by Ray Green
‘Then why don’t you give the police an anonymous tip-off … let them deal with it.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t even know this man’s name, and I have no idea where he lives or where he would be. The cops would most likely just dismiss it as a crank call.’
She sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat. ‘So what do you want to do?’
‘There is a way I might be able to find out for sure whether it was this man who killed her, but I’d have to go to New York City for a few days to dig into it.’
‘And if it’s not him?’
‘Then I promise you I’ll step away and leave it to the cops.’
‘But if it is?’ she pressed.
‘I … I don’t exactly know, but—’
‘OK, stop,’ she cut in. ‘If you insist on doing this, then I’m coming with you.’
‘No … there’s no need for that. I can just—’
‘I’m coming,’ she insisted, her mouth firmly set, her eyes fiery with determination. ‘I’m not going to sit here, worried sick that you’re doing something stupid. In any case,’ she continued, ‘you might just need some help.’
James had seen that look before: it was one of the things about her which had captured his heart during their terrifying ordeal in Miami. Although he felt deeply apprehensive about the prospect of Juanita getting involved, he knew her well enough by now to know that she would not be dissuaded. And, he had to admit, in a tight spot, there was no-one in the world that he’d rather have by his side. Despite his unease, he couldn’t stop himself from cracking a small smile.
‘We’d better get packed then.’
***
James and Juanita had come away from Miami with a very substantial sum of money. They had found the cash, and numerous fake passports, concealed beneath the false bottom of a briefcase which James had been carrying before sustaining the head injury which had robbed him of his memory. James didn’t know where the money had come from or why he had been carrying it, but he wasn’t about to try and find out – and, in the process, risk one or both of them being discovered by their pursuers.
They decided not to rely on this windfall for their everyday living expenses, though; instead, James had taken a job as a security guard working on armoured vehicles transporting cash around the city, while Juanita – a talented artist – was making a modest income from selling her paintings. As James had pointed out, ‘You never know when we might just need some of that money: if either the bad guys or the police ever look like catching up with us, we might have to run again.’ Well, it hadn’t happened yet and, as a full year had now passed, it didn’t look as though it was going to. Nevertheless, they had stuck to their resolution not to use too much of the cash and, so far, they had spent very little of it. They were also conscious that if they suddenly became big spenders, they might draw unwanted attention to themselves.
The situation in which they now found themselves, however, meant that they had no alternative but to dip into their cash reserves. James had already used up most of his two weeks annual vacation allowance, and when he approached his employer to request an additional one week’s unpaid leave, the response had been distinctly unhelpful. They told him that if he wanted more time off, he’d have to quit his job and re-apply for it when he returned. They couldn’t guarantee that they’d still have a job for him, though. Although Juanita had, initially, been very uneasy about this mission which James was intent on, she backed him to the hilt when he said he wanted to quit his job and take his chances on picking it up again upon their return to Canada.
And so, just two days after hearing of Julia Turner’s murder, they found themselves sitting together on a plane bound for JFK Airport. While Juanita dozed alongside him, James was wide awake as his brain grappled with the difficult question of how he might discover the crucial piece of evidence which would confirm whether the perpetrator of the murder was the man he suspected.
And if it is him, he thought, what exactly am I going to do next?
Chapter 4
Kyle Richards had never been able to come to terms with the vicious and brutal murder of his girlfriend, just over a year ago. Sylvia had been the love of his life, whom he had intended to marry, but she had been cruelly snatched away from him. The Miami-Dade Police had been unable to find the killer or even come up with any plausible reason why Sylvia had been targeted. It was, they said, an apparently random and motiveless murder – perhaps a mugging which had gone too far.
Kyle didn’t buy it. Sylvia had been killed just inside the entrance hall of her own apartment block, with a single shot to the centre of her forehead, and none of the little cash she had in her purse had been taken. He had long felt that the police just hadn’t put enough effort into investigating the murder; they were probably too preoccupied with the high-profile bombing at the Palm Grove hotel which had almost succeeded in killing the brilliant research scientist and his entire team responsible for the revolutionary new cocaine addiction cure, which was now being hailed as a breakthrough in the war against the illegal drugs trade. Ironic, he reflected, that in spite of the vast resources they had deployed on that case, compared to the cursory dismissal of Sylvia’s murder, it too, remained unsolved.
There was one other thing about Sylvia’s death which gnawed incessantly at his brain: the cryptic note from her best friend Carla which he had received soon after Sylvia’s death, together with $20,000 in cash. How could Carla, on a restaurant server’s modest salary, have laid hands on that sort of money? And what on earth did her puzzling note actually mean? He took the creased and yellowing piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and read it for the hundredth time.
Kyle,
I can’t tell you how devastated I am by what happened to Sylvia. I can’t imagine what you must be going through right now. The fact that Sylvia’s funeral has had to be delayed while the authorities carry out an autopsy must have made things even worse – if that is possible.
