Leroy sat back and placed the camera into the small grey holdall. Every single member of the congregation including the choirboys were now silver halide images, captured on three rolls of film, though he sensed that it was a waste of time. The funeral had high media coverage and any killer or kidnapper would have to be madder than mad to show. Especially when it was being beamed live through the cable in to every house, flat or river house in Missouri. In fact, he could have saved time by sitting at work and capturing the images off the videotape using an editing suite. He zipped the camera bag and made his way down the stairs. With luck the films would be processed before the end of the ceremony. There wasn't a single face that stood out, no one that appeared to be acting in a manner likely to cause concern, no one Leroy recognised from the past. Leroy left the church. He threw the camera bag on to the back seat of the car; the films secure deep inside his pocket. There was a photographic lab in the police station but Leroy wanted the photos fast so he could run a check against the records. Karl Frost on Turtle Island had a small photographic business. Leroy had used him on many other occasions and knew him to be reliable and discreet. He had processed many other films with much more sensitive material than a few mourners at a funeral. Leroy could have the prints within an hour and be on the way back to the station to cross check.
The shop was three doors away from Fleisher's real estate business. Leroy could not ignore a sense of certain paths crossing. He parked outside the glass-fronted shop. Family portraits adorned the display, advertising Frost's trade. A yellow gelatine sun filter was drawn across the window, protecting the photographs from the worst of the morning sun, which generally beamed directly onto the glass. Though the chance of much damage being sustained today was remote.
Leroy pushed the slight, wooden framed door open. A bell sounded deep within the premises. The shop was open planned with a few directors’ seats scattered and a coffee table with black portfolio's adorning them, containing samples of Karl's art. More pictures lined the walls displaying the range of the Photographer's skill. Advertising shots, industrial photography, weddings. A lone glamour shot, soft focused, a young black woman with startling electric blue eyes.
'Contacts', Leroy thought, though retouching or electronic manipulation was another option. She was sitting in a field of wheat, dressed in a near transparent white cotton dress. Water had been sprayed on her body to simulate perspiration, which had the effect of drawing her skin to the material. One leg was drawn up, allowing the short dress to expose the full length of her legs. A mill was spinning in the background, the blades blurred but she was in perfect focus. Leroy guessed it was a long exposure with her remaining perfectly still for the duration.
‘How is she?’ The voice broke Leroy's thoughts. He didn't hear Karl appear from the darkroom at the back of the shop.
Karl was a throwback to a lost generation. Though his hair was cut in a short contemporary style he was still pure hippy. His accent had a deeper southern twang to it than Leroy's. Karl originated from Arkan, a small town near Georgia. He like many other inhabitants was drawn to Turtle Island during the early seventies, the lure of the utopian lifestyle and the well-known freedom concerning various drugs being the siren that enticed him.
‘Gone.’
‘Hey, brutal…I'm real sorry.’ The photographer stood beside Leroy. ‘She's sure beautiful.’
The picture was now nearly seven years old. Lia was only eighteen when the picture was taken and had her heart set on a modelling career.
‘Yeah.’ Leroy sighed. He didn't want to explain the circumstances nor tell the photographer of his hopeful reunion. Tearing his eyes from the photograph Leroy placed the three films on the counter. ‘I need these processed quickly, Karl.’
‘You working on the nanny killing.’
Leroy nodded. An acidic smell began to filter through from the darkroom. Karl turned and pulled the door too. ‘Been in the trade all my life, still can't stand the smell of fixer.’ He fumbled behind the counter and returned holding a hand rolled cigarette. The moment he lit up; Leroy detected the sweet scent of marijuana. ‘Want one, pure Moroccan, none of that chinky shit.’
