Fleeting Visions

by Rene Natan

  “Business is a bit slow, and Abigail, my wife, started to do some checking. She found out about my secret account and kept asking questions. I can’t use it right now.”

  Vicente remained silent for a moment. He was tired, tired of involvement in a business that revolted him, tired of coping with people who didn’t keep their word, tired of phonies like Charles MacMillan. “It’s your choice. If you aren’t there with the fifty, the girl is sold.” He turned off his cell.

  Thirty-three

  Camilo Estorbar never felt better. The meeting with Rose had gone very well. He’d never seen the woman so scared. The police had been at her place twice. When they hadn’t found her at home, they left word with her neighbors that they needed to talk to her on a matter of the highest importance. Camilo’s request to come to live at his new place in New Hamburg and supervise the girls couldn’t have been made at a better time. On top of that bit of luck, Maria, the young woman who’d left when Rose had been fired, had also asked to come to work with him again. Camilo rubbed his hands together. Last, his new acquisitions, the three girls Vicente brought in yesterday, were young, scared, and extremely beautiful. His business was going to bloom.

  It was time to celebrate.

  Camilo picked up his briefcase and exited the penthouse. He descended to the garage and slid into his Lincoln. In no time he was seated at the restaurant of the Armories, one of the best in town. He ordered a margarita and glanced around. Due to the late hour, there were very few customers. A group of businessmen were just sipping the last of their coffees, preparing to leave. Soon after, a young man dressed in a sports jacket took place at a table far away from his, seemingly uninterested in what was going on around him. Camilo ordered a filet mignon with steamed vegetables and a glass of Chablis. He savored his meal, paid his bill with cash, and left.

  He was on Highway 4 when he noticed a black sedan behind him. It didn’t pass him when he slowed down, but tailed him for a few miles, so Camilo turned onto a side road and let the black car go by so that he could glance at the license plate. He stopped just around the corner and kept an eye on the highway. As expected, the traffic intensified with the late hour. Camilo waited a good quarter of an hour to see if the sedan would return to look for him. Since it didn’t, he resumed driving toward home. He’d just turned onto Highway 7 when the black car reappeared behind him. He slowed suddenly, and the sedan swerved, coming close to his car’s rear bumper. He took a glance at the driver and noted a familiar sports jacket—it belonged to the man he’d seen at the restaurant.

  Camilo swore. He was being shadowed. He turned onto a secondary road and went back to London, wondering if Rose’s presence had triggered the police’s recent attention.

  Back in the penthouse, Camilo called Vicente and explained what had happened. “Take care of the business,” he said. “At the moment, I’m stuck in my penthouse.”

  ***

  Vicente slowly closed his cell, annoyed and fatigued. He’d waited for Camilo to come home so he could take off for Toronto, but instead he’d have to call off the meeting with Charles MacMillan. The organization of the new place had been cumbersome. There was no restaurant to prepare the meals for the girls, and the two chefs Camilo hired, in spite of their culinary certification, didn’t seem to be able to prepare a decent meal twice in a row. Rose had joined him at supper time, so he had to listen to her misfortunes. She’d bought a house in a new subdivision along Wonderland Road in London and the property tax and cost of services had astonished her. This, along with some losses on the horse races, had reduced her savings to a dangerously low level.

  Still tired because of the long trip from a few days before, Vicente wanted to be alone and meditate on his next step. Camilo’s business, and his reluctance to join the bigger group operating up west, had diminished the possibility that he’d cross paths with the smuggling of young women on a large scale. If he stayed with Camilo, his chances of finding his missing sister were close to zero, and the business he’d undertaken on behalf of Charles MacMillan, finding Helenita, had been, unexpectedly, completed. Basically, the reasons he’d taken a job with Camilo Estorbar didn’t exist anymore.

  Finally, Rose said goodnight and went to have a word with the girls. Vicente called Charles, and had to listen to the pitiful justifications he spewed for not taking Helenita with him. Charles was eager to talk to him about some alternative accommodations for his daughter, but Vicente doubted he ever had any serious intention of taking care of the girl. Tomorrow, with or without Camilo at the house, he’d drive to Toronto, have this important talk Charles insisted on, and decide on his next move.

