by Ray Green
‘OK … OK, I’m sorry,’ muttered Kyle, holding his hands up in supplication.
The tense atmosphere eased a little.
James’s voice was soothing, calming, when he turned back to her. ‘You could well be right, Juanita. I know you too well to disregard your instincts.’
She felt a surge of emotion and hugged him to her. ‘You mean that?’
‘I do … but we’ll need something more for the police. If only there was a photograph in the personnel file.’
‘But,’ said Kyle, having evidently now regained control, ‘there is an address; both of the brothers have given the same address. Whether or not it’s genuine is another question, but we could check it out.’
‘You’re right,’ said James, ‘if it checks out OK, maybe we can catch sight of this guy and find out if it’s really the same person … maybe even get a photograph.’
Finally, thought Juanita, we’re closing in.
Chapter 36
The business card which the receptionist at Johnson Brothers had given Mark was bogus: the address didn’t exist, and neither did Wayne Robertson, the high-flying English businessman who had visited Johnson Brothers, purporting to be building a house in Upper Montclair. Mark wasn’t surprised, just frustrated to have missed this guy by seconds.
He was also very, very puzzled. There was no doubt in his mind that the two men who had visited the company, just before he arrived, were working together. Equally, he was quite sure that they must have some connection with the mystery woman who had so far eluded his every effort to track down. But he just couldn’t piece it all together.
It was clear that Julia’s murder was the work of a professional assassin; the only logical reason for someone to arrange a contract killing was to silence her over something she had uncovered during one of her investigations. But if Don’s conclusions from examining Julia’s papers and files were correct – by no means guaranteed, he reminded himself – all she had been investigating was the employment of a few illegal immigrants by a tinpot building company. Surely, no-one would kill for that.
Then there were the strange actions of her killer: copying the autopsy report and stealing details of Julia’s work from the New York Times office. And, assuming the two men in the silver Toyota were working with this woman, their theft of personnel records from Johnson Brothers.
Try as he might, he could not make sense of it all. His best hope now was to trawl through all the hotels within, say, a half-mile radius of the hair salon in the hope of finding where this woman was staying – if indeed she really was staying in a hotel as she had told Mandy. Fortunately, Sergeant O’Reilly was on leave, so Mark would be able to research which hotels qualified, without the meddling bastard looking over his shoulder. His friend and colleague, Alex, knew full well that he was still working on Julia’s murder, and had repeatedly advised him to let it go, but he knew she’d never shop him to O’Reilly. He grabbed a coffee from the vending machine in the office and set about his task.
Half an hour later he had his list of hotels. Christ there are a lot of hotels in New York City, he thought as he scanned the list: within just that half-mile radius of the salon there were no fewer than seventeen. He knew there would be no point in phoning them: they were very unlikely to be willing to divulge details of their guests to someone on the phone claiming to be a cop without seeing some I.D. And even if they were, it was entirely possible that this woman was using a different name now. No, he’d have to do it the hard way: trawl round each hotel in person, give them at least the name he had for her and show both the passport photo and the photo-fit with the shorter hairstyle. It wasn’t going to be quick.
***
Three hours later, Mark had visited fourteen hotels, and no-one in any of them had recognised the name or either of the photos. There were only three left before he’d have to widen the search area. As he approached the Art Deco style frontage of the fifteenth, he wasn’t feeling optimistic.
Inside, it was obvious that this fairly old hotel had been extensively refurbished; the décor was clean and modern, in muted tones of grey and beige; the seating around the square pillars which flanked the lobby had obviously been re-upholstered recently. He walked up to reception and was immediately greeted with a dazzlingly white smile from the immaculately groomed woman behind the counter. Her dark hair was scraped back from her face and firmly pinned in place at the back, her makeup perfect in every detail.
‘Welcome to the Manhattan, sir. I’m Kayleigh’ – a somewhat superfluous introduction, as she wore a prominent name badge – ‘how may I help you?’
