Fleeting Visions

by Rene Natan

  He called Lopes and gave him the picture with the little girl. “Take it to the image processing lab. Ask them if they can enhance it and extract some relevant features, like the color of her eyes, for instance. See if, from the paper, they can determine how old the photo is. Then use the aging software and come up with the girl as she’d look today.” Lopes grabbed the picture and hurried away.

  With the short list he’d compiled yesterday with Abigail, his laptop, and the GPS, Stevenson retreated to a room where he wouldn’t be disturbed.

  For hours, he checked names, locations, and specific addresses; some had been keyed into the GPS, most had not. He examined the GPS log, looking for places within a hundred-kilometer radius from Arva, where Charles’ body had been found, places that weren’t related to companies Charles normally dealt with. He ended up with three locations and wrote them on a piece of paper. Checking these places could be extremely important.

  In the last few weeks, every member of the Task Force had worked hard. They’d collected a lot of data. They’d woven a net around Camilo Estorbar, linking him to profits that seemed to exceed what The Tranquility Resort officially reported, and a ten thousand dollar transfer from the corporation to Paul Finsey. No matter how sure Stevenson was that Camilo owned other properties, the search hadn’t provided results. Probably, the extra land was under a fictitious name and only an authorized search would reveal the owner’s name.

  Time to take a break.

  Forty-nine

  Jocelyn stood on the kitchen counter, a can of paint on top of the cupboard and a brush in her hand. She’d taken it upon herself to reorganize Gordon’s house. Too late in the season to plant flowers, she’d bought two big pots full of marigolds, geraniums, and petunias and set them outside near the main entrance. She’d installed new drapes and sheers on the windows of the bedroom, and hung two colorful abstract pictures on the main wall of the family room.

  Stevenson shouted, “Hello, beautiful,” and deposited the flowers he was carrying on the table.

  “You’re early, that’s wonderful.”

  “I’m on vacation—on paper, that is.” He inched up to Jocelyn, and pasted a kiss on her legs. She wore a short smock. “Painting, eh?”

  “I wanted a bit of color. The walls were a boring off-white. I chose a gray-green, and I’ll get some matching curtains for the window.”

  Stevenson caressed her legs as far as he could reach.

  “Don’t distract me. I’m painting the window frame with a darker color than the wall. If I spill over, it’ll be noticed.”

  “Okay, I’ll behave. I’ll take care of the flowers.”

  Stevenson placed the vase with the flowers on the table. “You went to the airport with Louis. What was his mood?”

  “He was quiet. He showed me all the money he made. Fourteen hundred dollars. Not bad, since he had to change jobs all the time.” She turned toward him as she dipped the brush into the can. “Will he have to testify once Camilo is caught?”

  “Oh, yes. We want the case to be as strong as possible. But there won’t be any problems. The local RCMP is aware of his presence and will arrange for his safety.”

  “How’s the investigation going? I follow it on TV. The public expects results.”

  “Camilo is hiding; where, we don’t know. There’s an accountant in his penthouse, but we have no grounds to follow him. The Crown Attorney has lined out a lot of charges against Paul Finsey—at least twenty years in jail—and hoped he’d bargain and give away some useful information. Nothing, so far. He didn’t budge. He never heard of Camilo Estorbar, even if he’d mentioned that name when we caught him in Leamington.” Gordon paused. “It’s frustrating.”

  Jocelyn closed the can of paint, tossed the brush into the sink and jumped down. “Oh, nice flowers! Calla lilies!” She bent to sniff them. “Wonderful smell. What’s the occasion?”

  “To thank you for being so near to me—I mean so understanding. I’ve been working long hours. I asked you to do chores for me, and you never complained.”

  Jocelyn cocked her head, looked at him, a teasing expression in her eyes. “That’s all that you’re thankful for?”

  “Sure. Why? What else is there?”

  Jocelyn rounded the table and brushed her breasts against his chest. “There was something else,” she said and leaned toward him. “Since you seem to have forgotten, I’d better remind you.” She brushed his lips with hers and wiggled her body in his arms.

