Fleeting Visions

by Rene Natan

  It was ten o’clock in the morning when she woke up. The sun filtered through the sheers, as she hadn’t bothered to close the heavy drapes. She and Gordon both had a free day; it would be wonderful to spend it together. She called him at home, but got no answer, so she called the office and was put on hold. Strange. Finally Gordon came to the phone, and explained they’d found Louis. He’d called for an emergency meeting of the Task Force to decide what to do with him.

  “Is Louis okay?”

  “He looks gaunt and frightened, but he’s okay.” Jocelyn knew he couldn’t give out any details. “So much for my free day. I didn’t ask you why you called. Anything important?”

  It was an unexpected opportunity to chicken out. “Not really. Call me when you have time.”

  Forty-Two

  For the first time in his life, Camilo was distraught. He often felt angry, very angry, but he never felt such a sense of imminent danger as he did now. He’d heard of the arrest of Fred Barino, the man he’d paid to waste Louis Saura. Fred was a hit man. He was supposed to come, do his job, and go back to his country without leaving a trace. So much for the result! His companion, still at large, was Paul Finsey, who’d blown up Miriam Dalton’s house. He was going to accompany Fred, as he was familiar with local habits, means of transportation, and knew Louis well.

  What a catastrophe! Going after Louis had cost him a pretty penny. Now he could only hope Fred wouldn’t give away what he knew about him and his operation. He’d dispatched a lawyer to assist him in the interrogation, and that would add to the cost. Paul had called him, saying that he wanted to be paid fifty grand to finish the job, as the police were out in force to investigate Jim’s murder. Paid in advance, he’d specified, since he’d have to disappear fast after the job was done. Paul wasn’t the smartest person on earth. Besides, Camilo didn’t trust him completely. He might take the money and disappear. He didn’t know what to do.

  His thoughts went back to Vicente. He missed him, as Vicente always suggested solutions that were sensible and created a minimum of negative reactions. It was a mistake to fight with him. Vicente would have known how to keep Charles MacMillan at bay, while he, taken by panic, had opted for the drastic solution of killing him. Doubt chewed at him. Would somebody else know about Helenita and her whereabouts? If so, it was only a question of time before the police would knock on his door.

  Could he get rid of the girl? She’d been brought in at night, and never left the compound.

  He was still debating his next move when Paul called. “I found out where Louis is gone. I played reporter and people told me they’d seen a tall boy driving a bicycle going to the bus station.” He laughed. “Sure enough, an old bicycle was there. An hour before, a bus had left for London.”

  “Umm. London’s a big city.”

  “But Louis has only a few connections. The old woman with the house on Waterloo is dead, so that leaves Stevenson and his group.”

  “But if he’s at the police station, they’ll take him to a safe spot.”

  “I could get at him before they find another place for him. They don’t move too fast over there.” Paul paused and then said, “Fifty by tonight or I clear out.” Camilo kept quiet. “Mr. Estorbar, are you there?”

  “Twenty-five tonight, twenty-five when I have proof that Louis is dead.” Camilo switched off the phone and sank into one of the easy chairs. He picked up the Toronto Star and looked for the local news.

  The inquiry on the death of Charles MacMillan was proceeding slowly, as the investigators couldn’t find any clues. Charles’ wife, Abigail, who was abroad, had returned, and had been questioned as soon as she set foot on Canadian soil. Even if disheartened by her husband’s death, she’d spent hours supplying all the information in her possession. She hadn’t provided any useful leads. Charles had business in different cities. The morning he’d been murdered, he’d just told the office he was meeting a prospective client interested in importing spices. It was normal business, at least as far as his office was concerned.

  A nosey reporter had found out the police had taken note of all the people MacMillan was doing business with, and they’d try to contact them.

