Fleeting Visions
Page 28
Jocelyn turned and tapped on his nose with the pencil she was holding. “Yes, sir, we do. This place looked like it’s been ripped off of all the essentials.” She descended from the stool, folded it and stored it in the broom closet. “I spent most of the afternoon, watching the news. Prostitution of children and minors made big news, and my hero was credited for catching the perpetrators.”
“But no Estorbar.”
“What do you think he’s doing now? There can’t be too many people who want to have anything to do with him. I heard of a fifty-thousand dollar reward for information. Some of his friends will give him up.”
“Let’s hope. So, what’s all this work around the house? Are you picking up interior decorating?”
Jocelyn put her arms on his shoulders. “I did some calculations. We have only three months before we’re getting married. I thought I’d spruce up the house for the newlyweds.”
***
Alvaro had mixed feelings about being involved once again, but Mrs. MacMillan’s lawyer had guaranteed him that any meetings or transactions would be strictly private, so he’d agreed to be present at the encounter between Abigail and Helenita. Abigail was coming down to meet the young woman and see if Helenita was willing to spend some time with her. It’s going to be an important encounter, Alvaro thought. One that could decide the entire future of Charles MacMillan’s daughter. He knew Helenita liked to be with his parents and Fatima, but the truth was that Abigail could provide for her much better than he ever could, and, most important of all, Abigail seemed sincerely concerned about the girl. She’d gone through a big trauma; finding that her husband had been murdered, and discovering the cover-up Charles had done about his offspring, year after year. She must suspect that, indirectly, Helenita had been the cause of her husband’s demise. In spite of all this, she was ready to extend herself to the girl. Keeping this in mind, Alvaro concluded that Abigail was a gentle soul, more prone to forgive than to judge.
He took Helenita aside and talked to her. She shouldn’t throw away an occasion that might never present itself again. Alvaro knew the girl worshipped him, and so he used all his influence to convince her to accept the offer Abigail was going to make.
Helenita had looked at him with pleading eyes but, at the end, she’d agreed. He could only hope she wouldn’t change her mind.
Early in the afternoon, a taxi stopped in front of his parents’ home. Alvaro and Helenita came out of the house; Helenita stayed very close to him. This meeting is going to decide Helenita’s future, thought Alvaro. At this point, it all depended on Abigail. Either she makes it or breaks it.
Abigail opened the back door of the cab, stood for a moment, and approached Helenita and Alvaro. Her short-sleeved tailored dress was white; the opening at the front showed a small necklace. Her hair, blond with highlights of gray was combed back; her shoes had only a bit of a heel. A small purse hung on her right arm. She was tall, her posture erect, and her walk secure.
Alvaro covered the short distance that separated him from the woman and extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. MacMillan. Please accept my belated condolences for your husband’s death.”
“Thank you.” She turned toward Helenita and said, “You must be Helenita.” Without waiting for an answer she inched up to her and gave her a light, brief hug.
“Would you like to come inside? We have some lemonade ready,” Alvaro said.
“That would be wonderful,” Abigail replied in a soft, melodic tone. “But first, I’d like to see Helenita’s grandmother. I’m anxious to meet her. Would you come along and help translate?”
Alvaro assented, took Helenita’s hand, opened the cab’s door for the women, and took his place in the passenger side. The afternoon sun was still high, and the cab had no air conditioning, yet the windows had to be closed because of the dust. There were only gravel roads to the grandmother’s village. If Abigail was surprised by the poverty of the houses or sheds along the road, she didn’t show it. When they arrived, she opened the door on her side and waited for Alvaro to take her into the dwelling where Helenita had lived most of her childhood. They entered the kitchen, where a table and four chairs took up most of the space. At the back, a curtain, semi-drawn, showed the presence of two single beds.
The grandmother was sitting in a rocking chair, knitting, a pair of glasses perched on her nose. The woman was dressed in a long, worn-out smock and a short white-and-blue apron. Her white hair, medium length, was kept behind her ears by an elastic band. She greeted Alvaro and Helenita and looked with surprise at Abigail. With the help of a cane, she rose and hugged Helenita tight. Alvaro explained who the lady was.
Abigail extended her hand and asked Alvaro to thank the older woman for what she’d done for her husband’s child. She’d like to talk to her, she added.
Limping slightly, the grandmother moved toward the table and gestured for her guests to sit. For a moment, nobody talked. Then Abigail explained that she’d like to take Helenita with her, but on two conditions; that Helenita was happy about it, and that she, the grandmother, wouldn’t oppose it. Alvaro faithfully translated.
The older woman looked at Alvaro in a clear sign of requesting advice. “She’d like my opinion,” Alvaro said to Abigail, “and I’d like to give it to her.”
“Please,” was the only word Abigail mouthed.
Before talking to Helenita’s grandmother, Alvaro said to the other woman, “I believe staying with Mrs. MacMillan is in Helenita’s best interest.” He then translated what he had just said for the grandmother. The older woman nodded and asked Alvaro, “Would she come to see me sometimes?”
This time, Helenita answered. “Yes, I will.” She rose, hugged the woman’s shoulders and kissed her on the head. “Every summer, if they let me.”