  Stevenson had waited for this occasion. Jocelyn wasn’t seconding his desire; she was following her own. It was great. She wanted him; she was becoming an active part in their relationship.

  He returned her kiss, and slowly dragged her toward the sofa. “You’re right,” he whispered. “My memory isn’t that good anymore. I need a refresher course.”

  Fifty

  Camilo wanted to disappear for a while. For the last couple of weeks he hadn’t moved from his home. He needed to be free to go places, but it wasn’t safe to do so. The police were breathing on his neck. They’d already paid a friendly visit to his accountant at the penthouse. It was harassment, but there was nothing he could do about it. He had to convince Vicente Perdiz to come back to work for him. He was the only one who had the know-how to run his business. As usual, when he was in search of new ways or solutions to a problem, he paced his roomy sitting room. When he was in Mexico, he’d learned that Vicente had been looking for his kidnapped sister. It was a revelation, since Vicente had never mentioned anything about it. Camilo had an idea where she could be. Maybe that information would make him rush back. He stopped the pacing; it was time to act.

  For the next two hours, he placed one call after another. Now he was expecting a call that should confirm the girl was in a house of pleasure in Toronto. He poured himself a double rum and sank into an upholstered chair.

  He waited.

  It was two o’clock in the morning when the confirmation came with the address of the place. Camilo rejoiced; he had Vicente in a corner. Vicente hadn’t given him a phone number, but he knew his parents’. He placed the call, no matter the late hour.

  Scared by the unusual time and call, Vicente’s parents went to get their son in a rush.

  “What do you want now?” Vicente asked.

  “I know where your sister is.” There was silence, and Camilo rode the wave. “Address of the place if you come back here and run my business for a year.”

  “Address of the place? Are you kidding? How do I know you’re not bluffing?”

  “Address and a ten-grand advance.”

  “No way. The only way I’d help you is if my sister is sent back here—I mean to my parents’ place.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Yes, you can.” Vicente clicked off.

  Camilo threw his cell on the floor. The man didn’t believe him. He had to find a way to convince him. He’d try later in the morning. He poured another drink and took it to his bedroom. After a good night’s sleep, he might get a better idea on how to handle Vicente.

  Around noon, he redialed Vicente’s parents’ phone number. Vicente himself answered, as if he expected his call. “If you could talk to your sister, would you be interested in my proposition?”

  “I’d need to see her as well as talk to her. I’d have to be sure it isn’t a recording. But I also would have to know where she is, and the people she’s with, so that I can contact them directly.”

  “These problems can be solved once you’re here. At the moment, I’m holed up in my place; I can’t move.”

  “Use the phone. You have a half a dozen of those cheap, untraceable cells.” Vicente paused. “Call me only if I can see my sister. I’ll give you my number. Don’t call my parents in the middle of the night.” Vicente pronounced each digit loud and clear and clicked off.

  The man was hard to break. Was he worth it? Yes, the business was booming, but he was running like a beheaded chicken. He had to check one account after another, talk to one cook today and ano
ther tomorrow…all things Vicente took care of quickly and expeditiously. He needed him.

  He’d talk with the house of pleasure in Toronto and see if he could come to terms on the girl’s price. He’d deduct that amount from Vicente’s salary, once he was back working for him.

  ***

  Vicente Perdiz, aka Alvaro Luzardo had kept his cool while on the phone with Camilo, but was very excited. Maybe Fatima would come home! After the enthusiasm of the beginning, a few doubts surfaced. In the two years he’d worked for Camilo, he’d kept a secret log journal on Camilo’s activities and was familiar with all the business contacts he had. How come he’d never come across any place that used Fatima as a young prostitute? He’d gone through a long list of those houses, and logged in to their websites and blogs. That was strange, and strange things put Vicente on guard.

  He’d have to wait and see. Camilo sounded all-business, and the proof Vicente had asked of Fatima’s existence covered all the angles. All he had to do was wait.

