Eyewitness (Thriller/Legal Thriller - #5 The Witness Series) (The Witness Series #5) (9 page)

She ripped open the screen door and Mike wondered how often ‘stuff like this’ happened to Mrs. Oi. He caught the door and it bounced against his palm.

“I’m not here to make judgments.”

“You better damn well not. You try to make me out to have something to do with any of this, and I swear I’ll sue your butt.”

“I’m just here to get some information that might help us find out who killed your husband and who-”

“And who pulled that little stunt at the office last night?” Kat’s voice rose
. She had ratcheted it up as she hit the bar before Mike made it through the breakfast room. When he joined her, she was still talking. “I heard about it. I went down to see it myself, but they wouldn’t let me in. You tell those guys who won’t let me in that I need some personal things.”

“If you tell me what it is, I’ll find out if it can be released,” Mike suggested.

Kat lifted a heavy decanter. She paused. “No, I want to get it myself.”

“Did you see the office?”

“No. I just told you the cops wouldn’t let me in. Which is just ridiculous. It was just vandals. Those idiots who worked for him did it. That’s a no-brainer. It’s been nothing but misery since they decided to strike.”

“My office is working with the Torrance PD. It may be some time before we’ll be able to release anything to you.”

Mike moved easily around the room until he could see Kat’s profile. She was petite, pretty, and had probably been stunning not too many years earlier. But the Southern California sun had taken its toll. Now that her face was screwed up into a ball of frustration and displeasure, her attractiveness was questionable.

Kat poured two fingers of Scotch into a heavy glass, led Mike out of the game room, and plopped herself on the zebra striped sofa in the living room. She crossed one ankle over the opposite knee. He thanked God for small favors. Kat’s skirt was flared and the thong was covered. She took a swig of her drink and then spread her arms over the back of the sofa while he settled in an armchair. Mike crossed his legs, uncrossed them, and then crossed them once more. The chair had looked inviting, but it was stiff and unforgiving. The horsehair upholstery was bizarrely soft and prickly at the same time. It was an ignominious end for a majestic creature.

“I’d like to know about your husband,” he began.

“Greg was a good guy. You can put that down on paper. I thought he was a good guy.” Sincerity slid across those icy words without gaining traction.

“How long were you married?” Mike poised a pen over his notebook.

“We were together four years.” She took another drink and caressed the couch as if indicating that everything in this kingdom did, indeed, belong to her now that the king was dead.

“That’s a long time,” Mike noted.

“Ho-oh.” Kat’s foot fell off her knee, the hand holding the drink pointed straight at him. “You think I’m going to give you a woe-is-me shtick? Forget it. I’m not saying I was perfectly fine with things. You take the good and the bad. I know how you found him. You think it’s easy living with someone who wants to look like your sister? Look at me. I’m a size two, and Greg was a big man. He kept trying to get into my clothes. I told him to buy his own, but he said he liked being close to me. Like that’s why he wanted to wear my clothes. Bullshit. I just had better taste than he did.”

She snorted, downed her drink, smacked the glass on the coffee table, and sat back again.

“He liked being close, alright. He would have lived in my skin if he could.”

“So it upset you that he was cross dressing?”

“No. Everybody has quirks.” She eyed Mike. “Well, maybe not you, but Greg did. I do. I’m picky about stuff. I’m impatient. We all have our little flaws, so I wasn’t upset with him. I am surprised he was doing it in public. I thought it was kind of something between us.”

Kat Oi reflected for a moment. Mike was always surprised at what people held dear. She shook off the fleeting sentimentality and cut her eyes his way.

“Nobody’s going to find out are they? I mean you’re not going to tell the papers or anything. I’d be the laughing stock, and I was just finally getting some respect around here. Not to mention what it would do to Greg’s reputation. Reputation is very big in his business. He does a lot of work overseas. Those folks aren’t as broadminded as we are here.”

“We keep some things back to help us in our investigation.” Mike saw no point in telling her that if this went to trial the way Greg Oi was dressed at the time of his death would be front and center. “Do you know of anyone who would want your husband dead?”

“Well not me, for God sake,” Kat barked.

“Anyone you can think of beside you,” he suggested. “Did he socialize with others who enjoyed his lifestyle?”

