Lost Witness

by Rebecca Forster

  He followed her into the studio and closed the door behind him. Hannah kept silent. What was there to say after all? She had told him all the things that had happened to her in her life: bad things, terrible things. But until he saw Adeano Bianchi and Bojan, until he heard the sound of gunfire, Jamal hadn't really understood her life. She was sorry for his camera. That meant he had changed, his world had changed, and she was responsible for changing it.

  "How is everyone?" he asked.

  "Good. Josie's taking care of Tala's immigration thing."

  "I hope they just let her go," Jamal said. "I don't know how anyone could prove that she killed that man in cold blood."

  "Sometimes the truth really doesn't matter," Hannah said. "It's just whoever tells the best story."

  “That's just wrong." Jamal shook his head.

  "But Sparkle and Miguel are good," Hannah said, and that made Jamal smile.

  "Thank goodness for that. Poor Miguel. I thought it was bad getting blown off that ship, but he had a heart attack. I can't believe how good the Coast Guard is. They got me out of the water and saved Miguel and everyone else in like five minutes. That was really something, you know?"

  "It was kind of a miracle. Sparkle and I thought you were dead."

  Jamal laughed, "I thought I was too. I felt like one of those skydivers who walk away without a scratch when their chute doesn't open. I was beyond lucky."

  "Did you know Sparkle quit dancing?" Hannah asked as she drew her fingertips over the rough-hewn refectory table. "She's running the restaurant while Miguel takes it easy."

  "That's good news," Jamal said. "Real good news. I think those two were meant for each other."

  "Yeah. Maybe they'll get married."

  "Is that what they said?" Jamal asked.

  "No." Hannah shrugged. "I just hope."

  There was nothing more to say after that. Happy endings were up in the air for everyone and they both knew it. Hannah walked toward the sculpture, smiling as she looked at the wings of the butterflies.

  "You finished, Jamal. It's beautiful."

  "We're going to move it out Friday and install it on Saturday. The dedication is on Sunday."

  "That's wonderful." Hannah put a hand over her heart. "In Grand Park no less. Right in front of City Hall. It's going to be fabulous."

  "I couldn't have done it without you, Hannah." Jamal went to the big sink, the one his paints had stained in every color of the rainbow. He picked up a rag and wiped his hands, and then a paintbrush, and then there was nothing more to distract him. "Do you want to come? I mean, you should be there."

  "Do you want me there?" Hannah asked.

  "I do," he said.

  "Do you want me here?"

  Jamal faced her fully and Hannah thought she had never seen a more beautiful man. No, that wasn't right. She had never seen a more beautiful human being. By the way he looked at her, Hannah knew he loved her. They were a reflection of one another's best souls. But Hannah couldn't deny the sadness in his eyes that made it clear she was not a reflection of his heart any longer. He didn't need to speak for her to know that he was going to send her away.

  "Why?" Hannah whispered. "Oh, Jamal, why?"

  Jamal came toward her, putting his arms out to embrace her. When he did, Hannah lay her head against his broad chest. She felt his lips in her hair. She held him tight the way they had so many times in the last years. They stayed that way, appreciating the moment, even the sadness. Finally Jamal said:

  "I just don't have it in me, babe."

  "It's my fault. I shouldn't have made you go with us," she murmured.

  "Hey, now." He held her back. He touched her face. "You didn't make me do anything. I chose, and so did Billy, and Sparkle, and Miguel. Tala chose. We all just had different reasons to take on the fight. It's no one’s fault, and we're blessed that we're even here to talk about it."

  "Tala would be dead if it weren't for all of us," Hannah said. "If it weren't for you."

  "I swear I don't regret going," Jamal said. "You were right when you said one life was worth the risk. I'll never forget the feeling of seeing her safe off that ship."

  "And we all came back fine," Hannah said. "It's over and we can go back to the way things were."

  Jamal threw back his head and laughed. He draped his arms over Hannah's shoulders and when he was done laughing he said:

  "Girl, it ain't never going to be over with you. You are like that metal key on the kite. There's always going to be a lightening strike." His eyes went soft and darker still. "I'm no good in a storm. I'm a spring kind of man, you know? I like the colors and brightness and the peace."

