Fleeting Visions

by Rene Natan

  Stevenson walked to the cottage and knocked. He knocked again and again. When he got no response, he turned the door handle. The door opened, and Stevenson, his semi-automatic at the ready, cautiously entered. “I’d like to talk to you,” he called. No answer. Stevenson advanced and went through each of the rooms. Nobody in sight. The cottage held no sign of a guest’s presence. Stevenson re-entered the bedroom, whose patio door opened to the back yard. It was open. The man had fled on foot.

  Stevenson returned to Lopes’ car. His officer was standing beside it. “Nobody in the cottage,” Stevenson said.

  “Right. Luzardo never checked in,” Lopes said.

  Stevenson stripped himself of the gun and the bullet-proof vest, and tossed them in Lopes’ unmarked car. “End of the line, for the moment at least. Got the license number of his car?” As his constable nodded, Stevenson said, “Time to go home.”

  ***

  The Province Special Investigation Unit was proceeding in its inquiry; they were still looking for the source of the explosive used in blowing up Miriam Dalton’s house. Time was running short. As expected, the mysterious Alvaro Luzardo who had contacted Lopes yesterday drove a rental.

  They hadn’t found out where Debby White was working. Stevenson instructed Primo and Lopes to pay her a visit at home, after working hours, and ask her to come to headquarters. The Centre for Forensic Sciences, CFS had extracted the fingerprints in Gisela Cunnigham’s house that didn’t belong to the owner and had been left on drawers, dressers, and the small desk. There were two major ones, and those prints were consistent with what the two eyewitnesses had said, that a man and a woman had pushed Gisela inside and had attacked them as soon as they’d entered the premises.

  Yes, it was time he interrogate Debby White. He didn’t hope for a confession to Cunnigham’s murder, but, if he pushed hard enough, she could implicate her accomplice. Most important of all, he could find out what she knew about Cunnigham, and how she’d gotten in contact with her. This could be another way to get close to finding out where the young prostitutes were held.

  He should place another call to the old phone number of The Tranquility Resort. He was ready to dial, when the sergeant made his appearance.

  “Just a quick report,” he said. “I have to face the media. Apparently they’re receiving an enormous number of calls about the girl who died in the hospital; almost as many as we are. I need to announce a bit of progress, to let people know we’re working hard.”

  Together, they rephrased what the police had said yesterday and added a detail that could explain the length of the inquiry. There was a connection between the explosion in Ms. Danton’s house and the girl who had died, fatally injured and abandoned, in the hospital. Because this fact introduced a new variable, the investigation had to be broadened.

  Finally, the sergeant asked, “Should we release the video? Maybe somebody can recognize her.”

  “We couldn’t find it anymore; I got a copy from the hospital.”

  The sergeant almost blanched. “It…it disappeared from headquarters?”

  Stevenson nodded and raised his eyebrows. “Yeah. It did, and I had no time to launch an inquiry.”

  “I’ll take care of it as soon as I’m through with the briefing.” With decisive steps, the sergeant strode off.

  Stevenson placed a call at the old number of The Tranquility. “You didn’t show up,” he said. “Yesterday I waited for almost an hour at the railways station. I’ll come over once again tomorrow night, but the price has gone up: six thousand. No show, and I march straight to the police.”

  He went to have a coffee and get ready for the interview with Debby White.

  ***

  “What do you mean you didn’t see the guy?” Camilo shook off something from the inside of his leather shoe and banged the shoe hard on the coffee table until he got a small stone out. “The guy just called and said he waited an hour for you!”

  “He lied,” Vicente rebutted. “There wasn’t anybody with The London Free Press spread in front of him.”

  Camilo made a menacing gesture, brandishing his shoe. “You cost a lot, and produce little. Tomorrow the fellow will be there again. Try to spot him.”

  Vicente calmly took a candy from the dish on the coffee table and sucked on it. “Tonight, I leave for Falcon Lake, remember?”

  “Oh, and who is going to meet this guy? It’s important to find out where Louis is! Don’t you understand? He can send us to jail!”

