Lost Witness Read online

  "Quaransette.”

  He called out the number as he ran, hopped, and skipped in the maze of metal.

  "Quaransette!"

  He called out the number as if expecting the number to call back to him.

  I am here. It is a joke on you, Bianchi.

  That is what number forty-seven would say, but the container did not call out, and Adeano knew this was no joke.

  Rosie Rosalis had one more cigarette before she tackled the last few containers. Her eyes felt like sandpaper. She yawned, took the walkie-talkie off her belt, and turned it on.

  "Henry? Henry, pick up."

  She released the button and waited for Henry to come back at her. Instead she heard someone from the nightshift. Rosie hadn't been on this schedule long enough to know them all, but it sounded like a sister.

  "Henry's gone. Whatcha need?"

  "Nothing. Thanks."

  Rosie didn't bother to identify herself or sign off, and she was too tired to be mad at Henry. Still, her question was answered. No way Henry could have made it through his stacks before he went home, so that gave Rosie implied permission to do the same. Her shift was up in eight minutes. She would do one more, sign it off, and leave. If Henry even looked at her crossways tomorrow, she'd take it up with the union. There was always supposed to be a supervisor on call, but Henry it seemed had gone on home to his cushy little bed that he shared with his darling second wife.

  Rosie clipped the receiver to her belt, pulled the chain through the handles on the container, yanked on the heavy metal door, and swung it wide. When that was done, she palmed her flashlight in one hand, the box cutter in the other, and pulled herself into the container. It was darn cold inside and nearly empty. This was going to be a piece of cake. She walked the length, letting her light play over the stack of boxes at the other end of the box. There couldn't be more than thirty of them. Yep, thirty boxes and something she hadn't expected.

  A stowaway. Just what she needed. Some idiot had spent the last who-knew- how-many-days holed up in the box to get to the Promised Land. He was going to have a rude awakening because times had changed; he would be given a cup of coffee, a donut and sent right back to where he'd come from. If her eye was as good as she thought, this guy would be heading back to the Philippines considering he was wearing a barong, one of those embroidered shirts Filipinos favored. What a fool.

  "Hey, up and at 'em."

  Rosie stomped on the metal floor. It gave like an arthritic trampoline and sounded like rolling thunder. Still the guy didn't move.

  “Damn it," Rosie muttered.

  She put the flashlight down, opened the box cutter just in case, and engaged the walkie-talkie once more.

  "Hey, this is Rosalis. Call immigration. I got a stowaway in one of the containers. Yeah. Yeah. Just one."

  Rosie walked on cautiously; the walkie-talkie was still hot, so the person on the other end could hear just in case there was trouble.

  "Hey! Hey! Up and at 'em, my friend," she called once more.

  Giving him wide berth, expecting him to spring up at any moment, she circled until she could see his face. She inched over another few steps and one more for good measure, tipped her head and then it dawned on her: she was looking at his face or what was left of it. Then there was the arm neatly tucked into his midsection. The hand was pointing toward his groin. That wouldn't have been so bad except it wasn't attached to his shoulder. The man had been wrapped around the arm, pushed into the fetal position.

  Rosie backed up fast and hit the wall. She pinged off it, distanced herself, and grabbed up her flashlight as she did so. Her hands were shaking. It wasn't that she hadn't come upon a few dead things in these containers in her time, but this was something new altogether. She put the walkie-talkie up to her lips. Her mouth was dry, but once she got it going there was no stopping her.

  "Rosalis here. Hey. Hey. Yeah, Rosalis. Nix on Immigration. Send security. We got a stiff in a couple pieces. No, I'm good. I'll wait for them."

  Backing all the way to the door, Rosie turned only when she sensed the rim of the container behind her. She jumped onto the ground, leaving the flashlight inside, pointing inward to illuminate the body. When that was done, she fished a cigarette out of her breast pocket and lit it. Smoking on the job was a definite no-no especially in a big box, but so was tearing someone to shreds and leaving them in a heap inside one of those things.

