Dangerously in Love (14 page)

Samantha had gone to Bill’s so she could spend some time with Hillary. She left Hill with very specific instructions to stay in the warehouse and not to leave. Because he had been released to her custody and care, she was responsible for him. She knew Hill wouldn’t try to flee, but she had an obligation to lay out the rules.

Without Samantha, Hill had a hard time sleeping in his own bed. He’d acclimated to the futon-like mattress in his cell. Sleeping in his king-sized bed felt like a sea of emptiness. He got up and went to the garage to finish fixing the bike rack that Samantha had never actually finished. Once he’d hung Hillary’s and Samantha’s bikes, he pulled the cover from his truck. His good old Ford F250. He wondered if Samantha had started it at all. He opened the door. It squeaked as he opened it. It needed oil. He sat inside, gripping the steering wheel and looking around—remembering the feel and scent of it.

He thought of Ty and Gabe, wondering what they were up to and where they were now. Opening the glove compartment, he recalled the first time he’d driven to the Church property—the first time he’d seen Caitlin. He closed the glove compartment and brushed his hand across the dusty dashboard, wiping the dust from his hand on his pajama bottoms. Leaning his head against the headrest, he thought back to all of the jobs he had driven to in this truck. He remembered the time he and Samantha had made love in the bed of it. He smiled at the memory.

He hopped out and closed the door then climbed onto the flatbed. The sledgehammer was still there. He picked it up, cradling it in his hands, remembering that night outside of the Church’s bedroom, watching his woman make love to another man—and watching her enjoy it. He took the tool and placed it in the corner with the other heavier tools. Back on the flatbed of the Ford, he saw the briefcase that he had never had a chance to give to Ty or Gabe—whichever one it belonged to. The old Ford held a lot of memories for Hill. He grabbed the briefcase then climbed out of the truck and closed the tailgate.

As he walked toward the mudroom door, he saw the large pencil drawing of Caitlin, leaning against some corkboard. The corkboard must have been another of Samantha’s projects. He set down the briefcase and picked up the framed picture, wiping the dust from the glass with his hand. He felt a tinge of sadness wash over him, remembering the short glimpse he’d gotten of her slain body strewn across her bed, face down. Her hair in death seemed longer and darker than in the picture, but that might have been the artist’s creative license—or maybe his faulty memory. After all, five years had passed. He stared at the picture, remembering their first night together watching
A Perfect Murder
.
She was so beautiful
, he thought.

As he set the picture down, he noticed something he’d forgotten—something that hadn’t registered in his mind that night five years ago. Caitlin had had a butterfly tattoo on her left butt cheek. He was sure of it. Or maybe he was imagining it. It was five years ago, after all. He could be remembering it incorrectly. But looking at the drawing of Caitlin, Hill didn’t see a tattoo of any kind. He had touched, kissed, and ogled over every part of her body—he knew Caitlin didn’t have a tattoo. But the body on the bed did. Why hadn’t he realized that back then? Maybe it was the shock of the murders and being arrested? But again, it could be that his memory of that night was foggy because he might have been drugged—or, at least, that was what he believed.

Hill picked up the briefcase and went back inside. He set the briefcase on top of the counter then went to the refrigerator to get some water. When he opened the door, he saw it was fully stocked—mostly vegetables and fruit. He passed on the water, grabbing an apple and pouring a glass of orange juice instead.

As he peeled the skin from the apple, he noticed the initials DVC on the briefcase. He set the apple and peeler on the counter and wiped the dust from the engraved plate. It definitely read DVC. Who was DVC? Maybe it was a brand, like DKNY, LV, or MK. He attempted to open it but it was locked—it had one of those combination locks. He went in the garage and grabbed a flathead screw driver and a chisel. With very little effort, he was able to pry open the briefcase.

