenious, but I’m surprised it could last that long, so close to the city.”

  They sat at a picnic table and dressed their meat with sliced onions, mustard, tomato, and lettuce. They munched slowly in silence until Jocelyn finally asked, “Why are you involving me in this operation?”

  “I need somebody outside headquarters to stay in contact with Louis. I talked it over with the sergeant and he agreed.” He poured coffee for Jocelyn and himself from a Thermos, while Louis drank quietly from a milk carton. “Now I have to ask if it’s okay with you.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I have the talent for a covert operation,” she said jokingly. “I’ll try. I’m not afraid of being fired.”

  Jocelyn’s cell rang. It was the hospital. “I’ll come right away.” She clicked off and rose. Turning toward Gordon, she said, “Miriam’s condition has deteriorated.”

  ***

  In the waiting room, Jocelyn sat in a corner, almost paralyzed by anguish. Miriam had had another stroke, and a team of doctors and nurses were trying their best to keep her alive. She’d been anxious to get fresh news, but nothing had transpired for the entire hour since she arrived.

  Miriam…all at once she realized that, after the death of her parents, this woman had been the only person to whom she confided, the only person who knew her pains and trials, the only person she could count on, without even asking her to do so. Miriam had carried her into her car after the accident and rushed her to the hospital. A few hours later it would have been too late.

  Miriam had offered her home and her ear every time Jocelyn recounted the events of that fatal night, and how she felt so terribly alone since the man she loved had died.

  For weeks, as she lay in the hospital, and in Miriam’s house later, she thought her life had no meaning without Brad, and that she’d never be able to feel the same for another man. The relationship she had with Brad had been a conquest of her fears and inhibitions much more than an appeasing of her senses.

  As the weeks went by, Miriam had started joking every time she said she’d never have a normal life. “Wait and see…give it time…” Miriam would say, and Jocelyn would start crying. She’d gone back to school, and men began courting her, but she couldn’t come to terms with the feeling of betraying Brad. “I’ll never date another man,” she once announced, and Miriam had replied, “Just wait; your hormones will kick in pretty soon, and strongly too. They always do before the critical age starts.”

  A nurse appeared in the doorway and moved slowly toward Jocelyn. She knew what the nurse was going to say before she parted her lips.

  Miriam was gone, and with her, a part of her life.

  Twenty-seven

  Gordon Stevenson looked around. His back yard was cleared of all the leaves the winter had reduced to a mash on top of the lawn; his garage was swept, and all the tools on the shelves dusted. Louis was at his parents’ farm, equipped with a new cell he could use only to communicate with him or Jocelyn. Satisfied, Stevenson intoned Verdi’s aria, La Zingarella from Il Trovatore and drove to headquarters.

  Primo was in the corridor, anxious to break the good news. The artist had readied four sketches of the woman Louis had seen on Gisela Cunnigham’s premises, and Primo had gone to The Tranquility and conducted a discreet inquiry about Vicente Perdiz. Vicente was known at the resort, since he’d stayed at one of the cottages for a while.

  Things are coming together, Stevenson thought with satisfaction, as he sat at his desk. He had just enough time to look at his planner, when the sergeant called him in. Worried his boss might be expecting results after barely two days, he opened the door and waited.

  “Just some information which may be related to the case you’re working on. It seems one of the members who retired recently from one of the local police stations was taking money from the underworld. Nothing specific so far, but I thought this information might be tied in with what your young man said. You should alert the officers who’re working with you. They may be contacted pretty soon. The man who retired has disappeared from sight. We can’t get anything out of him.”

  Stevenson looked bewildered. “From this office?” he asked, his voice low.

  “We don’t know, but one of our retirees has no forwarding address. He was taking a trip around the world, he said when he left.” He patted Stevenson on the shoulder. “I heard from Primo that things are moving along. Good luck.”

  Stevenson thanked him and returned to his post. Spread on his desk were four sketches, and a note from Primo. It read, “She looks like one of the ladies you interviewed immediately after the operation in Strathroy.” Stevenson juggled the sketches around, looking at one and then at another. “Debby White! That cheat of a mousy girl who worked at the drugstore!”

  “Should we bring her in?” a voice behind him asked. It was Primo. “She still lives in Forest—I checked her out.”

  Stevenson turned to face him. “Not yet. We have fingerprints of the people who ransacked Gisela’s house. We need to get hers, one way or the other, and compare them. She’ll talk then, since we could threaten her with a murder charge.” Stevenson drummed his fingers on the desk. “What do we use to extract fingerprints without being noticed?”

  Primo started to recite. “Collecting signatures for a good cause—using our pen, of course; offering a soft drink; asking her to hold and look at a cell to see if she recognizes a person…”

  “Hmm. Contact the drugstore in Strathroy; they may know where she’s working now. She probably works as a cashier, since that was her job before. Check out the chain of big stores in the area. Then we’d have no problems getting her fingerprints, easily and lawfully, I mean.”

  “Consider it done,” said Primo, and left.

