Identity Found

by Ray Green

  He made himself some strong, black coffee as he prepared to settle to his task; it was going to be a long night.

  ***

  Kyle awoke at 5.40 a.m. still fully clothed; still in his armchair. The handset containing María’s cloned phone had fallen to the floor. His throat felt like sandpaper. He had spent hours painfully scouring her emails, refuelling with copious amounts of black coffee to try to stay alert. In the end, though, sleep had overtaken him, and he was still no closer to finding any communication which might have been with Carla. All he had succeeded in doing was to make himself feel like some sort of grubby voyeur as he had probed every detail of María’s private life – or at least, every detail that could be revealed from her email traffic. And all for nothing.

  With a sigh, he levered himself out of his armchair and staggered through to the kitchen, pouring himself a large glass of water to soothe his parched throat. He made his way through to the bathroom, stripping off his crumpled clothes and letting them fall to the floor. After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he began to feel more human once again, but no less despondent about his chances of locating Carla.

  Returning to the kitchen, he loaded the filter machine with yet another couple of spoonfuls of ground coffee and topped up the water reservoir, flipping the power switch on and then popping a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. He wasn’t into cooking and had very little food in the fridge, so the toast, together with an apple he grabbed from the glass bowl on the counter top, would have to serve as breakfast.

  As he sat down to consume his makeshift breakfast, he contemplated his next move. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t think of anything else he could do.

  But maybe, just maybe, he had already done enough. His last hope depended on two things: firstly, whether María had been lying about not being able to contact Carla: and secondly, just how good a job he had done at evoking her sympathy and compassion.

  All he could do now was wait.

  Chapter 12

  Juanita had been lucky: she had managed to find a hairdresser that could fit her in at 9 a.m. the very next morning.

  Although it wasn’t very far, the walk from the hotel to the salon, in a brand-new pair of shoes, had made her feet pretty sore. When she sat down for her hairdo, she gratefully slipped her shoes off before the gown was fastened around her neck.

  The girl who did her hair was way too chatty and inquisitive for Juanita’s liking. What was she doing in New York? How long was she going to stay? Why was she going for such a radically different look? And many more probing questions.

  Juanita guessed that she was just trying to be friendly, but under the circumstances she would much have preferred not to have to dream up plausible responses to all these questions. She just wanted the job done as quickly as possible so that she could get out of there and focus on the much more important question of how to learn what the murdered journalist had been working on.

  She had to admit, though, that the girl had done a good job: the shorter style, in a medium-blonde tone with contrasting lowlights looked really good, reminding her of the look she had adopted when she and James had first fled Miami in search of a new life in Canada. More importantly, she now looked very different from the woman who had been photographed for the fake passport which would now be in the hands of the police.

  ‘There,’ chirped the girl, holding up a mirror behind Juanita’s head, ‘all done. Do you like it?’

  Juanita tilted her head one way and then the other in order to get an all-round view. She nodded, approvingly.

  ‘Yes … I do,’ she said, truthfully.

  The other girl removed the gown from Juanita’s shoulders, and she stood up, wincing slightly as she levered her feet back into her shoes.

  She picked up her purse, rummaging inside for her wallet. ‘How much was it again?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s two hundred and seventy dollars … but there’s no hurry; my next appointment’s not for another half an hour. Why not stay for a coffee and a chat …it’s Gema isn’t it? I’m Mandy by the way.’

  Juanita had momentarily forgotten the false name she had used to book her appointment and stumbled slightly over her response. ‘Er, yes … Gema. Look, that’s very kind, but I’m in a bit of a hurry.’ She opened her purse and withdrew three $100 bills from a substantial stack within.

  Mandy leaned forward and took a good look at the contents of Juanita’s purse. ‘Wow! You should be careful carrying that much cash about with you in the city … there are some bad people out there.’

  Juanita snapped the purse shut. ‘Oh … all my cards are back at my hotel, but yes, I will be careful … thank you. Keep the change.’

  ‘Thanks … would you like me to call you a cab?’

  ‘No, that’s fine, thanks. I can walk. The hotel’s not far.’

  With that, she hurried out of the door, her heart racing: she had been disproportionally unsettled by this girl’s constant prying. By the time she had walked a couple of blocks, though, she had regained her composure – the girl was surely just trying to be friendly.

  As she passed the massive tower which housed the New York Times office, her thoughts turned to the young journalist who had worked there before being so brutally murdered. Why? Just what on earth had she been investigating?

  Suddenly, she had an idea. Stopping in her tracks, she withdrew a small mirror from her purse and took a moment to check that her new hairdo had not been unduly disturbed by the gentle breeze blowing down 8th Avenue; it looked fine. She applied a little extra lipstick before turning around and marching towards the main entrance of the building.

  ***

  ‘You did what?’ exclaimed James.

  ‘I’ve applied for a job as a temporary office assistant at the New York Times. I’ve got an interview tomorrow morning,’ replied Juanita.

  ‘Are you crazy? You’re supposed to be keeping a low profile.’