  “Stop shaking that shoe in front of my face. You can send somebody else, or you can go yourself.”

  Camilo swore quietly and put the shoe on. It was a soft yellow, and matched his loud tie, a bright yellow spotted with red dots. He wore a suit, a musky green, with a black shirt.

  Vicente stretched his limbs and said, “I’m going to get ready for my trip. Got the money?”

  “Yeah. In that bag. For three.”

  “But we’re not sure we’ll get three girls. You know there’s another customer.”

  “Yeah, yeah. But he may not be there with the cash. Then you can cut him off.” With a few steps, he followed Vicente. “By the way, give me back the thousand I gave you!” he asked in a peremptory tone.

  “I need that for the trip.”

  “Use the credit card.”

  “When I’m at Falcon Lake, I may need to bribe a few folks. I should use a credit card? I didn’t know that the mobs have their own card.” Without another word, Vicente moved on.

  Camilo didn’t like what was happening. Vicente had been very good in organizing his business, and his contacts in Mexico had been excellent, but there were too many unknowns about him. He had never met Vicente’s parents and never been to his village. It was time to get more information. He’d call his friends at the Mexican town where his father was born and asked them to dig into Vicente’s past and family. In any case, he’d await his return from Falcon Lake. If Vicente had three girls with him, he’d consider keeping him. Otherwise, he’d get rid of him.

  Time to contact Rose Miller and ask her to come back to work. She might be reluctant, but he knew how to convince her. The threat of calling the police and giving her name as the person who took Dolores to the hospital would do the trick. Maybe he could even pay her less than before.

  Camilo rubbed his hands together, went to his office, and looked up Rose’s telephone number.

  Twenty-nine

  I need a new lead, Stevenson thought. He should go see Louis, ask him more questions about the men he’d seen working for Camilo Estorbar. Even a tenuous lead would be beneficial. He’d sent a new recruit together with Lopes to the railway station; the instructions were that the rookie would stand with the newspaper open in front of him and Lopes would park close to the entrance in case the constable needed help.

  At six o’clock Stevenson closed shop and went to his car, ready to leave.

  The two officers drove in and neared Stevenson. They’d waited until the railways station was empty of most travelers with no results. Nobody had made a contact about Louis’ whereabouts.

  The stake-out hadn’t produced any better results than the first time, Stevenson concluded, disappointed. Clearly, the man Lopes had spotted days ago and followed to The Tranquility was the contact. Somehow, the man had recognized Lopes and sensed a trap. Stevenson saluted the constables and entered his car. He drove to Melbourne, where the family farm was located.

  It was a beautiful evening, and he assumed everybody was outside enjoying the early spring. As he entered the farmhouse, he hollered a loud, “I’m here,” and expected his parents and Louis to come around to greet him. Instead, they mumbled a faint hello and kept staring at the television.

  “What the heck?” Gordon said and moved behind the sofa where his parents were seated. Louis sat on the floor, a dog of the Portuguese variety spread out over his lap and upper legs. He should have known Louis would befriend Lambrusco, the old dog, in no time flat. Then Gordon looked at the screen.

  The TV monitor s
howed a person wrapped in a hoodie pushing a wheelchair through the emergency doors of the University Hospital. The sergeant had found the video, and, as he’d announced, he’d made it public. The TV announcer played the sequence once again and asked anybody knowing either the girl or the hoodied woman to come forward. A phone number and email address appeared at the bottom. The image of the dead young woman came into view next, and a replay of the old words Stevenson had solemnly pronounced immediately after her death resounded in the room.

  His mother, Etelka, was the first to rise and walk around the sofa to hug her son. “Have you eaten?”

  Gordon shook his head. “After seeing that video again, I’m not hungry anymore. Maybe later. I came to see how Louis was doing and find out if he can help me a bit more.” He gestured for Louis to follow him and walked into the kitchen. The dog dragged his paws behind Louis and leaned against him.

  Gordon opened his iPhone and did a bit of flipping around. “Oh, here they are. The notes I made of our recent interview.”