Mark flipped open the holder containing his warrant card. ‘Detective Mark Bowman – I need to know if a Gema López Arteaga is staying at the hotel.’
The girl’s eyes widened – maybe she wasn’t used to cops rocking up at reception without warning. ‘I’ll just check,’ she said turning to her computer screen. After a minute or so’s clicking and tapping she announced, ‘I’m sorry, Detective, there’s no-one of that name staying at the hotel.’
Mark was getting used to this response. Wearily, he withdrew the two photos from his pocket and laid them on the counter. ‘Recognise either of these?’
She took but a second or two to study the images, before declaring, ‘They’re both the same woman … just different hairstyles.’
Mark was a little surprised that she had picked that up so quickly; to his eyes, the hairstyle made such a difference to her appearance that it could easily have been two different women until you studied the images closely.
‘But do you recognise her?’
‘Oh, sure … she’s been staying here for a few days now.’
Mark’s heart leapt. At last.
Kayleigh continued, ‘When she first checked in, I noticed her lovely long, glossy, black hair. We’re not allowed to wear ours down at work,’ she said, touching a hand to the side of her head. ‘She’s pretty, don’t you think?’
‘I guess,’ he replied, unable to think of Julia’s murderer as “pretty”.
‘Anyway,’ said the receptionist, ‘the other day she went out looking like that’ – she placed an elegantly manicured forefinger on the counter by the passport photo – ‘and came back looking like that’ – the pearly pink talon stopped by the photo-fit image. ‘I couldn’t see why she’d want to cut such lovely hair short. ‘I mean she still looks good with the new hairstyle … it’s kind of edgy … but—’
Mark wasn’t in the mood for a detailed critique of his quarry’s new hairstyle; he cut Kayleigh off in mid-flow. ‘Is she still staying here?’
Kayleigh turned her attention back to the computer screen. After a few seconds she replied, ‘Sure, she’s booked in with a guy for a few more days yet.’
Mark could hardly contain himself; after days of fruitless searching he’d finally struck gold. ‘What name’s she using?’
She checked the screen. ‘Juanita Sanchez Ruiz. Pretty name, huh?’
Mark didn’t bother to respond to her last comment. ‘And what about the guy with her?’ he pressed. She checked the screen again. ‘James Connolly … big guy, quite good-looking actually. And that accent …’
‘What accent?’
‘English … I just love the Brits’ accent, don’t you? It sounds so … sophisticated’
My God, this girl could talk for America. Mark did his best to conceal his impatience. ‘What’s their room number?’
‘309 ... you want me to call them?’ she said, reaching for the phone.
‘No, don’t do that. I’ll just—’ His cell phone rang. ‘Just hold on while I take this.’
‘Detective Bowman?’
‘Yes … who’s this?’
‘It’s Mandy … Mandy Jackson … you know, the hairdresser. We met the other day.’
As if he wouldn’t have remembered who she was. Any other time and he’d have enjoyed chatting to her, but now just wasn’t the moment.
‘Hi Mandy, I’m kind of tied up right now, can I call
you back in a little while?’
‘Oh sure … it’s just that I’ve remembered a couple more things that might help you find—’ She stopped dead, mid-sentence.
‘Mandy?’ More silence. ‘Mandy … you still there?’
‘I think there’s someone trying to get in,’ she whispered.
‘Get in where? Where are you?’
‘My apartment … I’m … oh no, I can hear them fiddling with the lock.’ He could hear the rising panic in her voice.
Oh Christ! He was within touching distance of catching up with Julia’s killer, but now this. What to do first?
The woman he was after, and her accomplice, were going to be in the hotel for a few more days, but Mandy, for whom he had developed something of an attachment was, potentially, in danger right now.
He made his decision.
‘You got a security chain, bolts … anything like that?’
‘Yes … both,’ she replied, her voice tremulous.
