Eyewitness (Thriller/Legal Thriller - #5 The Witness Series) (The Witness Series #5)

by Forster, Rebecca

“But-”

  “Stop. Don’t argue. Don’t debate. I wasn’t looking for a playmate when I became your guardian. I thought I had something to give you. If you don’t want it, then we can rethink this whole thing. Right now I would appreciate it if you could step up to the plate. Think before you act. Now sit down and wait. Right now this is about Billy, not you.”

  Josie went through the double doors and past the one nurse at the desk. The woman looked as Josie passed and looked at her even longer than that.

  ***

  Nothing had changed in Billy’s room. The bed nearest the door was still empty, the curtain still drawn around Billy’s bed, and yet Josie was overwhelmed with a sudden sense of foreboding. She touched the curtain but hesitated before drawing it back. Her shoulders slumped in relief when Billy looked her way and tried to smile.

  “Hey, Ms. B.”

  Billy Zuni was propped up in bed, the food on his tray picked at. She was at his side giving him a cautious hug a second later.

  “I was so worried. We all were.”

  “Thanks, Ms. B,” he whispered, hugging her with his good arm. Josie held him back and then let him go.

  “How you doing?”

  He shrugged. “Better than I was, I guess.”

  “Has the doctor been in to talk to you? Do you know how long they’re going to have you here?”

  “I’m not sure. They said my head was still bad. Pretty much everything hurts. They didn’t tell me much.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out. Are you done with this?” she indicated the tray.

  “I’m not real hungry.”

  “That’s a good lunch. It looks like they want you to eat.” Billy’s eyes went to the window. Josie tried again as she moved the table away. “You know what? I’ll sneak you in a burger. Burt will fix one with all the trimmings.”

  Billy nodded. That half smile was there again, but it was barely a shadow of the real thing.

  “There were a whole lot of important people talking about you this morning, Billy.” Josie sat down, put her hand on his arm, and shook him a little. “Billy, you’ve got to pay attention to me. You need to know what’s going on. Please, Billy. Look at me.”

  “I don’t want to know,” he whispered.

  ***

  Archer never liked standing in the middle of a crime scene, but he hated standing in the middle of an abandoned crime scene even more. The yellow tape was gone, dusting residue was everywhere, furniture was left as it had been found, blood had dried, discoloring and cracking depending on the surface where it landed. Like the scent of a burned and ill-seasoned stew, you couldn’t specifically identify the mix of smells in a place like this, but when you breathed in you knew it wasn’t good.

  To make matters worse, once the cops were done they were done. The victim, their family or friends, would have to clean up the mess. That wasn’t an easy task for someone left shell-shocked in the wake of a violent crime. There were services that would clean, scrub and steam a place as clean as it could get but that didn’t really change anything. Indoor crime scenes were always left scarred by the violence and the Zuni house was no exception.

  He walked over to the front window and took a look at the flag that had been thumbtacked over the front window. At one time it had been bright red but the sun had faded it to an ombre of pink and coral. A frame of the original red could be seen where the wall blocked out the sun. In the middle, a black double-headed eagle was stamped onto the cheap fabric. One eagle head was missing a beak where the paint had flaked off. Archer took out his phone, snapped a picture and did a search although he didn’t need to. It was the flag of Albania and now he had two pieces of information about a country that meant nothing to anyone in Hermosa Beach until a few days ago.

  Pocketing his phone, he worked the thumbtacks out of the right side of the flag, took the free corner and tucked it crosswise at the top of the window. The day was pretty, but not as brilliantly sunny as it had been the day before. The news said another storm was brewing down south, but Archer took that forecast with a grain of salt. Weather reports were nothing more than educated guesses based on flawed data, observations, old wives’ tales, and the pain in someone’s knees. He pushed open the ancient louvered panes that flanked the window. The house was just far enough from the beach and the louvers just narrow enough that airflow was almost nonexistent. Still, it was better than nothing.