Lifting the lid, he found several folders and some loose papers. He opened one of the folders and a deposition fell out.
The State v. Crawford
. Hill felt his legs buckle from the shock of it. He sat down on one of the counter chairs and swiveled around toward the light. The deposition had been conducted by an ASA in Samantha’s office. David Velez Camargo was a witness for the State. DVC—David Velez Camargo. Hill remembered him—a nervous, uptight, dorky type of guy. He set the folder on the counter and picked up the next one. It was an investigative report by Agent Reeves.
Agent Reeves
?

Hill read through the entire fifty-page report. He learned that David Velez Camargo had been a confidential informant for the SBI and CPD joint task force. He was an accountant for one of the charities which the FBI had investigated for money laundering. A rabbi and an alderman were arrested from that investigation. But they could never truly implicate the person they really wanted. The article alleged they had been laundering money for one of the most notorious criminals in Chicago—
Adam Church
.

“How the hell did this briefcase end up in my truck?” Hill thought out loud.

Hill went into Samantha’s bedroom and got her laptop. Back in the kitchen, he plugged it in, praying she had Wi-Fi hooked up. He turned on the laptop and Googled
David Velez Camargo
. Several news articles popped up from eight years ago. Hill skimmed a few of them and got the gist of it. David, his wife, and father had been murdered, and their bodies found in David’s basement.

One of the articles from a major news source went on to talk about the convicted murderer, Jorge Crawford, who had been released on a five-day pass before serving his sentence. Hill had a visceral reaction as he read the article. He remembered this all too well. Crawford had been his client.

Hill, because he had argued in Judge Sterling’s courtroom, had managed to get his client a five-day pass before serving his sentence—just so he could visit with his family before spending the rest of his life in prison. Instead, Crawford fled. But before he did, he killed the State’s number one witness against him,
David Velez Camargo
, who had also implicated Adam Church.

As he returned the folders to the briefcase, he noticed a slight bulge in one of the side pockets. He reached in and pulled out four US passports, one of which belonged to David Velez Camargo. The other passports were for Rosemary Camargo, Murphee Velez, and . . . Hill gasped. He braced himself against the counter and set the fourth passport on the counter as he sipped the orange juice. He wiped his forehead and stared contemplatively into space. He picked up the passport again, staring at the picture, looking at the name, completely at a loss. He dropped the passport on the counter. It fell face-up—the name on the passport read
Amelia Camargo Morales
. But the picture on the passport was Caitlin Church.

What did Caitlin have to do with all of this? And why was she using Amelia’s name?

Hill’s appetite was gone. He wrapped up the partially peeled apple and poured the remaining juice back into the bottle.
Wait a minute
, he thought. Hill grabbed the passports and opened the one for Rosemary Camargo. He looked closely at the photo. She was about twenty years younger and much thinner, but Hill was certain it was a picture of Adam’s housekeeper, Rosemary.

Hill Googled the Church address to find out how far away in actual mileage the mansion was located. His ankle bracelet gave him a thirty mile radius in which he could travel from the address on record—his warehouse. He hoped that after five years, the Church mansion was as vacant and preserved as it was on the night of the murders. He looked around for the keys to his truck then remembered he kept a spare set in the tool shed.

He got in the truck and attempted to start it. He tried a few times, but the engine wouldn’t turnover. Back inside, he picked up the phone to call for a cab then realized he didn’t have any money. So he went back to the Ford, popped the hood, pulled the spark plugs, and poured a small amount of oil directly into the cylinders. He grabbed his socket wrench from the tool drawer and tried to turn the engine over using the socket wrench on the crankshaft nut. When he did, some of the oil oozed out of the cylinders, and the engine turned over. He put the spark plugs on and then tried to start the truck. It started right up.

***

At the Church mansion, Hill went to the back edge of the property like he used to, but the road was no longer there. He turned around and drove to the front of the property, parking his truck in the circular driveway. There were several lights on in the house. Hill wondered if the new owners would be amenable to his visit. He didn’t want to risk losing his pass or even getting additional time added to his sentence, so he thought long and hard about whether he wanted to approach the door.

