Fleeting Visions

by Rene Natan

  Louis had seen those pictures some time ago, on Sports Illustrated when the Swimsuit Edition had come out. He nodded. “They sure are,” he said quietly. His thoughts went to Selina, to her sweet smile and bright eyes. He wondered how she was coping with the situation, or if she’d become sick like Dolores. He hesitated for a moment, and then asked, “Mind if I make a call with your cell?”

  “Make it snappy,” Jim said and handed him the phone.

  It was noisy with the cluttering of the dishes and the televisions on. Louis rose, stepped away from the table, and huddled against the nearby wall. He dialed the old number the customers used to book appointments at The Tranquility. To his surprise old Rose came to the phone, but she didn’t put him through to Selina. The girl was working, Rose said, and then added, “But you can tell me something about yourself.” Louis didn’t feel much like chatting with her. Disappointed, he closed the phone, and returned to the table.

  He gave the cell back to its owner and left for home—it was no home really, just a shelter where he slept and ate.

  ***

  “What?” Stevenson screamed so loud that everybody in the Investigation Response Unit turned their heads toward him. He was talking on the phone. “What did you say?” he repeated, his tone calmer this time. “When?” He listened for a while. “Yes, send the report by email. Thanks.” He scribbled something on a Post-it and closed his iPhone. He picked up a folder and went to the room where the meeting of the Task Force was scheduled, the iPhone in his hand.

  He took place in the chair at the head of the table, called the meeting to order, and blurted out, “You can’t believe what happened. That idiot of a boy, I mean our super-testimony Louis Saura, called Camilo’s old headquarters! It happened the night before last. It’s the first and only call we heard since we tapped the phone line registered to the old resort, The Tranquility.”

  “Would Camilo be able to locate him?” Primo asked.

  “Not right away. He got only knowledge of the area code and of the person who owned the phone Louis called from. But he has another advantage. He knows the young man well and can predict his moves. I wouldn’t be surprised if Estorbar left that phone number active only because he knew Louis would call. Louis cares for one of Camilo’s girls.” He paused. “To answer your question, yes, Camilo can find him, not right away, though. He’ll put a couple of his thugs on Louis’ tracks.”

  Primo asked, “Any other useful information?”

  “Not really. The calls from the phone at the old Tranquility are apparently rerouted to Camilo Estorbar’s new center; we have no way to find the destination area. That rerouting is done internally.”

  An OPP member asked, “The name of the phone’s owner?”

  “Jim Thompson.” He let out a big sigh. “The office in charge of relocation had found a nice hideout for Louis. Under an assumed name, he lives in a small apartment on top of a garage in a house owned by a retired policeman and his wife. He biked to a farm near Leamington and worked there for the day. Now they’ll have to take Louis to another place.” He brushed his mustache nervously. “We should put him in jail, that’s what we should do, so he can’t move around and mess things up.”

  The meeting went on to deal with ordinary administration, and after only half an hour, Stevenson adjourned.

  He got a coffee and then went to brief the sergeant. It was a poignant meeting, after which Stevenson went back to his desk and wrote a report, outlining the recent events.

  Thirty-eight

  The following morning, Stevenson got up early and, after a good shower, felt invigorated and ready to face another day of problems and troubles. The weekend was coming, and he’d invite Jocelyn out for supper and a show of her liking.

  He drove to headquarters and had just taken his place at his desk when Lopes came up to him, a printout in his hand.

  “Last night, a man was murdered. He was a seasonal worker at a farm in Leamington. His name hasn’t been released yet.”

  Stevenson glanced at the printout, which gave only a few details about the findings. The body showed signs of torture, and the death was classified as strangulation. Stevenson picked up the phone and called the Leamington OPP Detachment to get more information. The man had been identified, he was told, as James Thompson. Their preliminary investigation pointed to a professional hit. They were puzzled. The young man had little money and wasn’t known to do drugs, deal in drugs, or be in any kind of trouble. Stevenson thanked them and closed his eyes. Could Camilo Estorbar’s criminal tentacles reach that far and that fast? Should the Task Force wait for the conclusion of the investigation carried out by the local detachment, or step in?

