Identity Found

by Ray Green

  ‘Hello?’ came the almost instant reply.

  ‘Miss Bailey? This is Detective Mark Bowman.’

  A whirring noise and click signalled that the door had been unlocked. ‘Come right on up … I’m on the third floor.’

  In contrast to the general condition of the building, the dark green paint on the front door of the apartment gleamed as though only just applied. He rang the bell and, almost immediately, it opened. He barely recognised the woman who opened it: her hair tumbled over her shoulders in long, flowing waves; her makeup was heavy enough for her to be on a stage show; her short, stretchy dress clung to her body so closely that her generous breasts threatened to break free from the perilously low-cut neckline. In spite of himself, Mark couldn’t help an involuntary scan up and down her body before regaining eye contact.

  ‘Er … Miss Bailey?’

  ‘Mary-Jane,’ she reminded him, stepping aside to usher him inside. As he stepped past her, he was enveloped in a cloud of over-strong perfume, which eventually gave way to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

  The apartment was immaculate: warm, welcoming colours; simple, minimalist furniture; a pleasing lack of clutter, yet nice feminine touches, such as velvet drapes, floral print artwork, and a vase of freshly cut flowers on a low table in the corner of the room. An attractive, dark-haired woman rose from one of the two couches which faced each other across the coffee table. She was plainly dressed in skinny denim jeans and a simple, white, polo neck sweater. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her makeup was minimal. Clearly, she was not headed for the same party as her friend apparently was.

  ‘This is Mandy,’ said Mary-Jane, closing the door behind her and gesturing towards the woman.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am.’ Mark stepped forward and extended his hand. Her smile, as she shook his hand, was beautiful, in spite of her lack of makeup.

  ‘Likewise,’ she replied.

  ‘Please, do sit down,’ said Mary-Jane, indicating the couch opposite the one where her friend resumed her seat. ‘Would you like a coffee? I’ve just made some.’

  Mark was anxious to get on with interviewing her friend, but he didn’t want to seem ungrateful or offhand.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, smiling, ‘black, no sugar.’

  Mary-Jane headed towards the kitchen while Mark set down his bag and sat opposite her friend. ‘I understand that you think the woman who tried to steal documents from the pathology lab may have also visited your hair salon.’

  Her reply was hesitant. ‘W-ell … I can’t say for sure that it was the same woman, but Mary-Jane thought I should talk to you. I do hope I’m not wasting your time.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Mark. ‘I appreciate your help. Now let me just … ah.’

  They were interrupted by the return of Mary-Jane, carrying a tray, which she set down on the table. ‘There, that one’s yours, Mark,’ she said – somewhat superfluously, as the other two were both white.

  She sat down beside him, her dress riding way up her shapely thighs. Mark refused to be distracted; he directed his gaze towards the other woman.

  ‘So Miss …’ he couldn’t remember her surname.

  ‘Jackson,’ she said, smiling. ‘Mandy Jackson.’

  ‘Yes of course. You were saying …?’

  ‘Oh yes … well I can’t be sure about whether it was the same woman, but she did seem to fit the description Mary-Jane gave me.’

  Mark delved into his bag and withdrew a blown-up print of the photo in the fake passport. ‘Is this her?’ he said.

  She took the picture and studied it for a few seconds, before looking up. ‘Yes … I think it is.’

  Mark’s heart jumped. ‘How sure are you?’ he urged. ‘Take a good look at the picture.’

  She studied it for several more seconds; Mark waited, anxiously. ‘Yes … it’s her,’ said Mandy. ‘I’m 100% certain.’

  ‘That’s fantastic, Miss Jackson. Now I need to get the details of what her new hairstyle looks like.’

  ‘Well,’ she began, ‘it’s much shorter, and kind of—’

  Mark held up his hand. ‘We can do better than just a description,’ he said, leaning down and withdrawing his laptop from its bag. He moved across to sit alongside Mandy and placed the laptop in front of them. While it was starting up, he explained, ‘I have some software on here which will enable us to play about with the photo, changing the colour and style of the hair until you are happy it’s just right.’

  ‘Ooh, can I see, as well?’ said Mary Jane, standing up and moving across to plant herself on the couch alongside Mark.

  The couch was barely big enough for three people, and Mark now found himself hemmed in from both sides by two very attractive women, his nostrils filled with the powerful scent which one of them was wearing. He was, however, determined to concentrate on the job in hand.

  ‘OK,’ he began, ‘let’s start with the length …’

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, the job was done. Mandy was happy with the hairstyle and colour, right down to the darker lowlights punctuating the medium-blonde main colour. The woman staring back at him from the screen now looked radically different from the one in the original photo.

  ‘So, do you think that will help you?’ said Mandy, sounding a little uncertain.

  ‘It’s incredibly helpful,’ replied Mark. If we catch an image of her on CCTV, for example, it would be easy to miss it if we were looking for someone with long, dark hair. Now we stand a much better chance of spotting her.’

  ‘I’m so glad to have been of help,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Do you think I could have your contact details?’ he said, ‘just in case I need to talk to you again.’

