by Ray Green
Where the hell was María? She seemed to be taking far too long just to fetch him a cheeseburger. Did she suspect something? Had she spoken to her boss … or even called the cops? His pulse was racing now; maybe he should just abandon his plan and get out of there. He checked his watch: it was only five minutes since he had placed his order; somehow, it felt more like twenty. Calm down, he told himself. Just wait – she’ll be back.
At that precise moment she reappeared, making her way towards him with his burger. He tried to conceal the huge sigh of relief which he exhaled.
She still looked a little wary as she set down his meal on the table: her smile was present and correct, but her eyes told a different story. Even so, she went through her standard spiel smoothly enough.
‘There you go sir. Can I get you anything else?’
Kyle slid his hand under the baseball cap and located, by touch, the far right-hand key on the device, pressing it once. ‘I’m good, thanks,’ he said.
She turned to leave; that was no good – he needed her stay close for at least a minute or so.
‘Say,’ he said, touching her arm – she stopped and turned back – ‘I’m sorry about earlier. I never meant to upset you.’
‘It’s OK,’ she replied – although the way she struggled to maintain eye contact suggested otherwise – ‘it was just a bit of a shock to hear what happened to your girlfriend. Anyway, I hope you—’
‘Thing is,’ he said, anxious to keep her there a little longer, ‘you were my last hope, and now … well I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
‘I’m sorry … really I am … but I just can’t help you. Now, I really gotta get on.’ She made as if to turn away again.
No, just a few more seconds, he thought.
‘Uh, before you go …’
She looked at him, enquiringly.
‘I appreciate that you don’t know how to get in contact with Carla, but is there anyone else who might? Another girlfriend? Maybe a relative? I’m really desperate here.’
Now, Kyle thought he detected genuine sympathy in her eyes, but her response was just the same.
She shook her head. ‘Look, I’m real sorry, but I don’t know where she is, and I don’t know of anyone else who might.’
He couldn’t string this out any longer without either pissing her off or arousing suspicion that he had an ulterior motive. He hoped he had kept her there long enough.
‘OK … I understand. Thanks anyway, for your understanding.’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Now I really must—’
‘Yeah, of course,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’ve already taken up too much of your time. Look, if by any chance Carla should get in touch with you in the future, will you let me know?’ He handed her a card. ‘Here’s my number.’
Again, he picked up that look of compassion in her eyes, as she took the card and slipped it into her pocket.
‘Enjoy your burger,’ she said. And then she was gone.
Kyle lifted his baseball cap and stole a glance at the apparatus on the chair alongside him. The message on the screen read ‘Scan complete – 5 devices captured’. He managed a grim smile: he had succeeded in illegally cloning María’s cell phone and, apparently, those of four nearby diners too. If she had been lying to him and she was in contact with Carla, now he would know.
Chapter 9
James and Juanita made it back to their hotel without incident.
‘I guess I screwed up pretty badly,’ said Juanita, flinging the part-copied report down onto the bed and pacing over towards the window, clasping her hands together behind her neck, stretching her arms and shoulders.
‘No,’ said James, coming up behind her and encircling her waist with his arms. ‘It was always going to be a tricky job; you did amazingly well to even get half of the report.’
She turned around and buried her head in his chest, pulling him to her. ‘But now the cops are going to be looking for me, and they have my photo.’ She stifled a sob.
‘Shhh … it’s OK. We’ll work something out.’
She eased herself away from him and looked into his eyes. ‘Like what?’
‘Well, for a start,’ he said, eying her long, glossy, black hair, ‘you can change your appearance quite a bit just with a new hairdo.’
She took a lock of her own hair between thumb and forefinger, bringing it round in front of her face to look at it. ‘You mean like …’ ‘Yeah … like when we had to quit Miami. You had it cut shorter and coloured a sort of medium blonde colour, with those darker streaks. It gave you a completely different look.’
She tipped her head to one side, a slight frown crossing her brow as she contemplated the strand of hair she was holding. ‘Well, I suppose …’
‘And what’s more,’ he continued, ‘that’s the look you have in your “official” passport – Juanita’s passport.’
‘OK,’ she said, quickly making her mind up, ‘I’ll try and find somewhere to get it done tomorrow.’
‘Good,’ said James, planting a kiss on her cheek.
‘But,’ she said, ‘if the cops are seriously looking for me, I don’t think a change of hairstyle will keep me out of trouble for long.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ opined James. ‘All they have is a very small lo-res photo and a completely fictitious name. As long as we’re careful we should be able to stay under the radar for a while. Once we get out of New York City and back to Toronto I reckon we should be safe enough.’
‘I guess,’ she said, not sounding entirely convinced. ‘How long do you think we’ll need to stay in New York?’
‘Depends … If I’m on the wrong track, and this murder was nothing to do with the guy I have in mind, then I’ll drop the whole thing and we can get out of here pronto.’
‘But how will you know for sure?’
He didn’t answer her question directly. ‘Let’s take a look at what you’ve managed to copy,’ he said, moving over to sit on the bed and picking up the papers, shuffling them into a more orderly pile. Juanita sat down alongside him as he began working through the sheets, reading out loud.