  "But —"

  "No. Stop." He put a finger to her lips. "I know myself. I know you won't love me less for being who I am. I haven't got the courage in me, Hannah, and I don't want you to give up the part of yourself that scares me."

  "But I wouldn't —"

  "But I would know what was missing," Jamal said. "The truth is that I love the butterfly in you, and I admire the hawk. You are fearless, babe, and someday there's going to be a man who can handle the butterfly and the hawk. As much as we want to try to make it work, it won't. One of us has to say the truth."

  "And the other one has to believe it," Hannah said.

  "Exactly."

  Jamal turned her to the door, but he kept his arm around her shoulders. Hannah's arm was around his waist, but her eyes were everywhere. She didn't want to forget an inch of this place, or the feel of him against her body, or the peace she had found with him behind these walls.

  "It will take me a long time to believe it," Hannah said.

  "I hope so."

  Jamal opened the door. He didn't kiss Hannah goodbye. Both of them knew that would be too final, but he watched her walk down the stairs. Just as she disappeared, while he could still hear her footsteps as she went toward the first floor, she called back to him:

  "I'll be there Sunday."

  Jamal closed the door to his loft. For a long while he stood looking at the metal butterflies thinking that his world was lessened for missing the one he set free.

  Hannah rested against the wall of the old brick building, her chin on her chest, her hair falling in a curtain over her face. Across the street a man with a grocery cart piled high with whatever he could glean from the downtown dumpsters started to make his camp for the night. A car drove by, then two and still she didn't move. Hannah wasn't hurt, she wasn't angry, she didn't feel rejected, but she couldn't breathe. Jamal had given her such gifts: unconditional love, a gentle place to fall, and respect. She missed him already. She had never felt so empty. She. . .

  "You okay?"

  Hannah's head went up, her body tensed. She was ready to defend herself on this dark street if it came to that, but it wouldn't because Billy was there. He leaned on the cane that kept him steady, his head was tilted at an angle that made him look perpetually curious. The doctors didn't know if the muscles where his shoulder met his neck would ever heal properly, they weren't sure if he would ever regain full use of his right leg, but Billy knew. He would be fine he told everyone. Hannah was a believer because she couldn't imagine Billy any other way. He had suffered worse than flying glass and survived. But, when he limped toward her, his blond hair glistening gold as he moved through the light from the street lamps, Hannah was not sure he could survive her anger at his intrusion. What was happening belonged to her and Jamal.

  "What are you doing here?" Hannah demanded. "Josie said you had something important to do and —"

  "And you followed me?" Hannah pushed away from the building, and threw her hands up as she went at him. "I can't believe you'd do that. You don't own me, Billy Zuni. You are never going to get it, are you?"

  Billy let her rant, and when he started to smile that made her angrier still. She looked up and down the street; she stormed to the curb and back.

  "How did you get here, Billy? You don't even have a car. How did you even follow me? Which you shouldn't have done in the f
irst place. This is just not good."

  "I didn't follow you," he said. "I took the bus. Busses suck in Los Angeles."

  "Don't be cute," Hannah railed. "How did you know where I was going?"

  "Where else would you go?" Billy said. Hannah had no answer for that, but she had another question.

  "But why? Why would you come here when you knew what I was doing?"

  "Because," Billy said, "I didn't want you to get lost coming home."

  BEFORE YOU TAKE A SNEAK PEEK AT

  SEVERED RELATIONS

  I NEED YOUR HELP.

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  Reviews are an author's life blood. Booksellers’ algorithms don’t look at what you write, they look at the number of reviews. In fact, many book sites will only show readers books with many reviews and star ratings. I appreciate every word, every star, every minute you spend reviewing my work. Just click here, then click on ‘reviews’, and write about what you liked about

  LOST WITNESS

  Thanks for helping other readers find me!