  She rummaged in her purse and pulled out a business card, handing it to him. It only gave her name and the details of the hair salon.

  ‘Could you write your home address and phone number on the back as well?’

  ‘Oh, sure.’ She scribbled the details down and handed the card back to him.

  ‘I’ll give you my contact details too,’ said Mark, fishing out a card from his wallet, ‘in case you remember anything else. That’s my direct line at the station, and my cell phone number’s there, as well.’

  ‘And you know how to get in touch with me, too,’ interjected Mary-Jane, placing her hand on his arm. ‘I’d be happy to help in any way I can.’

  ***

  On his way back to the station, Mark’s mood had lifted considerably; this latest discovery might just allow him to break through the impasse which his investigation had reached. Not only did he now know about the woman’s completely different new look, but he could place her leaving the hair salon at a precise time: the hairdresser had been very sure about the time. This gave him a very good chance of picking her up on CCTV and getting on her trail.

  There remained, of course, the tricky problem of keeping O’Reilly at bay; he’d have to make some headway on the Patterson case soon if he was to avoid the sergeant’s wrath. Furthermore, he was increasingly sure that he’d be fired if O’Reilly discovered that he was putting all his efforts into investigating Julia’s murder after having been expressly forbidden to do so. In spite of all this, he was buoyed by the prospect of perhaps finally making a breakthrough in the hunt for Julia’s killer.

  This was not the only thing which had lifted his mood: the hairdresser, Mandy, had made quite an impression on him. Despite the still-raw grief at losing his beloved Julia, he could not exclude from his mind the image of Mandy’s delightful smile. For all her friend’s sexy outfit and over-the-top makeup, it was Mandy, with her simple clothing, minimal makeup, and unassuming manner who had captured his attention.

  Suddenly he felt a surge of guilt: it seemed disrespectful to his would-be fiancée’s memory to even think about any other woman in this way. He banished the thought, hit the siren and stepped on the gas; weaving his way through the heavy traffic. Now he just wanted to get back to the station and see what he could do with this new-f
ound information. He doubted very much that Don Lister, the detective assigned to investigate Julia’s murder, would be making much headway, but even if he was, Mark was determined to track down her killer first.

  This was personal.

  Chapter 26

  Against his better judgement, James had allowed himself to be persuaded by Juanita to let Kyle help them in their quest to discover what Julia had been working on before she was murdered. The three of them had now spent the entire weekend ploughing through the computer files which Juanita had copied. James had to admit that Kyle, whose flying fingers on the keyboard seemed far more practiced than either his own or Juanita’s, had proven to be an invaluable ally in navigating the files.

  There was a massive volume of material which seemed to be of no relevance, but it seemed that the girl, Emily, at the New York Times office had been right about Julia doing some sort of investigation into the employment of illegal immigrants. She had clearly been looking into the employment practices of several companies but seemed to have homed in on the one which Juanita had already seen a reference to: Johnson Brothers.

  A brief trawl of the internet revealed that this was a small building company, based in New York City, which worked mostly on private projects such as individual homes and small apartment complexes. They didn’t appear to do much work on Government projects, and there was little to indicate why the journalist would have chosen such an apparently insignificant company on which to focus her attention. Surely a bigger company whose main customer was the Government would have lent a political element and yielded a better story?

  Try as they might, none of them could turn up anything which would shed any light on why Johnson Brothers was of such interest. It was time to take stock.

  James had made three cups of coffee; he set them down on the low table together with an unopened pack of cookies.

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘so far, all we know is that she seemed to be interested in this Johnson Brothers outfit, but it just doesn’t seem possible that anything she found out about them could be big enough to have warranted her murder.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Kyle. ‘I think Johnson Brothers is a red herring … she must have had some other investigation – something more important – going on in parallel.’

  Perhaps, suggested Juanita, the answer might lie in some of the many papers she had left behind in the New York Times office rather than in the computer files which they had spent the weekend scouring. ‘I could always go back and see what else I can find,’ she said. ‘Goldsmith sort of left an open invitation if I wanted another posting.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ insisted James. ‘You’ve already taken far too many risks. In any case, the police will have taken all those papers by now.’

  ‘But maybe if I was to talk to the girl, Emily, again? She seemed—’

  ‘No – it’s far too risky.’

  Juanita could almost always talk James around when she was set on doing something, but this time there was no way he was going to fold.

  ‘We’ll press on with ploughing through the information we’ve got here,’ he continued. ‘Maybe we’ve missed something.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No.’

  Juanita emitted a deep sigh. James could tell from the expression on her face that, this time, she had accepted she could not change his mind.

  ‘Look,’ said Kyle, ‘I know we’ve been through a lot of material, and it’s damned frustrating that we’ve turned up nothing that looks promising, but maybe we did miss something. All I can suggest is that we start again, from the beginning … go through everything again with a fine-tooth comb.’

  A gloomy silence descended. It was a very unwelcome conclusion, but James knew he was right.

  Evidently Juanita knew it, too. ‘OK, let’s get back to it,’ she said, exhaling wearily.