“I never met any of them if he did,” she answered.

“Did he frequent bars? Do you know if he tried to pick up men?”

Kat wrinkled her nose, “You’ve got to be kidding
. He couldn’t have fooled anyone that he was a woman.”

“He may not have been trying to, but he might have picked up the wrong person.”

“He never said anything. I never saw anyone hanging around. Greg was pretty predictable. He didn’t go out much. Oh, except to his association.”

“Do you know how I can contact this association?”

She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. “No. They were just guys who came over here from the same country he was from.”

“Where was he from, Mrs. Oi?”

“Albania,” she answered. “It’s like in Eastern Europe.”

“How long had he been in the United States?”

“Twenty plus, but you’d think he got here yesterday. It was always ‘home this’ and ‘Albania’ that. If Albania was so great, why’d he ever leave? Anyway, I never expected him to explain anything. He was a big boy.”

“Was Mr. Oi straight?” Mike probed.

Kat looked directly back. “Exceptionally.”

“Do you know anything about his business problems?” Mike went through his checklist.

“There were always problems with the business. If it’s not our government, then it’s those people he deals with overseas, or someone complaining about a shipment, or some employee going berserk.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Ask his lawyer. Ask Dan Jenkins at Marshall Fasteners,” she muttered, only to change her mind when she looked at Mike’s impassive expression. “Okay. Look. Sorry. I’m not trying to make this harder. I want to know who killed him, too. The only thing I can tell you is that the new contract negotiations were bad. Greg wasn’t used to not getting his own way. He thought the unions should be grateful for the concessions he already made. He dug in and the brothers didn’t like it. Greg thought men should be grateful just to work. He said men in this country didn’t know how lucky they were.”

Kat paused. She put her fist to her mouth and raised her eyes to the high ceiling. She looked back at Mike and it seemed there were tears in her eyes. But it only seemed that way.

“I didn’t think anything of it, but two men came here a couple nights ago. I don’t even know how they got past the gate. I’ll sue the whole damn homeowners association if the guard was drunk or something.”

“Do you have a name?”

She scoffed. “The guard? Hell, no.”

“I’m sorry,” Mike corrected. “The men who came here. Did you know them?”

“No, I’ve never seen the older one before. There was a younger guy with him. Greg didn’t let them in. He seemed really mad.” She waved a hand and the huge yellow diamond she wore nearly blinded him. Mike added generous to Greg Oi’s resume as his wife collected her thoughts. “No, that’s not right. I’ve seen Greg mad. He had a hell of a temper. When these guys showed up he seemed upset and surprised. Really upset. He even seemed a little scared. I didn’t think anything could scare Greg.”

“Could you hear what they were saying?”

“No. They weren’t here long. Greg hollered something at them and slammed the door. That wasn’t like him at all. He played hardball. He was pretty harsh when it came to business. More cold. He didn’t yell, he just figured out how to win and did it. But these two upset him. He went in his den when they left. I don’t even know where he slept that night or if he did.”

Kat Oi’s voice had fallen to a whisper. There was a slight tremor in her cheek. It took a minute for Mike to realize she wasn’t reacting to a sense of guilt that she hadn’t helped her husband. Kat Oi had been afraid, too.

“Where were you when he was talking to these men?” Mike asked.

She indicated a space near the wide doorway. “I was over there. They couldn’t see me. We were shooting pool, having a drink, and he told me to stand there to be safe. Where he grew up, someone coming to your door at night could mean a friend or someone ready to blow your head off.”

“Was your husband armed?”

Mike saw the word ‘no’ forming on her lips but then Kat took the high road.

“He has a gun.”

“May I see it,” Mike asked.

“It won’t be here. He had a carry permit. It was legal.”

“Would you mind looking? No weapon was inventoried at the scene.”

Kat rolled her eyes and got up off the couch like it was a chore. She walked out of the room, was gone longer than he thought she should be, and when she sauntered back in she said:

“It’s not here. Maybe it’s in his office or did you look in the car?”

“It’s not there.” Mike answered. “I’ll check his office.”

“When can I get the car back?” She plopped herself back on the sofa.

“They should be done with it today or tomorrow. My associate will call.” Mike smiled. Kat did not. “Perhaps we could get back to the night you had the visitors?”

