Eyewitness (Thriller/Legal Thriller - #5 The Witness Series) (The Witness Series #5) (16 page)

“She lives at the Oi house. Mr. Oi is getting more interesting by the minute.”

“Did you ever think it could have been the wife who set this up? Maybe she wanted to make sure he wasn’t getting anything on the side in his own house. Take that one out and put in the next one.” Wendy wiggled her fingers and Pete obliged. This time a younger girl appeared.

“I think that’s the girl I saw at the back of the Oi house. I just got a glimpse of her. Slow it down. Pull in tight on her face,” Mike ordered.

“What are you thinking? Sixteen?” Peter posed the question but got no answer.

“Pull it back,” Mike directed.

“Maybe younger,” Wendy suggested.

The girl was trying on lingerie that had been laid out on the bed. She was delighted, thrilled to be playing dress up.

“Maybe we should get Mrs. Oi in here for a chat.” Wendy said.

“No. Call Judge Jorgensen. Get a search warrant. Let’s not give her a chance to clean up the house.”

“You got it.” Wendy got up and they started for the door. Mike followed her. “What do you want it to cover?”

“The entire property. I want the garage, too, and access to all drawers, closets, everything including behind the walls. Oi had a wall safe at the office, so he might have the same at home.”

Mike and Wendy conferred as they made their way to the door.

“Hey! You guys want to take a look at the oldies but goodies?”

Wendy and Mike stopped. Peter held up the cassettes. Wendy shrugged. It was Mike’s call.

“Might as well,” he said.

The first was a video of Greg Oi talking to a group of men.

“That’s the factory,” Mike said. “Can you turn it up?”

Peter made some adjustments. He couldn’t get the sound up, but they could hear Greg Oi’s voice. It was a deep, manly baritone and he spoke forcefully. It surprised Mike considering how the man was dressed when he died.

“See if you can clean it up and get it translated, Peter,” Mike asked. “Anything will help.”

“You got it. Any idea what language that was?” Peter asked.

“Albanian,” Wendy answered.

“Like near Iraq?”

“Like near Serbia,” Wendy said.

The tech guy shrugged and Mike assumed that hadn’t enlightened him much, but he’d figure it out. He took out that cassette and put in the next one.

“Man, this is old,” Peter muttered. “Don’t know if we’ll get much. Look at the static. The tape’s really worn.”

“Keep it running,” Mike directed.

“It’s not going to do any good. Give me a while. Let me work with it. Maybe I can do some magic.” Just then the door opened. Peter looked over his shoulder. “Man, grand central tonight.”

The deputy at the door acknowledged Peter even while he spoke to Wendy. “Sterling, here’s the lab report you were waiting for.”

“See you later Peter.” She forgot about the tape as she walked into the hallway and turned to Mike. She gave him a playful poke in the chest with the report. “You are so going to owe me dinner, Mike.”

Mike took it. Read it. Read it again and took a deep breath.

“Damn.”

***

Hannah walked fast down Lomita Boulevard as she headed toward the hospital, cursing herself for taking the bus and not her car. It had been a while since she’d driven her Volkswagen and since she didn’t know if it was insured anymore she decided against driving. The last thing she needed was to get pulled over and have some cop hassle her. But the bus from Hermosa to Torrance had taken forever. It would take another forever to get back home before Josie got home. There was nothing to do about it now so Hannah hurried on.

She was almost at the edge of the hospital grounds when a car swerved toward the curb. Hannah kept walking; the car kept rolling. When it was ahead of her it stopped, and the passenger door was flung open. That’s when Hannah paused and really looked at it. She considered her options, realized she had none, and walked up to the Jeep. Josie sat behind the wheel, her eyes on the road but her command clearly directed at Hannah.

“Get in.”

Busted.

2005

Teuta’s husband listened as his wife told him what had happened in the building where their son played.

“He will stay home. He will not go to school,” her husband said.

Teuta remained silent. It was what she expected but not what she wanted. Her son should not have to live like that.

“But surely,”
Teuta said, “there is a way. He has done nothing. Reconciliation. We must ask for intervention.”

“There is no money,” her husband snapped.

“But you work. Certainly there is money for this,” she pleaded.

Teuta
’s husband did not argue with her though he was angry. He didn’t argue because he was afraid. Instead, he left the house. He went to have coffee. He would drink alone in the café. Who would he talk to about this shameful thing? Who would help them? What was there to be done but to close up the house? Left behind, Teuta sat at the table with her chin cradled in her upturned hand. She looked out the window of her apartment. There was nothing to see, nothing to be done.

“Nënë?”

Teuta looked up. Her oldest daughter was there as if by magic. Teuta had not even heard the door open and yet here she was. So beautiful. So lovely. So smart.

Teuta
sat back in her chair. A thought was coming to her. It was not a good one. It made her mother’s heart heavy. Yet, was it not the mother’s job to keep her children safe? Yes, Teuta thought as she looked at her daughter. That was a mother’s job.

“Sit with me,” she said, and the girl did.

