Forgotten Witness (8 page)

“Yeah. I’m going to pick him up and head on over to the house.”-
Archer

“I swear, you’re turning into a husband and you aren’t even married.” –
Burt

“There’s worse things to be.” –
Archer

“Did you tell her what Linda wanted?” –
Burt

“No.” –
Archer

“I wouldn’t go to that prison. If Josie does, you better go with her.” –
Burt

“Depends on what she finds out in Washington, I guess.” –
Archer

“I’m betting she won’t go. That’s where my money is.” –
Burt

CHAPTER 7

Ian Francis looked at Josie without surprise or anger. His arms hung at his side, his jacket was open. His glasses caught the light at an odd angle so that it appeared shades had been drawn over the lenses, but it was only a reflection of the drapes He tipped his head, the curtains parted and she saw his eyes were no longer frantic or fearful. There was – and here Josie paused just to make sure she had the right word – affection in his gaze.

“I came to see you,” Josie whispered. “I hope you can help me.”

Ian Francis’ head tilted again. He looked like a puppy hearing the steps of its master on the walk. Josie swallowed hard and her grip tightened on the small plastic bags.

“You said you know where she is,” Josie said. “I’ll do anything. Give you anything. Just tell me.”

His brows beetled. He pushed at his glasses with one finger. They went askew because his hand was trembling. Before she could show him her treasures and remind him that he had given them to her for a reason, he hopped the train of a mind that refused to stay on its tracks.

The quiet was different now. Calmer. Non-threatening. It was the same lack of sound Josie heard lying in the ocean, ears under water, arms out, face turned toward the sun. The rocking of the gentle swells and the warmth deprived the senses. Stay too long like that and you sank, dying because you didn’t have the sense to know you were drowning. At that moment, though, Josie was fully aware she was drowning because she filled the silence to bursting with her anticipation.

She slipped her hand into the pocket of her coat and dropped the plastic bags inside. She didn’t want to lose them if she had to fight him off; she didn’t want to leave them in case she had to run. Josie also didn’t want to kid herself that all would be well because he was so serene. She had seen calm turn deadly in an instant, so she fought the anxiety that was coming in the only way she knew how. She tried again to engage him.

“When you said you know where she is, did you mean Hannah? If you know where Hannah is, please tell me.”

Josie stood still, overly aware of her height, the broadness of her shoulders, the boyish hair that left her neck bare to the cold, the heels on her shoes that made her taller than Ian Francis. In the face of this man’s serenity, Josie felt diminished.

“I don’t understand what you’ve given me.” She withdrew one plastic bag from her pocket. “Show me the way. She’s like a daughter.”

Josie barely whispered the last word, but it was the one Ian Francis heard. His head fell forward, and his shoulders drew up as if a great weight had been lifted. When he raised his face again he was transformed and he was beautiful. From the corner of his eye, a tear fell and tracked his cheek. He let it go, either unaware of it or relieved to finally let it fall.

“You didn’t lie, did you?” Josie whispered.

“No, my girl,” he said back. “My girl.”

Ian Francis stepped toward her. Josie trembled with an emotion more profound and unnameable than anything she had ever experienced. He lifted his arms, but she was not afraid. He took one more step, but she did not recoil. He embraced her, but she didn’t resist because his touch was sweet and familiar. It seemed as if he had held her this way before. Her cheek met his. His skin was warm; the stubble of his beard was surprisingly soft. A car drove by on the street below. Somewhere someone screamed in anger. Josie only heard the sound of Ian Francis’ breathing. He cupped the back of her head with one palm. A second passed and then two. When the third ticked away he stepped back, took Josie’s face in both his hands, and looked at her as if he could look at her for eternity.

Reverently, Ian Francis kissed Josie Bates.

“My sweet girl,” he whispered against her lips.

Letting her go in the next moment, he went to the french doors. He opened first one side and then the other. Ian Francis took one step and rested his hips against the railing of the false balcony. He breathed in the cold air, smiled, and crossed his arms over his heart. Then Ian Francis leaned forward and fell on to the street below.

