After the Rain

by Philip Cox

  ‘You mean recognition?’ asked Ramirez. ‘Or earnings?’

  Montilla sniffed and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Both. Both financially and professionally speaking.’

  Ramirez scratched his cheek. ‘I would also guess there are those who would pay us handsomely to stop what we are doing.’

  Montilla nodded. ‘That thought had occurred to me. But what is that compared with how we will be judged by future generations.’

  *****

  At the end of the day, Dr Montilla appeared in the doorway of Ramirez’s office. His colleague looked up from his desk.

  ‘You look tired, Gabriel,’ Ramirez said.

  ‘I am. I have been up since five. Unless you need me for anything else, I’m going to head for my hotel.’

  ‘Will we be seeing you tomorrow?’

  ‘No. This was just a flying visit. I am booked on a 9am flight in the morning.’

  Ramirez nodded. ‘Okay. Where are you staying?’

  ‘I’m at the Gran Melia Hotel.’

  Ramirez frowned. ‘Gran Melia? Where’s that?’

  Montilla paused a beat. ‘It’s on Avenida Francisco de Miranda.’

  ‘Ah, yes; I know the place you mean. Have you rented a car, or shall I get someone to call for a taxi for you?’

  ‘No, it’s all right, thank you. I came by taxi from the airport this morning, and I arranged one from here an hour ago.’

  Ramirez stood up and shook Montilla’s hand. ‘Well, have a good night’s rest and a safe flight in the morning.’

  Montilla nodded. ‘Thank you. And thank you for all you are doing here. We are all engaged in great work, Luis. I will speak to you tomorrow.’

  With that, Montilla picked up his overnight bag and attaché case and walked down the stairs to the main door. He could see a yellow cab waiting for him on the street.

  *****

  It was now rush hour in downtown Caracas, and the three mile journey took forty minutes. Dr Montilla paid the cab driver and strode into the hotel. Once he had checked in and got into his room he sat down on the bed, looking around his room. Then stood up and walked over to the window. The fifth floor balcony afforded him a panoramic view of the city. Over to the west, the sun was beginning to set. In the other direction, he could make out the terracotta coloured roof of the Centro Medico. He gazed at the hospital building nostalgically. That was where he began his medical training all those years ago. And where he met his wife…

  His thoughts then moved to Maria. The times they had together. The regret at not having children. The pain when she was taken from him at the age of forty-nine. The vow he made then.

  He turned back into the room, and closed the balcony door, shutting out the sound of the Caracas traffic. He rubbed his eyes. He was tired: it had been a long day. A long year, in fact. He decided he would take a long bath, order dinner from room service, then have an early night. He would need to be up before dawn tomorrow.

  It was seven o’clock when he got out of the bath. He dressed in a casual shirt and trousers and dialled for room service. He ordered Pabellon Criollo - lean steak, tomatoes, garlic and onions - and chocolate ice cream. And a bottle of Toni Teatrino. Room service advised him his meal would be around thirty minutes: that was acceptable. He sat on the bed and opened his attaché case. Took out some reports and began to read them.

  After twenty minutes there was a knock on the door. Montilla looked up from his reports and checked the time. The food had arrived early. Not that he was complaining.

  He walked over to the door and checked the spy hole. Expecting to see somebody wearing a white waiter’s jacket and pushing a trolley, he was surprised there was nobody there.

  ‘Who is it?’ he called out, one ear to the door.

  ‘It’s Luis,’ came the reply. ‘I need to talk to you urgently.’

  Montilla pulled a face and shrugged his shoulders: this was unexpected. ‘Hold on,’ he called out. As he released the chain the door flew open, knocking him back six feet. A figure in a suit - not Ramirez - quickly stepped in, closing the door behind him. Montilla looked down and saw the man was carrying a gun. It had a small tube attached to the end of the barrel.