‘OK, fit the chain and shut the bolts. Then call 911. But I’m real close – I might be able to get there first. Do it … now!’ He hung up without waiting for her reply.
‘Everything OK?’ enquired the receptionist.
Stupid question.
‘I gotta go …right now. I’ll be back soon. Listen, under no circumstances say anything to this woman or this man about me being here, looking for them. Got it?’
She nodded, her eyes wide and lips parted. He dashed off without uttering another word.
Bursting through the main entrance, he sprinted the hundred yards or so to where his car was parked. By the time he slid into the driver’s seat his breath was coming in ragged gasps. Why the fuck don’t I keep myself in better shape, he chided himself. He hit the siren and sped off, with a squeal of tortured rubber, spewing clouds of acrid tyre smoke.
He drove as though the devil was on his tail, running red lights and weaving recklessly through the dense traffic, frequently in the path of oncoming vehicles. Against the odds, he made it without incident.
As he approached the main entrance, he could see that the door was slightly ajar, the wooden frame splintered where the lock had obviously been forced. He drew his weapon, flipping off the safety catch and cautiously stepping inside. Mandy’s apartment was on the second floor; he decided to take the stairs.
As he crept upwards, everything seemed normal: no sign of any intruder, no sound of any disturbance. When he approached her apartment, though, it was obvious that all was not well. Like the door at the main entrance, her door also hung open, the wooden frame split and the flimsy security chain broken, hanging uselessly from the splintered frame.
He edged forward, as silently as possible, holding his handgun in a two-handed grip, finger poised on the trigger. He carefully eased the door open with the muzzle of the gun, straining to hear any sound which might betray the presence of an intruder; there was none. As he stepped inside, he quickly scanned the room, panning his weapon this way and that, covering every corner. Everything looked normal.
Unwilling to announce his presence by calling out, he crept forward, towards an open door at the far side of the room. As he stepped cautiously through the door, he immediately recognised the familiar tang of gun-smoke in the air.
Full of trepidation, he stepped around the bed; the sight which met his eyes hit him like a physical blow to his chest. Mandy lay on her back, surrounded by a rapidly growing pool of blood, glistening darkly atop the woodblock flooring, then, as it reached the edge of the white, deep-pile rug, soaking in and spreading as though being absorbed by a giant sheet of blotting paper.
There was a bullet wound in her chest, but it was the other wound which sucked the breath from him and made him fall to his knees: she had been shot through the ear, the exit of the bullet on the other side of her head having removed a jagged piece of her skull. He could hardly draw his eyes away from the hideous wound, but when he finally did, he noticed that, on her stomach, lay a small piece of card. Mark shuffled forward on his knees to see what it was.
The card bore no words, just the image of a scorpion.
Chapter 37
James checked the address on the scrap of paper he had withdrawn from his pocket; this was the place.
The apartment block, just half a mile from Johnson Bothers, was a low-rise, redbrick building, nestling between several other identical blocks. It was in an appalling state of repair: the pointing in the brickwork was badly eroded and ugly streaks of rust stain emanated from every one of the metal window frames, fanning out as they made their bid for earth. He checked the address once more: this was, indeed, where the Bashara Brothers supposedly lived. Well, at least it wasn’t a false address.
Although Kyle had offered to join him, he had elected to come on his own. Although he had no intention of seeking any kind of confrontation, it was just possible that he might be about to come face-to face with one – maybe even two – of the world’s most-wanted terrorists. Kyle was a telecoms engineer; he had no experience of such situations and could prove more of a liability than an asset if things turned ugly. But there was also another, more important consideration: he didn’t want Juanita left on her own. There was no rational reason to suppose that she was in any special danger, as long as she stayed in the hotel, but there was something in his gut which didn’t feel right. He just felt more comfortable that she had someone with her.
He took the Glock from the glovebox of the car, tucking it into his waistband as he stepped out of the car. He didn’t want any trouble, but if trouble came seeking him, he wanted to make sure he was ready.
