The False Mirror

by Dana V. Moison

  Justin: A nice lady? Is she a 60-year-old retiree?

  Becky: Not even close. Imagine a Victoria’s Secret model and put a gun in her hands. That’s more like it.

  Justin: Wow.

  I can’t wait to meet her.

  Becky: That’s very cordial of you, but she’s not exactly in your age range . . . Besides, I think Uncle Jake might have a crush on her.

  Justin: So it’s possible that by the time the plane lands, a new couple may emerge? ;)

  Becky: Go figure. I wouldn’t be surprise if she had a boyfriend, though :/

  Justin: And what about you? Do you have a boyfriend?

  Becky blinked twice to make sure she was reading correctly. An unfamiliar, pioneering feeling of butterflies in her stomach began to tingle within her. She felt her cheeks burning and hoped no one was paying attention.

  “Need help with something?” Sharon asked with a tiny smile on her lips. All of a sudden, she was flooded with memories of herself at this age.

  Becky, still stunned, murmured as if to herself, “Ehh . . . Everything’s all right.”

  Sharon and Jacob exchanged amused looks. Becky turned her back away from them in blatant discontent, failing to hear Jacob whisper to Sharon, “She has a boyfriend.”

  Becky: Not in New York, that’s for sure.

  Justin: And in Oklahoma?

  Becky: That depends if he would be willing to wait . . .

  Justin: He will <3

  Becky: Then I will, too <3 <3

  Jacob’s voice interrupted the romantic scene taking place on her phone’s screen. It was time to get on the plane.

  ***

  Sharon sat mesmerized in front of her smartphone, reading the email she’d gotten just before the flight. Her diligent rookies had managed to match all the numbers saved on Tracy’s phone under the “Clients” group to the names published on the infamous black list, except for one.

  “Mr. X”.

  Now they were waiting for further instructions. They were hesitant to call the mysterious number without her approval and, by doing so, perhaps expose the first significant advantage they had found during the investigation; it was better if the suspect didn’t know the police were on to him so he wouldn’t try to cover his tracks. At the same time, they tried to get details on the number through the phone company. To their misfortune, it unsurprisingly turned out to be an unlisted number, so it wasn’t possible to obtain any information about the subscriber or find his location via GPS.

  Sharon wondered if luck would come her way when she tried to call this mysterious “Mr. X”. Would he miraculously answer or perhaps he had already gotten rid of the evidence tying him to the late escort girl.

  Unfortunately, the latter was the more probable scenario: that’s why they call them “burner phones”.

  In any case, she could try her luck only in a few hours. The last time she checked, cellular reception wasn’t available at thirty thousand feet.

  Meanwhile, all sorts of possibilities of action came to her mind: going through text messages, emails, and social media chats might shed some light on the mystery – even if they wouldn’t reveal Mr. X’s real name, the details of their communication could clarify the nature of the relationship between Tracy and him and whether it was a promising lead. Besides that, another search should be conducted in Tracy’s apartment. Perhaps they would find some piece of evidence pointing to Mr. X’s true identity now that they knew (well, not exactly) who they were looking for.

  Another interview with Tracy’s friends might be helpful although most of them had declared they were far more interested in the dirty details about her clients – their favorite sexual positions and the kinky accessories they liked to use in the bedroom – rather than their names. A second look through Tracy’s Instagram account could also be fruitful, especially if she happened to tag her mystery client. Based on the discovery of the unlisted number, Sharon could almost positively assume that discretion was extremely important to this privileged client. On the other hand, in light of recent events, it was clear that it hadn’t bothered Tracy to the same extent. And this could be exactly why he had decided to put an end to her before she slipped up again.

  Sharon composed a detailed email with instructions to the two young officers under her command. Great, she told herself, by the time she got to Oklahoma, she would have most of the information at hand. She read the email one more time to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything, pressed the send button and . . .

  “Damn it!!!”

  For a brief moment – that seemed to last much longer – the plane went quiet as a silent whiplash against the crudeness of the young woman in seat 25C. Any other person would have wanted to bury themselves. Sharon, however, was so concentrated that she didn't even notice the little drama she had stirred up in the cabin.

  “Need some help?” asked Jacob, who couldn’t help sneaking a smile. He found her pure lack of tact a charming quality.

  Sharon leaned backwards in a desperate motion. “Only God can help me now, because I don’t think there’s a way to send this email until we land . . .”

  CHPATER 36

  The first rays of light began to penetrate the shuttered windows of the abandoned building. Max opened his eyes, glancing at the thin strips of light, only to close them quickly again. In a few hours, Ray Helborgen would waltz in here with his cigar cutter, or whatever other vicious tool he could find, and dissever another part of him. His gaze moved instinctively toward his right hand, covered with an old rag soaked in blood. For this he had to thank Richie, Helborgen’s soldier. As a matter of fact, he suspected that the young criminal was having trouble facing him, with his severed fingers out in the open, dripping that thick red fluid.