  Across the street a kid shot out of the driveway on a bike and disappeared down the street. Another house had the front door open but the screen door closed. Way down to the left a woman walked a dog. Life went on. The louvers were dusty, so Archer wiped his fingers on his pants as he looked at the sofa. The bloodstain looked like Australia now that it dried. The only thing new was the mail on the floor by the front door.

  Archer ambled over and picked it up: mailers, flyers, an electric bill. He was about to toss it back onto the floor when a postcard caught his eye. It was a notice from Go Postal, the printer down on Hermosa Boulevard. Normally, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought except that it was addressed specifically to R. Zuni. Drop shipping went to resident not a specific person. He turned it over and saw a note scribbled on the back.

  P.O. Box fee is due R.

  Archer pocketed it. He would bring it to the hospital where Rosa Zuni lay in a coma. Technically, he wasn’t tampering with the mail if he did that. On his way, he might just swing by the place, pay what was due, and take a look at the contents of Rosa’s P.O. Box.

  He walked back to the kitchen. There was nothing in it now. Greg Oi’s pink pump was packed away with his dress and stockings and held as evidence. Greg Oi was naked as a jaybird on a slab waiting for the coroner to get to him. The room looked bigger without Oi’s body sprawled on the floor.

  Archer went up the stairs that still creaked. The spindle was still missing. The railing had been broken clear through when the paramedics hustled the stretcher to the ambulance. At the top of the stairs, Farrah was still smiling that toothy smile of hers, and her nipple was still erect and inviting. In the light of day, though, she looked a little world-weary.

  On the landing, Archer poked into the boxes. They were filled with kitchen utensils, hardback books that smelled of mold, and clothes that even the Salvation Army wouldn’t want.

  In Rosa’s room, the clothes on the floor and bed looked like they belonged to a doll they were so small. This time Archer got a good look at the blow-up of the naked people. It was just a big, cheap poster. In the background was a picture of a castle, in the foreground vines and flowers formed a frame. It wasn’t his idea of a romantic picture, but it sure wasn’t pornography. Rosa Zuni was starting to feel a lot less a monster.

  Archer knew there was nothing good to see in the bathroom but he looked anyway. The blood had dried to a deep dark brown and the smears told the story of that night: Rosa fleeing her attackers, Archer cradling her, the paramedics trying to save her. He noted the marks on the wall but saw none on the doorjamb. She had been cornered in there. Hunkering down, Archer took a closer look at a shoe print. Billy had admitted to being in the house and seeing Rosa. Montoya said they had a shoe print, but if this was what he was talking about Archer couldn’t see it. Standing up, he checked the door. There was no lock but there were security bars on all the windows including the small one high up on the bathroom wall. Rosa Zuni was doomed from the start.

  Except. . .

  Archer narrowed his eyes as people do when they are trying to grab something flitting through their memory. It was gone as quickly as it had come and was replaced by a wish that he could see Montoya’s reports. It would be good to know if Rosa’s blood was on either of the corpses or theirs on her body.

  In the bedroom, Archer paused at the desk and picked up the Albanian magazine. It was five years old. He’d like to know when Rosa Zuni landed in the U.S. He’d like to know when Greg Oi got here. He’d like to know about Billy’s birth. There was so much Archer would like to know about a country and people half a world a
way and it was time to get some answers.

  He got his phone and punched in the number for his friend at the DEA, spent no time on pleasantries, and gave him the phone number Carlotta had given him. He asked for help running it down overseas along with any other information he might have on Rosa or Billy. Archer threw Oi and Duka in for good measure and hung up. He had no idea if what the agent found out would hurt or help Josie in the next hearing, but it could go a long way to satisfying his own curiosity.

  In Billy’s room Archer grabbed some clothes: jeans, t-shirts, and a button down just in case they couldn’t get a t-shirt over Billy’s cast. He found Billy’s backpack in the corner of the room, swung it on the bed. Whether Billy actually studied was questionable but he brought the books home.

  English literature.

  Biology.

  History.