  Camilo jumped from the upholstered chair when he read that paragraph. He read that newspaper’s paragraph again and again. They wouldn’t be able to find any close business relationship between him and MacMillan, but the idea that Charles’ daughter was inside the compound troubled him. What else did they know about Charles and Helenita that they didn’t say? He had to find a solution—that girl had to disappear. But how? He remembered the turmoil when Dolores had been taken to the hospital, and the other girls discovered she’d died. Helenita had to disappear in a peaceful way, in a way that wouldn’t create ripples of unrest.

  He paced the large room back and forth, tripped once over the corner of the thick carpet, and called Rose in. “I have to leave. You’re in charge of the girls and the clients. Make sure everything works smoothly. You know what I mean.”

  Rose nodded and asked, “When will you return?”

  “In three days, four at most.”

  Camilo had no time for more talk. He gave orders to all others who had an important role in his organization and went to his room to pack a suitcase.

  He’d found out who The Adjuster was and where to find him. Now he knew how to solve the problem Helenita posed.

  ***

  Vicente was amazed how the place had changed. His parents had built a real house, a small one, but with bricks and a slate roof. The old external well had been replaced by an electric pump, and underground pipes supplied water inside the house. Pigs and cows shared a fenced area at the back, while chickens still roamed loose around the property. The driveway, flanked by a few boxes of flowers, had been widened and freed of weeds. An old pickup truck stood close to the house. The money he’d managed to send them while he was away had been used to buy the construction material for the house, while neighbors and friends had provided most of the labor.

  His mother wept non-stop for more than an half an hour, so glad she was to see him again, and alive. His father had stood motionless, his eyes moist with tears.

  It was a homecoming, and a happy one, even if they knew he hadn’t been able to find their kidnapped daughter.

  For a week, Vicente spent time talking to his parents, enjoying the meals his mother cooked, and visiting old family friends.

  Now it was time to look for a job. He contacted the people he knew before he’d gone to work for Camilo. He went to see some in person, while he called others on the telephone. By the end of the second week, he had two job offers: one as a consultant for a restaurant chain, the other as a salesman.

  It was a hot day, and his mother had laid a carafe with lemonade and a tall glass on the outdoor table. Slumped in a long chair, Vicente stretched his arm and poured a glass of the cold drink. A pergola made of branches and palm leaves protected the chair and table from the afternoon sun. Vicente sipped the lemonade, trying to decide which job to take, the one that paid less, but was close to his parents’ home, or the one in Mexico City.

  The roaring of an engine disturbed the calm of the surrounding area. Even from the back yard, he could see the dust the car had lifted up. He wondered who could be so poorly mannered. He finished his drink and refilled his glass.

  His father appeared, followed by Camilo Estorbar.

  “So, here you are! Hiding!”

  “What seems to be the problem?” Vicente asked, his tone clipped. His father went back to the front of the house, clearly wanting to stay away from troubles.

  “Did you really think I won’t find out who The Adjuster was? Vicente or Alvaro, you have to come with me. I need your help.” He sat in a chair opposite Vicente.

  “I bet you do. You don’t have the faintest idea how to run a business.”

  “Don’t start arguing. A man came to see me. Charles MacMillan. I thought he was a new, wealthy, and promising client. He gave me a big problem.”

  “
You killed him, I read in the newspaper. So the problem is gone.”

  Camilo waived his objection. “I want you to take that girl away, the one this MacMillan said was his daughter. Any place.”

  “And why should I do that? That girl came from Mexico, like the others.”

  Camilo wiggled in his chair. “MacMillan knew she was with me. I don’t know how he found out, but he did. He knew The Adjuster, so maybe you told him. The situation is dangerous. It might jeopardize my operation.” Vicente sipped on his lemonade, looking away from Camilo. He didn’t utter a word. “Come on, I gave you a good job for more than two years. You should be grateful. What do you want to do in this place? Milking the cows you don’t have?”

