Chapter 6: Caesura
Eames and Logan looked around the warehouse where Truck 7 had unloaded. A couple of canine units were there, searching for evidence of drugs or explosives, turning up nothing.
"They came at about nine or ten p.m. on Saturnday," said Liao Su, who ran the warehouse. He'd confirmed the crate had arrived on Saturday afternoon. "They made a special appointment to pick it up as soon as possible."
"Did you get the name of the company?" Alex asked.
"They said they were instructed not to say, but one of them gave me his card anyway: MacCallum Movers."
An hour later, they were at the MacCallum Movers home office. When they walked in, the man behind the desk stood up to meet them. "Hello, how can I help you two?"
"I'm Detective Logan, this is Detective Eames," he said as they brought out their badges. "We'd like to ask you some questions about a delivery you did last Saturday night."
"Ah. That one."
"You don't sound too surprised that the cops are interested in that shipment," Eames noted. "Can I ask why?"
"There seemed to be something...sub rosa about it. The client didn't give a contact number, insisted we pick up the package at night, and then had us take it to an alley down town to hand it off to someone else."
"Who was this 'someone else'?"
"No one I knew. There were a few guys with a truck. They covered their license plate, which was when I really started to worry. But we got the money the next day."
"How did you get the money?" Logan asked.
"They paid by credit card over the phone. I never met the client in person. Sounded old, with a heavy Spanish accent. I couldn't even tell if it was a man or woman's voice."
"What did the package look like?"
He thought for a moment, then held his hands out to approximate the size of the crate. "About four feet by four feet by five feet. And a lot heavier than it looked. With the night pick-up and how heavy it was, I told the client it would cost $500, and instead of negotiating for a lower price, the client said they would pay $850 if we would throw in not talking to anyone about it. That was warning sign number three."
"And you didn't take a little peek in the crate to see what all the fuss was about?" Alex inquired.
"No. That would have been against our policy. And, to be perfectly honest, if it was something illegal I didn't really want to know too much about it."
"Curiouser and curiouser," Logan said as they walked out of the building."No kidding."
"I'll look up the credit card number, but something tells me it will be a dead end. Someone went through a lot of trouble to cover their tracks."
"And I don't think it was the same someone who hired Lorenzi. There are two someones trying to cover their tracks here." She paused thoughtfully. "I think it's time to use my 'phone a friend.'"
Goren heard a knock, and put his book down reluctantly. He wasn't surprised to see Alex at the door.
She frowned at his thick stubble, swollen eyes, and shabby attire. "Is this a bad time?"
"No. Come in."
She entered hesitantly. She picked his book up off the sofa. "Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc. Any good?"
"Yeah, it's...a book my mom used to read me. Please...sit down."
She put the book on the coffee table and lowered herself into the sofa. "How are you?" she asked quietly, thinking maybe he was finally ready for that question.
He wasn't. He locked his eyes on the book on the table, then sat next to her. When he looked at her again, he asked, "How's the case going?"
"Slowly. I'd actually like to get your take on it."
"Of course," he answered. He'd known the second she walked in that was what she came for. She was carrying the case file.
She saw his eyes flick to the folder. "Let's start with the victim," she said and brought out the photos of his body. "We still don't have an ID on him. Witnesses say he spoke Spanish."
Goren spread the photos out, and his face tightened into a frown. He turned his head to her, and she could see a look of distress in his eyes. "This man's been tortured. You didn't tell me he'd been...tortured."
"He was interrogated," Alex said. She knew he knew the real reason she hadn't told him was that she didn't want him to worry about her. "It's different," she insisted.
"Is it affecting you? Maybe affecting the way you feel about the victim or the killer?"
"No, and this isn't about me," she said firmly.
He let it go at that, but didn't look reassured. He fished out the photo of the victim's tattoo.
"Any idea what that is?"
He squintes at the abstract block of curved lines and circles. "It looks...the style looks familiar, but I can't place it." He set it aside.
"I tracked down the hotel where he was staying," Alex continued, taking out more photos. "That's when I ran into her: Xochilt Ortiz. She was carrying the paper with the numbers I gave to you. Any luck with that by the way?"
"No. It's too short to...decipher."
"The accountant, mathematician, and cryptographer couldn't figure it out either." She brought out Lorenzi's mugshot. "He shot her in the alley outside the hotel. His MO matches John Doe's killer."
"You arrested him?"
"No. He got away."
Goren nodded, concentrating deeply. "And he's the one who...he's the one who attacked you."
She didn't confirm his guess. "Carlos Lorenzi. His fingerprints were found at a break-in of a dock warehouse two nights before John Doe was killed. We've figured out a crate that was supposed be in that warehouse ended up somewhere else. Ortiz bribed a dock worker to put it on the wrong truck, and then a moving company handed it off to some mystery men in the middle of the night. That's as far as we've got. All we know about what's in the crate is the canine units didn't smell explosives or drugs."
He read through some of Eames' notes. "$2,300 to bribe the dock worker, $850 for the moving company. That's the kind of money people pay when they have to scrape up the cash. Whoever's behind this...isn't wealthy...isn't just looking for something to waste money on, to show off. The thing in the crate...has some...personal, emotional meaning for someone." He took out some photos and arranged them in a pattern on the coffee table. "Xochilt Ortiz goes to John Doe's hotel with the...list of numbers..."
"She was looking for him," Eames said. "She saw me and she ran."
"And then Lorenzi tries to kill her. This was after he killed John Doe. How long did they torture him?"
"Rogers thinks it was about twelve hours."
