by Rene Natan
“Let’s go back,” he said in a triumphant tone. “We need a permit to search these premises. We’ll come back with the cavalry.”
When Stevenson reported his new findings to the Task Force the following morning, the consensus was they should storm the suspected grounds, which officially hosted a complex for agricultural research. They held off the issue regarding the girl’s picture and her resemblance to Charles MacMillan. There was a chance they’d find her in the upcoming raid.
So far, Fred Barino had kept an arrogant attitude, in spite of his two previous convictions; one for possession of assault weapons and one for manslaughter. Hearsay labeled him a killer, but nobody had been able to prove it. There was no evidence to implicate him in the death of Jim Thompson. Only Stevenson’s testimony—that Fred had tried to go for his gun—kept him in jail. Not much, especially in the hands of a good lawyer.
After the meeting, he received notice that Abigail MacMillan was waiting for him. He fetched two coffees and entered the conference room. She was standing; her dark dress, loose on her body, accented her pallor. Her blond-gray hair was combed back with a little band on the forehead. She had no visible makeup, and a short pearl necklace adorned her neck. She thanked Stevenson for seeing her. She’s troubled, Stevenson thought in a flash, as he invited her to sit. He laid one of the coffees before her, with cream and sugar, and a black one in front of himself. “How have you been?” Stevenson tried to put her at ease.
“So-so. You remember the photo I brought in?” Stevenson assented, and she continued, “I found more.” She rummaged in her leather purse and extracted a little accordion booklet. The cover read Spices International. “Inside this.” She tapped on the cover. “There are more photos of a little girl, from age, I’d say, two to ten.” She opened the booklet and spread out nine pictures. She looked straight into Stevenson’s eyes. “I think she’s Charles’ daughter,” she murmured, her eyes moist.
Stevenson gained time by looking at each of the pictures. They were well preserved, and the similarity with Charles’ facial features was striking. “You could be right. You never heard or suspected he had a daughter?” Abigail shook her head, and Stevenson made some mental calculations. “She’d have been born before you two got married, right?”
Abigail nodded and dried her eyes with her fingers. “I wonder if this could have anything to do with his murder.”
Stevenson pondered his answer. “It could, but at the moment we won’t be able to make any conjectures on the basis of these photographs.”
“Blackmail maybe?”
The woman had thought of the worst. “Possible, but things would have to be much more complicated than a straightforward blackmail.”
Abigail tapped on a picture. “How can we find this little girl?”
“At the moment, there’s no evidence that looking for her would add anything to the investigation of Mr. MacMillan’s murder.” Stevenson spoke slowly, hoping his tone wouldn’t betray his real thoughts.
“You wouldn’t do anything then.”
“Not directly, but we’ll keep an eye on anything that may point to her.” He couldn’t tell her that she might be a victim of child prostitution, and that they might find out what happened to her pretty soon.
“Should I hire a private investigator?”
“There isn’t a great deal to work on. In this situation, a private investigator might cost you a fortune and come out with few results. I suggest you wait—a week, ten days. By that time we may know more; more about your husband’s killer, who may also know something about this little girl.” Stevenson read disappointment on Abigail’s face. The woman was really concerned about the girl. Her interest indicated she’d take care of her and was ready to act. He tried to soften the situation. “What about posting her picture in “Have you seen her?” They post these kinds of pictures in food chains and variety stores.”
“I can do that. Thank you for the suggestion.” Abigail got ready to leave.
“I left the GPS on the counter at the entrance. We’re finished with it.”
Abigail nodded appreciatively and strode out.
Fifty-two
Alvaro Luzardo tried to pack a suitcase. It was mission impossible. His mother talked, cried, and pulled on his shirt, asking for more details about Fatima, all at the same time. His father leaned against the dresser where he tried to get a couple of shirts, and Helenita hopped around, trying to understand who Fatima was. Finally, his father explained the situation to her.
She stopped in front of Alvaro, asking, “Am I going to have a sister?”
Alvaro put up his hands, signaling a moment of quiet. “I have a plane to catch. Please let me pack.” His parents and Helenita grouped together and hugged each other. Alvaro tossed a few more items into the suitcase and shut it. He pulled on his coat and hugged each member of his family. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something of substance. Pray I find Fatima.” He knew his mother said a rosary every night, imploring the return of her lost daughter. He took his passport and Fatima Luzardo’s birth certificate, which were lying on the dresser, and stashed them in his coat’s internal pocket. Without speaking another word he left the house.