  He called an emergency meeting and presented the case. Questions popped up right away. Where was Louis at the moment? Had he been informed of the death of the man he probably spent the evening with? What evidence did they have the call Louis made had been the cause of Jim Thompson’s demise? They could suspect it had been Camilo’s doing, but how much proof did they have? The discussion lasted far more than two hours, with one final resolution approved unanimously. The Task Force wanted to talk to Louis and be part of the investigation carried out in loco.

  Stevenson returned to his desk and made the necessary arrangements. He was going to have a coffee when a call came in from the detachment in Leamington.

  In the morning, Louis Saura, as usual, had gone to work at the farm. When he heard the news Jim had been killed, he jumped off the combine, ran through the field with the speed of light, and disappeared from sight.

  Stevenson didn’t lose any time. He briefed the Task Force, called Primo, and asked him to dress up in plain clothes and wait for him in the parking lot. Together, they’d take off for Leamington.

  He changed into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt with his bullet-proof vest under the shirt.

  Primo showed up with a Thermos of coffee and sandwiches. Without saying a word, he took the driver’s seat and handed Stevenson the coffee and the box with sandwiches.

  “Where do you think Louis has gone?” Primo asked as he put the nondescript car in motion.

  Stevenson hesitated for a moment, then said, “My guess? Not far away. He probably ran back to the house, picked up his stuff and his bicycle. His money, too.” Stevenson paused, pensive. “But he didn’t go far. The boy has no place to go.”

  “So?”

  “He’s waiting for us.” Stevenson poured a coffee from the Thermos. “But we’ll have to be careful. Jim Thompson had been tortured, so he may have given away where Louis worked. He didn’t know Louis’ address, as Louis was told never to give it to anybody.”

  “The killer may be waiting at the farm then.”

  “He might. We’re going to talk to the owners of the house where Louis lived—they’re part of the relocation program—then we linger around, until dark if necessary—and hope Louis shows up.”

  Stevenson and Primo arrived at the OPP detachment in Leamington in the early evening, anxious to see where Louis had worked and lived. Bureaucracy, however, got in the way, as the local police wanted to brief Stevenson on how they’d discovered Jim Thompson’s body and how mystified they’d been to find out that his coworker had disappeared. There was no longer any reason to keep Louis Saura’s identity secret, so Stevenson explained, in big lines, why the young man had probably fled, fearing for his life. By the time he was finished with the locals, it was midnight.

  There was no use patrolling the area where Louis had probably been hanging around. They’d have to wait until morning.

  ***

  Louis was getting antsier by the minute. It was dark, and it was also getting cold. Maybe he should see if Stevenson had shown up at the house where he’d stayed until yesterday. With a baseball cap shoved down to cover his eyebrows, Louis retraced the steps he’d made four times since he’d gone into hiding. There was no police or any other car in front of the house. He circled around the place for about half an hour. No Stevenson. A wave of desolation and abandonment wash
ed over him. Did he overreact when he heard Jim had been tortured and killed? Was Camilo behind it, or was he just acting out of his fear? If Camilo was responsible for the crime, what had triggered the killing? The call he’d made from Jim’s phone? Camilo had come after him once in the past, just because he’d called The Tranquility and asked for Selina. If only he was sure Camilo didn’t have a mole in the police! Then he’d walk to the nearby police station, but how could he? Stevenson had told him the crook inside headquarters had left, and nobody had replaced him. But was it true?

  He shot a last glance at the house and down the road. No Stevenson.

  He was alone.