Teuta began to talk and, as she talked, she saw through the girl’s eyes that she understood what she was being told. Teuta saw that her daughter was not fearful, and that was a good thing. So Teuta continued to talk until her husband returned. The family sat and ate their evening meal. Neither Teuta nor her older daughter spoke of what had passed between them.

2013

The silence inside the Jeep was deep and thick as Josie drove the short distance to the hospital. It exhausted her because it was bloated with bad feelings: anger, displeasure, and frustration. With all the trials that had tested her and Hannah, the saving grace was that none of the bad things had been a result of their own doing.

All that had changed when she saw the girl hoofing it down Lomita Boulevard. That kick in the gut Josie felt was a baptism of disappointment any parent would have had a hundred times over by the time their kid was sixteen. But Josie wasn’t a parent. What should have been a teachable moment instead felt decisive and not in a good way.

Josie pulled into the long drive that led toward the hospital garage and handed her keys to the valet. Hannah hesitated, but there was no getting around the situation. She had to follow. It wasn’t until they were waiting for the elevator that Josie looked at the girl. Hannah’s chin trembled, but there was no telling whether it was with the effort of keeping her own anger in line or because she was sorry she had disappointed the woman who had done so much for her. Josie stepped forward and pushed the button again.

What in the heck was she supposed to do? Put her arms around Hannah? Forgive her for disobeying? Chat her up, as if nothing had happened? She rejected the last option. Something had happened and it was big and important.

The elevator came. They stepped inside, turned in lockstep, and the door closed. Hannah didn’t even have the decency to stand behind Josie in shame. When they reached the second floor, Josie pointed to a sofa in the waiting room.

“Wait here. I don’t know how long this is going to take.”

“I want to go with you.” When Hannah made a move to follow, Josie turned on her. Hannah fell back but only half a step.

“Is there something you don’t understand about the word wait?” Josie growled.

“It was the first word I learned,” Hannah shot back.

“Good. Then it won’t be hard.”

Cruel as that sounded, Josie was tired of the board game Hannah pulled out when she didn’t like the roll of the dice. Josie got it. Hannah’s young life had been a tortured one, but it wasn’t anymore; Hannah had been neglected and abused, but she wasn’t now. Josie was her champion, Archer and Faye were her family. Burt and half the people in Hermosa were her friends. Josie was done pretending Hannah was an outsider. She pointed to the sofa and turned her back. She wasn’t more than half a dozen steps away when she pivoted and walked back to Hannah who still stood defiantly in the middle of the waiting room.

“Look, I’m not happy right now,” Josie said. “You blatantly disregarded the instructions I gave you this morning. I get why you did. I get why you did what you did to that girl in school. I understand that you want to do something to help Billy. You are afraid for him and feel impotent, but you’re not helping and there are consequences to your actions.”

A couple entered the room. They looked worried and tired. Josie took Hannah’s arm and moved her away as she lowered her voice.

“Do you want the school to expel you? Do you want the court asking whether or not I am fit to be your guardian? Do you want to get arrested for truancy? Is that what you want?”

Josie’s voice began to shake. Never, not even when she realized her mother was gone forever, had she given in to this kind of emotion. It embarrassed her. It was frightening to care so much about Hannah. Josie put up her hand. She did not want to tangle with her now, not in the state she was in.

“Don’t answer that. You know it was wrong to leave the house, so don’t act like you’re the aggrieved party.”

“But-”

“Stop. Don’t argue. Don’t debate. I wasn’t looking for a playmate when I became your guardian. I thought I had something to give you. If you don’t want it, then we can rethink this whole thing. Right now I would appreciate it if you could step up to the plate. Think before you act. Now sit down and wait. Right now this is about Billy, not you.”

Josie went through the double doors and past the one nurse at the desk. The woman looked as Josie passed and looked at her even longer than that.

***

Nothing had changed in Billy’s room. The bed nearest the door was still empty, the curtain still drawn around Billy’s bed, and yet Josie was overwhelmed with a sudden sense of foreboding. She touched the curtain but hesitated before drawing it back. Her shoulders slumped in relief when Billy looked her way and tried to smile.

“Hey, Ms. B.”

Billy Zuni was propped up in bed, the food on his tray picked at. She was at his side giving him a cautious hug a second later.

“I was so worried. We all were.”

“Thanks, Ms. B,” he whispered, hugging her with his good arm. Josie held him back and then let him go.

“How you doing?”

He shrugged. “Better than I was, I guess.”

“Has the doctor been in to talk to you? Do you know how long they’re going to have you here?”

“I’m not sure. They said my head was still bad. Pretty much everything hurts. They didn’t tell me much.”

“I’ll see what I can find out. Are you done with this?” she indicated the tray.

“I’m not real hungry.”

“That’s a good lunch. It looks like they want you to eat.” Billy’s eyes went to the window. Josie tried again as she moved the table away. “You know what? I’ll sneak you in a burger. Burt will fix one with all the trimmings.”

Billy nodded. That half smile was there again, but it was barely a shadow of the real thing.

“There were a whole lot of important people talking about you this morning, Billy.” Josie sat down, put her hand on his arm, and shook him a little. “Billy, you’ve got to pay attention to me. You need to know what’s going on. Please, Billy. Look at me.”