Hill took his flashlight from the glove compartment and tested it to see if it worked. It did, in flickers. He had planned to go around to the back of the house and maybe just poke around a little. He had no idea what he was looking for. The only thing he knew was that something wasn’t right.

Before he reached the side of the house, either the battery or the bulb on the flashlight gave out. He heard dogs barking, too. Big dogs. He kept walking until he reached a large iron fence. There was no way he’d be able to get in the backyard. Peering beyond the fencing, he noticed that the bungalow was no longer there. The new owners must’ve torn it down.

Hill returned to the front of the house, and when he did, he saw someone standing on the porch, looking around.

“Hey, you! Can I help you?” the man shouted in an oddly familiar voice.

“Yes,” Hill said as he approached. When he reached the porch, he recognized the owner. “Gabe?”

“Hill? When did you get out?” Gabe hugged Hill.

“You live here now?”

“Yep. Me and my wife.”

“So you brought your wife from the D.R.?”

“No. My new wife. Well, she’s not so new anymore. We’ve been married almost five years.”

Rosemary walked into the foyer where they were standing. Hill looked at Rosemary and then at Gabe. Something was hinky.

“You and Rosemary?”

“Hilton,” Rosemary said, sounding happy to see him. “You got out? I’m so happy for you.”

“Why are you here?” Gabe asked.

“I don’t know, man. I was just reminiscing and wound up driving over here.”

Gabe seemed hesitant to invite Hill inside. He was, after all, an ex-con—a murderer. If he let Hill in, what might he do? Then he thought about what Hill might do if he didn’t cooperate. “Well, come on in. Take a load off.”

“Can I get you something to eat or drink, Hilton?” Rosemary asked.

“Only if it’s no bother.”

“For you, it is no bother.”

Hill followed Gabe into the den, and Rosemary disappeared into the kitchen. The house looked pretty much the same as Hill remembered except a lot of the gaudiness was gone. The ornate furniture, the ostentatious pictures, and the statues were nowhere to be seen. The house looked better for it.

“Where are you now?”

“I’m at my warehouse. Same place.”

“Good for you.” Gabe noticed the ankle bracelet and shuddered a bit.

“Have you talked to Ty?” Hill asked.

“Aw, man, you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Ty died in an accident. He was working on a construction site in Dallas. The crane he was working on broke and fell twenty stories. He was killed instantly.”

“Damn. When?”

“A few years ago.”

They sat quietly for a while. Hill knew he wasn’t going to find anything useful, so he just sat with Gabe and Rosemary until he finished eating then left.

As he sat in the truck trying to start it, he wondered how they could afford to live in that mansion. Where had the money come from? Even if Rosemary had somehow inherited the mansion from Adam, which also seemed odd, they still had to maintain it, pay taxes on it, and insure it. And that wasn’t cheap. How could a maid and a gardener afford that?

He brushed off the thought, understanding that Rosemary could have inherited the money from Adam. Maybe she had been more valuable to Adam than Hill thought. Then he remembered–just a glimpse of the memory–that Caitlin had told him that before Adam married her, he was leaving everything to charity. So, he wouldn’t have left his assets to his 
help
. The truck finally started and he drove off.

Hill woke up alone. Samantha hadn’t returned, although she’d called to check on him. He was glad that she hadn’t come back yet because he had some more investigating he wanted to do. 
Gabe and Rosemary?
He couldn’t get the thought out of his mind. Gabe had said they’d gotten married almost five years ago. He wondered if they had hooked up while they were working for the Churches.

He went to the kitchen and made an omelet and toast. As he ate, he read through the other folder from the briefcase. It was a record of the money that had filtered through the fake charity. In another pocket of the briefcase was a key ring with four keys attached. One was for a post office box, and the others weren’t so easily discernible. One looked like it might be a safe deposit box key. Just then, he remembered that Caitlin had bequeathed to him the contents of her safe deposit box. It was empty when investigators had looked into it as a motive for Hill to kill Caitlin. Why would she leave him an empty box?