Fifty-eight
Camilo Estorbar was distraught. He sat on the hotel’s bed, twisting his hands in anger.
In his shabby pickup, Camilo had gone to his office in London to have a long talk with his accountant. He wanted to be sure he’d delete some of the recent transaction he’d made. On his way home he’d stopped to have a nice supper at the Crave restaurant and then taken Highway 4. He’d passed Arva when the motor shuddered and then, with a final jolt, quit all together. Finding help at that time of night had been cumbersome, and it was around four o’clock in the morning before he could finally resume driving.
As he approached his house on the outskirts of New Hamburg, he immediately saw a glow on top of the incline where his compound lay. Cautiously, he drove a few more feet, wondering what might have happened. He was close to the incline’s top, when he spotted a display of military equipment and the movement of men in combat uniform. He didn’t hesitate a second. He turned around and joined the municipal road that would take him in the direction of Stratford.
He didn’t know if he drove a couple of miles or ten; the shock was so intense that he kept driving, numbed by surprise. Finally, when the fatigue got the best of him, he stopped and fell asleep, his head on the steering wheel. Late in the morning he resumed driving and took shelter in the first motel he found advertized on the road.
Now he was stuck in this dilapidated room—his only companion a bubbling anger that permeated his entire body.
All the bad things that happened to him started with Louis. He’d dodged his sexual assaults. He’d lost two hundred grand of his money, he’d set the police on his trail, he’d made an escape from the girls’ living quarters, right under his nose, and had fooled two of his killers. If that wasn’t enough, Louis had managed to get one of his men killed. Now he had no more business, and all his assets and money were frozen.
Estorbar thought Louis was a pawn; a nobody he could maneuver, brainwash, and emotionally crush any time he wanted, as much as he wanted. Louis had challenged him, step by step, and won!
He hated Louis as he had never hated anybody else in his life, not even his parents. Killing Louis was the only thing that would placate his anger. He had to find a way to g
et to him; he’d torture him before striking him with a final hit. Then he’d stay with Vicente. He knew of a hundred ways he could blackmail his former assistant.
It was important to stay informed. He turned on the television and listened to the endless information about the raid on his property. Most was old news; the people who worked for him had been charged with various offenses. Rose Miller hadn’t made bail, and neither did the guards who had fired at the police. All the young women were in the custody of Children’s Aid. There was a legal problem with their residence, as no documents on their country of origin or birth certificates had been found.
He was ready to turn off the television when breaking news was announced. The TV station had received a tip that the main witness of the case against Camilo Estorbar was now free to return to London, where he belonged. Louis Saura would stay, for the time being, with Detective Gordon Stevenson of the Police Service.
That was great news. The police thought he, Camilo, was as good as dead. They didn’t think he could strike again. But he would, and soon.
***
Detective Gordon Stevenson repeated the statement. “You can’t stay here. I don’t want you here. My boss forbids you to be here.”
Jocelyn shrugged and didn’t move. “This new chesterfield is nice and comfortable, don’t you think?” She stretched her legs across it.
“Jocelyn, it’s dangerous. That’s the reason we got a mannequin-robot to simulate Louis’ presence. We didn’t want an officer to play Louis’ part.”
There had been no time to build a robot that would simulate Louis’ physical features and movements, so they’d adjusted a mannequin to the physical dimensions of Louis, equipped it with a small camera and attached five wires to it, each controlled with a click of a remote. It could move one leg after the other, one arm at a time, or hop up as the operator pulled or released a set of springs. The preparation had required some work, but the longest time had been spent testing its functionality and calibrating the springs, so that the movement of legs and arms would appear natural. Then there had been the training of the operator, namely Detective Gordon Stevenson, who had to learn to control the mannequin without looking directly at it. The last ten days had been demanding, to say the least.
He didn’t need this complication with Jocelyn. He stood near her, took one of her arms and pulled on it slightly.
Jocelyn rose. “I surrender to force,” she said in a dignified tone. “I’ll go home. I know when I’m not wanted.” She looked for her purse and marched out.
“See you tomorrow,” he called after her, but Jocelyn was already out of the house. Soon after, he heard a car leaving the premises.
Gordon was relieved. He expected Camilo Estorbar to show up anytime. There was an officer in the basement and two in the back yard, equipped with digital cameras, night vision goggles, ARWEN AR-5 assault rifles, and handguns. They’d come the night before, immediately after the announcement of Louis’ return was released, and hadn’t moved from their posts since. If Estorbar had any intention of going after Louis, he’d case the place and get acquainted with its surroundings.
Gordon got the mannequin to move from the kitchen to the family room, then to the bathroom and then back to the family room. Now the critical phase had to be acted upon, when Gordon would send Louis to bed.
Like the day before, only a ceiling light in the hallway, at the center of the house, was on, spreading a soft glow. The drapes in the family room and hallway were partially drawn; all the others were closed.
It was past midnight, and Gordon thought this would be the likely time for Camilo Estorbar to go into action.
