The Fixer's Daughter

by Hy Conrad

  “Was not.”

  “This is the last time I’m letting you pull this shit. My badge could be on the line.”

  “I did nothing wrong,” she said, emphasizing each word. “I told him who I was and he gave his permission. You think he’s a dead end, don’t you?”

  “I do. We need to check his alibi, but it seems verifiable. I’ll also check her banking history to see if she deposited five thousand in cash like he said. I suspect he’s telling the truth.”

  “So that’s it?”

  “He’s not our Dylan Dane from the bank footage. Not big enough.”

  “So?” Callie didn’t want to give it up. “Paget hired a hitman. People do that. Your mistress is threatening to tell your wife, so you pay someone to kill her. And the hitman is Dylan Dane, the one who emptied her bank account. That was his pay-off.”

  “So, Paget paid a hitman to rape his mistress.”

  State had a point, but… “The hitman did that on his own.”

  “Hitmen don’t do that, even amateurs. They do it the easiest way, usually with a gun. And remember, half the money gets paid after, so you don’t want piss off your client by raping his girl. Even guys who want their mistresses dead get particular about that.” State pulled out his car keys. “He’s not our guy.”

  Callie frowned. “Maybe it’s the wife. What’s her name? Gloria. And she paid the hitman extra to rape her.”

  “You’re saying the wife knew all about the mistress – name, address, etc. – without the husband having a clue. And she felt strongly enough to hire a rapist hitman.”

  “I’ve read about things like that,” Callie said weakly.

  “In novels. Okay, we’ll check the wife’s bank account,” he said with a distinct note of condescension.

  “So, that’s it?” She couldn’t believe it. “Hardly seems fair.”

  “It doesn’t work on ‘fair’,” State said. “From what Briana told her friends, this guy was her first and only daddy. That leaves us the usual angles – old boyfriends, neighbors, strange cars seen in the Westlake area, people with violent rape arrests. We’re asking around about her movements that night. And we’re still talking to Blackburn’s law team, trying to pressure him to say… anything.” State clicked his key and the beep from his car was followed almost instantly by a ding from his phone. “Excuse me.” Callie gave him a little space while he checked it. “Damn,” her brother said under his breath. “Damn it all.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Paget sent me a text. ‘I want you to remember who she was.’” State handed the phone to his sister.

  Below the text message was a photo. It was Briana, fully clothed, lying stomach down on a bed, her face propped up in her fists, smiling coquettishly, with just a hint of Audrey Hepburn about her. The leather and gold necklace, the birthday present, peeked out from between her forearms. “Congratulations. Now we both have a picture of Bri.”

  State took back his phone. “I hate it when they do that.”

  CHAPTER 22

  On Callie’s next visit to St. David’s, her father seemed himself again. But he was cranky and restless, anxious to get home, not accepting the fact that going back to the house was impossible. On the other side of the third floor, Gil was looking more alive but less coherent, falling in and out of consciousness. His sister Maria sat by the bed where she’d spent half the previous night. She was in charge of the hydromorphone drip and was more liberal in its use than Gil might have wanted.

  Next was the Westridge Pet Hospital, where she had a comforting talk with the veterinarian in charge. He had been Angus’s vet for most of the dog’s life. “Do you plan to bury his remains?” A small wooden box, smaller than Callie would have imagined, sat on the side table between his desk and her chair. “I would recommend it fairly soon. The longer you put it off… I’m sure Angus wouldn’t want to be stuck in a drawer somewhere forever.” Callie agreed. She promised that, as soon as things settled down, she and Buddy would have a little ceremony and bury the good old boy under the shade of his favorite willow.

  Dinner came early, in her truck, parked twenty yards beyond the drive-thru window of a Chick-fil-A. By the time she walked into Sherry Ann’s apartment, she was ready for a drink.

  She was relieved to find the place empty and to find another half-bottle of white wine hidden in the vegetable crisper. She made a mental note to replace this bottle as well, bringing the total of three – and counting. She took a glass from the shelf, retrieved the cushioned envelope Emily had given her to mail, and settled into Sherry Ann’s flowery upholstered chair.

  She had to send off the laptop tomorrow, she reminded herself. It was a sobering prospect, letting go of her one remaining contact with Bri. If this little machine could talk . . . Without thinking too much, she tore through the seal and pulled it out. There was no note or documentation, just the MacBook Air and a power cord. Oh, and something attached to the back, rustling under her hand. Callie turned it over and was surprised to find a Post-it note. Bc*1234, written in light pencil. Really? She had to laugh. So much for police department security. Of course, the tech geeks had no reason to think that it would wind up in the hands of anyone but Briana’s family.