  Rebecca

  Sneak Peek at Severed Relations, Book #1, Finn O’Brien Thrillers

  DAY 1 – MORNING

  It was late – or early – depending on one's point of view. Neither Mort, the short redheaded guy, nor the man so unremarkable that Mort had christened him Medium Man, cared about the hour. For them it was just time to go to work.

  While they drove, they shot the shit about cars and chicks, the gates, the guard, the price of shoes and booze, and getting into the house. Mort laughed hard and quick and said they would have to quit the business the day they couldn't get in a house. When Medium Man laughed, he huffed and puffed and wiggled like he had to hit the john. Even when he wasn't laughing, Medium Man itched and twitched. But he was reliable and good at his job so Mort didn't mind so much.

  They drove the length of Wilshire Boulevard, deserted this time of night, found the side street that would take them to another side street and yet another that would eventually get them where they were going. Mort said getting to this place was like driving through a damn crop circle in the middle of L.A. Medium Man didn't know what that was, and Mort didn't feel like explaining, so they stopped talking until Mort finally pulled over. He parked the car at the curb between two houses. Anyone who looked at it would assume the car belonged to a kid home from college, a maid, or was just the fourth-car-out in the land of three car garages.

  Mort and Medium Man walked the wide streets, admiring the houses. Mort put his hands in his pocket and kicked at a pebble. Medium Man yawned. They acted as if they belonged, but if anyone bought that then Mort had a bridge for them. Finally, Mort put his arm out. Medium Man stopped, wiped the back of his hand across his nose, and asked:

  "This it?"

  "Yep," Mort said and took stock of the property.

  One light burned in the back of the impressive Tudor with its peaked roof and leaded windows. In front, the outdoor fixtures were strategically placed for beauty, not safety. The flowerbeds pooled with a soft light that didn't reach the ridiculous sweep of lawn on which they stood. The front door was illuminated but brick arches shadowed the entrance. The houses on either side were set back on lots that were just as big as this one. Between them, beautiful old trees and flowering foliage created a natural sound barrier and screen.

  Wordlessly they walked up the driveway, Medium Man cutting off to the side of the house and Mort to the shadows of the entry arches. When Medium Man came around again, Mort tended to the door.

  A jab. A touch. A flick. A click and it was done.

  Inside, they got the lay of the land. Mort had seen better but not by much. Medium Man, though, stood in the foyer with his mouth hanging open. He looked at the grand staircase, the shiny marble floor in the entry, and the hardwood floors beyond that. He looked at the entry table and all the silver-framed pictures on top of it. Tears welled in his eyes when he saw the picture of a woman caught in a moment of happy surprise. She was so beautiful. Medium Man wished he had a picture of someone like that to put in a frame. He was picking it up, thinking to take it with him, when Mort hissed:

  "Don't touch nothin'."

  Medium Man wiped the frame clean with his shirt, put it down, and circled back to Mort like a dog returning to the place where the scent was strong. They went up the stairs, Mort first. There wasn't a creak and that impressed Mort. The place was quality all the way.

  Upstairs, there were five doors as expected. Three were closed, two ajar. He looked into the first room, stepped back and nodded to Medium Man who reached into his pocket for the gun. It was heavier than the knife he preferred, but Mort said they were there to do a job and not make a statement. Medium Man didn't quite understand that since he never said anything at work. Still, he never argued with Mort so he held the gun and waited for the signal.

  When he got it, Medium Man went into the first room and bee-lined for the brass studio bed. A couch by day, the frilly cover was now folded neatly at the foot of the mattress. The woman in it made little sighing sounds while she dreamed. At first Medium Man's heart sank. She looked pretty and that was too bad. He hated hurting pretty things. When he got a little closer, though, he saw that she wasn't all that pretty so it was okay.

  His footfall wasn't even a whisper on the plush carpet, yet as he raised the gun the woman threw back the covers and bolted out of bed. Shorter and stockier than he had imagined her to be, Medium Man was shocked as she lunged for her phone on the night table. He let out a yelp, threw out his arm, and knocked her back. She tumbled to the floor only to roll and push off again. This time, she lowered her head and ran straight for Medium Man. Her skull caught him hard under the ribs.