  ‘Look,’ she said, sounding oh-so-reasonable, ‘we need to find out what that journalist was working on. If I can get this job – it would only be for a week – I might well be able to get some information.’

  He shook his head, avoiding responding directly to her assertion. ‘How did you even know there was a vacancy?’

  ‘I didn’t. I just figured a huge outfit like the New York Times must rely on temps quite a lot, you know, for vacation cover, maternity leave cover and so on, so I just went inside and asked. Turns out one of their secretaries has recently left unexpectedly and they need some temporary cover until her replacement starts. Seems I turned up at just the right moment.’

  James was exasperated by her impetuous action but, at the same time, full of admiration for her initiative and determination. He sighed heavily. ‘What name did you give them?’

  ‘“Gema López” … same as I used at the hairdressers.’

  ‘Hmm … you don’t need to do this, you know. You can just not show up for the interview. We can think of some other way to find out what she was investigating.’

  The determined look on her face, as she tilted her head and fixed him with a steady stare, conveyed her response as clearly as any words would have done.

  He sighed heavily. ‘I guess that’s a “no” then.’

  She smiled. ‘We’ve got work to do before my interview tomorrow: I need to write a suitable résumé, and you,’ she said, ‘need to make me another I.D.’

  He gave a wry smile. ‘You are utterly incorrigible.’

  She gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘It’s what you love about me.’

  Which, he had to admit, was true – amongst the many other things about her which captivated him. ‘I guess you’ll need to get another photo done – with your new hairstyle.’

  She smiled, reaching for her purse and withdrawing a thin, glossy sheet of card with four images on it. ‘Got it done on the way back to the hotel.’

  ‘Why, you didn’t even wait to—’

  He was interrupted by an electronic beeping sound emanatin
g from Juanita’s purse. He didn’t recognise the ringtone. She was evidently disoriented, too, for at the sound, her eyes widened in surprise, and her hand flew to her mouth.

  ‘That’s not my regular cell,’ she breathed, reaching into her purse.

  ‘You mean …?’

  She nodded, withdrawing the emergency pay-as-you-go phone, holding it at arm’s length as though it might bite her. She made a couple of taps and swipes before staring intently at the screen for around twenty seconds.

  ‘Well?’ enquired James, unable to contain himself any longer, his heart filled with trepidation.

  ‘It’s a text … from María.’

  ‘Your friend at the diner back in Miami?’

  ‘Uh, huh … I’ll read it out.’

  Carla,

  Sorry to contact you on this number, but there’s something I thought you should know. I got a visit from a guy called Kyle Richards – says his girlfriend, Sylvia, was murdered, yes MURDERED, a year or so ago. He claims she was a good friend of yours and he thinks you may know something about what happened. I know it all sounds crazy, but this guy looked SO upset – he really seemed genuine.

  I don’t know what you might have gotten mixed up in just before you left so suddenly – and I don’t want to know, but the question is – do you want to talk to this guy? Should I give him your number? Or, if it’s better, I can give you his number.

  All my love,

  María.

  When she looked up at James, her eyes were moist. ‘Oh, poor Kyle. This must have been eating him up for over a year.’

  James was firm in his reply. ‘You can’t contact him, Juanita … absolutely not. It’s terrible what happened to Sylvia, but what’s done is done. Letting anyone know what happened, or where we are, or what names we’re using, can only lead to trouble. I wasn’t too happy about your even leaving that phone number with María, but it absolutely must not go any further.’

  The tears she had been holding back welled from the corners of her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. ‘I know … I know you’re right, but—’

  ‘Shhh,’ he whispered, pulling her to him and encircling her in his arms.

  They clung together for several long seconds, before she pulled away and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving dark streaks of mascara across her cheeks. ‘I’ll reply right now.’

  He nodded. ‘Don’t reply as Juanita – use your old name.’

  She nodded, sniffing and wiping her cheeks again before hitting the ‘reply’ button. Her reply was short and to the point.

  María,

  No, I cannot talk to him, and you must not give him my number. Sorry, I can’t explain, but there are good reasons for this, which I’m afraid I cannot go into.

  Carla x

  Chapter 13

  Kyle Richards smiled; his plan had worked. He had picked up both María’s original message and Carla’s cryptic reply.

  He sat down in front of his laptop and, with a few clicks on the trackpad called up a page displaying the full details of the phone which had sent the reply to María. What he was hoping to find, was that the GPS tracking function on this phone was switched on. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. This would make his task rather more difficult. But he did have a possible way to get around this obstacle.

  He composed a very short and simple text message, purporting to come from María.

  Carla,

  OK – I understand. Good luck.

  María x

  His plan now relied on Carla believing that the message had, indeed come from María. He hit ‘send’ and settled back to wait.