  Just as she speed dialed her mother, Rosie saw the lights of security and behind those were the headlights of the coroner's van. She spoke into the phone as she stepped out to wave them down.

  "Yeah, mom. Sorry to wake you. I'm going to be late." Rosie listened as her mother gave her what for, but when the van swerved in and stopped Rosie cut her off. "Yeah, that's right. I'm with a man, so don't wait up."

  16

  Day 2 @ 2:30 A.M

  Hannah sat in a dark room the size of a hangar staring at butterflies colored like a psychedelic rainbow. Each had the wingspan of a small plane. They circled around a flower that looked like a black buttercup on steroids. She could see the bottom of the butterflies' wings and the poetry etched into the meta—

  "Hannah?"

  Her name drifted through the enormous room, and by the time the sound got to her it was so soft it seemed as if Jamal had whispered it in his sleep. She looked up, stretching out her bare legs, putting her hands back on the wooden ledge on which she sat. He walked the length of the gallery; his black skin shimmering in the city light filtering through the two story windows of the old factory-turned-artist residence. When he got to her, Jamal put the heels of his hands on the window ledge and hoisted himself up to sit beside her. His chest was bare, but he had pulled on the mud cloth pants he favored. Hannah smiled. So did Jamal when she put her hand atop his.

  "You shouldn't be up," she said.

  "It gets lonely in there without you," he answered.

  Hannah stayed silent. She kept her eyes down and considered their hands. Her skin was the color of chocolate, his black as coal; his hands were wide, hers were delicately narrow. She hadn't noticed how different they were and now it seemed critical that she find something the same about them; something that would assure her that they were so alike they were meant to be together.

  "Our fingers are the same," she said. "So long."

  "Artist's hands. But yours are magical. Mine?" He sighed and held up the hand she was not touching and shook his head in mock dismay. "My fingertips are too broad. They look like someone hammered on them. A gift from my ancestors, I guess. Hunters who wrestled the lions in the jungle. Or maybe somebody got stomped by an elephant and it screwed up the family genes forever."

  Hannah cuffed him, shoulder to shoulder. "You're from Minnesota."

  "Hey, there's got to be some explanation for these ugly fingers." He laughed quietly, gently.

  "You have big hands because you create big art." Hannah looked at the massive sculpture. "It's so beautiful. Maybe the best you've ever done."

  Jamal tipped his head, his dreads falling over one shoulder then the other as he took measure of his work. He slid off the window ledge and walked around the massive structure, his hand running around the base as he went. That was all it had been when Hannah showed up in answer to his ad for an assistant. He hadn't expected a girl fresh out of high school, nor did he realize that's what she was right away. Jamal was taken aback by her beauty, and impressed by her poise and maturity. Mostly he had been intrigued by the mystery of her. Over the last two years he had learned a lot about Hannah and one of the things he learned was that he would never know everything.

  What he did know was that she lived in Hermosa Beach - a surprise for sure. He knew she graduated from the arts magnet in Los Angeles with top grades. He knew that she was taking a gap year to figure out if college was for her and to earn some money. The gap year had turned into three. Her insistence that she needed money gave him pause because he knew expensive clothes when he saw them. He knew the gold rings in her piercings were
the real deal and her tats were beautifully executed. That kind of ink didn't come cheap, so money was coming from somewhere. Still, Hannah was insistent that she needed to make her own way and made no apologies for it. He hired her on the spot.

  They worked together for months before Hannah told him her story. When she did, there was not a trace of self-pity. She had endured what she had endured, and had been saved by an extraordinary woman who Jamal had met only twice. Jamal believed the boy who had loved Hannah was dead. He knew that Archer was as good to her as any father would be. Jamal admired Hannah's desire to stand on her own two feet and to pay Josie Bates back for all she had done. He also knew Josie Bates wouldn't expect anything. It was clear that Hannah belonged to a family, one she was protective of and one Jamal would be introduced to in earnest in Hannah's own good time.

