Fleeting Visions

by Rene Natan

  “Nothing very important.”

  Jocelyn tapped him on his arm. “You don’t get out of it. I want to know.”

  Gordon emitted half of a sigh. “There was a sparkle in your eyes, a kind of expectation. They told me that you liked men.”

  He didn’t spend any more time talking. He began kissing across her eyes, then he moved down her face until their lips touched. His hands moved fast on her shoulders and down to her breasts. He cupped them with his hands as he kept kissing her, his tongue sliding within her mouth. Shuddering in his arms, Jocelyn found herself wearing only her panties and bra without realizing what had happened. She raised her arms and caressed his face. She disengaged from him and unbuttoned his shirt, the desire for his body mounting fast.

  He kept stroking her, making her tremble with pleasure. Panties and bra fell on the floor. Gordon scooped her in his arms and laid her on the bed.

  “I wanted to do this every single time I saw you.” He paused and caressed her face. “You kept me at a distance as soon as you knew I was free. You puzzled me. At times, I felt you liked me, but then you’d take off…I couldn’t understand why. And I couldn’t show my feelings, afraid I might push you away. When I learned that your boyfriend had been killed, I understood why you were scared to start all over.” He moved close to her. “I knew I had to wait.” He cupped her face in his hands. “Are you ready now?”

  “Yes, Gordon. I’ve come to terms with my fears. I want you now, no matter what can happen tomorrow.”

  He lay halfway on top of her. “Not too heavy?” he asked.

  “No. I like to feel your body. All of it.”

  He stretched completely on top of her. “Ready for action?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  Jocelyn nodded, too taken to speak.

  Forty-seven

  Louis looked at the calendar hanging on the kitchen wall. Almost one week had gone by, and Stevenson didn’t have any good news. A couple more days of suffering, and he’d be free. He spent his time in a small house in the country, together with a person in similar condition to his. The man, Oscar, was in his fifties. He hardly talked and watched only old flicks. At the moment, he was painting the fence outside. Louis had helped him to redecorate the inside according to his liking, but that job was finished. He was bored; bored of waiting, feeling being left out altogether.

  Actually, that was a feeling that accompanied him all his life. He tried to fit in, but it hadn’t been easy. His uncle spoke Spanish and only a bit of English. Uncle Carlos talked a lot about Mexican traditions that nobody was interested in. He’d taught him to be pleasant and respectful, but few people behaved like that with him.

  He was there, but didn’t belong anywhere. When he’d described these feelings to Detective Stevenson, he told him they weren’t uncommon in children of immigrants, since they were associated with one country because of their parents, and had to fit into another. They were considered outsiders, and there were plenty of nasty people who took pleasure in making them feeling marginalized. In a word, to make them feel estranged.

  And then, if that wasn’t enough, one powerful man, Camilo, seemed to have turned the entire world against him—and not in terms of excluding him from working or going places—to the point of wanting to eliminate him from the face of the earth. Life had been tough, and Louis wondered if it would ever change.

  The sound of an engine became more and more distinctive and put a halt to his meditations. He looked outside and saw a cruiser from London police. Lopes was at the wheel, and Louis ran to greet him.

  “Something for you,” said Lopes, as he handed him a carton. “From Detective Stevenson. He must like you. Take care,” he said and re-entered his car.

  Louis took the box inside, followed by Oscar. He opened it and unfolded its contents. There was a big sweat shirt, two pairs of jeans, size extra large, and a baseball cap. Louis tried on every item and sighed. Everything was way too big for him. In the past, they gave him clothes that always fit. But then he remembered that was Jocelyn who’d done the shopping. Disappointed, he threw everything back into the box. Oscar asked him if he could have them, and Louis slid the box across the table. “Sure,” he said.

  Moments later, the special cell the police had given him rang. It was Stevenson. “No news,” the detective said and asked how he felt. Louis laughed and joked, “Estranged, until I received your package with the clothing. What did you think, that I had put on forty pounds in a week?”

  “My package? Who delivered it?”