  Someone else in his place might have wondered morosely how their life would be with their dominant hand permanently taken out of commission; even writing a check or typing a phone number would become a challenging task. But Max didn’t bother himself with these kinds of thoughts. He didn’t believe he’d ever make it out of this warehouse alive. What troubled him most was the horror his little girl must feel every time she gets Helborgen’s horrific messages. No child should ever experience something like this, especially not his beloved, precious daughter.

  Max felt as if his heart was about to burst out of his chest. He had to calm down if he wanted to survive another day. Not that he wanted to stay even one more minute in this hellhole, but he had to know that Becky was safe. The most terrifying scenario of all was that his daughter would take his place in this warehouse if something were to happen to him.

  Minutes had passed, possibly hours. The rays of light had magnified, and the darkness that had ruled was slightly diminished. Max was still immersed in his nightmarish thoughts when the sound of that squeaky door – he’d come to be all too familiar with – shifted his attention to the entrance. This time, it was Ray’s soldier who had come to do the dirty work, thought Max, when the dark silhouette advanced toward him, and the beams of light revealed his identity. He was too exhausted and stressed to notice what Richie was holding in his hand.

  “Here,” muttered Richie as he tossed something at him.

  Max couldn’t believe his eyes. On his knees was a loaf of bread. It was a bit stale but still very appetizing, considering the fact that he hadn’t eaten in days.

  “Thanks,” said Max with genuine gratitude.

  Richie looked back at Max. “I think I have a bottle of water left in the car,” he commiserated and turned swiftly to the exit.

  The baked loaf remained on Max’s lap as his hands were tied. He tried to bend over and bite the bread, but he couldn’t reach it and accidentally dropped it on the ground. At that moment, he felt that it might as well have been his heart. He was starving to the point of actual excruciating pain – as if his stomach were being punched relentlessly. His stomach fluids went up to his throat, burning him from inside. He never imagined that hunger could hurt so much.

  In the meantime, Richie came b
ack and saw what had occurred. He picked up the bread from the filthy floor, slightly brushed it off on his shirt, and shoved it to Max’s mouth. The hunched man began to bite hungrily and, afterwards, finished the entire content of Richie’s bottle of water.

  And only then did he begin to wonder.

  For days on end, he was left to starve, strapped to a chair, beaten to unconsciousness, and tortured relentlessly, losing two of his fingers. It didn’t seem like Helborgen had cared about his stomach problems or if his spleen was still intact, or even in place, after the rough beating he had endured. And now, suddenly, he was being served bread and water?

  It was possible that Helborgen had realized that a man couldn’t be kept alive for too long without basic nourishment. On the other hand, it didn’t seem like this scenario bothered him very much. Max wasn’t inclined to think it was a humane act of the mobster, especially since Ray Helborgen did not possess a shred of humanity. His thoughts began to wander in a darker direction. Maybe Helborgen didn’t want to settle just for his fingers and was planning to move to a larger body part this time? Could this have been his last meal? Or perhaps that son of a bitch just wanted to give him a pinch of hope right before demolishing it completely – Ray was definitely enough of a sadistic maniac to do this.

  He looked at Richie and asked sternly, “What the hell is going on here?”

  CHAPTER 37

  September 18, 2013. Tulsa International Airport, Oklahoma

  Not a minute had passed since Sharon felt the wheels of the plane touch the ground before she had already pulled her cell phone out and tried to call the secretive Mr. X.

  As she expected, the number was disconnected.

  “Are you sure everything is all right?” asked Jacob.

  “Yes, I’m sorry, it’s just the case I’m working on,” she said while squeezing out of the airplane seat and standing up, allowing Jacob and Becky to pass.

  Jacob opened the overhead compartment and took their bags out. They didn’t bring suitcases or check anything. His muscular arms stretched upwards and swiftly lowered their bags effortlessly.

  “I may not be a proud NYPD detective, but maybe I could still help,” he smiled at her.

  Sharon bit her lips alluringly. “Have you heard about Tracy Navarro?”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “That’s the case.”

  Jacob raised an eyebrow. “Plenty of suspects there.”

  “That’s the problem,” she sighed bitterly. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Becky was staring at them while trying to listen to their conversation. She quickly changed the subject, “In any case, I’ll deal with that when I get back to New York. Right now, I’m facing a much harder challenge: the Southern humidity.”

  Jacob snickered. “Yeah, some challenge for the cool New Yorker.”

  When they found their way to the arrival hall, Sharon noticed a tall, handsome teenager waiting by the exit. He was searching for something: his eyes wandered around and finally stopped at Sharon’s left, as if they found want they were looking for. A wide smile spread across his face. When Sharon looked to her side, she saw a similar smile on Becky’s face. The girl ran toward him and they united with a long, warm hug.

  “I’m guessing that’s Becky’s boyfriend,” she smiled.

  Jacob’s eyes fixed on the young couple, staring at them with the gaze of a protective father. “Justin Overton,” he recited. “Good fella,” he added aloud, perhaps more to himself than to Sharon.

  “After all, he came all the way out here to meet Becky,” noted Sharon.

  “Right,” agreed Jacob. “And we’re a two-hour drive away from Fairland without traffic,” he added.

  “At that age, I would call it a testament to true love.” She smiled a big, amused grin.