  The man aimed the gun and Montilla heard a muffled sound. Pfft. He felt an intense stabbing pain in his chest and collapsed to the floor. The man stood over him and looked around the room. Then back down at Montilla. Through the pain in his chest Montilla’s brain fought to recognise the man. He was certain he had seen him before, recently; but where?’

  In the instant that he realised the man was on the same flight as him that morning, he saw him aim the gun directly at his forehead.

  Then he heard one more sound.

  Pfft.

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  WRONG TIME TO DIE

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much blood.’

  Los Angeles, California

  When LAPD Detective Sam Leroy is called to a murder scene, even he is taken aback by the ferocity and savagery of the crime.

  Furthermore, there seems to be no motive, which means no obvious suspects.

  Believing the two victims themselves hold the key to their own murder, Leroy begins his investigations there, and before long the trail leads him to the island of Catalina, where a terrible secret has remained undiscovered for almost thirty years…

  Here’s a sneak preview…

  ONE

  IN THE DISTANCE the man could see the lights from the house. A warm, yellowish glow. As he half stepped, half slid down the slope, through the undergrowth, getting closer, he could begin to make out more detail. He was at the back of the house: now he could see it was in effect on three floors. The first and second which were visible from the front, and a basement. The house was constructed on a slope, the front being at the top of the incline. At the rear, there was room for a door and two sets of windows. The basement door led out onto a patio and a small swimming pool. The moonlight reflected off the water in the pool.

  It was not a full moon tonight; half, maybe. However, it just about gave the man enough light to find his way. The last thing he wanted was to slip and be found the next morning either in the pool or at the foot of the slope with a broken leg.

  This was actually the fourth night of the man’s project, the first he had actually been able to get this far. On the first night there was heavy fog. Visibility was poor. He was able to carry out a reconnaissance of the front of the house, but saw nothing. In the fog he felt it was too risky to go round the back. The second night was clear, more so than tonight, but the house was empty, all the lights off. Last night the fog returned, heavier. Tonight, though, was just right. Not entirely perfect, as there were still traces of mist around, but he could see.

  And somebody was in.

  He had parked his car two blocks away, and walked the half mile to the house. He was surprised at the lack of security here: some of the neighbouring homes had walls and locked gates with CCTV, but here there was just a fence, which he easily climbed over. He knew from the first night that the fence was not alarmed.

  It had not rained for almost a week, so the ground was dry. He had mulled over the question of footprints, and had considered wearing a pair of shoes larger than his size 9, but decided there was little point. He would, however, throw away the pair he was wearing. In his pocket he carried a bag in which to place the shoes once he got back to his car, where he had left a new pair. He did not want anybody to find soil in his car.

  He also considered wearing one of those fancy night vision goggles. They would have been cool for sure, but that would have meant spending over two hundred bucks. In any case, tonight’s project was a one-off.

  Halfway down the incline, he stopped. Standing in the darkness, he was roughly parallel with the first floor, which was the middle floor here out back. The floor where the lights were on.

  He put the Bushnell Falcon binoculars to his e
yes and stared at the house. Two rooms were lit up. One seemed to be a kitchen: the lights were brighter, and he could see what looked like a refrigerator. The other room had two large windows, the lights more subdued. Enough light for him to make out the detail inside.

  ‘Top banana,’ he whispered. He could make out four people in the room, sitting at a table. They were having a dinner party. The man and woman on the left he did not recognise; neither the woman in the grey dress. The fourth person, the other man, he did.

  He exhaled deeply as he set his eyes on Edward Travis. He looked much older than the man expected: his hair was thinner and silvery grey. His frame was thinner too, wiry in fact. But it was him.

  Outside on the incline, the man’s heart began to beat faster as he watched the four engaging in conversation. If only he could have heard what they were saying. Travis himself was very animated and seemed to be laughing and joking with the others.

  If only Travis knew.

  He put down the binoculars and stared at the house. Stared into space, really; thinking. Considering. Planning.