  “I thought you used a recorder of some kind.”

  “Yes, I did, but I always make a compendium, a summary I mean, just for myself.” He sat at the kitchen table and invited Louis to do likewise. “Here it is. You said you didn’t want to disclose the name of the sick girl when we were at the hospital, but, later on, you told me that you did recognize her to be Dolores Cardova. You also mentioned one Rose, as the madam—sorry, the girls’ manager. As you watched the video of Dolores coming into the hospital just now, did you recognize the older woman with her?”

  “Not for sure. The hood dropped down to half her face.”

  “That’s right. What about the height? Anybody that tall?”

  “Yes, that would be Rose. Rose Miller.”

  “Know anything else about the woman?” As Louis shook his head no, Gordon said, “Then you have to make an effort and tell me about all, and I mean all, the people you met or saw working at The Tranquility.”

  ***

  Camilo Estorbar was not new to the treacheries of shadowing and hiding. He’d done it many times when he spied on a pusher or a dealer, or, more often, on one of his own men when he suspected him of cheating. He knew how to follow a car without being noticed, and how to cleverly disguise himself. He’d decided to take the situation into his own hands, and go to the rendezvous with the person who was supposed to tell him where Louis was hiding. It was sad that he couldn’t count on his men. Most of the times they followed his orders, but here and there, they took liberties that had dramatic consequences. Take the business of Miriam Dalton’s house. His order was to kidnap Louis and bust a few things here and there to convey the message that it was dangerous to confront him or try to outsmart him. What had happened? His man had searched for the boy high and low and, when he couldn’t find him anywhere, he’d used some of the explosive he’d taken with him from his post in the Middle East. He’d blown up the entire house! Not that the woman didn’t deserve it, but he had unnecessarily attracted attention. This time he’d handle the situation himself. He wanted to know where the boy was—it was a must.

  He remembered how much fun he had with him. Louis had been a sheer pleasure for appeasing his sexual craving; the young man was always scared, and that gave him the additional feeling of total control. If Louis didn’t present an enormous threat to his safety, he’d keep him around; for months he’d dreamed of having the wild and wicked sex he used to have with him. But, as things had developed, Louis had to go—he’d become a liability.

  With that decision rooted in his mind, he jumped into his nondescript pickup and drove to London.

  Camilo entered the railways station shortly after four-thirty. He immediately spotted a young man with The London Free Press open in front of him. He calmly exited. He’d wait for the young man to come out and then he’d follow him.

  It was a long wait but finally the young man left the station, took a few steps along York Street and stopped to speak with another man at the wheel of an old Olds. Soon after the young man took a seat inside the car.

  Camilo quickened his steps to his pickup. He followed the Olds, staying well behind it. He wasn’t surprised when he saw the old car stop in the vicinity of the police station. He felt proud of himself; he was super clever; he’d spotted a trap and avoided it. He was ready to go home, when he saw the two fellows exiting their car and talk to an older man. Clearly, the older man was the superior of the two fellows he had just tailed. It would be interesting to follow him, and learn more about him. The man entered a Nissan and Camilo, exhilarated, began the chase.

  There was steady traffic on Highway 22. Camilo followed the Nissan for about twenty kilometers, then for another twelve on County Road 39. When the car turned on County Road 6 and soon after stopped at the red signal of the railway crossing, Camilo moved slightly to the right, parked out of sight and waited for the train to transit and the bars to lift up. He then resumed his chase, headlights off. Fifteen minutes later, the Nissan took a gravel road and stopped in the driveway of a large house. Camilo didn’t dare go any farther. He stopped, took the gas canister he always kept in the trunk of his old pickup, and followed the car’s wake on foot, his boots and working clothes giving him the appearance of a farmer stuck on the road without gas. He didn’t need the disguise. The darkness of the incipient night was sufficient to let him approach the house undetected.

  There was light in two rooms, and the noise of the TV came from the one on his left. Thinking that most of the family would be watching a show, he neared the other room. He almost dropped to the ground from surprise. Louis was there, speaking to the older man he’d followed from town.