Karl was a racist where the Chinese and Vietnamese were concerned. His experiences in Saigon tainted his life beyond reason. He had an American bald eagle tattooed on his back, wings spread against a back drop of the stars and stripes, an indulgence of an extremely young and naive 17-year-old going to fight against the threat of communism. He had bought the whole MacArthur ticket, much to his embarrassment. After six months of creeping around the jungle trying to avoid the Vietcong followed by another six months of land mines, snipers, child suicide bombers and general shit, Karl changed his mind on virtually every aspect of his politics except his loathing of any one east of Florida or west of LA, if you fell within these boundaries you were okay.
Leroy declined, not that he didn't indulge in the odd joint or two, his approach to cannabis was as relaxed as Karl would be minutes after lighting the fat joint in his hands. Karl wrote out a ticket for the three films, his writing neat and precise, far neater than expectation would allow. He handed the docket to Leroy.
‘Be a little over an hour. Guess you’re in a hurry?’
‘Fine, I'll pick em’ up on the way back through. So, how's business?’
Karl dragged on the illegal joint. ‘A little slow now the summer's over. Have to keep searching for new avenues to exploit. Nothing changes much.’ He let the smoke fill his lungs, permeating through his bloodstream and interacting with the receptors in his brain. Karl began to mellow. Behind him the door to his studio opened sharply. An agitated looking young white girl, wrapped in a peach coloured shiny dressing gown, stood impatiently.
‘Hurry up Karl, I'm freezing my little titties off in here.’ The girl did not seem embarrassed by the presence of anyone who might have been in the shop. The gown gaped at the front; exposing a flat boyish chest with little or no cleavage at all Her hand gathered the gown at her stomach retaining what little modesty she had. She did not bother to wait for a reply, turning and disappearing in to the inner sanctum of the studio.
‘I hope she's not under-age, Karl?’
‘She's seventeen, seen her birth certificate.’ Karl exhaled. ‘Seen her ass too. You know who she is?’
Leroy shrugged.
‘Jessica Femoy.’ Karl said her name as though it would be the key answer to all of Leroy's unasked questions. He looked at the detective hopefully.
Leroy shrugged again, still looking equally unimpressed.
‘The Coulstan Milk girl. You seen her on the telly, man. She's the babe laying in the big bath full of milk.’
‘Must have passed me by.’
Karl looked astounded. ‘She's the biggest name on Turtle Island at the moment. Got a contract with Coulstan for three hundred thousand dollars. Agents spotted her when she was in the cheerleaders for the high school. Signed her up while she was only fifteen...’ Karl waited to see if there was any sign of recognition. ‘Anyway, I'm doing her portfolio.’
‘Oh. Do you want me to gasp or something?’
‘You know, sarcasm is unattractive no matter who it comes from.’
Jessica called from the studio. ‘C'mon, Karl, I am getting frostbite back here.’
‘Okay, okay. Keep your panties on…for now.’ Karl added as he opened the door back to the studio. ‘Don't worry Leroy, your films will be ready.’ Karl looked at his watch.
‘Call back at around 12-30. Gotta go.’ Karl disappeared behind the door to his studio.
On the way out, Leroy glanced at the photograph of Lia once more.
He had lit the fuse. A signal had been sent out and was now broadcasting to the world, quite literally to the world, and the media would want to put a piece of Turtle Island into the homes of everyone that had a radio or television or computer or who ever bought a newspaper or magazine. The list was endless.
‘Agent O’Neil...Agent O’Neil.’ Barbara Dace called after the detective as s
he walked from the church.
Georgina slowed, allowing the reporter to catch up with her. She turned to see Barbara Dace jogging toward her holding a videotape.
‘Save you a journey.’ She held the tape out, passing it on like a baton in the relay. Her breath came hard, the result of smoking too many cigarettes.
Georgina could see Korjca's sister and mother standing with Barbara's cameraman, John Keller. The sister was talking with him. They seemed to be conversing with ease.
‘She speaks English?’ Georgina asked, nodding toward Anna Piekarska.
‘She wants to meet you.’
Georgina looked puzzled. ‘Why?’
‘She has Korjca's diary.’