  While Jamal fell in love with her - and, he believed, she with him - he also understood that there was an empty space that her friend, Billy, had once filled. The memory of Billy was like a wound that never healed and was easily inflamed. Now Billy was back and Hannah was here. That must count for something. Jamal hoped that counted for a lot.

  "You don't look too happy," Hannah said.

  Jamal turned toward her. He had never seen a more beautiful sight than Hannah bathed in the city light streaming through the dirty windows of the old factory. He wanted to tell her that she had made him incredibly happy, and that now he was sad because he felt her moving away even if she didn't know it. Instead he said:

  "I'm not sure I was right about these colors. I think I should have gone dark. Monotone." He turned slowly under the statue, looking at each butterfly in turn. "And the poetry. Why didn't you stop me, Hannah? It's so pretentious."

  He crossed his arms over his bare chest. His black skin glimmered almost blue where the muscles rippled and made shadows. He was a beautiful man and not because he was handsome - which he was - and not because he was talented - which he was - but because kindness radiated from him. That didn't negate his strength. In fact, Hannah thought he was stronger for his compassion and his artist's heart.

  The years of tolerance for the men her mother latched onto, the men who tried to ruin her childhood, made Hannah wary of the opposite sex until she met Jamal. He was strong in all the ways a man should be. There was, of course, Billy who had grown into his strength when Hannah was at her weakest. But Billy was from her childhood. Jamal? He was her passage to womanhood. He was a human being so unique that he created peace by simply being in the world. And yet Billy was near and he needed her. But with Billy, havoc and danger followed. When she realized Jamal was waiting for an answer, she said:

  "It's not my art. I would never tell you what to do with yours."

  "No, I suppose you wouldn't," he said.

  "But I'll tell you what I think." Hannah tilted her head, narrowed her eyes and gave him her honest critique. "I think the colors make it accessible. When the sunlight hits this thing it will send prisms of color into the buildings around it. Not a blinding light, but a beautiful one. Maybe someone will need to see some color at just that minute." She smiled at him. "Anybody could have made them gold and black or yellow. Anyone can be literal."

  "And the poetry?"

  "You took long enough choosing it, so it means something to you." Hannah slid off the ledge and joined him. She put her hands on his waist; he rested his arms on her shoulders. "Most people won't read the words, but it's like a message tied to a balloon or put in a bottle. All you need is one curious person to appreciate one poem. If that doesn't happen, then the words are still valuable because you chose them."

  Jamal pulled her close. He kissed her hair and then held her away.

  "And why are you up looking at it now? Is it the poetry?"

  She shook her head. "No, I just wanted to look at something beautiful and I couldn't see you in the dark."

  "And you're worried about Billy."

  She slipped out of his arms and wandered around the circumference of the metal structure. Hannah lifted her hands as if to touch one of the butterflies even though she would have to stand on the shoulders of five men to do that. When she dropped her arms and spoke, she sounded exhausted.

  "Josie will take care of Billy," she said.

  "And when she straightens everything out? Then what?"

  Hannah fingered the collar of the shirt she wore. It was Jamal's big work shirt, stiff with dried paint in places and in others softly worn. She had thrown it on in the dark and buttoned it askew. That shirt made her seem childlike, but the look in her eyes was ancient. Jamal knew about Fritz Rayburn's sadism, about her mother's betrayal, about being dragged from place to place to live with men who would have abused her if she hadn't been a wary soul of her own making. Hannah told him about Alaska just that night and it took everything he had not to fall at her feet and cry for what she had gone through. If Jamal hadn't loved her before, he surely loved her now. And now there was this: the challenge of history.

  "Then what?" Jamal asked. "When Josie takes care of this."

  "Then what?" Hannah murmured as she ran her hand along the mosaic base of the sculpture. "I don't know. I guess it depends on the woman on the ship."

  "The one the captain says doesn't exist?" Jamal asked.