He was well aware there were roadblocks ahead. When he’d called the number Camilo had given him, he’d talked to a person who promised to put him in contact with the girl of his choice, but first he’d have to come to the office and be interviewed. He gave Alvaro an address in Toronto. Alvaro insisted he talk to Fatima. There was a delay, and finally his sister came on the phone for a brief salutation. It wasn’t much; what he had was just a thin thread that could wind up in a hundred places before he could take a glance at Fatima in person. It was, however, the first clue he’d had in over two years. The address indicated Toronto east; the hosting house could be far away, probably in the countryside. Years ago, he’d read that members of a convention in Toronto had been taken to a “house of pleasure” by helicopter…
Alvaro had with him the fifty grand Camilo had talked about, in addition to money he needed to buy himself new clothes. He had to look like a successful businessman. Between changes of terminals and airlines, he arrived in Toronto two days later. He lodged at The Four Seasons. His first stop was at the Tilley store on Queen’s Quay Terminal. He knew the place was exclusive and expensive, but this was a special occasion. He let the saleswoman suggest what to buy, and exited the store wearing a pair of casual trousers and a Ralph Lauren polo shirt, and a bag with a similar pair. The saleslady had claimed he looked like a model, and a casual glance in a shop window along the street confirmed her claim.
He was ready to bargain and fight for his sister’s freedom.
He arrived at the address, a small house on a corner of a secondary street. The building adjacent to it was due for demolition. There was no traffic; it wasn’t a usual business environment. It could be a setup, Alvaro thought. A car and a Jeep were parked near the entrance. He made mental note of their licenses, even if he knew that the vehicles could be stolen. Still worried about his safety, he ascended the few steps that led to the house’s entrance. He rang the bell. The door opened almost instantly.
His mouth dropped wide open. Camilo was there, a nasty grin on his face. A goon was beside him.
“Welcome back, my friend!” he said, and patted him on the shoulder.
Alvaro called for all the control he could muster. “I didn’t expect you here.”
“You didn’t think I’d let you take your sister back and leave me empty-handed, eh?”
“I want my sister back. Take me to her.”
“Sure, sure. You’ll see your dear sister, and then you’ll come with me.”
“The agreement was that my sister would go back to my parents.”
“She will. After you’ve spent a year working for me.”
Alvaro almost froze. He was a criminal out of circumstances. Camilo was a professional. It would be difficult to beat him.
There was a shout from a door. Fatima rushed out and into h
is arms. Sobs shook her body. She spoke, but all he could understand were the words, “Take me with you.” He caressed her hair and patted her shoulders. He pulled slightly on one of her tresses—a gesture he used in the earlier days when he wanted to get her attention. Her eyes, full of tears, looked into his. “I’ll take you home,” Alvaro said, “but not this right moment.” He smiled in an attempt to reassure her.
“Please, please!” She put her arms around his waist and held him tightly.
“You’ve seen her in the flesh,” Camilo said with his out-of-sync voice. “She goes back where she belongs and you come with me where you belong.” He gestured at the goon, and the corpulent man took Fatima away from Alvaro and into the adjoining room.
“No, no! I don’t want to go back!” Shouts, cries, and sobs filled both rooms.
Camilo pushed Alvaro out of the door and down the steps. “You’ve seen enough. Now you come with me.”
Alvaro pushed him back toward the parked car. “I won’t. No sister, no work. Call me when you come up with a better deal.” With resolute steps, he marched away and toward the street where he’d left his rental.
The phone number Camilo had given him and the one he’d gotten from the website, Swing with Us, were the same. So, he could go back to that site, pay another hundred twenty dollars and play the part of an interested customer. However, following the man who was detaining Fatima could save him some time.
He waited until he heard the noise of two vehicles taking off, and turned on his engine. As he rounded the corner he saw the car taking off west. The Jeep went straight. He guessed Camilo was going home, so he kept an eye on the Jeep. As they proceeded north, the car entered the parking lot of a huge mall. Alvaro continued and stopped only when he was sure he couldn’t be seen. He got out and walked toward the parking lot. Hiding behind the big Goodwill drop-off box, he followed the goon’s movements. He’d stopped, grabbed Fatima by the waist, and entered a black sedan. Clearly, Fatima had been sedated.
Alvaro waited until the sedan took to the road and followed. Soon, they were on Highway 427, heading north. This was one of the busiest roads of the province. The sedan moved at a constant speed and so did he, five cars behind.
Half an hour later, the sedan branched off, and he followed it up the ramp. It slowed down in front of a two-story building, whose entrance was controlled by a sliding gate. The sedan entered the premises.
I wonder if this is the place where they keep Fatima all the time, Alvaro told himself. He needed more information if he hoped to free his sister.
He went back to the secluded site where he’d met with Camilo, his hoodlum, and Fatima, hoping to find something about the activities of Swing with Us. He didn’t find a thing. Clearly, that place had been set up only to hold the meeting.
A bit of careful surveillance was needed.
For two days, Alvaro was on the lookout in front of the building where they took Fatima. There was a coming and going of a few luxury cars and plenty of taxis. He took note of their company and number. He wondered if they were paid extra to forget about that specific fare. Cab drivers have a way of detecting illegal activities, but a little bribe would make them blind and tight-lipped. Yesterday, there had been work in the front yard and around the building by a company named Complete Yard Work. They left shortly before three o’clock, so Alvaro thought they wouldn’t be back.
Early the following morning, he sprang into action, wearing a green coverall and a yellow helmet.
Aboard a pickup truck where he’d painted the logo of Complete Yard Work, he approached the entrance. There was hesitation in opening the gate. Alvaro said the company had told him to set up sprinklers for the sod they had just laid. The weather was still plenty warm, and the new grass could burn. Once through, he rounded the building, stopped near the back fence, and unloaded three sprinklers, three long hoses and a toolbox. He neared the building wall looking for an outlet, carrying the toolbox with him.