Georgina looked at Korjca's sister. The likeness between the two sisters was uncanny, the only discernible difference being Anna's slender frame and thinner face. Anna turned her attention from the cameraman and looked toward Georgina as though she sensed she was being scrutinised. No attempt at acknowledging the detective’s presence was made by Anna; she just studied her with cold eyes.
‘I want to speak to her in private.’ Georgina added. ‘At a neutral locale, not the police station.’
‘She’s staying at the Meridian.’
Georgina couldn’t disguise her surprise, her eyes raised almost involuntarily
‘It’s all part of the deal. We paid her and her mother’s flight, accommodation and expenses.’
‘In return for?’
‘Oh, purely altruistic reasons.’
‘Yeah those; and the exclusive rights to their story.’
Barbara smiled. ‘Well...we’re not a charity honey.’
There was something about the smile, which got to Georgina. It hit a nerve. Maybe it was the first time that she had witnessed the true reporter in Barbara Dace.
A car honked its horn. Both women turned to find Leroy entering the car park.
‘Which room?’ Georgina asked.
‘4072. Fourth floor.’ Barbara looked at her watch. ‘Shall I say about three?’
Thirty-One
Something brushed passed her legs. Something soft. It woke her. Jo-Lynn opened her eyes and the light nearly blinded her, at some stage he had returned and lit the room. She blinked rapidly in succession trying to get the pupils to adjust to the startling glare. She felt the thing brush past her again. Then felt its claws dig into her leg. Small wiry fingers clamped onto her skin, then clawed its way up her leg. She felt the tail sweep, in its rear-guard action, confirming what she didn’t want to know. Jo-Lynn looked down and stared in to the rat’s beady eyes. The water clinging to its body only added to the revulsion that she felt. Inside her head she was screaming. Her throat was screaming but all that emitted was a dull muffled sound, which barely reached the tape that gagged her. She jerked her legs to try to dislodge it, moving them as violently as she could. The rat clung on, then made a run across her nightdress. She felt the tiny wet feet dance over her. The talon like nails piercing the flimsy material, making contact with her bare skin. Jo-Lynn jerked her body with all the force she could muster. The chair rocked side to side, nearly overbalancing. The prospect of falling back in to the water, now swimming with rats, - at least so in her imagination - made her straighten, forcing the chair to stabilise.
The rat clung on unconcerned and continued to walk over her. The matted fur moved with its body exposing pink flesh.
Jo-Lynn tried to shake the unremitting rodent from her. It seemed unaware of her presence almost nonchalant. The rat climbed to her collarbone and sat. Its nose sniffing the air, Jo-Lyn continued to struggle but the mammal would not dislodge. The fear that the rat would sink its yellow teeth into her petrified her. She imagined its teeth tearing at her cheek, gnawing down to the bone. Ripping away flesh, tearing skin in strips, like old wallpaper.
Jo-Lynn took a deep breath and threw her weight with all the force she could muster to her left. She was still screaming inside when she hit the water. The rat leapt from her shoulder and dived into the murky water, swimming away unconcerned. Its poor sighted eyes searching for the next landmass to anchor itself to. Jo-Lynn's right hand instinctively tried to reach her face. Her head was still submerged under the water but suddenly she realised her right arm was free. The tape began to unravel. She pulled frantically. The claustrophobia of her situation was overwhelming. Her hand then began to tug at the tape around her chest and shoulders. The air in her lungs seemed to be expanding, the pressure pushing up through her chest. She wanted to breathe. Her left arm just as suddenly freed itself; Jo-Lynn turned her body, so she was facing down, her eyes bulging with fear. This was not how she wanted to die, not now, when she was so close to freeing herself. She pushed up, tipping her head back, hoping that the water would be shallow enough to allow her to break the surface and breathe. She could feel air on her face and exhaled knowing that if she was wrong it may be her last breath. The air rushed in through her mouth and nose. She breathed again and for a moment waited while she regained control, before submerging once more and turning. Her hands ripped at the tape that bound her legs. One of her nails bent back snapping under the force of her actions but she seemed oblivious to the pain as the nail detached from the skin underneath. Her legs began to kick. Anger began to combat frustration. She pulled one leg free and pushed down on the chair with it until her left leg also became free. Jo-Lynn pulled herself away and rolled onto her stomach, crawling forward on all fours, lifting her head and gulping in huge amounts of air, her mind was screaming obscenities. She turned around and sat up, her hands now pulling the last of the thick tape from her mouth and arms. She could barely take in enough air to her lungs. The water lapped around her shoulders, murky brown with a greenish hue. For the first time Jo-Lynn smelled the stagnant odour of it. The effort of her struggle had left her totally exhausted and for a moment she just sat there, trying to collect her strength and thought's.