  “Lopes, half hour ago. There was a sweat shirt, two pairs—”

  “Louis,” Stevenson barked into phone. “You and the other man go down in the basement and stay there until I come.”

  “There’s no basement. What’s the problem?”

  “Somebody used my name to find out where you are. Lock all doors and close the windows. Go into the center of the house, both of you, and barricade yourselves. Use chairs, tables, whatever you find and lay in the middle. Don’t move. I’m on my way.”

  Louis looked around to see where Oscar was. He’d gone back outside. He called out and then ran toward him. He reported what Stevenson had just told him.

  “I thought you were trouble. Now we have to lock ourselves inside—all evening?”

  “No. The police are on the way. They’ll be here in less than an hour.” He took his arm and gently pushed him inside.

  “Let me go!” the man screamed, and got free of Louis’ hold. He scampered back to the fence and started painting again. Louis told him how dangerous the people who were after him were. Oscar shrugged and kept painting, one angry stroke after the other.

  Louis got inside and gathered pieces of furniture in the middle of the corridor. He put two chairs in the center, together with a couple of soft drinks. He stepped toward the main door, ready to go try to convince Oscar to join him.

  Then it happened.

  Out of a cloud of dust, a car emerged from the road and zipped in front of the house. A rapid succession of shots targeted the top of the fence and Oscar. The car turned around and repeated the maneuver. Oscar fell backward. Louis rushed to him. There was blood all over his face, neck, arms and on the new sweat shirt he’d just given him.

  A squad car arrived almost immediately, pursued the shooter, and engaged him in fire. For fifteen minutes, thunder resounded in the open, and the air was filled with dust that could be seen for half a mile.

  Louis didn’t budge. He stayed on the ground, Oscar’s inert body in his arms.

  ***

  “You’ll have to come down and give your statement,” Stevenson repeated for the third time.

  Louis looked blankly at him. “Yukon,” he murmured.

  “Louis, snap out of it!” Stevenson shouted. “Come inside, take a shower and change clothes.” Two officers helped Louis rise, his muscles limp, his face blanched. “We caught the shooter. There’s no more danger. Do you hear me?”

  They’d taken Oscar’s body away, but Louis had remained on the ground during the operation.

  Stevenson pushed him into the bathroom, opened the door to the shower, and turned it on. Slowly, Louis took off his clothes and entered the cubicle. Stevenson took a change of clothes from the closet and drawer and tossed them in front of the shower’s door. He threw a towel on top of them.

  He got a glass of water and drank it. He sat at the kitchen table and waited. Louis was right; he should take off for the Yukon. He and the entire London police corps couldn’t protect him. It had been a lucky coincidence that a Canadian SWAT team was holding a strategic exercise in the outskirts of the city. They’d reached Louis’ refuge, not in time to prevent Oscar’s death, but soon enough to engage his killer in combat. Paul Finsey had exhausted all the bullets of his AK-47 at the approaching team before being pierced by a hundred bullets. Even his rental car looked like a colander.

  It was good that the man, whom they suspected to be a regular killer, had been eliminated. Unfortunately, he couldn’t provide police information
on Camilo’s location or operation.

  Louis walked into the kitchen. He was still pale, his eyes wide and red, but seemed to be willing to communicate. Stevenson rose, tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Let’s take the back door. A car is waiting for us. The media are flocking here, and I want to be able to take care of you before I might have to talk to them.”

  Louis nodded.

  Lopes was in the car, the motor running.

  Nobody talked during the short trip to headquarters. It was late, and Stevenson made sure that Louis’ deposition was taken at once. The young man had refused any food; he just drank one bottle of water after another.

  “I’m going to take you to my place tonight. I’m asking you to stay with me one more day because we may have questions that you alone can answer.” He looked at Louis and read a silent request. “Yes, you’re free to leave. That’s another thing we’re going to do tomorrow. Organize your trip to the Yukon.”

  Louis’ eyes lit up. “Dowson,” he said. “I want to go to Dowson.”