  For a moment, Camilo didn’t breathe. Then he tiptoed away from the house.

  Louis was as good as dead.

  ***

  For the last half hour, Stevenson had pounded Debby White. The mousy-looking woman had denied any involvement in Gisela Cunnigham’s murder. He tried to make her reveal the name of her accomplice to lighten her responsibility. She refused to react, not even a blink. He was about to say that if some of the fingerprints in Gisela’s house were found to coincide with hers, it would be too late to bargain for a charge less than murder when the door of the interrogation room opened wide and the sergeant appeared on the threshold.

  “Stevenson, with me,” he said with his authoritative voice. “Now.”

  Surprised, Stevenson complied. He took the iPhone that lay on the table and left.

  Once the door closed behind him, the sergeant said, “Shootout at your parents’ place. The OPP is there.”

  Somebody gave Stevenson his coat as both men walked to the exit.

  “Anybody injured?”

  “Don’t know. Your parents are okay.”

  With lights and sirens at full power, they drove to the old folks’ farmhouse. An update on the situation was soon transmitted by radio. They couldn’t find Louis. Either he’d managed to flee or had been kidnapped. When they arrived at the farm, three Ontario Provincial Police cars were visible: two around the house and one in the field, coasting the long strip of trees that delineated the Stevensons’ property. A TV van was stationed on the county road, close to the fork with the gravel road.

  Stevenson rushed into the house and held both parents in his arms. “So sorry,” he mumbled.

  “We’re fine,” said his father. “Everything happened so fast…two masked men came in through the back door. One goon kept us under the threat of his gun while the other walked into the kitchen where Louis was having a snack. There were screams, and then shots.” He paused, visibly upset. “Then the man who was here rushed into the kitchen. They killed our Lambrusco.”

  “I grabbed our cell and called nine-one-one. The police were here in a jiffy,” said the mother. “We’re worried about Louis. They can’t find him.”

  Stevenson nodded and walked into the kitchen. He knelt by the dog’s corpse and leaned close to him. Lambrusco’s chest was one big open wound. Blood stained his fur; his mouth was s
tretched in a mask of death. The old dog had given all that he had.

  Stevenson sighed. He was stunned that the criminals had gathered information so quickly about Louis’ whereabouts and had such a long reach. Not to mention the impudence of chasing a victim in the house of a policeman’s family!

  The forensic team had already done its job; the four men were now uploading their equipment to a van. Samples of blood in the entrance hall and kitchen area had been collected; they’d soon know if there was human blood in the samples.

  Stevenson stretched up and approached the sergeant. “It’s terrible. The people who’re after Louis are first-class criminals. First the bomb, now this.”

  The sergeant tapped him on the shoulders. “We’ll get them, I promise.”

  “I hope so.” Stevenson paused. “Your guess about Louis?”

  “It’s possible he’s roaming in the field—but it doesn’t look good. If he were, by now he’d have shown up, seeing the police in force around this place. Kidnapped is more probable.” He got ready to leave. “They’re finished here; you can clean up if you want.” High-pitched voices coming from the outside resounded in the quiet room. “I better go keep the media at bay. The officer’s “no comments” didn’t satisfy them, I’m afraid. I’ll let them take a picture of the dog, and then I’ll ask them to leave.”

  ***

  Gordon said goodnight to his parents and stood still, watching the old couple, hand in hand, climb the stairs up to their bedroom. When it was clear Marta couldn’t have children, Gordon had asked his parents why they had only one child. Their answer, like many others, was very simple, “It was what God sent us.” His parents had lived a rather simple life. They stayed on the four-hundred-acre farm that had been their parents’. They rotated crops to avoid impoverishing the land; they rejoiced when they had a good crop, and they accepted a bad frost or drought as an inevitable calamity. They insured the farm to protect themselves from a disaster, but not much more. Expectations and outcome balanced out pretty well, and that provided contentment in their life. They loved what they were doing, and seldom spoke of retiring.