  He had supper with his parents in the small kitchen. Normally, his mother would turn on the television, a recent gift from Alvaro to his family. Tonight she didn’t, and went back to her old habit, knitting. His father was repairing a pair of old shoes, nailing pieces of leather scraps onto the old soles, one slow hammer hit at the time. There was an atmosphere of expectation, as if everyone understood that something important was going to happen.

  It was well into the evening when Vicente’s cell rang. All noises stopped instantly, and his parents’ eyes focused on him. His hands shook as he opened his cell. On the small screen, Fatima’s face appeared. In the background, a man seemed to encourage her to look into the phone and talk. Finally, a sweet voice came through. “Alvaro, is it you?”

  “Yes, Fatima. It’s me. How are you?” Fatima knew some English—he’d made a point to teach her—but it was strange she didn’t speak in her native tongue.

  “They told me to call you and show my face,” the voice said, and then the image went out of focus.

  It was Fatima, all right, but he wanted to know more and see more. “What do you do?”

  Fatima looked sideways and then replied, “A bit of dancing.”

  It was time to ask some personal questions to be sure of her identity. “Do you remember the doll I gave you the last Christmas you were here?”

  “Yes…”

  “What was her name?”

  The girl looked around, as if afraid of answering. Finally she said, “Tinina.”

  It was right. “And our old donkey, do you remember its name?”

  “Lento,” Fatima answered promptly. That was correct, too.

  “Tell me where you are.”

  The screen went blank. Alvaro closed his eyes, emotions washing over him. For two long years, he’d looked for Fatima and come up empty-handed. And now, Fatima was on the phone, alive and well! Was it true or was he dreaming?

  A hold on his shoulder made him turn and reopen his eyes. It was his mother, tears flowing over her face. He rose and hugged her.

  “Fatima, niña mia,” she murmured, sobbing long-held grief and joy tears at the same time.

  Alvaro nodded. “We’ll get her back.” He helped his mother sit in a chair close by. “I have some searching to do,” he said and went to look for his laptop.

  Alvaro spent the night surfing the Internet. In his unrelenting search for his kid sister, Alvaro had become familiar with most of the web pages dealing with kids’ porno, which often contained veiled or explicit references to physical places hosting a brothel. When taking a break from Camilo’s work with the excuse of having his leg checked, he’d contacted all those with an address. His sister wasn’t there. Then he remembered two factors; one, the new ad Camilo posted for promoting his business portrayed dancing lessons, and two, Fatima had mentioned she was doing some dancing. He used Google to search under different key words, like teenaged, dancing, ballet, swing, rock, and Zumba. It was morning when he found a website called Swing with Us.

  Fleeting visions and dark shadows filled the monitor; undefined forms at first, they soon took feminine shape. The scene changed again; now young women were dancing at the rhythm of a soft tune, their bodies wrapped in colorful veils.

  Alvaro counted five girls, even though the motion and the flopping of the veils didn’t allow a clear view. On a sidebar, there was an invitation to click for a closer look. Alvaro did so and the veils dropped to show the girls’ breasts. The faces were still covered while the rhythmic movement continued. The last frame showed the side view of naked bodies, the faces veiled. The screen froze. There were indeed five young women. Alvaro played a bit with the features available to enlarge and sharpen the images, but even so, he couldn’t decide whether one of the young women was Fatima.

  On the bottom left corner, a red dot was flashing. When Alvaro hit it, two choices appeared: standard or deluxe. Alvaro opted for deluxe, which required a twenty-dollar payment. Alvaro gave his credit card number and waited. A few minutes later, another option appeared: for a hundred dollars, he could get a phone number. Alvaro paid again and then clicked “phone.” A number appeared in a flash and then disappeared. Surprised, Alvaro didn’t grasp all the digits. He went back to the previous page and hit the button again. This time, he jotted down the entire sequence as it made its racing appearance.

  Alvaro became pensive. Was it possible he got lucky and found a clue to where Fatima was, or was this another empty chase? He had to know. His heart pounding, he dialed the number. He was told to leave a message. He did, expressing interest in swinging with the five girls he’d seen in the video. He casually dropped the name of Camilo Estorbar as a reference. He was confident the name would elicit a prompt response.