For reasons which are too complicated to explain, I have to leave Miami for good. Before I go, though, I need to tell you something – I know what happened to her.
You know full well that she – and I – got involved with some pretty bad people, but she never did anything to cross them and that’s not why she died. Sadly, she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and became an innocent victim of something else entirely.
I wish I could explain more, but really, I can’t. To do so might put other lives in danger, so all I can say is that she did nothing to deserve such a fate.
I know money can’t begin to compensate for the loss of such a wonderful person, but I’d like you to be able to at least give her a fitting send-off, so use as much of the $20,000 as you need for this. Whatever is left over is for you to use as you wish.
You’re probably wondering how I have come by that sort of money. I’m afraid that’s another part of a very complicated story which I just can’t tell you, except to say it wasn’t through my doing anything criminal.
Sadly, I won’t be able to attend the funeral of my very best friend. In fact, I can’t ever come back to Miami, and you will never see me again. You know, though, that my thoughts and prayers will always be with you – and Sylvia.
All my love, Carla x
Sylvia, a Brooklyn girl, and Carla, a Mexican immigrant, had been the very best of friends. Although he had only actually met Carla once himself, he knew, from everything Sylvia had said about her, that the two of them were like sisters. Why on earth would her friend have taken off like that? Where did she get the money from? Where was she now? And the biggest question of all: what did she know about Sylvia’s murder?
Somehow, he had to track her down.
***
James and Juanita had checked into The Manhattan at Times Square hotel in New York City. It had probably been built in the sixties, with evidence of some retro art-deco details here and there. It had obviously been refurbished though, and inside it was modern and comfortable. It was only a short
distance from the New York Times office and from the scene of the murder – a good location to work from.
Once they were settled in, James wasted no time in getting down to business. ‘I need to get a copy of the autopsy report. If I can see all the details, I should be able to figure out whether this killing was the work of the man I told you about.’
Juanita shook her head. ‘Surely, they’ll only release that to a family member.’
‘So, I’ll have to pose as a family member.’
‘But they’ll want to see I.D. – proof of who you are.’
‘I know,’ he said, ‘but look, we managed to fake completely new identities when we fled to Canada, didn’t we?’
Juanita’s forehead creased in a frown. ‘Well yes but—’
James stepped over to the suitcase which lay open on the bed – they hadn’t even finished unpacking yet. He withdrew a thick, brown envelope.
‘We still have these,’ he said, emptying the contents of the envelope onto the bed.
The dozen or so passports – a legacy of his former occupation – spanned a variety of nationalities. James picked up a U.S. passport, opening it to reveal that the title page was blank, the plastic sheet which covered it not yet sealed down.
‘You’re planning to fake an identity as a relative in order to get a copy of the autopsy report?’
He nodded.
‘What relative?’
‘I don’t know … maybe her father.’
‘Risky … he may well have been to identify the body already.’
‘Maybe a brother then.’
‘Hmm … not wishing to be disparaging, but aren’t you a bit old to be the brother of a twenty-four-year-old?’
‘Hey you,’ he laughed, ‘I look young for my age.’
‘Maybe, but there’s something else you need to consider.’
He inclined his head, enquiringly. ‘And that is?’
‘Have you seen a photo of the dead girl?’
‘Well, no,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t think the news report included a photo.’
‘The original one didn’t,’ she agreed, ‘but they’ve released one now. Get your laptop.’
A few minutes later they were huddled around the laptop looking at the latest report on Julia Turner’s death. They gazed at her photograph.
‘It never occurred to me,’ muttered James, ‘with a name like Turner, who’d have guessed that she was a Latina?’
‘Well, probably not first-generation but, from her skin tone and features, she clearly had some Hispanic blood in her.’
Suddenly, he knew where Juanita was going with this. He raised his hand towards her, palm-outward.
‘No,’ he said, firmly, ‘absolutely not. I won’t have you risking—’
‘Shhh,’ she said, taking his raised hand and gently easing it downward. ‘Look at it logically. Which of us stands the better chance of pulling this off?’
‘Well, that’s not the point,’ he spluttered.
‘Isn’t it? I look like she did, I’m nearer her age, and my accent is going to be way more convincing than yours. I could easily be her older sister.’
‘Well, I suppose that’s true,’ he admitted, but—’
‘No “buts”,’ she insisted, her face displaying that look of fierce determination he knew so well. ‘If you want that report, I’m the one who stands by far the best chance of getting it for you.’
He knew there was no arguing with her when she became set on any given course of action, besides which, he had to admit she was probably right.
‘W-ell, I suppose …’ he began, but Juanita was already rummaging through the pile of blank passports. She held up a U.S. one.
‘I assume – since you were planning to fake a passport for yourself – that you’ve brought the portable printer with you?’
He nodded.
‘Come on,’ she urged, ‘you get busy on the laptop, while I go out and find a photo booth. I’ll leave you to decide on her sister’s first name.’
With that, she grabbed her coat and purse, and swept from the room.