The paint on the front door of the block was so badly peeling that it was almost impossible to determine the original colour – maybe some sort of shade of blue or grey, he surmised. What surprised him, though, was that there was no security whatsoever. The door did have a lock, but no-one had locked it; entering the building required nothing other than a twist of the badly rusted iron handle.
As he stepped inside the building, the sharp tang of urine assaulted his nostrils; whether feline, canine, or human, he couldn’t tell. He withdrew the gun from his waistband and flipped off the safety catch, before creeping up the stairs to the first landing. Apartment 203 – the one he sought - was right in front of him at the top of the stairs. Compared to the crumbling surroundings, the door itself wasn’t in bad shape; the dark brown paintwork was largely intact, apart from a few scuffs at the bottom and a worn patch by the lock.
James stepped tentatively forward and put his ear to the door, listening intently; after about thirty seconds of absolute silence, he concluded that there was probably no-one in residence. He decided to test his conclusion; ringing the doorbell, he swiftly retreated to a dark recess just off the edge of the landing and waited, his gun held in readiness should it be needed. Nothing happened. After waiting for about twenty seconds, he stepped out of the shadows and approached the door once again, taking a close look at the lock; it appeared to be an ancient, and very simple, two-lever sash lock. This should be easy.
He laid the gun on the floor and withdrew from his pocket the lock-picking set, which he had brought all the way from Canada – just in case. It took him only a few moments to defeat the primitive lock.
Slipping the tools back into his pocket, he bent down and picked up the gun. As quietly as possible, he nudged the door open and stepped inside. It was pretty dark and gloomy, but as far as he could tell, there was no sign of anyone else there. He reached for the light switch alongside the door; a single light bulb – no shade – hanging from a cable in the centre of the room flooded the room with a harsh, unforgiving light. It took several seconds for James’s eyes to adjust. The room was decidedly down-at-heel: the floor covering consisted of a few mismatched, threadbare rugs; the once-cream paint on the walls was grubby, and peeling in places; the only window was masked by a ragged piece of tarpaulin hanging from a couple of hooks screwed into the wall.
As he surveyed his surroundings, he was struck by the paucity o
f furniture: a single, saggy, brown couch; a battered, plastic-laminate-topped table with two metal chairs; and an ancient TV perched upon an upturned wooden box. That was it.
Apart, that is, from some pieces of wood propped in the corner of the room. There were perhaps a couple of dozen wooden poles, about five or six feet in length; their purpose wasn’t clear. Curious, James stepped forward to take a closer look. He had taken just two steps when he froze in his tracks; he could hear voices outside the apartment.
Chapter 38
James stood stock-still, straining to hear what was being said outside the door. The language was foreign to him, but the tone was casual, jovial. It sounded like two men, laughing and joking. The sound was becoming gradually louder. He held his breath, with a growing trepidation, hoping against hope that they would just pass by.
His worst fears were confirmed as the conversation was overlaid with the sound of a key being inserted into the lock. Shit! He looked around desperately for somewhere to hide. There were two doors leading off the room he was in; he dived for the nearest, stepping through into what turned out to be the kitchen. He closed the door just enough to leave a narrow gap through which he would be able to look back into the main living room. Stealing a quick glance all around the kitchen, he quickly realised there was no way out of this tiny room other than the way he had come in: he was, effectively, trapped.
As he heard the two men enter the room, he withdrew the Glock from his belt; if these two men were who he suspected they were, they could well be armed … and very dangerous. But at least he would have the element of surprise. He took several long, deep breaths as he considered his options.
There was no point in waiting until one or both of these men came through into the kitchen; better to act now. As he peered through the gap between door and frame, he could just see two pairs of denim-clad legs stretched out; they were both seated on the ancient couch. This was the moment. He flung the door open and stepped through, holding the gun ahead of him in a double-handed grip.