  "She does," Hannah said. "Billy wouldn't fight that hard for nothing. I know because he fought that hard for me."

  "People change, Hannah. Things happen. You don't know what he's been through."

  She shook her head. "It doesn't matter what happened to him. He's already been to hell and back. There couldn't be anything worse. He's still the same."

  "Hannah. You don't know —"

  "No. No." Hannah snapped off her words. "Don't tell me he's different. He's not. He's older, that's all."

  "And so are you. And he has a woman."

  "That's not what he said. He said there is a woman on that ship," Hannah insisted.

  "And you have me. Come on." He put out his hand. "Come to bed, Hannah, just a while longer. It's so early. I'll hold you. You'll sleep."

  Hannah hesitated. She didn't know what she wanted. She didn't know what Billy wanted. He looked different, but he sounded the same. He was harder and scarred, yet he crumbled into tears at the sight of her. Jamal's embrace was what she needed, but now the comfort she took from him seemed a betrayal. Her shoulders sagged. Her green eyes were moist with unshed tears.

  "I don't know what I'm supposed to be to him, Jamal. There's nothing I can give him. I don't know how I can help." She turned away. "I don't know what we ever were to each other except important."

  Jamal was on her in a second, turning her toward him, gathering her to him, but Hannah shook him off, retreating further into the shadows of the huge space.

  "Leave me alone, Jamal. I have to figure it out on my own."

  "No, not alone," he said. "Please, let me help."

  He followed her, unwilling to let her go so easily, confused by her insistence that he keep his distance. When she was backed into the corner he took her hands, wanting nothing more than to lead her to a place where she could rest.

  "Don't."

  Hannah pulled her hands back and as she did so the sleeves of that big shirt fell away. The outside light spilled over her arms, and Jamal saw what she didn't want him to see.

  Hannah was bleeding where her nails had scratched across the scars on her arms. She looked down. Her long hair hid her face, and Jamal knew she was ashamed. He also knew she shouldn't be.

  Without a word, he led her to the sink and washed away the blood. He dried her arm. When that was done, Jamal unbuttoned the shirt she wore and then buttoned it up properly, took her hand, and kissed her fingertips. She fell against him. His arm went around her shoulders; hers went around his waist. Together they went back to the place he called a bedroom. In reality it was nothing more than space behind a temporary wall that shielded his bed from the workroom. Jamal helped her to bed and pulled the covers over her. He ran a hand over her forehead, softly, like the touch of a
butterfly's wing.

  "I'll wake you in a few hours. You'll go home and do what you need to do. You, and Josie, and Archer can take care of Billy, but now I will take care of you."

  Jamal's voice became softer and softer, until Hannah drifted away. When she was asleep, he went back to the studio and looked at the sculpture. It no longer looked like a joyous celebration of beauty and freedom. It seemed as if the butterflies were trying to fly away only to discover that they were tethered to a world not of their own choosing; a world he had created.

  17

  Day 2 @ 3:30 A.M

  Gregor Andreeve had been sound asleep when he was called back to the office to interview Rosie Rosalis - a sharp tack if there ever was one. He waited for her to finish writing her report, asked her if she was all right and then sent her home. Andreeve fielded a phone call from the LAPD informing him that the coroner had taken fingerprints from the body, and had also provided an approximate time of death, which, in reality, was only a wild guess. The best the coroner could do was give a twenty-four hour time frame because the container, while not freezing, had been cool enough to create a wide margin of error. Further testing would be needed. That was fine with Gregor, all he really wanted to know was if there was any way to identify the man in the container. The LAPD advised that, so far, they did not have him in their database, but they would send his prints on to immigration and Homeland Security. Gregor, an old hand when it came to port business of a surprising nature, made the necessary phone calls. Those he spoke with passed the information up the line in the chain of command in their various agencies. While he waited for everyone to gather, Gregor Andreeve passed the time making sure he had dotted his 'I's and crossed his 'T's on his own report.