  Although he could see into the house, they could not see him. The only light outside was one on the house wall just by the basement door, and this only served to illuminate the back of the house. Certainly not enough light for the occupants to see him. In any case, he was dressed totally in black, from the roll neck sweater to the army surplus boots.

  He put the binoculars up top his eyes again, getting angry as he saw Travis laughing and joking with his guests. The bastard was having a fun evening. So far, anyway. He took deep breaths to calm his nerves. He knew he must not let anger and emotion get in his way tonight.

  He watched as Travis stood up and walked round the table refilling everybody’s wine glasses. He looked around for somewhere to sit and found a spot next to a bush. He moved around to make himself comfortable. Looked through the binoculars again.

  It looked as if the dinner party was in full swing. He would need to sit and wait until the time was right.

  He knew that eventually his patience would be rewarded.

  Top banana.

  TWO

  DETECTIVE SAM LEROY leaned back in his seat, resting the back of his head against the plush material. He closed his eyes. Even now, he could not believe he was here. In the five years he had been with the LAPD, he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had been able to finish his shift early.

  His good fortune today had been down to a piece of lowlife named Escobar, who had been caught smuggling illegal immigrants over the Mexican border. Not an area in which the Homicide desk would normally get involved but in this particular case, three of one batch of immigrants had been found in the back of a van parked at Union Station, their throats slit. Escobar had already been picked up after being arrested near the border and traces of the deceaseds’ blood had been found on his clothing, and the knife the officers found on him matched the trauma on their throats. As expected, Escobar denied all knowledge of both the trafficking and the throat slitting, and Sam had been due in court that day to appear as one of the witnesses for the DA. This morning, however, Escobar changed his plea to guilty, surprising the prosecution team.

  ‘I’ll head back to the station house,’ Leroy had said to his supervisor, Lieutenant Perez, when he phoned to tell him about the change of plea.

  ‘Forget it, Sam,’ Perez said. ‘Get off home.’

  ‘Home? But -’

  ‘Get off home, I said. You have hours and hours of overtime owed. Both you and Quinn. Use up some of it.’

  ‘Well, if you say so.’

  ‘I do. I got an overtime budget to consider.’

  ‘See you in the morning, then.’

  ‘Sure. And don’t be late,’ replied Perez, hanging up.

  So Sam Leroy and his partner, Detective Ray Quinn, ended that day’s shift at 12:30. They spent the next hour and a half in a bar near the court house, and then went their separate ways, Leroy’s being home to his apartment in Venice.

  And tonight he was here, in this luxurious movie theatre seat.

  His reverie was interrupted by an elbow in the ribs.

  ‘Sam! Wake up!’ whispered the figure in the next row. Leroy stirred, opened his eyes, and looked at Julia Moore, his girlfriend of almost two years. Leroy had met Julia when he interrupted two men in the process of mugging her. He took her home to her apartment, not far from his own; a couple of days later she invited him for a meal to say thanks, and the relationship developed from there. They had kept their own places, not having really discussed moving in together. Both seemed happy with their current arrangement: they both retained their privacy, yet spent enough time in each other’s company to maintain a healthy relationship.

  That day, as soon as Leroy got home, he called Julia. Julia, being a fourth grade school teacher, kept more or less regular hours, something he could only dream of. He had lost count of the number of times he and Julia had arranged to have an evening out, but his job got in the way. Today was payback time.

  Julia had checked online to see what was showing, and later they made their way into Hollywood where the ArcLight Cinema on West Sunset was showing a special presentation of The Third Man, with Joseph Cotton and Orson Welles.

  ‘Are they showing it as originally made?’ Leroy had asked as they parked.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Julia asked.

  ‘Well, they haven’t converted it to 3D, or colorized it, or something like that, have they?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘So Harry Lime’s not gonna find any CGI dinosaurs in the sewers?’

  ‘Sam, don’t be an ass.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Leroy and Julia were in luck. The movie was being shown just as it had in 1949, just as director Carol Reed had intended. As they filed out of the theatre at the end of the movie, Leroy said to Julia, ‘Let’s get something to eat. Where shall we go?’