  Taking the MacBook to the kitchen island, she plugged it and powered it up. The passcode worked, bringing up a photo of a smiling white kitten on Briana’s screen and a dozen or so icons, including a familiar-looking ‘M” superimposed over a ‘S”. Callie double-clicked the icon and waited while the MySugar site loaded its classy-looking homepage. A log-in box materialized on the upper right and when she typed in “B”, the auto-fill feature suggested Briana’s email address and eight dots for her password. Another double click and she was in. It was that easy. A selfie of a shy but sexy-looking Briana materialized above the name Holly G.

  Callie retrieved her wine, took a gulp followed by a deep breath then checked the dead girl’s message history. She tried to tamp down her expectations. State had already accessed this information. But her brother didn’t know everything. For example, he hadn’t bothered to look at Briana’s Kindle or to check the autograph in Sam Paget’s book.

  There were a fair number of messages to Briana, twenty or more, including a flurry of contacts in the fall, when she’d first signed on. Some sugar daddies were replying to her inquiries. Others were reaching out on their own. All of them commented on her looks and fun-loving attitude. “Let’s get to know each other,” wrote a man calling himself LuxuryMate. “We’ll have a swinging time. No strings.” Each communication featured a thumbnail photo – men in their forties or fifties, some younger, some serious, some smiling, one in a karate pose. One of the September notes was from Dr. Feelgood, Dr. Paget’s online name. The photo was not of him but of another black middle-aged man, this one a little younger and with hair.

  Their correspondence had continued – playful and chatty, with talk about school and Briana’s life goals – before Paget asked for her private email address. That was the last entry from Dr. Feelgood.

  Scrolling down, she saw that the message history went semi-dormant, just a few incoming inquiries, no responses from Briana, until March 31. Callie did the math; just 12 days before her death. On that date Briana sent out five inquiries and received two responses. Only one of them went private, from YrValentine, a mid-thirties, mid-attractive white male who had given her a phone number, not an email. Could this man be involved? Not Briana’s ex-daddy but her new one?

  She took another sip, using the other hand to grab her phone and dial the number. Sure enough, a recorded voice came on almost immediately, informing her that it no longer in service. One more long sip and Callie had emptied the wine glass.

  Her gaze returned to the MacBook screen and the two messages from YrValentine. The second, the one with the phone number, was longer than the first. He was married, he admitted, but was sure they could work out a great relationship. She should respond soon, and they would set up a “meet-and-eat at whatever high-end restaurant you pref
er.”

  She read this sentence again. She read it once more. A meet-and-eat at a high-end restaurant. Callie stopped breathing. This had to be the same daddy who’d contacted her. It had to be. Iwill4you. The odds of two men on the same sugar site using exactly the same phrases…

  Retrieving her laptop from the bedroom, she accessed the MySugar site with her own password and clicked through to Iwill4you’s thumbnail. She studied the face, comparing it to YrValentine’s. They were similar but not the same by any means. The one thing the man didn’t change, perhaps didn’t think to change, was his language, something that Callie was particularly attuned to.

  A chill went straight through her. Here was a sugar daddy who’d gone private with Briana not long before her death, who’d then changed his name and profile and was now approaching Callie. Could this be a normal thing? Did men regularly change their names and pics and descriptions? She herself had changed her profile and photo. But no, this felt different.

  Her first impulse was to call someone, to get their opinion and support. What about State? She smiled. Oh, she would love to rub his nose in this little morsel. He’d been so dismissive when she – actually one of his sons – had joined a sugaring website. His wife had thrown her out of the house. But now, because of that, she had a brand-new lead. No, Callie decided. The last time she came across a clue she’d done the right thing, only to have State try to freeze her out.

  What about Oliver? Well, Oliver was her partner and her boss, the man who was putting his paper on the line in order to bring this to light. But he, too, had been problematic. She thought back to their interview with Crystal. They might have gotten Blackburn’s name out of her and into their article if Oliver had been such a nervous Nelly. What if the same thing happened again? Would Oliver still want to play by the rules when playing just outside them might help put the bastard in jail?

  Callie sat with her empty glass, thinking over her options. Neither was perfect. But going it alone seemed even worse. And then a sharp ding interrupted her musings. It was one of the laptops. Hers. At the top right corner of her MySugar page appeared an alert, a personal message from Iwill4you. The icon, a glowing, pulsing red heart, was intended to be romantic, but that’s not how she reacted.