  Deeply distressed, he went back to where he’d deposited his bag and bicycle after he’d jumped off the combine and fled. It was a shed on a farm where he’d worked during the weekends, a couple of miles away from the wheat fields he’d helped combine. That place would have to do for the night. He entered the shed, the smell of hay hitting his nostrils. He made a bed out of some straw, lay down, and used the bag with his clothes as a blanket. It was past midnight, but he couldn’t fall asleep. What would he do tomorrow?

  Thirty-nine

  Stevenson was up early. He left a message for Primo that he was going to see the little apartment that had been Louis’ living quarters. Louis had gone to work yesterday, like every other weekday. He’d jumped off the combine around three o’clock, when he heard the news of Jim Thompson’s murder. Nobody had seen him since. Stevenson parked a few blocks away from Louis’ home and walked to the place, in order to get a feel for the neighborhood.

  He climbed the three flights to get to the apartment. It was unlocked, and he entered. The foyer and the kitchen were tidy. Stevenson entered the tiny bedroom. The bed was under a window carved in the upper part of the wall, a large semicircle of clear glass. The bed was made, but the drawers of the dresser were wide open. Louis had packed his clothes in a hurry. He went downstairs and looked around, hoping Louis had left a few clues he alone could decipher. There were a few magazines about cars, a couple of pamphlets about traveling, and Sports Illustrated. He started opening the drawers of the kitchen cabinets. Then he heard a noise, first a whispering, then steps of somebody coming up the stairs. Two people, he guessed. Nobody at the detachment had mentioned they’d come over, and there hadn’t been any noise from a car engine. Whoever had arrived was on foot. He withdrew from the kitchen and neared the bathroom where the door was ajar. He opened it wide and entered. His best cover was to position himself close to the jamb. His view was limited, but it was more important not to be seen than seeing. He waited. Two men entered the premises.

  “I wonder where he could have gone. We had to punch Jim hard to get him to spit out the name of the farm where he and his friend worked. A total waste of time. At the farm they don’t know nothing.”

  “Well, the neighbors have seen a boy bicycling around. I say it’s our boy. We’ll wait here. He’ll come back.”

  “Then I’ll go get something to munch on. It might be a long wait. Okay, Fred?”

  “Fine. Don’t forget the beer.”

  “Oh, the beer, yes. It might take a while, since the beer store is far away.”

  One man descended the stairs while the other, called Fred, entered the kitchen and approached the fridge. He opened the door and slammed it closed right away. “Only a piece of cheese,” he said with disgust. He slumped on one of the barrel chairs, which squealed under his weight.

  Stevenson drew his Glock. He was only feet away from the man. He waited until the steps of the second man faded away, then, as delicately as he could, he released the safety. He moved out, and with two big steps, he stood in front of the man, who stopped chewing, surprise painted over his face.

  “If you make a move, I’ll shoot you,” he said in a firm voice. “Who sent you here?” The man remained silent, so Stevenson inched up to him and put the gun close to his temple. “I want the name of the man who sent you, and the one of the person you’re chasing.”

  “I don’t know nothing.”

  Stevenson fired a shot close to his feet. “I don’t have a good aim, but I’ll do better next time.” The man wiggled in his chair, and Stevenson repeated his request. He fired a second shot, hitting a chair’s leg. The man fell on the floor and tried to go for his gun. Stevenson fired at his hand and a shrill cry filled the room. The man’s gun slid on the floor, ending near the wall. “The names!” Stevenson shouted.

  “Camilo Estorbar. He wants Louis Saura dead,” the man whined. “I’m hurt. I need to be taken to the hospital.”

  “Sure. But first we wait for your friend to come back.” Stevenson picked up the man’s gun, a Beretta, and placed it under his belt, the barrel firmly stuck inside. He got his cell and called the local OPP Detachment, explaining what had happened. They’d approach Louis’ living quarters incognito, giving time for the second man to return.

  “You didn’t call for an ambulance,” the man said.