A guard stood close to him. “Make it snappy,” he ordered.
Alvaro took a splitter out of the toolbox and hooked it up. Two sprinklers came up to life. He set them on the sod, and took the third that didn’t work in his hands. He went back to the wall, checked the washer connecting the outlet to the third sprinkler, shook his head, and got a new one from the toolbox. He replaced it. Finally the guard disappeared from sight. Alvaro fiddled around the third sprinkler a bit longer.
Then he made it happen. The sound of five fire alarms turned on simultaneously pierced the eardrums of everybody within a hundred-foot radius. Windows and doors in the building opened at once. For a moment, people’s shouts superseded the fire alarms. Alvaro left his equipment going and retreated to a spot where, moving a bit left and right, he had a view of both the front and the back of the building. He hid behind the trunk of an old maple, needing to see without being seen. Some of the men rushed outside half naked, others held their trousers on as they ran to their cars or forced themselves into somebody else’s vehicle. Two men stumbled into each other in their attempt to reach their cars. The entrance gate was smashed by the first car rushing out; two guards went after Alvaro’s toolbox and pounded on it with the guns’ stocks until it quieted. The damage was done, however, and soon the noise of distant fire trucks became audible.
The girls were the last to leave the building, and Alvaro immediately spotted Fatima. She’d wrapped a white bed sheet around her body. If it wasn’t for her dark hair, he’d think she was a little ghost. Alvaro ran after her, lifted her off the ground, and asked her to hold on his neck. He ran toward the pickup truck, deposited Fatima on the back of it and jumped up. He stepped on top of the brick fence surrounding the building at the back of the property, and sat on it. He stretched his arms to get Fatima. He turned around and slid his sister down to the ground. He jumped down, took Fatima by the hand, and together they dashed to the rental Alvaro had parked a block away.
After more than two years of search, he’d found his sister. From now on he’d make sure Fatima was safe.
Fifty-three
Approval for the raid on Camilo’s premises in both the country and downtown London had come. The Task Force was anxious to go into action, but Stevenson wanted to cover all angles and time the two raids accurately. There was a lengthy discussion whether or not to call in a SWAT team that would be available in two days. They didn’t know how many guards were stationed on Camilo’s site near New Hamburg, and how heavily armed they were. They decided to wait for the SWAT team, storm the country place at night, and knock on the door of Camilo’s penthouse early in the morning, as soon as they spotted the wheelchair accountant enter the building. Stevenson expected to find plenty of compromising material in the former, little in the latter.
The wait gave him time to catch up on other matters. The hearings for Debby White and her accomplice were on the go; the Crown Attorney had asked life for her accomplice and the jury was in session. On Stevenson’s advice, the Crown had postponed the hearing for Paul Finsey, the man who had been in the safe house waiting for Louis. Stevenson’s argument was that once they arrested Camilo, they’d find solid evidence of the man’s long-term criminal activity, and new charges could be laid against him. His vacation has been rescheduled indefinitely, and Stevenson hoped to take it when Jocelyn had some free time. Thinking of Jocelyn prompted his desire to see her and tell her the good news he’d just received.
He got her voice mail and left the message that he’d leave the office early and felt like doing some cooking. He added, “If you like marinated pickerel and mixed vegetables, come over. If not, let me know, and I’ll come to your place with Chinese.”
He was ready to leave, when Lopes rushed in.
“Come see the news from Toronto. A lot of commotion at a place that advertises itself as Swing with Us. They suspect it’s a center for prostitution with minors.”
Stevenson jumped off his chair. The video showed a fancy two-story building with three fire trucks standing idle in front of it and the su
bsequent arrival of Toronto Police. The anchorman said, “The owner will have to answer a few questions. Who set up the outside fire alarms that sounded in unison and created a pandemonium? Why the place, licensed as a hotel, didn’t have proper clients’ registration? What were four people carrying illegal weapons doing in the building?”
Lopes was excited. “Do you think this place has anything to do with Camilo Estorbar?”
“Difficult to say at the moment; interesting, at any rate. I’ll give Toronto Police a call early tomorrow morning.”
Stevenson checked his cell and found a text from Jocelyn. She’d be happy to come for supper around seven o’clock. Stevenson left headquarters and went home. He had the time to do some shopping and give the place a romantic touch. It was going to be an important evening.
The weekend they’d spent up north had been wonderful. With rain pouring all day, they mostly stayed in their room, talking to each other, caressing each other and having satisfying sex. She’d noticed his early belly, and he complained about her breasts being so big he couldn’t hold them in his hands. They felt like two companions who had seen each other after a long separation. And the fishing? No fish out of the lake and none on the barbecue. They’d cook some on the next occasion they saw each other.
Gordon whistled the air, With rapture I shall look upon her, from Il Ballo in Maschera as he cut the veggies and set them in the steamer; the marinated pickerel, cut in small pieces for fast cooking was ready to be laid on the grill.