  Archer tossed them on the bed and then put the clothes inside. When he was finished, he slung it over his shoulder only to find that he missed one. Archer pulled out another book. This one was worn, soft with age and written in Albanian. Archer flipped the pages. There were two markers. One a picture of a man and a woman and a girl, the other was a letter that had been folded and unfolded so many times it was falling apart, the ink was faded and illegible.

  Archer put it back. Billy would probably want it, and Archer wanted him to explain it.

  ***

  Billy Zuni’s smile faltered, wilted, and finally vanished as he took in all the information Josie had given him about the meeting in Judge Healy’s chambers. She had done her best to be upbeat, but Billy wasn’t stupid.

  “Do you understand the choices, Billy?”

  His shoulders rose half-heartedly. “I don’t get to choose anything.”

  “You can choose what you want me to ask for,” Josie said

  “Will the judge let me go home?”

  She shook her head. “No, Billy. I promise you don’t want that.”

  His head bobbed. Tears came easily to him now. Words got lost in the lump in his throat but he managed to say:

  “Just no jail. I didn’t do anything to go to jail for. Not even juvie.”

  “I’ll do my best.” She squeezed his hand, hoping he didn’t take that gesture as a promise. “Are you sure there aren’t any relatives who would step up?”

  “I don’t know any,” he mumbled.

  Josie knew he was telling the truth. Thousands of people couldn’t name one person in the world who cared about them. Either there literally weren’t any, they had lost touch with the ones they did have, or multiple marriages and ill will had diluted the connections. Old people died alone, run away kids ended up in the system only to be cut loose when they were eighteen with no place to go, and people wandered the streets, homeless. How sad, how outrageous that Billy was one of them. And if Josie failed to win the least restrictive placement, then Billy Zuni would fade into memory. He’d never come back to the beach the way he left it.

  “Then we’re going to have to give the judge reason to put you in a home setting. Are you ready? You have to tell me the truth even if you think it sounds bad. This is just between you and me.”

  When he nodded again, Josie began.

  Josie: You came from Albania, is that correct?

  Billy: Yes.

  Josie: Why did you come here?

  Billy: I don’t know. I was little.

  Josie: Didn’t Rosa say?

  Billy: Rosa said it was dangerous to talk about it.

  Josie: And she never gave you any reason?

  Billy: No.

  Josie: Did you know those men in your house?

  Billy: I knew the man who dressed like a girl. Mr. Oi.

  Josie: Was he a friend?

  Billy: We lived in his house for a while, but we left. Then I heard Rosa talking to him on the phone. I don’t remember the language much, but I knew she was talking to him.

  Josie: Do you know why she was talking to him?

  Billy shook his head again. Josie let go of his hand and sat back. Rosa hadn’t told Billy that she kept in touch with Oi. That was her secret and she went to great lengths to keep the relationship from Billy. Perhaps Billy was Oi’s child. Women kept their children from the biological father for all sorts of reasons. Carl Newton would argue that Billy was enraged to be kept apart from his father – a wealthy one at that. Josie could argue exactly the opposite and say that Billy would never hurt the man who was his father. She began again.

  Josie: Can you make a guess why he called her?

  Billy: No. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t ask what it was about. I didn’t want to know.

  Josie: Did you kill Mr. Oi and the other man?

  The change in Billy was so sudden and fleeting, Josie almost wasn’t sure it had happened. Billy’s eyes narrowed, his shoulders broadened and tensed, the muscles on his exposed arm corded. Josie saw what Carl Newton only imagined: a young, strong, man, angered, hair-triggered and ready for a fight. Not a boy at all. Perhaps, the rose colored glasses were hers.

  Billy: Jesus, Josie. Why would I want to kill anybody?

  Josie: Because one of them hurt Rosa.

  Billy: When have you even seen me do anything mean?

  The tears came again as Billy wilted. Whatever she had seen disappeared as quickly as it had come.

  Josie: Never, Billy. I have never seen you hurt anyone.

  Billy: And where would I get a gun?

  Josie: I don’t know.

  She paused but only briefly. She could not – would not – be fooled. Billy may be remorseful, he may be angry, he may be despairing, or he might be faking. It was up to her to figure it out.