"He told them what they wanted to know," Goren said. "But it wasn't...all they needed to know. He didn't know that much. Was there anything in his hotel room that linked him to Ortiz?"
"No. There was nothing personal in his hotel room."
"I don't think they knew each other before that."
"A witness saw them meet at a bistro a few days before."
"Of course. They'd have to know what the other one looked like. But I don't think they knew each other before they got involved with this." He shook his head, not in negation, but as though he was trying to get some loose piece of the puzzle to fall into place. "This meant something to them, too. It wasn't about money."
"What motivates people besides money?" Alex asked half-jokingly.
"Love, revenge, pride. People are complicated."
She glanced at him. He was a good example of that. "That's true. It's not like we do this job for the paycheck."
For a moment, he looked like he was about to smile, but it passed. They locked eyes and didn't say anything for a long moment. The photos on the table were momentarily forgotten. "Alex, I know...I want to thank you..."
They were jarred from the moment by the ringing of Eames' cellphone. She glanced at it, then looked back at Goren. He'd averted his eyes from her and was examining the photos again. "You should get that," he said.
She answered it. "Eames."
"Hello, this is Dr. Thompson, from Metropolitan Hospital."
"Is Ortiz awake?" she asked quickly.
"No, but her mother is here and would like to talk to you."
"I'll be there in half an hour," she said.
Goren watched her a little sadly. "The case?"
"Yeah." She gathered the photos into the folder without looking him in the eye. "Thanks for your help. I'll...I may be back later, is that okay?"
He nodded. As she walked out the door, he leaned back on the couch and picked up his book.
Eames followed Dr. Thompson into Xochilt Ortiz's hospital room. "This is her," he announced.
The woman sitting by the bed jumped to her feet. She was short, rotund, and energetic, with grey-streaked black hair pulled into a loose bun, and dark, intense eyes. She marched up to Eames and pulled her into a suffocating hug. "You saved my daughter's life," she said in a heavy Mexican accent.
"You're welcome," she squeaked.
Mrs. Ortiz released her and stepped back, keeping her hands firmly on her arms. "She's my only daughter. You don't know how much it means to me, what you did."
Just doing my job, she thought about saying, but it could sometimes sound callous, and it wasn't really true. After all, it was the reason she'd chosen this job. "I just hope I can get the guy who did this to her."
The older woman smiled and nodded. "I'm sure you will." She finally let go of Eames and went back to her daughter's side. "Her acceptance letter from City University came in the mail today. It would have been the happiest day of her life."
"That can wait until she wakes up," Eames said encouragingly.
"She's going to major in history. She wants to be a professor." She smiled, but tears were brimming in her eyes.
"Mrs. Ortiz..."
"Call me Arcelia." The tears spilled and she took her unconscious daughter's hand.
"Arcelia, do you have any idea why anyone would want to kill your daughter?"
She shook her head. "No. But I think she may have been in some trouble."
"What kind of trouble?"
"I don't know. But I wanted to tell you, a couple of weeks ago she got a call...actually she called in sick to her work, and then she waited by the phone all day. She lives with me..."
"A phone call?"
"Yes, that evening. The person on the phone gave her some numbers to write down, then hung up. She waited all day for some numbers!"
Eames opened the case file. "Were these the numbers?"
Arcelia looked at them and nodded. "And that's my Xochi's handwriting."
"Do you have any idea what these numbers might mean?"
She shook her head.
Eames then showed her the photos of John Doe and Carlos Lorenzi. "Have you ever seen either of these men."
She concentrated on their faces. "No, I'm sorry."
"Arcelia, would you give consent to trace the phone call that came to your house?"
"Of course. Anything."
Eames made a couple of phone calls, and found out that the call had come from a payphone in Mexico City.
It was nearing midnight when she walked out of the hospital room. She yawned and decided to call it a night. At the front door, she suddenly froze, and turned back slowly. The nurse she'd just walked by...he looked familiar. Short, narrow-shouldered, and wiry. His face was partially hidden beneath a surgical mask. He was scribbling something on a notepad as he walked, writing with his left hand, but awkwardly. He held his right arm against his body, as though it was in pain. Goren had been wrong for once: Carlos Lorenzi wasn't left handed, he just couldn't use his right arm because that was where Eames had shot him.
She changed directions silently, instantly awake and alert. He didn't look back, secure in his disguise. He chatted with the receptionist for a moment, then headed towards Xochilt's room. Eames trailed him until he slowed near the door, then she brought out her gun. "Carlos Lorenzi, you're under arrest for attempted murder and assaulting a police officer."
He froze when he heard his name. He prepared to make a run for it.
"Don't even think about it. Turn around with your hands in the air."
He did as told. "You wouldn't fire a gun in a hospital, would you?" he taunted.
"If I were you, I wouldn't bet on it. Now put your hands against the wall." She pressed the barrel of her gun against the back of his head and started frisking him for weapons.
"Hey, if you wanted to get flirty, you just had to ask," he said with bravado.
"Believe me, you're not my type." She found and confiscated two knives strapped to his waste.
The door opened. "What's going on here?" Arcelia Ortiz asked.
"I'm arresting the man who shot your daughter," Eames answered as she handcuffed the suspect.
Arcelia's face melted in fiery hatred. She took a threatening step toward Lorenzi. "You murdering scum!"
Lorenzi's eyes widened, and he took a step back. He didn't put up any resistence as Eames tugged him down the hall, followed by invectives and curses spilling from Arcelia's mouth. Eames smiled. If I were him, I'd rather take my chances with the police too.