  Vicente sat upright and looked straight into Camilo’s eyes. “When you asked me to work for you, I was already a consultant. One of my clients was Flavors of the World. Made good money.” He set the empty glass on the table with a thud. “At that time, one of my sisters was abducted. There was a rumor that one of the groups operating in this region had her. You’re one of these groups. I came with you to see if I could find out where she was. I stayed with you, hoping to gather information on her.” He raised his voice. “Got it? I had no other reason to work for your dirty business.”

  For a moment, Camilo was silent, then he said, “The past is the past. I’m offering you a job.” He paused. “Eliminating the girl, Helenita at this point could be dangerous. I don’t know how many people knew of the entire affair.”

  Vicente gave him an icy look. “I worked for money. I can come and get the girl. Thirty thousand plus expenses.” He paused. Before Camilo could react, he added, “The expenses amount to about three thousand. All paid in advance.”

  “And how would I do that? I’m here, and my accounts are in Canada.”

  Vicente rose, paying attention to fake a limp—he’d told Camilo of a prosthesis for which he had to see a doctor in Toronto, so that he had the possibility of staying in contact with MacMillan. “I have a new iPad with me, and high-speed Internet. You can handle the transaction between your bank and mine, here, on the spot.”

  Forty-three

  The meeting the Task Force held yesterday lasted a long time. First, they discussed what to do with Louis Saura—not that they could enforce anything. They had no authority on the matter. They could only list a number of options and let Louis decide which one to choose. Then there was a lengthy discussion about finding the red Corvette with Mr. MacMillan’s dead body on the steering wheel. Its license number was the same as the car Santos Lopes had spotted in front of the building where Camilo Estorbar had his legit business. The Task Force wanted MacMillan’s murder to be part of the ongoing investigation. Stevenson felt the two were connected. That posed a problem of jurisdiction, which was solved by filing a request for associating MacMillan’s death with Dolores Cardova’s to the OPP headquarters in Orilia.

  “Today’s meeting will be short,” Stevenson thought. He was ready for it but first he’d have a talk with Louis.

  He descended the stairs and walked to the kitchen, following the delicious smell wafted from within. He joined Louis, who had cooked breakfast and turned on the coffee machine. Louis had spent the previous day at Gordon’s, always with a cruiser standing guard outside. Louis knew this arrangement was temporary and he had to move on. Until last night, he preferred to take off for the far west. While Gordon didn’t blame the young man for his misgivings about the so-called “safe locations,” he was going to spend all the time and effort necessary to change Louis’ mind.

  “Hello,” said Stevenson. “I see you shaved off your beard.”

  Louis nodded. “I did a lot cleaning up. Used your washer to do a bit of laundry. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Stevenson dismissed the issue with a wave of his hand. He sat across Louis. “Yesterday I told you the options the Task Force recommends for your safety. What do you think?”

  Louis laughed. “Why do you think I changed my mind from last night?”

  “Because you’re a sensible person, and you must realize you can’t do this by yourself.”

  “I didn’t intend to. I asked you for a loan, so I can make it to the Yukon faster.”

  Stevenson rose and helped himself to two pancakes and a warm cup of coffee. He sat again and waited for Louis to come back to the table. On his plate were five pancakes. For a while they both got busy spreading butter and pouring syrup. “The house in Lucan hosts another person in a situation similar to yours. We’re asking you to spend one week there, two weeks tops. If we can’t get at Camilo by then, you’ll get the thousand and my blessing.”

  The distant noise of a motor became more distinct. Instinctively, Stevenson rose and walked toward the main entrance. From the adjoining room, he peeked outside, raising the corner of one of the curtains. A car had stopped under the For Sale sign he’d posted weeks ago. The driver was taking down the phone number written underneath. Stevenson called the officer in the cruiser. He told her to take down the car’s license number when the car passed her. He waited until the vehicle cleared out and went back to the kitchen table.

  Louis had finished eating and was drinking a glass of milk.

  Going by what he eats, he should be as fat as a pig, thought Stevenson. He finished his breakfast and looked at Louis expectantly.

