Metsy Hingle - Flash Point

While Leon’s comments made perfect sense, the idea of the sad-eyed girl he remembered killing anyone didn’t set well with him. “It’s a possibility,” he conceded. “But if she did kill the man, it seems the smart thing would have been to just keep quiet.”

“Like I said,” Leon began as they headed down the street toward the car. “Maybe she did it to take suspicion off herself.”

“Or maybe she really did see him get offed,” Jack offered.

“Don’t tell me you believe in this psychic shit.”

“I’m trying to keep an open mind,” Jack informed his partner.

They both stopped on the corner, waiting for traffic. “Then try opening your mind to the possibility that the lady might have killed the vic, decided to make up all that crap about a vision to cover her tracks, and to drum up some business for herself at the same time.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about this so-called psychic stuff. Come on, man. You’ve seen how many of them are lined up around the Square. Imagine how many people would be flocking to this Santos woman if word got out she’d predicted a murder.”

“She’s not one of those scam artists,” Jack defended as they crossed the street.

“Hang on a second,” Leon said, catching his arm and stopping them both in the middle of the block. “You telling me you’re buying her story? That you think this Santos dame really did have some kind of vision?”

“I’m not saying any such thing.” Jack jerked his arm free and resumed walking. “All I know is that we’ve got a dead body and a witness who says she saw the murder.”

“In a vision,” Leon reminded him.

“Vision or not, right now she’s the only lead we’ve got,” Jack told him as he unlocked the car. “So I say, let’s go interview our witness.”

But interviewing their witness proved more difficult than he’d anticipated, Jack conceded later that afternoon. The lady had been out when they’d arrived at the Regent Hotel and had yet to return. Not that he and Leon hadn’t been busy. They had. In between calls to the hotel, they had spent the better part of the day chasing down leads in the murder investigation. And so far, they’d come up empty. He told himself it was the reason he was more determined than ever to nail down the interview with Kelly Santos. He hit the redial button on his cell phone.

“Good afternoon, the Regent Hotel.”

“Has Ms. Kelly Santos returned to the hotel yet?” Jack asked.

“One moment, sir,” the operator said. Seconds later, she came back on the line. “Yes, sir. She has. Would you like me to ring her room for you?”

“No, thanks,” Jack said, and ended the call.

“She still out?” Leon asked, some of the frustration they were both feeling echoing in his voice.

“Nope. She’s back,” he told Leon, and they both climbed back into the car. He started the engine.

Fifteen minutes later, he and Leon entered the hotel lobby and approached the front desk. “Good afternoon. I’m Detective Callaghan. This is my partner, Detective Jerevicious. We need to know what room Ms. Kelly Santos is staying in.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t give out that information. But if you’d care to use one of the house phones over there…” she began, indicating the row of phones on the far wall. “The operator can connect you to Ms. Santos’s room and she can give you her room number.”

As discreetly as he could, Jack showed the woman his badge and her friendly smile faded. “Actually, it wasn’t a request. We need to ask Ms. Santos some questions and would prefer not to announce ourselves. So if you’d just give me that room number, I’d appreciate it.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Officer. Detective,” she amended. “But I’ll need to get my supervisor.”

And after a brief chat with the clerk’s supervisor and Jack’s assurance that there was no problem with the hotel’s guest, Jack and Leon stood in front of Kelly’s hotel room door. Jack knocked on the door and it was opened almost immediately.

“Yes?”

For a moment, Jack thought he’d made a mistake. The woman who stood before him bore little resemblance to the scrawny teenage Kelly Santos whom he’d rescued a decade ago. The ivory sweater and coffee-colored skirt she wore skimmed along enticing female curves. Her hair was still blond, but instead of hanging like a curtain behind which the young Kelly had hidden, this woman’s hair was styled in layers that fell to her shoulders. Her skin was smooth and perfect, her cheekbones high and the unsmiling mouth too wide for her narrow face. Then Jack looked into her eyes. There was no mistaking those eyes. Big haunting brown eyes that had seemed too old for a young girl’s face. Wary eyes filled with secrets. She was the Kelly Santos from his past. And for the space of a heartbeat, he waited, wondering if she would remember him. But if she did, she gave no indication.

“Ms. Santos? Ms. Kelly Santos?” Leon asked, stepping forward to break the silence.

“Yes.”

“I’m Detective Napoleon Jerevicious with the New Orleans Police Department. This is my partner, Detective Callaghan. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

A look of utter hopelessness flickered across her features. “You found him.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Him?” Leon prompted, and Jack didn’t miss the suspicious note in his partner’s voice.

“The man in the car. The one I saw get shot. He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is,” Jack said. “And we need to ask you some questions.” When a door opened down the hall and the woman who exited cast a curious glance their way, he suggested, “It might be better if we came inside where it’s more private.”

“Yes, of course,” she replied politely, and opened the door wider, allowing them to enter. Once they were in the room, Kelly directed them to the sitting area. “Please, sit down.”

Leon opted for the small sofa, his large frame taking up most of the space, while Jack chose one of the two armchairs that had been grouped with the sofa around a coffee table.

“There’s probably some soda or wine in the minibar. Would you like something to drink?”

“No, thanks,” Jack said, not bothering to point out that they were on duty.

“Nothing for me, either, ma’am,” Leon replied.

“All right.” Kelly took a seat in the other chair and clasped her hands together. “You said you had some questions for me.”

“We need to go over a few details in the statement you gave to Sergeant Russo last night,” Jack began. For a moment, he debated reminding her that they had met before, but decided against it. Best to keep things professional, he reasoned.

They went over the details of her statement again and Kelly related the events of the evening—picking up the newspaper, having a vision of the man in the car with the woman in black, of that woman removing a gun from her bag and shooting him. And given Kelly’s stricken expression as she related the incident for them, Jack concluded that whether she’d had a vision of the killing or had seen the thing firsthand, the experience had been real for her.

“And you have no idea who the victim or the alleged woman with the gun were?” Leon asked.

“None at all.”

“You have to admit it seems kind of strange that you should know every detail about the man’s murder, but not know who he or his killer was.”

“Believe me, Detective, I’m aware of how strange it sounds. But it’s the truth. I’ve never laid eyes on either of them before I picked up that newspaper in the café. And even then, I didn’t see them in the traditional sense.”

“What about a description of the woman?” Jack asked. “Can you tell us what she looked like?”