“There isn’t much more to tell. Greg checked the security camera but the men were standing too close so he didn’t get a good look. He opened it anyway, and he must have been surprised because he raised his voice right away. By the time I got to a place where I could see, he had kind of dropped back. The other man was yelling.”

“Would you recognize those men if you saw them again?”

“Yeah.” Kat picked up her glass, raised it, realized it was empty and put it back on the table. “The young one works at Marshall. Big union guy with a big mouth.”

Mike took three photographs out of his jacket pocket and showed her a picture of Jak Duka.

“No. Not him,” she said. “But he’s been here off and on the last couple of months.”

Mike made notes and went on smoothly. “When did these other men come here?”

“Day before yesterday.” Kat fiddled with her skirt.

“Do you think they came here on union business?”

“I don’t know. Greg had his fingers in a zillion pies,” she sniffed. She added: “And now it looks like he had ‘em in a honey pot, too.”

Mike shuffled the photos and showed her a picture of Rosa Zuni taken at the hospital. Mike found it hard to look at; Kat Oi did not. Finally, she shook back her hair.

“The little slut doesn
’t look so good now, does she?”

1997

Teuta
’s husband looked to his left and then to his right. He looked ahead and he looked behind. He looked to see if others were afraid as he was, but all he saw were angry people calling out in strong voices, raising their fists. He took courage and raised his fist, too. People wanted to tear down the government and tear apart the politicians and bankers and businessmen who had lied to them.

All these years since freedom the people had worked hard. They made money. The government said to invest the money they worked hard for. Every citizen, they said, would be rich. Money made money. They rejoiced – until now. Now all of the country starved because of the game that had been played. A pyramid. A Ponzi. He knew of no such things! He only knew his money was gone and he was a poor man.

So Teuta’s husband marched on the palace with others. He wanted to see the president hang from the balcony of his grand house. Someone must pay and all he had left – all any of the good people had left – were their fists, and their anger, and their fear. Even in the times of their fathers there had been no more desperate times than these.

What was he to do? How would he feed his children?

Teuta’s husband raised his fist higher and marched with his countrymen.

2013

When Josie was young, her mother would open the door to her bedroom Sunday morning and say, “Church”. Like every other kid on the base, Josie got out of bed without complaint. She dressed in her blouse with the ruffle running down the front, her pleated skirt, and her patent leather shoes. Her mother wore a lace dress and kittened heeled shoes; her father wore his uniform. In the chapel Josie’s mother looked at the altar, her father bowed his head, and Josie’s eyes were trained on her parents’ entwined fingers.

She never knew if they were true believers or simply following protocol. What mattered was that they were all together. After her mother disappeared, Josie’s father never went to church again. Instead, Mrs. O’Connor, a well-meaning officer’s wife, swept Josie up, determined to save the poor little half-orphan’s soul.

Josie didn’t resist Mrs. O’Connor’s advances, and her father made no protest. Josie was convinced that if she bowed her head lower, and clasped her hands tighter, and prayed harder, her mother would come back. But each time she raised her head, she was sitting next to Mrs. O’Connor who poured her size fourteen body into size ten clothes and was not a natural redhead.

Josie resigned from the O’Connor clan and spent Sundays with her father, watching football and frying burgers. They said more in two sentences than Mrs. O’Connor would in a lifetime of yapping. At the end of the day her father would say:

“Now, that’s how God expects man to rest.”

Josie would respond: “Yep.”

They would fall silent until one of them turned on the TV. It was too hard to sit in the quiet house with the ghost of her mother between them. Josie returned to Torrance Memorial Hospital knowing this visit would be as hard for Billy as Sundays had been for her. There was a mother’s ghost hovering in room 217 with Billy Zuni. There was a mother’s ghost dodging Hannah.

Josie was getting damned tired of all of them.

***

Hannah walked down the hall holding her books tight so she wouldn’t stop and touch every doorway. Her obsessions and compulsions had resurfaced with a vengeance in the last forty-eight hours. Hannah believed nothing could freak her out the way the mountains had, but she was wrong. What happened two nights ago had been beyond nightmarish. Hannah wished she had never followed Josie to the beach. She wished the memory of Billy’s near lifeless hand in hers would go away. She was plagued by the image of Josie growing smaller in the distance until she disappeared altogether.