  Stevenson was ready to get a coffee when he saw Lopes coming toward him. Lopes’ report was brief. He’d gotten copies of the bills for gas usage at Camilo Estorbar’s property. He’d also found out that the place was being dismantled.

  “Dismantled?” Stevenson asked, flabbergasted.

  Lopes nodded. “Big equipment. It will be all leveled off before the day is over.”

  Stevenson banged his fist on the desk. “Estorbar! I’ll catch you, one day or the other!”

  He was glad he’d taken pictures when he’d scoured the area. He could still link the payments of gas and electricity to the buildings, even if they’d been torn down.

  Stevenson tapped the pen he held in his hands. Could Debby White provide more information on the prostitution ring? Maybe, but it would take time, time he didn’t have. He had to flush out Camilo. Get him to play the game in the open.

  ***

  Camilo paced his sitting roo
m. He was nervous. Vicente hadn’t come in last night and the replacement he’d put in charge of looking after the girls was new to the job. His business wasn’t in good shape, Camilo thought with dismay. Finally he heard the noise of an engine approaching the house.

  Vicente walked in, his steps short and a bit tentative.

  “Where have you been? You’re late; you don’t even answer the phone!”

  “Troubles with the car, transmission. Had to stop at a garage.” He slumped in an easy chair. “News from Bayfield?”

  “Yes. The new girl is here, and Dr. Hoffman has checked her out. Perfect health. Beautiful, too.” He got the picture that lay on the coffee table and showed it to Vicente. He put his hands on Vicente’s chair arms and leaned toward him in an intimidating posture. “We have a problem, a serious problem, very serious.”

  “Oh. What happened?”

  “A call transferred from our old phone number, the one we kept active for our clients, to our phone here. An anonymous call. Louis Saura is alive.”

  “Oh, I see. Where is he?”

  “Didn’t say. Five thousand to spell out the place.”

  Vicente tapped on Camilo’s shoulders. “Let me get a cup of coffee. I haven’t had breakfast, and it’s well past noon.” He pushed Camilo’s arms away and rose. He moved to the other side of the room, where the kitchen was located, followed by his boss.

  “You have to go to the place this fellow gave me, meet him, and find out where Louis is.”

  There was coffee in the decanter and Vicente poured himself a cup. “Why do you want to know where Louis is? He’s out of circulation, so he can’t do anything. Let him be.”

  “The hell I will! First, he made a fool of me—he has to be punished. Second, if the police get hold of him, he can send us to jail. We have to pick him up. You have to go there, find out Louis’ whereabouts, without giving the man a penny.”

  Vicente emitted a soft laugh. “Just like that. Why don’t you go, or send somebody else?”

  “Because I pay you for doing the dirty jobs.”

  “The guy who called you may be armed. If I don’t give him the money he may, he may—you know what I mean—”

  Camilo shrugged. “You should carry a piece.”

  Vicente shook his head. “That was not in the agreement.”

  Camilo threw his arms up. “Always an excuse. A thousand. Bargain and give him a thousand, not one penny more.”

  Vicente finished his coffee. “When and where is this meeting?”

  “Tonight, four-thirty, at the railway station, near the entrance, to the right as you go in. It’s the busiest time of the day. The person will stand, with The London Free Press open in front of him.”

  “Fine. Get the money ready.” He neared the fridge and started to make himself a sandwich. “I’ll go see the new girl, and then I’ll leave. I want to be close to the entrance well before that time. I want to do a bit of patrolling and film the crowd without being noticed. We may learn something interesting.”

  ***

  It’s time to find out how Jocelyn is doing, Gordon thought. He’d attended the funeral service for Miriam Danton, but spent only a few moments with Jocelyn at the reception following the ceremony. He gave Lopes the last few instructions for the day and placed a call to the UH Prescription Centre. Jocelyn had left, he was told. She seemed in good spirits, Jocelyn’s colleague had added, so Gordon thought of driving to her place.

  He left Dundas Street and turned left on Adelaide North. A bus stopped to unload a group of tourists in front of the Banting House, so he waited until everybody was off the road and inside the premises. He should have remembered that The Birthplace of Insulin, a Canada Historical Site, was a must for people visiting London. After all, not every city could pride itself on being the birthplace of the inventor of such a wonder drug.

  He turned right on King and followed the traffic toward the east of the city. Gordon thought about what he’d say to Jocelyn and how he should behave. At times, the woman seemed to appreciate his company, other times she tightened up like an oyster. She was always pleasant, though, and always offered the help he’d asked for. That was a connection, and tonight, he would see if they could spend some time in a relaxing atmosphere and discover what they had in common.

  There was light in her condo, so Gordon pushed the button with her name. When Jocelyn asked who it was, he joked, “The police. Open up.”

  The response was what he expected. “I won’t open to the police, but I can make an exception for Detective Gordon Stevenson.” A click followed.

  Jocelyn held a brown bag of groceries in her arms. “Do you have extra-sensory ability? I have food with me. Got a roasted chicken and fresh bread. The chicken is still warm.” She walked into the kitchen. “I just came home.” She put several items in the fridge and deposited the chicken and a French baguette on the table. “I’ll go freshen up. If you’d like to stay for supper, all you have to do is make a green salad, and set up a couple of dishes.”