  Stevenson threw a tea towel to the man. “Wrap up your hand. You’re making the place dirty.” He looked for tape. He finally found some inside one of the kitchen cupboards. He put a piece of tape around the man’s mouth and sat in a chair. “Your friend is late. I’m getting thirsty. I could use one of those beers your friend went to get.”

  He waited, the only noise Fred’s half-muted bawling. Then his cell rang. It was Primo.

  “We’ve been posted around the place for more than three quarters of an hour. Do you think the second man will still show up?”

  “No. I’m afraid he heard the shots and bailed out as quickly as he could.”

  One officer took Fred into custody. Primo and another officer took Stevenson’s deposition, and together they searched the place carefully, hoping to find clues that would indicate where Louis had gone. Nothing surfaced. They left, disappointed.

  Louis was all by himself.

  ***

  Stevenson entered his home, hoping to have a relaxing time; he deserved some. Instead, there was call after call; a personal one from the sergeant, a lengthy one from his parents, another from Jocelyn, and several from the media. Stevenson referred the latter to the police spokeswoman, who, at that time of night, wasn’t available.

  When he turned on the TV, the report of what had happened in Leamington was fairly accurate and the name of the arrested man disclosed. Several frames of himself beaming on the screen as he left the safe house followed. He was ready to turn off the noise maker, when a new program was announced. Was what happened today linked to the death of the no-name girl who had been taken to the hospital last winter? Word was that there was a mysterious witness the authorities wanted to protect. Who was he or she? Why all the secrecy? Did anybody know why Jim Thompson was killed? Two commentators appeared, interviewed by the station’s anchorwoman. Not only were the local media interested, people from all over called in wanting an explanation of the recent events. As the interview proceeded with more questions than answers, a parade of pictures filled half of the screen. Stevenson was flabbergasted by the number of reporters, cameramen, and equipment that had been stationed in the vicinity of headquarters. He wondered if they’d still be there tomorrow morning.

  He turned off the TV, finished his beer, and pondered the situation. The public had the right to be informed; the media had an essential role in reporting, but the Task Force needed, at the moment, absolute secrecy on the main suspect, Camilo Estorbar. They wanted to catch him, not help him to escape.

  Stevenson took out his iPhone and texted some annotations. He’d propose they should release the name of the deceased young woman and the name of Debby’s accomplice. These two pieces of information would not give away the main stream the Task Force was following. They wouldn’t be able to link Dolores to Louis or Camilo, and Debby’s crime was only marginally related to their current inquiry. He’d put those two items on tomorrow’s agenda.

  He sighed as he got ready for bed. The painful truth was that, without Louis, they were at a still point.
<
br />   Forty

  Charles MacMillan had spent two nights without sleep. He wanted to take Helenita away from Camilo, but he’d have to pay, and there was no way he could gather that amount of money without coming into the open. His marriage, his social position, even his work, would disappear in smoke. He had to make a decision, had to act, even if he didn’t know what to do. He tried again to call Alvaro Luzardo, but his phone didn’t ring. The man who could still strike a deal with Camilo had vanished into thin air. The urgency he felt grew by the hour. Finally, the third day after he’d met with Estorbar, he decided to go to the place he discovered the night he’d followed Camilo. The partial seclusion, the extension of the property, and the number of buildings could very well be the place where Camilo had set his whorehouse.

  Still with conflicting emotions, Charles left a message at the office, saying he was visiting a client. He took off for New Hamburg. He had to find out if Helenita was there.

  The GPS guided him exactly to the place where he’d been days ago. For a moment he hesitated, but continued and stopped a few hundred feet from the compound. He left his Corvette there and walked. His idea was to wander around, but he was just a few feet from the entrance when a guard appeared and asked him who he was and what he wanted. The man had a military stance; his size was imposing and his ponytail didn’t decrease the sense of danger he emanated. Charles introduced himself and said he wanted to talk to Mr. Estorbar on an issue of utmost importance. The guard freed his cell from his belt, moved a few steps away from Charles, and talked on the phone, always keeping his eyes on the newcomer.