  ***

  The white Chevrolet slowly turned onto the quiet street. Becky looked out the car window at her childhood home, and a solitary tear trailed down her cheek.

  They parked across the street. “Becky, I think it would be best if you waited at Justin’s,” said Jacob as they got out of the car. He couldn’t bear seeing her like this.

  “No, Uncle Jake, I want to help,” answered Becky. “I’m still having trouble believing that my parents kept something like this from me.” Her eyebrows formed a frown. “I have to see it with my own eyes.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he hesitated. “But don’t worry, Justin’s house is just down the street. We’ll call you if we find something.”

  “Uncle Jake, I’m coming with you and that’s that!” she said firmly.

  “Jacob,” Sharon gently interposed and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Let her try. She knows this house better than anyone.”

  If I had two million dollars, where would I have hidden them?

  Sharon paced around the still house, impressed by its warm and cozy atmosphere while, at the same time, trying to uncover its dark secret. Jacob stayed close to Becky, watching out for her in case she had trouble dealing with the painful memories. He could tell right away that something had changed within her as she entered her old home. She marched inside with heavy steps, turning her back to the other two, keeping to herself. Jacob did his best to keep Becky away from the dining room, where her mother had been shot, and escorted her up the stairs, his hand supporting her back. Sharon thought to herself that she had never known a marshal so dedicated to his witnesses.

  Eventually, Jacob asked Becky to go through her and Brandon’s rooms and pack some of her brother’s things to bring it to him at the hospital. He hoped this task would be even the slightest distraction for her.

  When he turned at the hallway, he bumped into Sharon.

  “Have you found the missing money yet?”

  “Sure, it’s in my back pocket. We can go back to New York.”

  They looked at each other and snickered. A swift moment of tension passed between them, but they immediately pulled themselves together and began to survey their surroundings, hoping to find even the smallest lead to where the missing money might be – an overseas bank account number, hidden bonds, expensive jewelry, a secret safe, or anything else that came to mind.

  Two hours had glided by, and they still didn’t find a thing.

  “Is it possible that Helborgen had already found the money and now he’s just toying with us?” asked Jacob, staring at the shattered glass of a picture hanging in the hallway leading to the bedrooms – one of the many pieces of evidence of the desperate search by Helborgen’s men for the hidden millions.

  “If that were the case, he wouldn’t have bothered sending ‘Katie’ all the way out here and paying for her travel expenses,” noted Sharon. “We still have a shot.”

  After checking all the rooms on the second floor and still not finding a single clue, they went back to the living room. It appeared that Helborgen and his men hadn’t paid much attention to the ground floor and had focused on the parents’ bedroom, probably due to time constraints. Besides, if you’re going to hide millions of dollars inside your house, you wouldn’t want random guests to stumble upon it accidentally. The upper floor was the logical choice. Sharon figured that Ray and his men had had a similar thought. Nevertheless, her mission was to outthink them and, perhaps, find the treasure in the least expected place.

  She walked over to the bookcase at the right side of the room and passed her hand in a gentle stroke over the dozens of books resting peacefully on the wooden shelves. An entire shelf was devoted to art books, from prehistoric art to contemporary art. Titles such as “History of Italian Renaissance Art”, “The World of Pop Art”, and “The Imagery of Surrealism” caught her eye.

  How badly she wanted to forget about everything, grab one of these books, and dive into a world filled with beauty and colors she knew very little about. Sharon presumed she would have gotten bored within minutes and started looking for evidence of a murder mystery in one of Picasso’s paintings – she had always preferred thrillers over art exhibits. But still, it would
have been nice.

  Jacob noticed her staring at the thick books from the side and moved closer. “Emily was a brilliant artist.”

  “Yeah, anyone who can read these books cover to cover without falling asleep has to have a very artistic soul,” she quipped. “Did she continue to practice art in Fairland as well?”

  “Yes, but under the radar.” Jacob stood beside Sharon and gave a prolonged stare at the impressive books. “Emily was forbidden from presenting her work in public in fear of someone identifying her work.”

  Sharon couldn’t help but wonder how terrible it would have felt if she were suddenly forbidden to work as a detective.

  “We managed to pull a few strings and get her a job as an art professor at the local college.” He folded his arms in a stiff manner. “Soon enough, all those who gave in and agreed to give her a chance, despite their initial reservations, took credit for hiring such a talented and knowledgeable art professor.”

  Sharon emitted a sarcastic hum. Jacob turned his gaze from the bookcase back to her. He flashed a bitter smile, but then her right shoulder slightly brushed against his arm; something in his facial expression had changed. Sharon felt a tingle, like an electric shock passing through her. The tension between them was growing. Jacob cleared his throat and left the room to check the kitchen while Sharon remained standing in place, slightly confused.

  Looking around her, she noticed the family photo placed on the mantel above the fireplace. Despite everything, it seemed that the “Mitchells” had built a beautiful life for themselves. She contemplated the happy, smiling people in the photo.

  Behind the family portrait, on the wall above the mantelpiece, hung another intriguing picture: a painting of a biblical world imprisoned within a large eye. The lustrous, bright oil paints immediately caught her eye. At the center, across the green background, a nude Eve was seen handing her partner a red apple.