  Before Julia could answer, they were passing the theatre café. Leroy paused and picked up a menu. ‘What about here?’ he asked, studying the items on offer.

  Julia scanned it and pulled a face. ‘No, I want more than an eleven buck chilli dog. We don’t often get to do this, Sam; let’s go somewhere nice.’

  Leroy coughed and said, ‘I know just the place. It’s not far, and our parking’s validated here.’

  As they headed up Vine Street, Julia asked, ‘So where are we going? It had better not be Taco Bell.’

  Leroy laughed. ‘No, it’s a little place I went to once before. It’s called Off Vine.’

  ‘Okay. Where is it, then?’

  ‘Off Vine Street, honey.’

  ‘Stupid question.’

  The restaurant in question was actually on Leland Way, just off Vine Street and parallel with Sunset. Known as Off Vine, it is a lovely turn-of-the-century bungalow, a quiet oasis amidst the traffic and high-rises of Hollywood. When it was built in 1908, it was surrounded by trees and orange groves, off a newly made country road called Vine Street. Since then it survived the Roaring Twenties, the Depression, Hollywood’s Silent and Golden Eras, numerous earthquakes and a fire. It gives its diners a chance to glimpse into the past of what is termed old Hollywood.

  Julia looked up at the blue neon sign above the door as they stepped inside. ‘Sam, it’s lovely.’

  ‘I hope we can get in,’ he muttered.

  They were able to. Sitting at a table for two on one of the balconies overlooking the patio area out back, Julia ordered Wild Atlantic Salmon, sautéed and topped with wild mushrooms, spinach, roasted red bell pepper, chopped garlic and drizzled with extra virgin olive oil. Leroy chose Turkey Meatloaf topped with brown gravy. Both washed down with the house white for Julia and a light beer for Leroy. For dessert, they shared a Chocolate Pecan Caramel Pie.

  As they ate, Julia looked around. ‘Sam, I love this place. Why haven’t you taken me here before?’

  Leroy put his cutlery down and looked over at her. ‘Julia: when do we ever get to go out l
ike this? And when we do, we tend not to stray too far from the Pacific. This town has literally hundreds of fine restaurants.’

  Julia looked around, nodding. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘And quite appropriate after watching a classic movie.’

  Julia agreed. ‘Absolutely. What was your favourite scene?’

  Leroy scratched his chin. ‘I think it was the final one where the girl - Alida Valli - is walking towards Joseph Cotton. He assumes she is walking up to him, but she walks straight past. So bleak. What about you?’

  ‘I think it’s where we see the cat in the doorway, at Harry Lime’s feet.’

  ‘I love the music as well,’ added Leroy.

  ‘A zither,’ said Julia. ‘It was played on a zither.’

  ‘Mm,’ Leroy said. He frowned. ‘Wasn’t there a TV series based on the movie?’

  ‘About a hundred years ago. Michael Rennie played Harry Lime.’

  Leroy looked over to her. ‘You’re very knowledgeable on the subject.’

  Julia laughed, putting her wine glass to her lips. ‘Media Studies at High School.’

  He took a mouthful of beer. ‘Of course,’

  ‘What time are you starting work in the morning?’ Julia asked.

  ‘The usual. Eight.’

  ‘Well, let’s finish here and get back,’ Julia said. ‘I don’t think the night is over yet.’ As she spoke she put her hand on his.

  Leroy sat up. ‘Absolutely. I’ll get the check.’

  Vowing to return to Off Vine soon, they strolled back down to the ArcLight parking lot, where they had parked. Leroy pulled out of the lot into Ivar Avenue then followed the road down to Santa Monica Boulevard where he took a right. They were fortunate with the traffic conditions that evening, most of the many lights along the road being green. As the road forked to the left in West Hollywood, Leroy noticed red and blue flashing lights in his mirror. He could then make out the siren in the distance. After half a minute patrol car flashed past.