He set the keys aside, wondering how all this tied together. Perhaps this was the reason that Adam and Caitlin were killed, and the only reason he survived was because whoever did this needed a fall guy. He thought about that while he finished eating his eggs. With only four days of freedom remaining, he wanted to get out and do something fun. He thought about going to the beach, but it was getting a little cool near the lake. Seeing a movie was out because he had no money. He was beginning to feel like a prisoner all over again, only with better accommodations.

Hill dialed Perry’s old number, hoping it was still his number. It was. He asked Perry to stop by so they could go have a drink. Hill was banned from bars while on his prison pass, so Perry offered to bring beer and a movie to him.

***

Hill tried to convince himself that the past was the past—none of what he found mattered anymore. He’d served more than half of his sentence, and he was on the downward side of ten years. With five more years to go, he didn’t want to jeopardize maybe getting an early release for good behavior. But the fantasy of finding the truth and being exonerated was overwhelmingly tempting.

Perry sat across from him in the oversized chair that Samantha had bought for the space. She had rearranged the furniture. With the bullet hole-ridden sofa gone, the space must’ve seemed empty. Perry appeared to be into the movie. His pistol was at his side, his shoes still on, his hair cut low, and his face clean-shaven. He was on the job. Hill appreciated that he had stopped by despite the fact that he was on duty. He smiled then returned his focus to the movie.

A few minutes later, Samantha entered the living room noisily. She was screaming with excitement about seeing Perry ‘babysitting’ Hill.

“I was worried he’d get into some kind of mischief while I was gone. I’m so glad you stopped by.”

“I am in the room,” Hill said as they talked about him like he wasn’t even there. Hill turned off the movie and asked Samantha to sit down. He had debated about revealing to them what he’d found. He’d probably have to confess that he left the warehouse—but perhaps he could leave that part out. Maybe, just maybe, they’d be gung-ho enough to investigate further. Maybe he wasn’t the only one with fantasies of freedom.

“What’s up, Hill?” Samantha asked.

“I’m going back to prison in three and a half days. I’ve enjoyed my freedom, you see?”

“Hill, I hope you’re not thinking of fleeing. My ass is on the line here,” Samantha warned.

“Shh. Just listen.”

“No, I’m not listening to this nonsense, Hill.”

Perry patted her knee. “Just hear him out. Let’s see where he’s going with this.”

“I’m not playing with you, Hill. Don’t you dare burn me,” she warned.

Samantha’s reaction was one he hadn’t anticipated. Had she been concerned that Hill would flee? Why and why would that be the first thing that popped into her head? Hill tried to shake it off, but he couldn’t. Didn’t anybody have any faith in him at all? Hill looked at Perry, who had one eyebrow raised, and then he shifted his focus to Samantha, who had her arms folded across her chest, her fingers drumming against her biceps. Her eyebrows were furrowed so deeply it was frightening.

“I’m not talking about fleeing. I,” he chose his words carefully, “am just feeling grateful that I was able to spend time with you two. It’s been so long, and after tasting this bit of freedom, I’m not sure how I’ll get through the next five without you. I just wanted to implore you to visit sometimes. It really helps. That’s all I wanted to say.” But it wasn’t. He hadn’t planned on saying any of that. He wanted to tell them what he found and ask them to help him find some answers.

Judging from their reactions, Hill wasn’t sure at all if they even believed he was innocent. Maybe they
want
to believe him. Maybe, in some subconscious way, they
need
to believe him. But it was clear to Hill that they had some serious doubts about him. He decided that he’d hire his father’s attorney to manage his inheritance, and the first thing he’d do was hire an investigator.

“You had me scared for a minute there, Hill,” Perry said.

“Will you make us some popcorn?” Hill asked Samantha.

“Good idea,” she said as she got up. “Put on the next movie.”