***

“Holy crap,” Morgan barked into his phone.

“What? What?” Eugene screamed.

“He took a dive. He took a dive. Holy shit, Genie. Gotta go.”

“Is he dead?” Eugene screamed some more, but Morgan broke the connection.

How in the hell was he supposed to know if the guy was dead? He was dialing for emergency services and ordering an ambulance in case he wasn’t. People were looking out windows – not that there had been any noise – people in this neighborhood knew when stuff like this went down. Morgan kept his eyes sharp on everything as he talked especially on the kid rushing down the street. Then he saw the person hanging out the window where Ian Francis had stood not two seconds ago.

Holy hell, what a mess.

***

Josie realized what was happening too late. There was nothing she could have done to stop him and nothing she could do to save him. She reached the open doors seconds after his head broke open on the sidewalk. She was horrified. Stupefied. A man had taken his life and the way he had taken it defied reason. He had not cried out in despair. He had not made demands. He had not threatened to kill himself. He had just done it. He had given no reason for the kiss, no reason to hold her, no reason to leave her. He had not raised his arms as if he thought he could fly but crossed them as if he were simply finished.

But he hadn’t accomplished a damn thing. Josie still didn’t know where Hannah was; she still didn’t understand the things he had given her or the things she had found. He could have waited just a minute more, an hour, a day. She would have sat with him, walked with him, coaxed and cajoled the answers out of him. Was it her fault he couldn’t wait? Had she intimidated him? Violated him? Disappointed him?

Had she
?

Josie grabbed the railing. Her knees wobbled. She sank to the floor, her face thrust against the ironwork as she gulped in the cold air. Still, her stomach heaved and hurt. It didn’t matter why any of this had happened; it mattered that it had. It didn’t matter what information this man possessed; it was gone. Josie heard a car door slam and the sound of hard shoes running from down the street. A man was coming from the left but someone else was coming from the right. Bundled in a car coat, wearing jeans, and gloves and a hat, was a slight girl. She got to the body first and threw herself over it. Stunned, Josie pulled herself up and peered through the dark, hardly believing what she was seeing.

“Hey!” she called. “Hey!”

Down below the person clutching Ian Francis looked up and Josie saw the face of a young girl, a young woman. Her features were obscured by the dark and her pain; Josie’s vision was obscured by shock and wishful thinking.

“Hannah?” Josie murmured, and then she screamed: “Hannah!”

The girl’s head snapped toward the fat man running toward her as if she thought he had called her out. She swooped down and put her face next to the dead man’s and in the next instant she was running away, gone into the dark, taking with her the one thing Josie wanted: information. That girl knew what Ian Francis knew.

Josie turned to run for the door. She didn’t make it seven steps much less seven flights of stairs before her legs gave out again. She fell hard across the end of the bed and slid onto the floor.

“Damn!”

Hope was severed and faith was next on the chopping block. Josie had no hope of finding Hannah without Ian Francis and her faith in his promise wavered. But there was one thing left and that was determination. Josie had plastic bags of white stuff, a lock of hair, and the almost indecipherable notes written in an insane hand on old paper. She had the memory of his face as he searched hers, his touch, his kiss, and his whispered endearment:

“My sweet girl.”

Still shaken, Josie turned toward the bed, dragged the cheap suitcase down, and ripped off the tags. Her pockets were getting full. She staggered to her feet just as the sirens sounded in the distance. She stumbled down the stairs and by the time she walked through the front door of the Robert Lee Hotel Eugene Weller’s government issue car was there.

***

Eugene was close enough to see what was happening and far enough away that no one would notice him.

An ambulance had arrived in record time. Paramedics rushed out to assist the man on the sidewalk. When it was clear that no assistance was needed, the body was covered with a sheet to await the medical examiner’s van.