  He doubled over, grunting, the breath pushed out of him. He went down clutching his stomach. The gun dropped out of his hand and fell to the floor. He could feel it against his knee but had no time to grab it up because the woman was everywhere: hands and teeth, arms and knees, hair flying, fighting silently like she was mute, fighting hard like she was an animal. She reached for his face and her nails grazed his cheek. Those nails were short so she didn't draw blood. Her nightdress was long and she tangled in it as she tried to scramble over him. He was mad that she was causing such trouble; he was repulsed by her big breasts, her plump butt, and her woman smell. Still, he was determined not to let her get the best of him so he kept pulling at her. Her foot caught his thigh and she tried to use it for leverage, but she got no traction. In fact, she got nowhere at all because Mort was there.

  Yes, there he was, in the room filled with muffled grunts and desperate breathing. He grabbed the woman's arms and twisted her wrists one over the other, flipping her onto her back. Medium Man scampered up at the same time, swiping up the gun just as Mort knelt down hard on the woman's crossed arms.

  "I coulda–" Medium Man began, but Mort shot him a look so he shut up.

  The woman was gurgling like she was trying to say something, but her lips weren't working. Medium Man watched Mort, the master, as he looked into the woman's wild, terrified eyes. He put one hand on top of her head, and said:

  "Hush now."

  The woman trembled and then stopped struggling. That's when Medium Man swooped down, put the muzzle against her temple, and pulled the trigger. In the same instant, Mort moved his hand. The small caliber bullet made a clean exit on the other side of her skull. It brought with it bits of her brain and some bone and a spray of blood.

  Mort brushed at the blood spray on his shirt, but it was only a reflex. He knew that you never got all the blood out of anything so it was useless to try to wipe it away. That was too bad since he was especially partial to this shirt. All in all, though, the job went okay. He would have preferred it went perfect, but he blamed himself for not anticipating this woman's reaction and preparing for it.

  She was trained to listen for the slightest noise: a call,
a moan, a cry in the night. It was her job to protect and she had tried as hard as she could to do it well. Mort admired that in the same way he admired Medium Man for doing his. He would tell that to Medium Man when they were in the car. It wasn't easy to do the kind of work they did. Now they were finished. It was time to go. Yet when he looked at his compadre he saw that something was amiss. Medium Man was looking past him, so Mort turned his head to see what had caught the guy's attention. All he saw was a flash of color like you see when someone is running away to hide.

  Before he could do anything, Medium Man was out the door, his beloved knife in hand. Mort hung his head for a second and then picked up the gun his partner had dropped. He pocketed the piece and took a second look at the dead woman. If she were alive he would have apologized. He would have told her this wasn't part of the plan. He would have explained that there was no stopping Medium Man once he got the fever.

  That was a pity.

  Not a crying shame.

  Just a pity.

  * * *

  Murder behind the gates of Fremont Place was unheard of. A triple homicide, two of the victims children, in the home of a wealthy, young attorney was downright bizarre, and it was Finn O'Brien's bad luck that it was his first call since reporting to Wilshire Division. It was the kind of call that would put his heart crossways, as his mother would say. He would have agreed with her except his Irish heart had been crossways for years already – ever since Alexander died – and he had learned to live with it. He doubted what he found in Fremont Place could do more damage.

  Finn made a right off Wilshire Boulevard, drove a hundred feet to the guardhouse and stopped at the waste-of-money fancy iron gates stuck into the high stone walls. Inside the shack, a kid barely out of his teens slumped over the desk. He was dressed in an ill-fitting, puke-beige, polyester shirt with an official looking patch on the shoulder.

  When the kid realized someone was waiting on him, he swung his head and eyed the dark car and the man wearing a leather jacket and aviator sunglasses. It took a minute, but eventually he figured out who Finn was and dragged himself off his chair. He stood in the doorway of the faux house, arms hanging, his face so long he would have asphalt burns on his chin by the time his shift ended. Finn showed his badge and then started the conversation while he slipped it back in his pocket.