  From the kitchen, his mother’s and Helenita’s voices came through, together with a noise of pots and pans. He was going to see what the women had prepared for breakfast, when his cell rang. It was Camilo.

  “You’ve talked to your sister. When do you come over?”

  “I didn’t talk long enough. I have to do more checking, and I want to know where she is, or at least have a phone number I can call directly.”

  “It seems you don’t care for the girl—and thinking I was ready to advance you the fifty grand you’d need to get her free.”

  “The number and the address,” Alvaro said curtly. There was silence for a moment and then Camilo surrendered. He spelled out both.

  Alvaro looked at the piece of paper with the number he’d gotten from Swing with Us. They coincided. He clicked off.

  Fifty-one

  Every time Stevenson spent a night with Jocelyn, he felt rejuvenated. The woman was one of those creatures who captured what was good in people and in the world. She was a happy soul. There was harmony when they were together, as if they’d known each other for a long time. After the fishing trip, they’d spent all the hours their respective work allowed together and made plans for the future.

  Stevenson was still officially on vacation, but was anxious to work on the leads he had. He drove to headquarters. He had just settled at his desk when Lopes approached him with a sheaf of papers. They were the results of the processing the image lab had done.

  “There’re more pictures in this computer directory.” Lopes laid a Post-It on Stevenson’s desk. “The print-outs are only samples.”

  “Something amazing, from the look on your face,” Stevenson said and glanced at the first eight-and-a-half by eleven sheet. A smiling face looked at him, golden ringlets adorning her forehead and sides. The eyes were green, the skin a golden brown, the smile captivating. “She’s Charles MacMillan’s daughter!”

  “I thought so. MacMillan was featured in a special article of the Toronto Star. Several pictures were there; MacMillan as a child, as a groom and at a time just before he’d died. Same eyes, same hair and same smile.”

  “Hmm. Where would this girl be now?” Stevenson asked, pensive. “Only her father knew, probably. The wife had never seen her.”

  “Anyt
hing we should do about it?”

  “Could our discovery be related to Charles’ murder?” Stevenson brushed his mustache nervously. “Yes, but only marginally. We’ll put this item on the agenda for the next meeting of the Task Force. The widow has asked us to find out about the girl, but—is she prepared to cope with the truth?” He looked at the other print-outs, each confirming the resemblance. If they decided to talk to Abigail about the pictures and make some conjectures, they should do so very diplomatically.

  Stevenson put the sheets aside. He took the piece of paper where he’d written the three locations extracted from the GPS. “Lopes, today we’re going to do a bit of driving. Get ready; plain clothes and nondescript car.”

  Stevenson sat in the passenger seat, as he wanted to observe every detail of the places they were going to visit. Lopes had provided the monocular and the digital camera. They were well equipped to do a bit of surveillance—actually careful snooping.

  The first place was a small plaza in Lambeth. They entered every shop and showed MacMillan’s photo. None of the owners recognized him as a regular customer. The second location was at the entrance of a golf club. The place didn’t convey any particular information, since MacMillan did play golf. As expected he wasn’t a member of that club, which distanced two hundred kilometers from Toronto. He had probably played there with a client or a prospect. The third location brought them on County Road 56. When they reached the junction toward Stratford they didn’t know which direction to take. They went straight and watched for any branch-offs. When a gravel road appeared on the right, Stevenson ordered Lopes to follow it. Half a kilometer farther, the number of kilometers measured by the odometer coincided with the number Stevenson had taken from the GPS logger. They stopped, and Stevenson got out. He looked around and took a few steps up the incline in front of him. Far-away roofs drifted into sight. The buildings were hidden by a green fence, made of tall spruces planted close together. There was an opening for the entrance, which was protected by a big iron gate. The setup wasn’t exactly like The Tranquility, but the isolation and the distance from a municipal road gave Stevenson the idea this could be the new spot where Camilo had transferred his illegal business.