Where the Sun Sets (9 page)

“Thank you, I meant it for Anthony
though.”

“We were under the impression you were the
target. I don’t see how Ms. Dal Santo would be at risk here.”

“Right, you’re right, I just, I’ll do that. I
will call when I pull into the lot. Thank-you.”

“No problem, Ms. Ferrero, only to glad to
help. Ask for Jake, when you call. I will leave word with him to
take care of you.” Again Josephine clicked off the phone.

Josephine climbed the stairs to her room
where she grabbed the suit coat and removed the video tape from the
VCR. She went back down to the first floor. There was a large room
on the first floor for entertaining. It boasts of a wide screen TV
and a major league entertainment center. The walls on either side
of the room were enclosed by several French style doors, which when
opened, always allowed a breeze.

Josephine injected the video into the player
and sat down on the sofa to watch it. There was a chill in the air,
but she felt nothing. She was lost inside her own thoughts, so many
memories. All the major events in her life seemed to have included
Anthony. No, they did include Anthony. Anthony was indeed, an
important factor in her life. She was her best friend, her only
friend, honestly.

Josephine looked up to the screen, just as
the slap happened. ‘Why did I slap Anthony?’ The look on several of
her guest’s faces as Antonia backed away seemed to mirror her own
thoughts. ‘If only I could have that moment back’, thought
Josephine. Then Anthony looked past her to the gunman. Somehow
Anthony knew the gunman was there. Anthony grabbed Josephine’s
shoulders and tossed her to the side. In her mind, Josephine could
hear the bullets enter Anthony. As Anthony took the first shot in
the shoulder her face showed an almost shocked expression. ‘What
was she looking at?’ Josephine’s mind ran the scene again and
again. Bam, bam, bam, bam. She saw it all now; slow motion in her
mind. She actually heard the shots penetrate her friend with a
shhlute sound. Bam, shhlute. Bam, shhlute. People started
screaming. Anthony screamed... “Billy”...the sound seemed to come
slowly from her mouth as she fell to the ground. Josephine’s head
slammed against the ground.

The phone rang. Josephine sat motionless,
staring blankly at the screen as the video ended abruptly. The
phone rang again and again as Josephine had to bring herself back.
She grabbed the receiver and said hello but the line was already
dead. She replaced the receiver on the table and brought her hands
to her face. She wiped away the tears which had managed to fall
without request. She pulled her hair back from her face and tried
to regain her composure. Using the remote she shut the television
off and with suit coat in hand, headed off to the hospital.

Chapter 8

Retired now for thirteen years, Harold Davis
sat at his kitchen table. Always an early riser, he was showered
and dressed before seven every morning. Widowed the past spring,
his life had come to a halt of sorts. There was not much for him to
do anymore. Breakfast consisted of a cinnamon bun and a cup of
extra black coffee. He read his daily paper at the table as he had
for the past thirteen years. And, as they say, old habits die hard,
he always opened to the crime blotter first. A small article on
“out of town connections,” immediately caught his eye.

“Antonia Dal Santo, saved as a small child
from the hands of a monster. Gunned down by a crazed fan. One of
our own, Ms. Dal Santo has spent numerous years abroad. After
finishing her education at St. Agnes School for girls, she became a
missionary and devoted several years to the Literacy Awareness
Program in Africa. She returned to the States, to aid her friend
and school mate, Josephine Ferrero. This had made her an instant
favorite of the press. Ms. Dal Santo continually ducked the cameras
and tried to stay out of sight but she could never escape the media
attention attracted by Ms. Ferrero. While the shooting is still
under investigation, it is believed to be the work of an angered
fan. Ms. Dal Santo was shot four times and was listed in stable
condition at the time of print. It has been reported that Ms. Dal
Santo was approximately four months pregnant at the time of the
shooting. The pregnancy was terminated. New Haven Police Chief
Officer Burns, states that any charges involved in this case, will
include the murder of Ms. Dal Santo’s unborn child.”