The rat swam by looking for an island to inhabit in the water world. The sight of it no longer bothered Jo-Lynn; she was too tired to care, there was no sense of elation or freedom, she was still trapped. Jo-Lynn tried to stand, her legs unsure and weak beneath her body weight. A wave of nausea passed over her and for a moment she thought she was going to be sick. She crouched down, and then knelt in the water steadying herself with her hands pressed forward on the floor. She cast her gaze around her cell for the first time. Her chair was lying upturned in the water, its hind legs emerging through the water. Graffiti daubed the walls along with newspaper cuttings and Polaroid images. Another seat was in the centre of the room. Unoccupied. There was no sign of Rick or her son. The thought that she might have been left, abandoned, occupied her mind for a few seconds but she dismissed it. If that were what had happened, she reasoned to herself, then she would have to be more than resourceful to escape. A head filled with panic would not be helpful.
Thirty-Two
The hotel rooms in the Meridian Hotel were a cut above Georgina's dingy motel room. Slightly more than thirty bucks a night she thought to herself. She was apprehensive about meeting Korjca's sister. She had left Leroy back at the police station trying to run the photographs against a huge data bank. A fruitless job which both of them knew held no chance of success. Nobody seemed out of place at the funeral. In fact, there was only seven faces that Leroy did not know, most of the mourners coming from Rick's immediate circle of friends, colleagues and families. Of the seven, two were Korjca's sister and mother. Leaving just five faces. The five that Leroy was now trying to put names to through police and FBI records.
The bellboy asked Georgina which floor she would like.
She entered the lift.
‘Fourth floor, room 4072.’ She smiled at the youth dressed nattily in a dark suit and crisp white shirt with an immaculately tied black bow tie. His hair was sort and extremely neat, held in place with hair lacquer or gel. Georgina guessed the bellboy was in his late teens, probably his first job. The doors closed, and there was an embarrassing silence. There was neither sense of mot
ion in the lift nor any sound to betray its machination, only the red LED display silently changing between floors. 2...3...4... the doors opened.
‘4072 is right along the end of the corridor through the double doors, ma’am.’
Another dilemma. Does she tip? She chose not to, merely smiling and saying a feeble 'Thank you’ as she exited. She could feel the flush of embarrassment rise from her chest, up her neck and through the now reddened cheeks of her face. She hated servitude.
The plush deep pile carpets absorbed any sound her shoes would make. Modern art paintings adorned the walls at intermittent spaces, mostly collisions of colour, abstract. Georgina thought she could discern shapes or outlines but wondered if the paintings were nothing more than colourful Riechstat inkblots. She pushed the double doors and they opened with silent ease. Everything about the hotel seemed to be geared toward noise reduction or total silence.
4069. She was close; her sweating palms had converted to a nervous stomach. She wanted to know the diary's contents. Georgina felt that somewhere within the pages were the answers to questions that she has asked herself during the solitude of night and space. 4072. A deep breath, before knocking.
Turtle Island: 20th Anniversary Edition (Georgina O'Neil Book 1) Page 20