  Forty-eight

  The SWAT squad had followed the members of the London Service to headquarters. The media had been hypnotized by the presence of the team; most people had never seen one before, and some had never heard of it. Questions were fired in rapid sequence. Most dealt with their training, their position within the RCMP, and the reason why they’d been so readily available to intervene while a shooting was in progress. The press conference had lasted more than an hour. Now there was a session with pictures taken with the team’s members in different positions.

  Stevenson couldn’t have been happier about their presence. They prevented the media from trying to interview him. He was very tired, both physically and emotionally, and anxious to go home. He crossed the hallway, directed to the special room where they were hiding Louis Saura. He had almost made it to the door when an elegantly dressed woman came out of a dark corner and addressed him. “Mr. Stevenson? Can I have a word with you?”

  Only then did Stevenson recognize Abigail MacMillan. He wondered how she’d managed to hang around in a corridor. Probably because of the commotion the SWAT team had created. “Yes. Could I ask you to be brief?”

  She moved close to him, her delicate scent hitting his nostrils. “I know there was an emergency, but I came down from Toronto, and I’ve been here since early afternoon. I just want to know if there’s any news about my husband’s murder.” She was attired in a short-sleeved black dress and black stockings. In her heels, the woman was as tall as Stevenson.

  “We’re working hard on the case,” Stevenson said in a tired voice. “But we’re proceeding very slowly.”

  She didn’t wear any makeup and looked older than in the pictures he’d seen immediately after her husband’s murder. “Would it help if I come back tomorrow? Maybe you’ll have a bit more time for me.”

  Stevenson nodded. “Sure. Afternoon will be great.” He was ready to move on when she said, “They returned the Corvette, but it had no GPS. I’d like to have it back. I’m not an expert driver, and it helps when I’m not familiar with a city.”

  “Can’t do that at the moment. I got it only a few days ago, and I still have to analyze it carefully.” He looked at the woman. “Listen, maybe tomorrow you can help me out. You probably know the companies your husband was dealing with, right?”

  “Most of them; the ones located in Ontario for sure.”

  “Great. See you tomorrow. Say three o’clock?”

  “I’ll be there,” she said and strode toward the exit.

  Stevenson went to pick up Louis. He drove home, followed by the cruiser that would stay on alert until late in the morning. The lights at the entrance and in the kitchen were on. Jocelyn, Stevenson thought, but he had to be sure. He parked outside, ordered Louis to stay in the car, and ventured inside. Jocelyn was sprawled on the sofa, asleep, the television on. He went back outside, exchanged a few words with the officer on duty, took Louis by the arm and guided him inside. It was past two o’clock in the morning.

  “You know where the guest room is,” Stevenson said as they walked into the kitchen.

  Louis nodded and seemed to come back to life. “Look at the food!” Sandwich meats and a platter with cheese and grapes were on the table. He took a seat and grabbed two slices of bread.

  “Help yourself. I’m bushed. I need some rest. If Jocelyn wakes up, tell her I went to bed. She probably learned what happened from the evening news. Sleep well, Louis.”

  ***

  Stevenson left Jocelyn in charge of helping Louis plan his trip up west. He was anxious to find out whether Abigail MacMillan could help him pinpoint the companies her husband dealt with, with their locations. Charles’ secretary had supplied a list of those he visited regularly.

  When he arrived at headquarters, the woman was already there, sipping a cup of coffee. She rose as soon as she saw him. She wore a gray ensemble; the skirt was short; the matching blouse was a darker shade of gray with a ruffled collar; her scent was delicate and hardly perceivable. The woman has natural presence, Stevenson thought. She exudes class and money.

  They retired to a small room. Stevenson had taken a laptop that would allow him to access all the records he might need, and a bunch of files with written documents. The GPS was lying on the desk. He invited Abigail to sit and took a chair close to her. He fired up the computer, and opened the directory with all they’d gathered on Charles MacMillan’s murder.

  “Before we start, did you find your husband’s cell?”

  “No. Charles would never leave without it. Whoever murdered him took it, I believe.”