  He didn’t have to wait long: it was just two minutes later that an electronic bleep from his laptop indicated that the recipient of his text message had clicked to open it. He waited a few more minutes to see if there was any reply, but there was none. It didn’t matter: the moment that text message had been opened, the bug he had attached to it would have been installed on Carla’s phone. A few more swipes and clicks on the trackpad of his laptop brought up a new screen: a world map with a single red dot on the east coast of the USA pulsing brightly. He zoomed in to reveal that the location of the dot was New York City. Zooming in further revealed that the exact location of the phone was The Manhattan at Times Square hotel.

  Now that he had finally succeeded in finding out where Carla was, Kyle felt strangely conflicted. His euphoria at tracking her down was tempered by feelings of guilt and betrayal at the deception he had employed to do so: Carla, after all, had been Sylvia’s best friend. He shook his head, trying to dispel the negative vibe as he set about booking a flight to New York City.

  ***

  ‘That’s odd,’ said Juanita.

  ‘Hmm?’ murmured James, evidently totally engrossed in the task of creating a new false I.D. for Juanita’s forthcoming interview.

  ‘It’s another text from María.’

  James looked up, now paying full attention. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘Much the same as the last one, really: “OK – I won’t say anything to him. Love, María”.’

  ‘I wonder why she sent another message?’ said James.

  Juanita pondered this thought. ‘Maybe the fact that I didn’t reply to the last one made her think I hadn’t received it.’

  ‘Could be,’ agreed James. ‘Why don’t you just acknowledge this one be sure she knows you’ve seen it?’

  ‘OK.’

  Juanita sent a brief reply.

  María,

  Thanks. Sorry I can’t tell you any more.

  Carla x

  James returned his attention to his laptop while Juanita fired up hers. She typed the following title.

  Résumé – Gema López Arteaga

  She sat back to consider just how to pitch this work of fiction. It needed to be convincing enough to help secure her the job, without claiming skills which she patently did not have, for to do so might see her cover blown within days or even hours. Hopefully, her prospective employer would be somewhat desperate to fill the hole created by the unexpected departure of the secretary and wouldn’t probe too much.

  She began to type …

  Chapter 14

  Mark Bowman sat at his desk in the NYPD reading through the report about the woman who had attempted to steal Julia’s autopsy report. His concentration was rudely interrupted by the booming voice of Sergeant Sean O’Reilly.

  ‘How’re you getting on with the Patterson case, Detective?’

  Scott Patterson was a media tycoon, and a big name in New York society. He was a vociferous advocate of a tough line on law and order and hobnobbed with those at the most senior levels in the NYPD. In spite of, or perhaps because of, his outspoken views on crime and law enforcement, his home had been targeted by thieves, who had gotten away with most of his wife’s jewellery, two of his Rolex watches, and his cherished vintage Jaguar car. In the process of the robbery, they had been disturbed by Patterson’s wife, Martha, who, for her trouble, had received a blow to the head which rendered her temporarily unconscious. She had been unable to identify her attacker, who had been wearing a balaclava.

  When Mark had been assigned to the case, he protested that, in spite of the assault, the lady had eventually made a full recovery, and that this was hardly a case for Homicide. O’Reilly’s reply was that Scott Patterson was a very important man and that the powers-that-be had declared this to be not just any old burglary, but a case of attempted murder. Homicide had to take the case, whether they liked it or not. Mark knew full well that this was a case his superiors wanted solved quickly: the fallout if the NYPD failed on this one would be considerable.

  ‘Uh, well, I don’t have anything concrete yet,’ replied Mark, in answer to O’Reilly’s question, surreptitiously sliding the report he had been reading to one side and nudging the mouse on the desk to wake up his computer, ‘but I’ve got a promising lead to follow up.’

  O’Reilly was a big man, and Mark could not help but feel intimidated as he came around the desk to lo
ok over Mark’s shoulder. ‘Like what?’ he said, leaning forward until his jowly chin was right alongside Mark’s cheek.

  The computer screen was showing CCTV footage of the opulent mansion owned by the influential billionaire.

  ‘See the jacket that guy’s wearing?’ said Mark; he zoomed in on a blurry image of one of the two presumed perpetrators.

  ‘Yeah … what of it?’

  ‘Well that logo on the back is very rare … and it matches one on a jacket stolen in another robbery last month over in Staten Island.’

  ‘So, you sayin’ this guy wore a stolen jacket to commit another robbery?’

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ replied Mark. ‘I’m going to go and talk to the guys investigating the other robbery and see what we can come up with.’

  O’Reilly seemed satisfied, for the time being at least. ‘OK, but don’t take too long about it – the big guns want this case solved ASAP.’

  ‘On it,’ Mark confirmed.

  Sergeant O’Reilly moved away, with his familiar rolling gait, no doubt ready to make some other poor bastard’s life a misery. But Mark knew this could only be a temporary reprieve. He returned to his scrutiny of the report concerning the attempted theft of Julia’s autopsy report from the pathology lab by the woman who had claimed to be her sister.

  The whole thing about the jacket being potentially linked to another burglary had been a complete fabrication, designed to keep O’Reilly off his back while he concentrated on the much more important task of tracking down his girlfriend’s murderer.