Hannah was shivering, wishing there was some way to stop this sick feeling, wishing Josie hadn’t made her go to school, when someone ran into her. Before she got her bearings, it happened again. Her eyes snapped up in time to see two boys in varsity jackets smirking at her. She glared and that only gave them greater satisfaction. They grinned at one another and laughed. Other kids saw what was going on and high-fived the two as they moved on.

“Douches,” Hannah muttered and kept going.

School was not easy for Hannah. She had never been in one long enough to make friends, she questioned teachers who didn’t want to be challenged, and, in Hermosa, she was hobbled by her notoriety. Teenagers were quick to label one another and Hannah was labeled stuck-up because she didn’t fall easily into the culture. They labeled Billy Zuni a retard for his constant good nature and loyalty to her. Everyone thought she hated Billy, but she didn’t. He had never treated her like a criminal and she was grateful for that. Still, Hannah couldn’t let him get too close just in case something happened and he went away.

Now something had happened, and Hannah almost exploded with the need to comfort herself. A touch at a doorway would help; a razor blade on her arm would be best.

When she got to her locker she fell upon it, rested her head against the cold metal and thrummed her fingers against it. She counted softly, stood upright and twirled the lock.

“Damn.” Her hands shook so badly she couldn’t get the combination right. Hannah paused and breathed deeply. One finger tapped. She concentrated.

One…

Three…

Five….

Ten...

Hannah’s head hurt. She didn’t want to be in school. She wanted to be at the hospital. She wanted to tell Billy she was sorry if she had ever hurt him.

“Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. . .”

Hannah froze. Her head clicked up, her eyes narrowed as she stared at the metal locker. She knew that voice.

“Shut up, Tiffany.”

Forcing her fingers to quiet, she twirled the lock and tried to ignore the girl behind her. Tiffany sidestepped into Hannah’s line of sight, all five-foot six of her clad in her perfect leggings and gladiator sandals. Her hair was long and her make-up heavy. Her mouth twisted cruelly around every word that came out of it.

“Oh, come on. I’ll help you count. It will be fun,” Tiffany mocked. “Then we can go around touching all the doors.”

Hannah yanked open her locker. From the beginning, the coolest of the cool girls had decided it was her job to make Hannah miserable. She executed that charge with relish, especially after she figured out Hannah wouldn’t fight back. It wasn’t so much that Tiffany disliked Hannah as she did like torturing people.

“Oh, you don’t want to play the counting game?” Tiffany cooed. “Maybe you want to go for a swim like your boyfriend did.”

She moved again, this time scooting up close to Hannah. Tiffany’s little posse hung back, a zygote of bad girls waiting for their cells to split so they could grow into real bitches like Tiffany. Hannah knew that would never happen. Those girls would always be tethered to the blonde by that bizarre umbilical cord of communal self-loathing that passed for friendship. Tiffany’s fingers wound around the edge of the locker. She leaned closer to Hannah, tired of not being the center of attention. Hannah slid her eyes toward that hand as she listened to Tiffany’s ugly voice.

“I never understood why you let that loser hang out with you. You’re pretty in a weird sort of way. You’re smarter than Billy Zuni,” Tiffany drawled. “Then again, anyone is smarter than Billy Zuni.”

Tiffany raised her voice and her pretty kohl encrusted eyes at the same time. Her friends giggled on cue. Satisfied that she had been amusing, she looked back at Hannah and leaned closer still. She was so excited by this little game that her knuckles were white as she grasped the edge of the locker. She licked her lips as if what to come was going to be absolutely delicious.

“I mean only an idiot couldn’t kill themselves. Then again, you’re not too good at that either. You’re supposed to cut your wrist, Hannah, not your arm. Next time you two should try it together. Two heads are better than one. Maybe you’ll get it right ‘cause nobody would miss two losers like you.”

Slowly, Hannah turned and looked the vile girl in the face: the one who had draped herself across the locker, who had decided that it was funny to wish people dead, who had probably wasted countless hours since Billy’s ordeal talking about him to anyone who would listen. Hannah touched the locker door.

Once. . .

Twice. . .

Tiffany rolled her eyes.