Gordon clicked on the control that moved the mannequin from the first to the second floor. In semi-darkness, the mannequin skipped over the steps, got up the stairs and into the guest room. The hop into the bed hasn’t been perfect, Gordon realized from the image the mannequin transmitted. It was lying sideways, one leg on the floor. It will do, Gordon thought. No need for perfection at this stage of the game.
His guess was that Camilo, if he came, would strike when he thought Louis was in bed. As he did yesterday, Gordon stretched into recliner and feigned sleep.
Now he could only wait, his Glock at the side, the audio-video system for the control of the operation in his lap, together with the iPhone and the remote for the mannequin. An hour passed uneventfully. Then agent number one sent a message; there was movement on the western side of the house. The other two agents and Gordon acknowledged the message and stood on alert. There could be action. Then the movement increased and the shape of a man became clear. The agents outside approached the house, staying well behind the perceived intruder. Holding a penlight, the man tiptoed around one side, opened the screen door and tried to open the back door. It was locked, so the man used a card to free the lock. No success. He retraced a few steps and examined the small window to the basement. He pushed on the frame, and the window tilted out. Patiently, he freed the window from the hinges. He slid down in one smooth move.
One agent was making a video filming the man and his movements. That video was automatically sent to the other three people. Gordon recognized the intruder as Camilo Estorbar. Bingo! The man was here, and Gordon hoped they didn’t have to kill him. Estorbar knew of other organizations exploiting children. They’d have a chance to arrest a few more criminals involved in the prostitution of minors.
Estorbar moved like a feline on the hunt; slouched shoulders, head curved forward, stealthy steps. The agents who kept surveillance outside were now inside the house; the one in the basement hid behind a big box. Estorbar made his way to the first floor, holding his penlight in front of him. At the foot of the staircase, he stopped and turned his light off.
There was absolute silence.
Gordon was in the family room, looking toward the stairs. He couldn’t see the man, but he knew he was there. He waited for Estorbar to make a move. He waited and waited. The time seemed to stretch forever. Finally, Estorbar ascended the stairs, one slow step at a time and entered the guest room.
Gordon moved upstairs, the three agents behind him, their steps muffled. He neared the guest room, but remained outside.
Then he heard a high-pitched explicative, followed by another and another. Stevenson entered the room, turned on the light, his Glock at the ready, while the three agents surrounded the bed where the mannequin lay, pointing their weapons at Estorbar.
Estorbar was knifing the mannequin with all the force he had in his body.
Stevenson shouted, “Drop the knife!”
The policeman on his side grabbed Estorbar from behind and dragged him to the floor. The knife fell. Another policeman was busy filming.
“You’re in the movies,” Stevenson exclaimed, with exhilaration. “And you don’t have to talk. Your actions, for the time being, are good enough to guarantee you a few years in the cooler.” The agents handcuffed him and took a kicking and swearing Estorbar down the stairs and out of the house.
Gordon placed a call to the sergeant, who was still up, eagerly waiting for news. He wanted to inform him personally of all that happened and comment on the perfect synchronization of his team’s actions. The sergeant kept him on the phone for more than half an hour as he liked to know all the details. Gordon received the due dose of congratulations for the successful operation. He was delighted.
He finally descended the stairs and freed himself of the gadgets he’d used for the operation.
It was time for a double whisky. Soon after he’d call Jocelyn.
Fifty-nine
Things were falling into place. Detective Stevenson brushed his mustache, satisfied. It would take months to see the results of the arrests they’d made, but the criminal ring exploiting children and minors in the city had been eradicated. The Task Force had a lot to be proud of, many TV commentators said in their newscasts. Stevenson was going to finish the last report and then go home when his phone rang. It was Abigail MacMillan. Her voice had a high, cheerful pitch.
Stevenson the policeman interjected. “If this implies an illegal connection, Mrs. MacMillan, I want to know about it.”
Abigail hesitated, and Stevenson knew things were not straightforward. “The girl was staying with friends of the grandmother, who raised her until recently.” She resumed her cheerful tone. “I started the legal process to bring her here. The DNA test proves she is, indeed, my husband’s daughter.”
Stevenson would like to have a chance to talk to the girl, who might be able to shed light on her father’s murder. That was something down the road, though. “Congratulations, Mrs. MacMillan. I’m happy for you and, especially, for the girl. Helenita, you said?”
“Yes. That’s her name. Thanks, Mr. Stevenson for your advice; it proved effective.”
Stevenson had just closed his phone when it rang again. The radiant face of Louis appeared on the little screen. “I heard everything went well at the raid and that you caught Estorbar,” he said. “How are the girls? How is Selina?”
“They’re okay and Selina is fine. A bit thin, but in good health. She asked me to say hello if you ever called. And you did. How are things with you?”
“Fantastic. I work for a company that flies customers in the woods: hunting, exploring, whatever the reason. They’re going to train me to be a bush pilot. A lot of fun, I tell you.”
“Happy for you, son. We’ll let you know if and when you have to come to testify. It will take a while before all the charges are laid out in due form.” He paused. “I could arrange for you to come down for Christmas and stay with us. Jocelyn would be happy to see you.”
“What about Selina? Could she come too?”