Chapter 5
Kyle Richards stood just across the street from Eduardo’s Restaurant. It was hardly worthy of the title: from the outside it looked more like a basic diner. The most noteworthy feature on the rather drab frontage was a logo of a leaping swordfish alongside the title. But he hadn’t come for the culinary experience. This was where Carla had worked before she fled Miami and went to ground; it was the only starting point he could think of to find some clue as to where she had gone.
Not wishing to dice with the heavy traffic moving in both directions, he walked about fifty yards to the nearest crosswalk and then doubled back to the diner.
When he stepped inside, he found that the interior looked barely more salubrious than the exterior had suggested. The tables were topped with plastic laminate, of a garish red tone, accompanied by basic steel-framed stacking chairs, which had definitely seen better days. The floor was covered in beige-coloured ceramic tiles, some of which were cracked, and the cream paintwork on the walls was in need of some attention. Nevertheless, the whole place was clean and tidy, and despite its unprepossessing appearance, it was almost full; they must have been doing something right. Most of the customers, and staff, appeared to be of Latino descent.
There weren’t many vacant seats, but he spotted a small booth at the back wall which was empty; that would do. He went over and claimed his seat.
He picked up the rather dog-eared menu card propped up between a ketchup bottle and the salt and pepper mills. As he scanned the list, he was struck by how very reasonable the prices seemed; maybe that was why the place was so popular. Before he had a chance to make his lunch selection, a heavily accented voice interrupted him.
‘Hi, my name’s Ana. I’ll be your server today.’
He looked up to see a young, rather attractive girl of Latina appearance, smiling down at him.
‘Are you ready to order, sir?’
‘Hi … uh, I’m still choosing just now.’
‘Oh, sure … I’ll give you a few minutes. Can I get you something to drink?’
‘Yeah … thanks. I’ll take a coffee, please … black, no sugar.’
‘Coming right up.’
When she returned with his coffee, she took from her pocket a small notebook and pen. ‘Ready to order now?’
‘I am,’ he said, smiling.
‘What’ll it be then?’
‘I’ll take the Spanish omelette please … with a side of fries and a small salad.’
‘You got it,’ she replied scribbling the order in her notebook.
‘Say, Ana,’ interjected Kyle, just as the girl was about to turn away.
‘Uh-huh?’
‘How long have you worked here?’
‘Oh … about a year or so, I guess. Why?’
‘It’s just that I’m trying to catch up with a friend that I’ve lost touch with. She used to work here, and I wondered if maybe you knew her.’
‘I might … what’s her name?’
‘Carla … she’s from Mexico.’
The girl pinched her chin between thumb and forefinger, drawing her eyes together and pursing her lips It took her just a few seconds to recall. ‘Oh, yeah … sure. She left just a couple of weeks after I started here.’
‘Any idea where she might be now?’
She shook her head. ‘Sorry, no idea. I hardly knew her.’
‘Oh,’ said Kyle, ‘well, I guess it was a bit of a long shot.’
‘But María might know,’ she said.
‘María?’
‘Sure. She and Carla were real good friends; she still goes on about what a shame it was that Carla left so suddenly and moved away.’
Kyle’s heart jumped; this sounded much more promising. ‘Great! Does María work here?’
‘Sure, but—'
‘Any chance I could have a word with her?’ cut in Kyle, eagerly.
‘Not today … that’s what I was abo
ut to say. She’s not working today … but if you come in around the same time tomorrow, she’ll be here.’
Kyle smiled. ‘I will … thanks so much, Ana.’
‘Sure … now let me get you that omelette.’
***
The Edward Mason Pathology Laboratory was an impressive, marble and smoked-glass creation, its frontage presenting an almost-perfect, reflected image of the building opposite. Juanita’s heart was pounding as she approached the front door: what, the previous day, had sounded like a feasible plan, now felt like the height of folly – fraught with danger. James was waiting in their rental car, just around the corner, ready to whisk her away quickly if things went wrong, but there were just so many things that could go wrong. She swallowed hard – her throat already dry as sand – and pushed the door open.
Inside, everything was white: the walls, the ceiling, the floor, even the two couches in the reception area – not to mention the crisply tailored shirt worn by the woman behind the desk. She was probably in her early-to-mid thirties, sporting an abundant shock of tumbling blonde tresses and immaculate, if a little over-heavy, makeup. As Juanita approached her, she looked up, her face displaying a smile which somehow managed to be both sympathetic and tragic at the same time. When she spoke, her tone matched her facial expression: soft, concerned, and understanding.
‘Hello,’ said the receptionist, ‘how can I help you today?’
I wonder how long she has spent in front of a mirror perfecting a tone and demeanour appropriate for this place of death and sorrow? thought Juanita – perhaps, she had to admit, a little uncharitably, considering she didn’t even know the woman.
She did her best to compose herself before replying, trying to ignore her racing heartbeat and sweaty palms. Even so, her voice, when she uttered her first words, sounded unnaturally tremulous to her own ears.