  As Gordon opened several cupboards in search of a bowl for the salad, his eyes wandered to the photos pasted on the cupboards and fridge’s door. There were family pictures that portrayed teenage Jocelyn with her parents, a large photo of a smiling young man, and Jocelyn and her man in a variety of setups, mostly outdoors. The woman lives in the past, Gordon thought. He set the table, took a beer from the fridge, and relaxed.

  Jocelyn appeared soon after, wearing a colorful dress. She gave a brief scrutinizing look at the table, added two salad dressings, and said, “I’m famished. Let’s eat.” She was on her second slice of bread when she said, “Our encounters seem to revolve around food.”

  Gordon nodded. “I could easily suggest a more exciting environment.”

  Jocelyn put her hand up with the unmistakable sign of halt. “I know what you’d suggest.”

  “Oh? You can’t even get close to what I had in mind.” He finished his salad. “First, I came here to see how you were. I know it’s been a difficult time for you.”

  “Yes. With Miriam gone, a slice of my life has disappeared.”

  “Sorry about that. You may have to come to headquarters to clarify a few issues. The presence of a bomb raises questions. Among them, who is the beneficiary named in Ms. Danton’s will?”

  “I am. Miriam left everything to me. She had a few thousand in the bank, and she was well insured.”

  “I thought so. How are you coping?”

  “Better than I thought. Lately, Miriam had a lot of health problems and plenty of pain. She often said she had no reason to live. She had no family, not even a distant cousin. Never been married. A couple of relationships I know about, but nothing serious.” Jocelyn rose and filled the percolator. “Coffee? I have decaf if you prefer.”

  “Regular is okay.” Gordon finished his beer. “So, what did you think was the stimulating environment I was going to propose?”

  “Well…”

  “Something related to sex, I bet.” He was curious to see if she’d play straight.

  Jocelyn laughed. “Actually, yes. That’s what I thought.”

  “Dirty mind! I got two tickets to see a show at Silver City. Opera. Interested?”

  “Oh, yes. I love opera. What’s the performance?”

  “Not a clue. I got the tickets, but not the program.” His cell rang, and Gordon swiftly unhooked it from his belt and listened attentively. “I’ll be right there, Santos. Don’t move.”

  Twenty-eight

  Santos Lopes opened a can of Dr. Pepper and sipped. It was past seven o’clock, and he was hungry. He was stuck keeping an eye on the man he’d met at the railway station. He’d called home to say he’d be late, and his mother, totally unaware of what being a police officer entailed, had asked him to hurry up, and, worst of all, had mentioned she’d cooked his preferred meal: a tamale casserole. Lopes sighed and looked in the rear mirror, hoping to see Stevenson’s car approaching. No luck, it was another of the customers heading to the restaurant of The Tranquility Re
sort.

  Finally, the silhouette of Stevenson’s Nissan appeared and stopped behind his unmarked car. Stevenson joined him and asked for a quick report of what had happened. As often in the past, Lopes started to talk agitatedly, so Stevenson stopped him. He asked Lopes to begin with the surveillance at the railway station and proceed in order.

  Wearing plain clothes, Lopes had entered the station shortly before four-thirty, opened up the local newspaper and played as if he was reading it. He was soon approached by the novelist he met at the bowling alley weeks before. The man had taken him out for lunch and asked him if he was interested in helping with his crime story. Lopes, surprised to see him there, had tried to shake him off and refused to have a drink with him, saying he was waiting for a friend. The man, who’d introduced himself as Alvaro Luzardo, had left the hall, and for a while Lopes hadn’t thought anything about having bumped into him. Lopes had waited half an hour, after which he realized the person who was supposed to contact him wasn’t going to show up. Alvaro Luzardo had lingered near the ticket counter, but had made no attempt to board a train. Was Alvaro the contact? If so, he must have recognized him and shied away from talking about Louis Saura’s whereabouts. But who was he? What did he really want? In the haste of making the contact he was waiting for, Lopes had done everything to chase the man away. It could have been a mistake, Lopes realized at that point.

  As he saw Luzardo leaving, he’d put the newspaper in his pocket and shadowed the man to his final destination, one of the cottages near the restaurant of The Tranquility.

  “I understand you’re puzzled,” Stevenson said. “You thought that seeing Luzardo at the station had nothing to do with your contact. When you realized he could indeed be the contact, you followed him. Good thinking.” Stevenson took a look at the cottages. There was light was in one of them. “Since Luzardo knew you were a police officer, he played accordingly. In any case it’s clear that Luzardo is connected with what’s going on at The Tranquility. Tell you what we’re going to do. You go to the main office and ask about Luzardo. His car is parked in front of the third cottage, so he must be inside. I go knock at the door and look in the eyes of the man. See his reaction.” He was ready to open the door when he said, “Give me your Glock and the Kevlar. We have to follow procedure.”