  Josie: What time did you leave the beach with Trey?

  Billy: It was late. My mom said I could come back after midnight. She didn’t want me too early. I was having a good time anyway.

  Josie: Why did Trey go with you?

  Billy: He was hungry, and he was messed up.

  Josie: Did he go in the house?

  Billy: After me. I went in first.

  Josie: Did he hurt anyone?

  Billy: Mr. Oi was hurt when I went in. I just ran upstairs to find Rosa. It was awful. The knife was in her back. I pulled it out and I was crying.

  Josie: What about the man in the living room?

  Billy: I didn’t see anyone.

  Josie: The man on the couch?

  Billy: There were no lights. I wanted to find help for Rosa. That’s all I wanted when I went down the stairs. Then I saw someone. I thought it was Trey. I really thought it was Trey.

  Josie: Who was it?

  Billy: I don’t know. I ran away. I just ran and ran. I don’t know what I was running from. I never knew what we were running from.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry.” She ducked her head, she looked into his face but he averted his eyes. “Whatever your problems were, they’re nothing compared to what’s coming down the road, Billy. I know there are things you’re not telling me. You’ll have to if I’m going to help. Tell me right now who Rosa is. She’s not your mother, is she?”

  Bill’s shoulders fell, his eyes closed as if he was finally going to rest after a long journey. Finally, he looked at Josie Bates.

  “Rosa’s my sister.”

  “Where are your parents?”

  “In Albania. They gave me to Rosa.” Billy leaned forward so that his lips were close to her ear. “She saved me. She kept me safe. They wanted to kill me, Ms. B.”

  “Who wanted to kill you?” she whispered back.

  “Rosa knows.” His voice got smaller. “I’m so afraid.”

  A chill ran through Josie Bates. His confession implied that she could protect him. The truth was that she could only try to protect him. Her arms went around him awkwardly. The plastic of the IV cold against her arm, the much worn hospital gown soft under her fingers, and Billy’s body convulsed as he started to cry in earnest.

  “Who wants to kill you? Your parents?”

  He shook his head against her shoulder. “I thought it wa
s Mr. Oi. Rosa hated him.”

  “Then why was he in your house?”

  Billy’s head moved back and forth against her shoulder.

  “I don’t know. She always said they would come in the night.”

  He pulled back as if to look at her. Instead, he gazed through the window, tears washing down his poor, beaten face.

  “She didn’t like me going in the storm, but she said I had to. I thought it was just me they wanted to kill, but they tried to kill her, Josie. I should have been there. I should have. . .”

  That was as far as he got. The weeping was deep, the shivering uncontrollable, and the fear real. His head fell back onto Josie’s shoulder.

  “Shhh. We’ll figure it out.”

  Josie murmured words that meant nothing. Her brain turned furiously, spinning from one end of the spectrum to the other, from a conspiracy, to Rosa’s madness, to the possibility that the madness was Billy’s.

  This was how Mike Montoya found the lawyer and her client. He could not afford to think of them any other way. Josie saw him and pushed the crying boy away, buying time as she covered him with the blanket.

  “This is a privileged conversation.”

  “I am here to question your client,” Mike said evenly.

  “When I’m done,” Josie shot back. “When he’s composed.”

  “I’m sorry. You’re done now,” Mike ordered.

  “Josie?” Billy struggled to sit up.

  “Don’t say anything Billy,” she directed. Then to Montoya: “Give us five minutes. Let him pull himself together. She looked past him to the door where a uniformed deputy stood. She looked back at the detective. “Montoya?”

  “Ms. B. What’s going on?” Billy called.

  “Billy, as your lawyer I am advising you not to answer this man’s questions.”

  Montoya had the right to try to question Billy, but she had the obligation to make it darn hard if not impossible to do so. Mike’s shoulders swiveled to indicate the man behind him.

  “This is Deputy Sheriff Price. He will be stationed outside this door.”

  “Are you arresting my client?” Josie put herself between the detective and the boy.

  “Deputy Price will be insuring that Billy does not pose a danger to himself or to anyone else in this hospital.”