Harold stood up, a little too fast, toppling
his morning coffee. It ran over the table and dripped onto the
floor. He never noticed, as he walked hastily to his home office.
The first floor of his Cape Cod style home had one single bedroom,
which had served as a guest room for the first twenty-five years
they owned the home. It had only been used a handful of times. His
wife had it converted into an office for him when he became Chief
Inspector. The walls were covered with frames holding awards,
certificates or photos of Harold receiving an award or a
certificate.

His career had been long and hard, but Harold
would not have traded it for anything in the world. He had often
commented that had he ever won the lottery, he still would not have
given up his job. He tried his best to stay on at the Station even
after he had reached the required age for retirement. However, time
was not always on the side of the Inspector, he was replaced and
put out to pasture.

Harold folded his morning paper so that the
article was the center focal point, placed the paper on the center
of his desk top and sat down. Flipping through his Rolodex, he
picked up the phone and dialed. The line was busy. Placing his
reading glasses on the tip of his nose, he rechecked the number.
Again he dialed. Again he got a busy signal. Replacing the
receiver, he sat back thoughtfully.

His extra-large, leather upholstered swivel
chair was a gift, from the guys at the station, when he retired. He
stood up and headed for the filing cabinet. He opened the first
drawer. Nine files, letters A through I. He flipped through to the
file index marked “D”, removed it and laid it flat on the open
drawer. He flipped through it searching for Dal Santo but not
finding it, he replaced the index. He tapped the sides of the
drawer with his hands, as he looked for an answer, with his eyes
scanning the office. His eyes fell upon the phone on his desk.
Leaving the drawer open, he returned to the phone. This time he
dialed a number from memory. It rang and was answered by a woman
whose voice he recognized at once, Sharon Warner, his secretary for
the last fifteen years of his career.

“Morning Sharon, its Harry.”

“Well, yes, yes it is. And what can I do for
you, on this fine morning, Harry?”

“I’m looking for my records on the Dal Santo
investigation. You wouldn’t remember the investigation itself, goes
back some thirty years at least. I was wondering if you could jolt
my mind as to where I may have filed such a record.”

“Hmm, Dal Santo, the name rings a bell. Was
that the name of the family who owned that string of gas stations
on the coast?”

“No, that was Del Graeca. Look, it was a nice
size record. I have looked under “D,” but nothing. I must be
getting senile or something.”

“Well, I would look under “S” maybe for
solved. Thirty years or more, you said? It was a solved case,
wasn’t it? Or perhaps you filed it under the name of the town where
the crime was committed?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Harold responded without much
vigor. “Wait a minute, Dal Santo. I remember now. The missionary
from Africa. Didn’t you pull that one when that movie star was
being stalked?”

Harold laid the receiver down, on the desk
top. He walked back to his cabinets and reached for the file marked
“Ferrero”. He picked the receiver up again as he sat back down,
file in hand, “You’re the best Sharon, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it Sir. What’s up, if I may be
permitted to ask?”

“Nothing really, just a hunch and a lot of
free time.”

“Well, OK then, it was nice to talk to you
again. You really shouldn’t be such a stranger Chief.”

Harold smiled to himself. Sharon had no idea,
just how often the Inspector called in. Since the passing of his
wife, Harold had managed to call in his opinion of just about every
ongoing investigation in the state. The presently instated Chief of
Police had put a hold on all of Harold’s so-called priority calls.
“Hey, Sharon, one more thing, before you go, if you have a
minute.”

“Sure boss, whatcha need?”

“The number for the New Haven police
department.”

“New Haven? As in Connecticut? New Haven
Connecticut?”

“Yeah, yes, that’s the one; can you get it
for me?”

“Sure, hang on though, while I put you on
hold.”

Harold opened the folder, as he waited
patiently for Sharon to return. The folder marked “F”, held many
tales. The one that interested him at the moment though, was
sitting in the very front. He pulled out the related papers and set
the file aside. He mechanically began to sort the papers in front
of him. Without thinking he placed the papers into four different
piles. The piles diagrammed the events of Ms. Dal Santo’s life,
from the moment of her birth, until present day.