  Vicente drank the last of his wine and checked the security installation. There were three alarm systems; one for the main house that comprised Camilo’s home office, one for the living and working quarters of the girls, and one for the employees, such as Rose and himself, who spent the night there. He’d finished the checking when his cell rang. The temptation to ignore the call was high, but the screen showed Camilo. “Yes?” he said, making sure his voice sounded as tired as he was.

  “Come down here with your car. Stay here for the night. Tomorrow, use my car but don’t come back here. Go to The Tranquility and wait there for my call. I want to come home, and I’ll use yours. It’s night, so I don’t think anybody will recognize me.” He shut off.

  Maybe it isn’t all bad, Vicente thought. Tomorrow was his day of freedom, and he could drive in luxury to the appointment with Charles MacMillan.

  ***

  It was a beautiful day, and Lopes arrived early at headquarters wearing jeans and a polo shirt. Plain clothes were in order, since it was his turn to follow Camilo Estorbar. He met Stevenson in the corridor.

  “You’re out of the job,” the detective said. “Late last night we got the court order authorizing a tracking device on Camilo’s Lincoln. Wherever he goes, we’ll track him on the screen of one of our stations. No more need to follow him on the road.”

  Lopes snapped his fingers in disappointment and gave Stevenson a sad look. “Primo got a fantastic meal at the Armories yesterday. I was looking forward to one, too.”

  Stevenson patted the constable on the shoulder. “Next time. Now you’ll have to sit in front of a monitor and see where he goes.”

  Five hours later, the Task Force had gathered some information, but nothing that would allow them to take immediate action. The Lincoln had been parked in downtown Toronto for about two hours and was now travelling on the westbound of the 401. A For Sale sign had been placed in front of Rose Miller’s expensive home by Century 21; the owner had given the real estate agency the exclusive for a month. The company that produced the explosive used in blowing up Miriam’s house was located in Halifax, but served only the army, making any further search useless.

  Stevenson was ready to pack it in when he said to Lopes, “Let’s see if we get lucky. Louis told me Camilo doesn’t like physical exercise. Maybe he parked where his business took him—in an underground garage is my guess. We have the coordinates of the building, so see if you can find out which kinds of business the place houses.” He scribbled the name of a Toronto policeman. “Get his phone number, and ask him to help us.”

  It was time to take a break. Jocelyn had invited him to her place for supper.

  Thirty-four

  The condominium where Jocelyn had moved after the dreadful winter blizzard had a bit of a yard in front. A sprinkler watered the new sod and a couple of little trees at a fixed angle. Gordon jumped sideways to avoid getting wet, reached for the door, rang the bell, and entered. A wonderful aroma of tomatoes, onions, and beef wafted from the kitchen, where Jocelyn was busy in front of the stove.

  “Come in, come in,” Jocelyn called, but Gordon was already behind her. She turned to face him. “I’m making a casserole. If I don’t keep an eye on it, it may burn.” She went back to stirring.

  Gordon deposited the bottle of Brolio he’d brought with him on the table, neared Jocelyn from the back, and kissed h
er lightly on the neck.

  “Don’t distract the cook.”

  “I won’t.” Gordon took a couple of steps sideways and stood in front of the oven. “Something’s burning here.”

  “That’s my specialty.”

  “You serve burned stuff to your guests?”

  “Yes. I make a special salad dressing with yellow peppers. I cut the peppers, set them on a tray with the skin up, and broil them. The skin burns, but not the pulp. They become very mild, the flavor of the peppers not marred by the sour taste of their skin.”

  “Hmm. If you say so…”

  Jocelyn pushed him away. “Go sit in the living room. Supper will be ready in ten minutes. Work up an appetite.”

  Gordon didn’t move. “No need for that. In the last five days, I haven’t had a decent meal. Busy at the office first, and gone to see my parents later. They were pretty shocked by what had happened. Never thought my work could be so dangerous.”

  “Are they in danger?”

  “No. The guy who kept them under the threat of his gun wore a mask.”