The first page used a lot of words but, in essence, just stated that the victim was female, of Hispanic appearance, aged in her twenties, and well nourished.
The second page described the two gunshot wounds: one to the chest and one inside the left ear. There was no exit wound from the chest shot, but the shot into the ear had emerged from the opposite temple, taking with it a large piece of the girl’s skull.
The next two pages contained close-up photographs of the horrific wounds which the victim had suffered. Juanita’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp.
‘You don’t have to look at the rest of this,’ said James, placing a comforting arm around her shoulder.
‘I’m OK,’ she whispered, looking anything but.
‘Sure?’
‘Yes – carry on.’
James turned his attention back to the report. The next page speculated on the type of weapon used: the calibre of the bullets could not be accurately determined until the body was opened up and the slug retrieved, but the size of the entry wound in the chest suggested perhaps .38 inch or 9mm.
He paused for a moment, staring at the page. Both were fairly common sizes of bullet, so no real conclusions could be drawn, but he did know that the preferred handgun of his suspect was a 9mm Glock.
‘What is it?’ prompted Juanita, evidently sensing his disquiet.
‘Nothing really – it’s just … let’s press on.’
He turned the page again: this part of the report detailed an external visual examination of the body. There were no signs of any physical struggle: no scratches or bruises; no traces of skin or fabric under the victim’s fingernails, but then …
James froze, silent for several seconds before turning to Juanita and declaring, ‘It’s him.’
Chapter 10
Juanita’s eyes widened. ‘How do you know?’ she gasped.
‘Take a look at this.’<
br />
She looked at the photograph he was pointing out: it depicted a small piece of card, creased and heavily bloodstained. ‘It looks like a business card, but I can’t see any text at all on it … only some sort of image or logo. But with all that bloodstain it’s hard to make out what it is.’
‘It was rolled up and pushed into her throat, which was probably full of blood from one or both of the wounds,’ he explained.
Juanita clapped her hand over her mouth as she tried to stifle the horrified gasp which escaped her lips. ‘How could anyone …?’ Her voice tailed off.
James didn’t try to answer her unfinished question. ‘If you look closely, it’s just possible to make out what’s on the card.’
He passed the report to her; she took it and leaned forward, peering intently at the photograph. ‘It looks like … a scorpion.’ She looked up at him, searching his eyes.
He nodded slowly, his mouth set in a grim, straight line. ‘That’s what this man calls himself: “The Scorpion”. I don’t know what his real name is. As I told you before, he’s such an arrogant bastard that he actually advertises who carried out his hits. Not only does he stick to his trademark killing shot through the ear, but he also places one of his calling cards on – or, as in this case, inside – his victims. He seems to want to create an aura of notoriety and fear around his own legend and, in his own mind, he’s too damned clever to ever get caught.’
Juanita’s mouth hung open for several seconds as she digested James’s words. When she finally spoke, there was trepidation in her tone.
‘So what do we do now?’
‘We don’t do anything … I need to take it from here on my own. You’ve already done more than enough, and I can’t risk getting you involved any further. The cops have your photo, and the man who carried out this murder is more dangerous than you can possibly imagine. It will be best if you go back to Toronto now, and wait for me there.’
When he looked into her eyes, they were filled with a fierce determination. ‘Not a chance,’ she insisted. ‘We’re in this together, and if you think I’m going to just sit at home waiting to hear from you, I’m afraid you’d better think again.’
He sighed heavily; he knew there was no arguing with her when she was like this. ‘Well OK, you can stay here in New York but you have to keep a low profile and stay out of trouble.’
She gave a small smile. ‘So,’ she repeated, ‘what do we do now?’
‘OK,’ said James taking the report from her and putting it aside, ‘we need to try to find out what this girl was working on – like I said, it must be something big for anyone to pay this guy’s fees to eliminate her.’
Juanita nodded, thoughtfully. ‘And if we can find out … what then?’
‘That depends on what it is that she was investigating, I guess. We obviously can’t go to the police directly, given that we’re both living under false identities and wanted by the authorities in Florida. And not only that: the NYPD will also be looking for you in connection with the attempted theft of the autopsy report here in New York.’
‘But,’ she said, ‘if innocent lives are at stake, we have to do something. Maybe we could just give an anonymous tip-off to the police,’ she suggested.
‘Maybe, but we would need some evidence so that the police don’t just dismiss it as a crank call.’
‘Hmm,’ she mused ‘maybe we could—’
He shook his head, raising a hand to interrupt her. ‘We’re getting way ahead of ourselves here. Right now, we have absolutely no idea of what she might have been working on or why she had to be silenced, let alone what to do about it. Let’s just take it one step at a time.’
‘You’re right,’ she agreed, ‘our first step has to be to find out what she was working on.’
‘And right now,’ he said, ‘I’m not sure how we’re going to do that.’
‘Nor me,’ she sighed. ‘Let’s sleep on it and see if we can come up with a plan in the morning.’