  The young man opened his hazel eyes wide. “One week. I owe you that much.”

  “Great,” said Stevenson, satisfied. His phone rang, and he snatched it right away. It was Lopes. The Task Force had received approval to investigate MacMillan’s murder. The Corvette had been transferred to the Centre for Forensic Sciences in Toronto. “I have to go,” he told Louis. “You stay here until you hear from me. From nobody else but me. Clear?” Louis nodded. “No going outside, no answering the phone or the door. Don’t use the phone or the computer. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Stevenson drove to headquarters, held the scheduled meeting, communicating the important news about Louis’ decision.

  He checked on the vehicle that would take Louis to Lucan. Once he got confirmation that everything was ready for the transfer, he called the young man and let him know that a van with the script Satellite Installation and Repair was coming in less than hour. It would take him to his new accommodation—for a short time, Stevenson added, hoping to make Louis’ sacrifice a bit lighter.

  He thought all the problems had been taken care of for the day when Primo approached him. The traffic on Dundas Street outside headquarters wasn’t moving. The officers in charge of traffic had been almost exclusively busy around the police building. They’d given tickets to all cars that exceeded the hourly parking in all lateral streets, they’d chased away media vans, they patrolled the parking lot of the nearby school where other media vehicles had stationed, but it seemed that the problem was persisting.

  “What do they want?” Stevenson asked. “There was a briefing this morning. Not satisfied?”

  “No. They want to talk to you.”

  The last thing he wanted was to be followed home. “Send them in, one reporter for each station, not one more. No TV, no phones, and no cameras. And a promise they’ll all clear out the street and adjacent parking or vacant lots.”

  There were at least two dozen people rushing into the conference room. Stevenson was tired, and hoped his face would convey his physical condition. The noise of the stampede wasn’t over yet when Stevenson raised his voice to say, “Months ago, I promised the people of London that I’d find out who the no-name girl was, and who abused her to the point of causing her death. The investigation had to cover much more ground than we anticipated, but we identified the girl, as we told you before, and we’re on the verge of getting important results.” He paused to give his message more relevance. “I’m asking you to trust me and my colleagues. That is the way you, and each of you, can help.”

  “Why is the Task Force involved in the shootout in Leamington?”

  “We wanted to see if Jim Thompson’s death c
ould be related to our current investigation.”

  “Was it?”

  “We’re still probing. Nothing definite yet.”

  “Were there other minors taken to the hospital in the same conditions as Dolores Cardova?”

  “No.” He hadn’t lied. Louis was already eighteen when he was taken to UH.

  “Are you after an under-age prostitution ring?”

  “Not specifically, but we suspect that something of this kind exists in southwestern Ontario.”

  “Why is the Task Force in charge of Torontonian Charles MacMillan’s murder?”

  “His Corvette had been spotted in a location where one of our persons of interest had once parked. There could be a link. That’s all.” He put up his right hand in the unmistakable sign of halt. “Let me explain how we proceed. We’re building a net that would allow us to expose a criminal ring. Sometimes we have to extend that net and stretch it, to be sure no fish, small or big, can escape. That’s all.”

  With long strides Stevenson moved out of the room and outside.

  ***

  Santos Lopes had a keen interest in forensic sciences, and had begged Stevenson to take him along. So, the following day, they drove to Toronto and stopped in front of the building at 25 Grosvenor Street where the CFS was located. Scheduled to move to Downsview, where a state-of-the-art facility would be ready in 2013, the center served most of Ontario in the fields of biology, chemistry, electronics, toxicology, and firearms. It was here that the position of the body and the trajectory analysis of the bullet that had killed Mr. MacMillan had been examined, and helped in eliminating the possibility that the man had committed suicide.

  After the preliminary introductions and a quick visit to the lab resources at the higher floors, Stevenson, Lopes, and an OPP officer descended to the lower basement, where the facility for auto examination was located. The red Corvette was there.