  “I see. What about Louis? How is he taking his confinement?”

  “Don’t know. He’s been transferred to a safe spot. I don’t know where he is and have no way to contact him.”

  “It must be hard for the boy.”

  “For sure. I hope we can solve the case within a couple of weeks.”

  Jocelyn took off the big apron, revealing a short floral skirt and a low-cut top. Her athletic figure conveyed strength, her face, tenderness. Normally, she wore no make-up, but tonight there was a touch of mascara on her lashes. She gave Gordon a salad bowl and a basket with bread slices to carry. She walked into the dining room and deposited a covered dish and her special dressing on the table. They sat, and Gordon poured two glasses of wine.

  “Bon appétit.” She held her glass high. “To the success of the Task Force.”

  “To a beautiful woman.” Gordon clinked his glass with hers.

  Jocelyn gave him a quick smile and sipped her wine. She scooped a portion of casserole onto a dish and passed it to Gordon. Supper unfolded smoothly. They talked about the insurance payout for Miriam’s house—an unexpected inheritance for Jocelyn, to be added to the lot’s value—and the lack of prospective buyers for Gordon’s house. Their conversation carried on about the warm weather, exceptional for the season.

  Jocelyn served ice cream topped with a chocolate dip for dessert. “Now that Louis is in hiding, I have no more jobs to handle for the two of you.”

  “Not for Louis, no. But you could help me in other ways.” As Jocelyn looked at him with an arched brow, he added, “My parents would like to have another dog. This time of year, they’re very busy at the farm. Maybe you can go to the Humane Society and get one for them? A hound would be perfect, since my father goes up north to hunt raccoons in the fall.”

  “Consider it done.”

  Gordon finished his dessert quickly and glanced at his watch. “I have to go. Want to pass by my parents’ place.”

  “Any other requests?”

  “Hmm. There’s one thing I’d like to ask you, but it’s a bit…delicate.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Are you romantically available?”

  Jocelyn looked straight into his eyes as he rose, ready to leave. “You mean romantically or…the other?”

  Gordon laughed. “I mean romantically. I mean, are you ready to risk your heart in a relationship? You don’t have to give me an answer now. Maybe next time we see each other.”

  “Oh, ah, that,” Jocelyn said. “I was afraid you were asking…about the other.” She rose and followed him to the doorway.

  “I don’t have to ask about the other,” he said, and kissed her on the forehead. “I already know the answer.”

  ***

  The meeting of the Task Force extended over the lunch hour. Finally, Stevenson adjourned. He needed time to digest the salient facts his agents had collected. On the 401, the Lincoln had been involved in a minor accident and the driver identified as Alvaro Luzardo, carrying a Texas driver’s license. The car, parked at The Tranquility Resort for the night, was still there. So, somehow Camilo Estorbar suspected the surveillance and switched cars. The GPS coordinates for the car’s earlier location corresponded to the underground garage of a building housing two banks, three insurance companies, a travel agency, and an import-export corporation. The truck the two felons had used for Louis’ attempted kidnapping had been reported stolen by its owner, and was found in a ditch about twenty miles from the Stevensons’ farm. None of these facts provided a new clue. Rose Miller had dropped out of sight. Camilo Estorbar hadn’t returned to his penthouse, which meant they couldn’t even pay him a visit.

  “I’m going to have a word with the driver of the car we’ve been tracking,” Stevenson said.

  Lopes asked him “Want some company?”

  “Not this time. If we both show up, he’ll know it’s an official visit, and it wouldn’t take much time for the driver to know we tracked down the car. If I show up alone at The Tranquility, I can try playing it as a casual encounter. It might not work, but it’s worth a try.”

  In no time, Stevenson was in his Nissan, and took Adelaide Street, going south.

  Asked about Mr. Alvaro Luzardo, the receptionist at The Tranquility pointed to a handsome fellow still sitting at the restaurant in spite of the afternoon hour. Stevenson shot a picture of him with his iPhone as he walked up to him. He sat at his table, and said in an amicable tone, “Mind if I join you for a moment?” Still clearly absorbed in his thoughts, Alvaro assented. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I saw Mr. Estorbar’s Lincoln parked in front of a cottage. But the receptionist told me you’re driving that car.”