“I don’t want to know,” he whispered.

***

Archer never liked standing in the middle of a crime scene, but he hated standing in the middle of an abandoned crime scene even more. The yellow tape was gone, dusting residue was everywhere, furniture was left as it had been found, blood had dried, discoloring and cracking depending on the surface where it landed. Like the scent of a burned and ill-seasoned stew, you couldn’t specifically identify the mix of smells in a place like this, but when you breathed in you knew it wasn’t good.

To make matters worse, once the cops were done they were done. The victim, their family or friends, would have to clean up the mess. That wasn’t an easy task for someone left shell-shocked in the wake of a violent crime. There were services that would clean, scrub and steam a place as clean as it could get but that didn’t really change anything. Indoor crime scenes were always left scarred by the violence and the Zuni house was no exception.

He walked over to the front window and took a look at the flag that had been thumbtacked over the front window. At one time it had been bright red but the sun had faded it to an ombre of pink and coral. A frame of the original red could be seen where the wall blocked out the sun. In the middle, a black double-headed eagle was stamped onto the cheap fabric. One eagle head was missing a beak where the paint had flaked off. Archer took out his phone, snapped a picture and did a search although he didn’t need to. It was the flag of Albania and now he had two pieces of information about a country that meant nothing to anyone in Hermosa Beach until a few days ago.

Pocketing his phone, he worked the thumbtacks out of the right side of the flag, took the free corner and tucked it crosswise at the top of the window. The day was pretty, but not as brilliantly sunny as it had been the day before. The news said another storm was brewing down south, but Archer took that forecast with a grain of salt. Weather reports were nothing more than educated guesses based on flawed data, observations, old wives’ tales, and the pain in someone’s knees. He pushed open the ancient louvered panes that flanked the window. The house was just far enough from the beach and the louvers just narrow enough that airflow was almost nonexistent. Still, it was better than nothing.

Across the street a kid shot out of the driveway on a bike and disappeared down the street. Another house had the front door open but the screen door closed. Way down to the left a woman walked a dog. Life went on. The louvers were dusty, so Archer wiped his fingers on his pants as he looked at the sofa. The bloodstain looked like Australia now that it dried. The only thing new was the mail on the floor by the front door.

Archer ambled over and picked it up: mailers, flyers, an electric bill. He was about to toss it back onto the floor when a postcard caught his eye. It was a notice from Go Postal, the printer down on Hermosa Boulevard. Normally, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought except that it was addressed specifically to R. Zuni. Drop shipping went to resident not a specific person. He turned it over and saw a note scribbled on the back.

P.O. Box fee is due R.

Archer pocketed it. He would bring it to the hospital where Rosa Zuni lay in a coma. Technically, he wasn’t tampering with the mail if he did that. On his way, he might just swing by the place, pay what was due, and take a look at the contents of Rosa’s P.O. Box.

He walked back to the kitchen. There was nothing in it now. Greg Oi’s pink pump was packed away with his dress and stockings and held as evidence. Greg Oi was naked as a jaybird on a slab waiting for the coroner to get to him. The room looked bigger without Oi’s body sprawled on the floor.

Archer went up the stairs that still creaked. The spindle was still missing. The railing had been broken clear through when the paramedics hustled the stretcher to the ambulance. At the top of the stairs, Farrah was still smiling that toothy smile of hers, and her nipple was still erect and inviting. In the light of day, though, she looked a little world-weary.

On the landing, Archer poked into the boxes. They were filled with kitchen utensils, hardback books that smelled of mold, and clothes that even the Salvation Army wouldn’t want.

In Rosa’s room, the clothes on the floor and bed looked like they belonged to a doll they were so small. This time Archer got a good look at the blow-up of the naked people. It was just a big, cheap poster. In the background was a picture of a castle, in the foreground vines and flowers formed a frame. It wasn’t his idea of a romantic picture, but it sure wasn’t pornography. Rosa Zuni was starting to feel a lot less a monster.

Archer knew there was nothing good to see in the bathroom but he looked anyway. The blood had dried to a deep dark brown and the smears told the story of that night: Rosa fleeing her attackers, Archer cradling her, the paramedics trying to save her. He noted the marks on the wall but saw none on the doorjamb. She had been cornered in there. Hunkering down, Archer took a closer look at a shoe print. Billy had admitted to being in the house and seeing Rosa. Montoya said they had a shoe print, but if this was what he was talking about Archer couldn’t see it. Standing up, he checked the door. There was no lock but there were security bars on all the windows including the small one high up on the bathroom wall. Rosa Zuni was doomed from the start.

Except. . .

Archer narrowed his eyes as people do when they are trying to grab something flitting through their memory. It was gone as quickly as it had come and was replaced by a wish that he could see Montoya’s reports. It would be good to know if Rosa’s blood was on either of the corpses or theirs on her body.

In the bedroom, Archer paused at the desk and picked up the Albanian magazine. It was five years old. He’d like to know when Rosa Zuni landed in the U.S. He’d like to know when Greg Oi got here. He’d like to know about Billy’s birth. There was so much Archer would like to know about a country and people half a world away and it was time to get some answers.