  ***

  Back at the station, Mark was studying CCTV footage. Mandy had been spot-on about the time the woman had left the salon. There she was, right in front of him, pausing for a moment, looking left and right before hurrying off down the street.

  He ran the footage in slow motion, studying every frame from the moment she stepped out of the salon to the point where she exited the field of view of the camera. At one point she seemed to look directly into the camera … straight into Mark’s eyes. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he locked eyes with the woman who was almost certainly Julia’s murderer. He shook himself to dispel the eerie feeling.

  Mandy’s rendition of the woman’s new hairstyle had been uncannily accurate: a short, choppy cut: medium-blonde main colour; contrasting darker streaks. She looked very different from the woman whose photo appeared in the fake passport, but virtually identical to the photo-fit picture Mandy had helped him create.

  Once again, an image of Mandy’s captivating smile infiltrated his thoughts; he quickly brushed it aside.

  He noted the time stamp at the point where his quarry disappeared from view and brought up the record from the next camera. There she was, hurrying along determinedly, heading in the same direction – more or less northeast – as she had been when viewed from the previous camera. Where was she heading? Impossible to say.

  He noted carefully the clothes she was wearing: skinny blue denim jeans over tan, high-heeled shoes; camel-coloured, close fitting sweater; and a thin – possibly silk – pale yellow scarf. If he lost her in a crowd somewhere, her clothing – especially the distinctive scarf – might just help him pick her out.

  As she disappeared from view, once again he transferred his attention to the next camera. There she was again, still walking in the same direction. Apart from that brief moment outside the hairdressing salon, she showed no signs of being conscious of the cameras, and she didn’t appear to be taking any steps to vary her route. No, Mark thought, you have no idea I’m watching you. Maybe you’ll lead me straight to wherever you’re headed.

  But then she stopped, quite abruptly. Why?

  She opened her purse and pulled something out of it. Mark zoomed in for a better view of what she was doing. She seemed to be holding a small, folding mirror and applying some lipstick.

  Now why on earth would you just stop in the middle of the street to freshen up your makeup?

  Next, she seemed to be checking on her new hairdo, tilting her head from side to side as though trying to get a view from more than one angle. Moments later she returned everything to her purse, closing it and slinging it over her shoulder before turning towards the nearest building and walking straight through the front door, and out of sight.

  Zooming back out, Mark viewed the building which she had entered. It took him but a moment to identify it as the office of the New York Times: his dead girlfriend’s former place of work. His heart leapt; this could surely not be mere coincidence. His brain began to race as he shuffled the various possibilities.

  Could this woman also be an employee of the New York Times? Could Julia have been murdered by one of her co-workers? Or, maybe, she was someone with a grudge against the newspaper? Then again, she might have nothing whatsoever to do with the newspaper; she could be trying to retrieve some vital piece of evidence which could link her to the murder. Whatever the explanation, he felt in his bones that this was going to lead to the breakthrough he was looking for.

  Now, if I can just—

  The lumbering figure of Sergeant O’Reilly appeared in his peripheral vision. His heart jumped as he scrambled to kill the image on his screen before he O’Reilly arrived at his desk. He managed it with barely a second to spare.

  ‘What the fuck’s happening with the Patterson case?’ he demanded. ‘You’ve been on this for days now and you ain’t come up with diddly squat.’

  ‘Sorry Sarge, all the leads seem to have come to nothing so far.’

  O’Reilly’s jowly cheeks flushed red. ‘Look, the chief’s all over this one. If I can’t get a result real quick, I’ll probably be busted down to Detective rank.’ He stabbed the air with a stubby finger, pointed dire
ctly at Mark’s face. ‘And I’m telling you … if I go down you sure as hell go down too. Got it?’

  ‘Got it,’ confirmed Mark. ‘I’ll find the perps … I’m on it.’

  ‘You’d damn well better be,’ growled the Sergeant, turning on his heel and stomping off.

  Fuck the Patterson case, thought Mark, I’m not stopping now. He picked up the phone and dialled the number of the New York Times.

  Chapter 27

  Back at the hotel, James and Kyle continued to plough through the copied computer files, fuelled by frequent cups of coffee. Meanwhile, Juanita busied herself checking out the various papers she had copied. Although the material she’d copied represented but a tiny fraction of that which had been in the filing cabinets, it still took several hours to go through it all.

  ‘Any luck?’ enquired an exhausted-looking James.

  She shook her head. ‘Afraid not.’

  James expelled an exasperated sigh. ‘None here either.’ He slammed the palm of his hand against the wall in frustration. After a few moments he seemed to have regained his composure. He turned back towards Juanita. ‘Want another coffee?’

  ‘Any more coffee and I’ll start peeing the damned stuff.’ She gave a weak smile. ‘Oh, to hell with the coffee … what’s in the minibar?’

  James stepped over to the miniature fridge and found her a small bottle of Chardonnay. He also grabbed two cans of beer, handing one to Kyle, who popped the ring-pull and downed about a third of the can in one. James did likewise, stretching his back and stepping over to the window, gazing out at the busy street below. ‘Think I’ll take a ten-minute break.’

  ‘Me too,’ added Juanita, collapsing onto the bed.