  Makes sense, Stevenson thought. They had a list of the companies Charles dealt with, so now he’d start to check those, and see if Abigail knew of any others.

  “Mr. Stevenson, before we start, there’s something I want to show you.” She extracted a picture from her gray leather purse and laid it on the desk. It was the photograph of a beautiful little girl, age nine to ten, Stevenson assessed in a flash. Stevenson didn’t have the heart to look at the woman. Ohmygod, was Charles involved in child prostitution? Before he could speak, Abigail said, “I found it in the drawer of his night table.”

  The lifestyle of the MacMillans had been investigated thoroughly, and Abigail’s in particular, as the wife is often responsible for the husband’s murder. Abigail had been cleared almost immediately since she was out of the country and nothing had emerged to pinpoint marriage problems.

  Finally Stevenson looked into Abigail’s eyes and asked, “Did your husband have any business with Camilo Estorbar?” He perused his folder and took out one of Camilo’s photos.

  “Not that I know of.” She looked at the photo. “Never saw him.”

  “This one?” Stevenson set out the shot he’d taken furtively with his cell at The Tranquility. “He goes under the name of Alvaro Luzardo.”

  Abigail shook her head. And the same happened when he showed her the mug shots of the two killers, Fred Barino and Paul Finsey. He didn’t expect she’d have come in contact with any of them.

  So, from under the stack of papers that filled his desk, Stevenson fished out the photo with the little girl and looked at it again. It had been taken with the sun shining on the girl’s face and her eyes were semi-closed. “Hmm. So, you don’t know anything about the girl in this picture?”

  “Nothing. I wonder who she is. The photo looks old, though. It’s yellowed.”

  Stevenson flipped it over, hoping to find a date or a location. There was nothing. “Do you mind if I keep it for a while?”

  Abigail shook her head.

  Stevenson noted that the woman was troubled. “Anything else you want to tell me before we go through the list of your husband’s clients?”

  “Well…ours wasn’t a marriage of love, at least not from his side. Charles married me because he was in financial trouble, and I was looking for a stable relationship. I’d been a widow for seven years, and growing old alone didn’t appeal to me. We respected each other,
so I can’t understand what kind of trouble Charles found himself in that would lead to his murder.” She looked stressed, as if what she was saying cost her pain. “If he was blackmailed—for any reason—he’d have come to me, I think.”

  Stevenson wanted time to reflect. “Give me a few days to ask around,” he said in a noncommittal tone. “Meanwhile, should we go through the list the secretary gave us, and see if you can add a few names?”

  Abigail nodded, put on a pair of reading glasses, and hunched over the list.

  ***

  The following day, Stevenson chaired a long meeting of the Task Force, as all the new events had to be recorded for future reference. It was afternoon when two constables escorted Louis Saura to his office. Stevenson showed Louis the pictures of Fred Barino, now detained, and of Paul Finsey, deceased. Louis shook his head. He’d never seen them. Then Stevenson took the picture of the little girl Abigail had brought in and set it in front of Louis. Again Louis denied to have seen her. Stevenson felt partially relieved.

  “She wasn’t there when I was there,” he said. “But I know new girls were going to arrive.”

  “And you never heard how they were brought in?”

  “Oh, no. Never heard a thing.”

  Stevenson showed him Alvaro Luzardo’s picture. “Seen him?”

  “That’s Vicente Perdiz, the second in command at The Tranquility.”

  Interesting, Stevenson thought. The man has a double identity. He should run some tests under the second name. “Thank you, son.” Louis wore a pair of new jeans and a T-shirt with the Blue Jays logo. “Ready to go?”

  “You bet.” He rose and extended his hand. “And thank you for the check. I’ll pay you back.”

  Stevenson rose too and patted him on the shoulder. “Good luck, son.”

  Stevenson sighed as he watched Louis walk away, his steps quick and firm. Louis was leaving, and yet he was the only one who could readily help the investigation. He’d suffered a lot, though, and it was only fair he should distance himself from those who were ready to kill him. He hoped his troubles would be over.