As if not to waste a good call, Josie Bates had been coaxed into the back of the ambulance where a young paramedic knelt down, took her blood pressure, and waved his finger in front of her face. He spoke to her for a long while, stepped down, and let Morgan in. Morgan talked to her another good long while. His stomach hung over his pants and his cuffs were pulled up so far Eugene could see that he didn’t have the sense to wear black socks with black shoes. Josie Bates on the other hand still looked as chic as she had at the hearing. Every now and again she punctuated what she was saying by stabbing the air or slicing through it to make her point. Eugene couldn’t wait to hear what her point might be. He would get the report the next day but at least now he had seen for himself that there was nothing to worry about.

Eugene started his car just as the medical examiner’s van arrived. He made a U-turn as they were taking out the stretcher. He looked in his rearview mirror once more and saw them cart the body away. He stepped on the gas, working out in his mind exactly what he was going to say to Ambrose Patriota. More importantly he imagined what Ambrose might say to him. Whatever it was, Eugene knew he would sleep well that night. He always did when a day wrapped itself up so nicely and put itself away.

Still, just to be sure, he made one more call despite the fact that it was too late for anyone to be in the office of public information. The woman he was calling was excellent. She would pick it up first thing in the a.m. and put the wheels in motion.

“It’s Eugene,” he said, not bothering with a last name. “Contact every media outlet that covered Patriota’s hearing today. I want all pictures of Josie Bates culled from their archives. Push the other witnesses. They were more interesting. Also, any mention of – or pictures of – the man who disrupted the last few minutes of the hearing need to go. Any questions, call me.”

He signed off and, as he did so, saw the clock. It was late but he would still make it for the better part of the meeting.

As he drove, a smile came slowly to his face as he thought about Morgan. Perhaps he had been too hard on the man. Perhaps Morgan wasn’t mocking him, but admiring him when he coined that nickname. After all, he was a bit of a genie. Ambrose Patriota’s wish was his command. Sometimes, Ambrose didn’t even have to make a wish for Eugene to grant it.

Magic.

“
I’ll come get you, Jo. I can catch the next plane.” –
Archer

“Don’t come. I’ll make my flight. I’m at the airport now.” –
Josie

“Call me when you’re on the ground. You have carry on, right?”-
Archer

“Yes.” –
Josie

“We’ll leave Max with Faye. I’ll have her cover your stuff at the office for the next few days. Just take it easy when you get back.” –
Archer

“No. I need to work. And I want to see, Max. I want to see you. Do you think that girl was Hannah?” –
Josie

“No, Jo. She wouldn’t have left you.” –
Archer

“She did once.” –
Josie

“She didn’t have a choice then. Get some sleep on the plane.”–
Archer

“It could have been Hannah.” –
Josie

“I don’t think so.” –
Archer

“But he said…” –
Josie

“Don’t cry, babe.” –
Archer

“I’m not. I’m not.” –
Josie

CHAPTER 8

Josie put her phone away, finished her drink, and sat staring at all the things she had collected that night. She didn’t know how long she sat like that or what prompted her to snap out of it. At some point she realized there was not going to be an epiphany sitting in a now closed bar at Dulles in a stupor. Josie did the only thing she could think to do: she dug in her purse for the tags she’d taken off the suitcase in Ian Francis’ room, shoved away from the table, hitched her bag, and took them to the first United Airlines counter she came to.

“Excuse me. Could you tell me where this flight originated?” She passed the luggage tags across the counter. The woman in the uniform started typing. A minute later, she had the information Josie wanted.

“Really,” Josie muttered. Then she said: “Can you book me through from LAX?”

“When would you like that?” The woman asked.

“What’s the first one going out tomorrow?”

“It leaves at seven in the morning. You won’t have much time between flights.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Josie handed the woman her credit card. When she was done, Josie dialed Archer again.

“I need you to meet me at the airport with a few things,” Josie said.

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I’m going to Hawaii.”

***

“Ambrose?”

Lydia Patriota opened the door of the den smoothly, making her presence known with that one perfectly modulated word and a hint of extraordinary perfume. Although she called to her husband, the other men in the room immediately acknowledged her with admiring looks. She rewarded them with a quick and winning smile.