‘Agreed,’ he said, ‘right now, I’m totally bushed.’
‘There is one other thing I need to do in the morning,’ said Juanita.
He raised an inquisitive eyebrow, inclining his head as he met her gaze. ‘What’s that?’
‘I need to get that new hairdo. I’ll start phoning around right now to see if I can get an early hair appointment somewhere nearby.’
He smiled, drawing her to him and taking a lock of her lustrous, long, black hair between his thumb and forefinger, stroking it tenderly. ‘Just when I was getting used to this.’
‘Needs must,’ she replied pulling away from him. ‘Now, let’s check out all the hairdressers in the area and see if any of them can fit me in tomorrow.’
***
When the report of the attempted theft of Julia Turner’s autopsy report reached the police, Mark Bowman’s heart skipped a beat. If this woman had been snooping around using a false name to gain access to Julia’s autopsy report, she must surely have been involved in her murder. He had, until now, assumed that the killer must be a man, but why couldn’t it be a woman? Although his own sensibilities found the prospect of a woman carrying out such a brutal killing distasteful and repellent, that was no reason why it couldn’t be so; God knows, he’d seen some pretty hideous crimes committed by women during his time with the NYPD. But why would she need to see the report? At this stage, he had no answers.
He still had no idea what Julia might have done to provoke her vicious murder on the very day he had planned to propose to her, but maybe there was a lead somewhere here which could guide him to those answers and make sure the perpetrator paid. He immediately asked to be assigned to the investigation, but his boss refused, saying he was too emotionally involved and would not be objective. The case would be assigned to one of his colleagues; Mark was to stay well out of it.
Fuck that! Sure, he was emotionally involved, but what he might lack in objectivity he sure as hell made up for in determination. Whatever his superiors said, he was damned well going to find Julia’s murderer. If his insubordination cost him his job, then so be it.
I’m coming for you, you murdering bitch.
Chapter 11
María García Ruiz had finished her shift and was now sitting on her couch in front of the TV, with a home-delivered pizza, still in its box, on her lap.
She wasn’t especially hungry, and her attention kept wandering from the – admittedly pretty dire – chat show. The truth was, all she could really think about was the visit from that guy looking for Carla; she had been genuinely moved by his obvious distress. What must it be like to lose a lover under such horrendous circumstances and never know why? How gut-wrenching must it be for him to know her killer still walked free? He was obviously desperate to achieve some sort of closure, and maybe Carla really did have some answers. She had been so secretive about what had happened to make her run like that, just over a year ago, leaving no clue about where she was going, or with whom.
When Carla had left that cell phone number before fleeing Miami, she had insisted that it could only be used to contact her in situations of absolute emergency: say, if the cops were asking questions about her for instance. She had also told María that she must not enter the contact details in her own cell phone for fear that someone, at some time, might discover them. Instead she was to memorise the details and then destroy any paper copy she had. The number, Carla had explained, was not that of her regular cell but of an untraceable pay-as-you-go phone which she could discard at any moment if she needed to. She had, however, promised to keep it always switched on and charged until that moment arrived … if it ever did. María had never once called or texted that number in over a year.
Now, though, she faced a dilemma: was this an emergency sufficient to warrant breaking her silence and calling that number? Probably not … and yet, she just could not shake off the image of that poor guy in the diner, utterly distraught, and desperate for answers.
She gave up on the banal chat show and surfed through the oth
er channels, trying to find something more engaging to take her mind off the desperate stranger who had come to see her, seeking her help. She eventually settled for a news channel, but still she could not focus.
She reached for her purse and found the card which this guy had given her. He had not actually mentioned his name when he had spoken to her, but now she read it out loud: ‘Kyle Richards’.
She gazed at the card; should she, or shouldn’t she?
***
Just a few miles away, Kyle was busy trawling through the contents of María’s phone, which he had illegally cloned back at Eduardo’s Restaurant.
Her contacts list contained a hundred and ninety-four names, around three-quarters of which sounded like women’s names. Not one of them was a ‘Carla’, however. It was possible, of course, that her details had been entered under some other name, but Kyle quickly dismissed the idea of phoning all the women’s names in the list at random in the hope of stumbling across Carla: it would almost certainly get back to María that he was doing so, and as she had his contact details this could land him in all kinds of trouble. It was also possible, of course, that Carla’s details were not in the contacts list at all.
He decided to go through all María’s social media accounts in the hope that she might perhaps be in contact with Carla through one of these.
Facebook: nothing.
Twitter: nothing.
Instagram: nothing.
These appeared to be the only social media platforms that María used.
He slammed his hand on the arm of his chair in frustration; the next step was one he’d hoped to avoid, as it would be agonisingly slow and laborious. There was, however, nothing else for it: he would have to start ploughing through María’s emails. Although Carla didn’t appear to be in her contacts list, it was still possible that the two of them could have exchanged emails. And if she was in the contacts list under some other name, it might just be possible to figure it out from the contents of any emails exchanged between the two of them. But this was going to be one hell of a tedious slog, with only a slim chance of yielding a result.