“Oh God, here we go again. I know, twenty. Want me to help you count. Shall we all help her count, girls?”

Tiffany raised her voice and her friends joined in.

“Six. Seven-”

Tiffany smiled. Hannah didn’t want to look at that smile for the count of twenty. In fact, Hannah didn’t want to look at Tiffany one second longer.

Without a word, she slammed the locker shut.

***

If Billy were a fish, he would have been a Bonita. In its natural habitat, the Bonita is exquisite: rainbow hued, bright eyed, and swift. Catch one, reel it in, take it out of the water, expose it to the air and that beauty fades instantly: its scales turn to the color of an overcast sky, the light in the eyes fades. Its death throes are pitiful, useless movements that attest to both the strength of the fish’s desire to live and the inevitable futility of the fight.

Just when you take pity, just when you realize that something beautiful is about to be snuffed out and you are ready to put it back in the water, someone on the boat clubs the thing over the head and the beautiful Bonita dies.

Here was Billy Zuni, his beach boy brilliance dimmed, his face pale, swollen, and discolored. His eyes were unfocused, and his attempts to make himself comfortable on the narrow hospital bed were pointless. If the club was coming to this little fish, the people wielding it were going to take their sweet time using it. For that, Josie was grateful because it meant they wanted to be sure of the catch before they reeled it in. Poor Billy. There was so much resting on his shoulders and he didn’t even know it yet.

“Hey.” Josie greeted him quietly as she stood at the foot of the bed. His good eye opened as far as it could. It took a Herculean strength for him to speak.

“Is my mom okay?”

“Rosa’s in bad shape.” Josie walked around the bed, bringing a chair with her. She set it next to him and sat down.

“She’s going to be okay, right?”

“I’m talking about Rosa, Billy.”

“I know.” He licked his dry, cracked lips. “Rosa’s my mom.”

“Billy, I’ve seen her. How can she be your mother?” Josie insisted, but he wasn’t engaged.

“I hurt.” His head moved side to side on the pillow, his legs pushed at some unseen obstacle, his hands clutched at the sheets.

Josie’s eyed the whiteboard. His morphine drip was current. She put a hand on his brow.

“I’ll ask them to check your medicine again,” she soothed. “Billy, listen to me. Are you listening?”

His eyelids fluttered and then the one eye opened again. Josie took her best shot.

“Two men were murdered in your house. Rosa was almost killed. You were in your house, weren’t you? You saw them didn’t you?”

Billy’s purple-bruised face turned toward her. His lips were swollen and misshapen, his voice ghastly as he whispered:

“I thought she was dead.”

“Did you do that to her? Billy? I told the police I am your attorney, so don’t be afraid.”

He shook his head and she could see it hurt him to do so. Under the eye that was swollen shut, a necklace of tears gathered at his lashes. A sob turned to a moan as the muscles and nerves inside his body rebelled.

“I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t.”

The words came out chopped up like a log. Josie found a tissue and dabbed at his tears. He tried to help her, but his arm was heavy in the cast, the morphine had left him uncoordinated and confused. He mumbled that he couldn’t have done that to Rosa. Josie, though, needed facts, not disjointed protestations.

“Did you see it happen?” she persisted.

Again a shake of the head and a stutter of sobs.

“Was there a gun in your house?” Josie pressed.

“No.”

Billy’s eyelids fluttered, half opening and closing again. His lips moved but no words came out. Josie sat back. She wasn’t asking the right questions and even if she did, Billy had a limited capacity to understand and answer. After a moment’s thought, she leaned forward again.

“Billy, did you know the men who were with your mom?” He sighed and stayed silent, frustrating Josie. She tried again. “Were there other people in the house?”

Billy nodded. He choked. “I hurt.”

She took a deep breath, put her forehead on the metal bed railing, reached through the bars, and took hold of his arm. She shook it gently.

“Archer and I need you to help us. Come on. Just a little more.”

Josie tried to temper the urgency she felt. When Billy licked his lips again, she found his water cup and put the straw to his lips. He drank, coughed, and nodded as if giving her permission to continue.

“Where were you earlier that night? The night of the storm?”

“Pier.”

“Were you alone?”

He shook his head. “Adam and Cher.”