“Hello, Chief? You still there?”

“Yes, I am.” Sharon relayed the number and
asked “Is there anything I can do?”

“No, I’m not really sure where I am going
with this one at the moment. Thanks for your time and efforts
though. It sure has been nice, hearing your voice again.”

“Call me any time boss, anytime at all.” The
line clicked dead. Harold hung up the phone again, without looking.
The papers on his desk filled him with so many memories.

He read the papers regarding Ms Ferrero. Her
stalker had been shot to death by police while refusing to
cooperate. It had taken months of surveillance and cost the
township thousands of dollars, but they had managed to identify him
and track him down. He had fired several shots at officers while
they were attempting to enter his dwelling. Refusing to lay down
his weapon, the officers had little choice but to return fire. The
Postal Prophet, aptly named via the media, was shot six times. No
chance of his having anything to do with the latest shooting.

This first pile regarding Ms. Ferrero then
got placed up at the further most corner of his desk top. His eyes
then fell upon the face of the missionary. ‘Antonia Dal Santo’ he
thought to himself. He cradled his face with his hands and ran his
fingers over his lips. He repeated this motion twice more before he
picked up the papers belonging to this pile. He glanced over her
bio from the eighties. She had done a lot of good for a lot of
people. Harold admired her. He read all the newspaper clippings on
her African missions. He looked briefly at the photo of Antonia and
Mother Teresa. He looked a bit longer at the photo she shared with
Audrey Hepburn.

Sighing to himself, he read about her work
with literacy and the children of Africa. There were those in the
world who did not feel Antonia should be in Africa. There were
those who thought she owed her talents to her own country first.
But she had returned to the States, so how could this shooting be
related to those feelings. At the bottom of the pile, there was an
article on the two women. Ms. Ferrero and Ms. Dal Santo were
friends since childhood. Both starting out from different worlds,
they were brought together by fate. They were separated once again
by career ambitions, only to be brought back together again through
a simple twist of fate. This article went on to describe how
Antonia had returned to the States to support her lifelong friend
in her time of need. Still Harold had not found that spark that had
ignited his curiosity.

Nothing he had read could explain to him, why
anyone would want to kill Antonia. One could assume, the stalker,
or crazed fan, may have been jealous of Antonia’s relationship with
Ms. Ferrero. Perhaps thinking he could have Ms. Ferrero to himself,
with Antonia out of the way, he shot her, hoping to kill her. This
assumption would float, but it did not tickle Harold’s
investigators instincts.

He placed the second pile to right of the
first, along the top, far side of his desk. The third pile
contained articles and clippings from Antonia’s academic life. All
of her accomplishments and awards. A report of every penny she ever
won in scholastic competition. A financial disclosure for every
cent earned writing short stories, related articles, or even a poem
now and then. Although he had read through this stack many times in
the past thirty or so years, it never ceased to amaze him.

How far this young woman had come, was truly
impressive. And the fact that she had touched so many lives along
the way, including his own made his heart surge. Was it possible
that someone may not have appreciated her attention? Perhaps
something she had written had angered someone.

Harold let his eyes fall upon the fourth and
last pile while he placed the third to the right of the second. The
photo, paper clipped to the first page, made his stomach constrict.
Perhaps he was stalling. He wasn’t quite sure but he knew he was in
no rush to analyze the fourth and final pile. So instead he let his
hand float over to the phone once again. This time he dialed the
number Sharon had given him. He needed to know how Antonia was
doing, where she was located and what information they had so
far.

“New Haven P.D...”

“Yes...Hello...Chief Officer Burns please, if
I may.”

“Sorry sir, Officer Burns has headed home for
the day, he will be back in around 9pm this evening, if you care to
call back.”

“No, no, listen this is Chief Inspector
Davis, I would like to speak with whoever is in charge of the Dal
Santo shooting, is that possible?”

“Well I can transfer you to Lieutenant
Barsky. I don’t know what kind of information she can give you
though, would this be OK?”