  Alvaro smiled diplomatically. “That’s Mr. Estorbar’s car. He lent it to me for a couple of days.”

  “Oh, Mr. Estorbar isn’t here?”

  “No.” Alvaro’s face didn’t betray any emotion.

  “Is he in town? I’d like to talk to him—business, you know.”

  “Probably.” A smirk appeared on Alvaro’s face. “You know where his office is, right?”

  “Yes, I do.” Stevenson realized that the only thing he’d get out of this meeting was the face of one of Estorbar’s men. At headquarters, they’d see if anybody knew him. “You do business with Mr. Estorbar?”

  “I did, in the past, but almost nothing right now.”

  Stevenson thanked him and lumbered away. This isn’t my day, he thought. The receptionist Primo had talked to weeks ago had left, and there was a new manager at the resort.

  Camilo, once again, had been one step ahead of his investigation.

  Thirty-five

  Who did he think he fooled? Alvaro Luzardo, aka Vicente Perdiz, thought. He didn’t introduce himself; he didn’t even bother using a bogus name. Well, maybe his appearance was what I needed to make the right decision.

  The police were getting curious. They’d found about the buildings concealed behind the resort center and suspected illegal activity. Camilo had been fast in moving his operation away, and even faster in ordering the demolition of what had been the bordello’s quarters. Perhaps nothing would have happened if two events hadn’t played a major role—the retirement of the corrupt policeman at headquarters and taking the dying girl to the hospital. An alarm had sounded, loud and clear. Now the authorities were on the warpath. As slowly as they usually moved, they’d catch up on the lost time in a jiffy and en masse. Time to clear out, not only from London, but from the country.

  Alvaro motioned for the waiter, ordered a coffee to go, and two pieces of pastry. He was in for another long trip. But first, he’d deliver the Lincoln to Camilo’s business residence. If he parked the car with the fender-bender flush against the wall, Camilo might not notice the damage.

  He had just arrived at the garage and turned off the ignition when another engine turned off besides him. It was Camilo parking the old vehicle he’d driven from Mexico. The body was a bit rusty,
but everything else in the car was top-notch.

  “I told you to stay at Tranquility,” Camilo began.

  “A policeman came and asked me questions. Before he approached me, he’d asked about the blond who worked as a receptionist and about the manager. They’re getting close, Camilo; dangerously close.”

  Camilo stood still, somewhat shocked. “But how is it possible that they know of our moves?”

  Vicente bent underneath the Lincoln and palmed the car’s edge. He rose, holding a tracking device in his hands. “They placed this underneath your car some time ago. On a computer screen, they followed where the Lincoln went. Every movement.” He opened Camilo’s hand and set the device brusquely in his palm. “They know of you, and are ready to come and get you.”

  “They don’t know of the new place!” Camilo said with arrogance.

  Vicente grabbed the car key Camilo held in the other hand. “I’m clearing out, my friend. Do whatever you want. You don’t pay me enough to go to jail.”

  “Don’t you dare leave!” Camilo punched him in the stomach. “I need you, and if I go to jail, you go too.” He punched him again, and Vicente bent over, in pain.

  “You’re crazy! The times when somebody at headquarters buried the complaints received by the police are gone. You’re done. It’s only a question of time.”

  Camilo lifted his arm to inflict another punch to Vicente, but Vicente was ready. He threw Camilo on the floor with an uppercut, entered his old vehicle, and drove away.

  ***

  Once again, Charles MacMillan dialed Alvaro Luzardo’s phone number. As in the three previous days, he got no answer. He didn’t believe Alvaro was serious when he said he’d take Helenita to Camilo Estorbar’s place. But now, he started to doubt. His very own girl…he remembered how happy Helenita was when he’d given her the first Barbie doll, and how proud she was when she showed him the drawings she’d done with the Crayolas, a Christmas gift from him. No, he couldn’t let Camilo use her as one of his sex slaves. No way!