  She clicked through and read. “Hey, Heather. Got your message. You didn’t include your cell, but I get it. A girl can’t be too careful. Here’s my cell, just as a show of faith. I’m quite excited to meet you. Let’s do dinner. BTW, my name really is Will, which makes my handle a pretty lame joke. Is your name really Heather?”

  Callie had no intention of calling him and letting him see her number, so she stuck with the website. “Hey, Will. Yes, I’m really Heather. I would love to get to know you. Dinner sounds terrific. How about somewhere near campus? That makes it convenient for me.”

  They went back and forth a few more times, settling on Mikimoto, a fusion restaurant just a few blocks away. Will suggested making a reservation for tomorrow at seven and Callie, or rather Heather, accepted. She saw no reason in postponing it, which would only give her more time to change her mind. This was something she had to do.

  It was just dinner in a public place, she told herself. Her brother wouldn’t be there to take over. And Oliver wouldn’t be there to protect her virtue or insist on full disclosure.

  As soon as they signed off, Callie went into the bathroom and started the process of washing and air drying her thick, rather problematic hair. She had learned how to deal with it from her mother, and the procedure always brought back a flood of memories.

  CHAPTER 23

  The next day, from the moment she woke up, it hung over her like a cloud – the upcoming date, interview, meet-and-eat, whatever. A busy morning and an equally busy afternoon helped keep her distracted.

  It began with a call from Briana’s mother in Phoenix. This week’s Free Press was online and Callie had texted her a link to “A Death in Westlake”. Helen thanked her for portraying her daughter in such a sympathetic light and for not mentioning the sugar aspect. But there was no mention of a series, Helen pointed out. Was there going to be another article? Callie told her the truth. There probably would be, yes. It all depended on what new information they could dig up. It might come very soon, Callie thought but didn’t say.

  After that came the packing up and the labored thank-you note to Sherry Ann, followed by a walk to the post office to mail off Briana’s laptop, going to the extra trouble to send it insured, return receipt requested. On the way back, she dropped into Junior’s Wines and Spirits to buy a bottle of Champagne and three bottles of a decent, mid-priced white. She left the Champagne as a thank-you and two of the whites as reimbursements, putting the third in her backpack. The door locked automatically behind her and she lugged her backpack and two suitcases into the elevator and down to the lobby.

  Sarah had overseen the preparations for the McFee gatehouse. She had a set of keys and knew the property. Two of her nieces had spent the previous day cleaning. Also enlisted was the ranch’s handyman/gardener, to move Buddy’s clothing and personal effects into the larger of the two bedrooms. Burned-out light bulbs were replaced. Small repairs were made – a loose door hinge, a broken shelf. The cable and wi-fi were up and running. Callie had learned from her mother that any problem could be solved if you had a sweet attitude, knew where to throw your money and tipped generously. Gil had told her where to find the household checkbook, in the center desk drawer in his office.

  Callie turned off Hacienda Road and stopped to say hello to the uniformed officer manning the gateposts. Down at the end of drive, a lone motorcycle stood by the blackened doorway, evidence of the rent-a-cop still on the job. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of driving up, just to reexamine the damage, but there was already enough on her mind.

  She pulled up to the small driveway fronting a faux French Provincial chateau but on a tiny scale, like something built for Epcot Center. It was a strange feeling to be home again and yet walk into a house she’d never been in before. Generations of gardeners had spent their working lives in this gatehouse, laboring for the McFee dynasty, and yet she knew almost nothing about them.

  One of Sarah’s famous enchilada casseroles was waiting in the oven, making the strange house smell like home. She treated herself to a healthy slice, then wrapped the rest in tin foil and found a spot for it in the freshly stocked fridge, complete, she noted, with two bottles of chilled white wine. Those, plus the one in her backpack, made three. Thank you, Sarah!

  As she unpacked in the bedroom, a decent-sized ensuite with new towels and sheets and her old blue comforter from childhood, Callie second-guessed her living situation for the umpteenth time. From a practical point of view, it made sense. She needed a place. This would be familiar ground for her father until the ranch was once again inhabitable. And it would keep him away from prying eyes. On the other side of the pro-con ledger was just one item, her great discomfort in the two of them living under the same green copper mansard roof. It would be temporary, she promised herself. The majority of her belongings still sat in a storage unit in Dallas, where they would stay, awaiting a saner, more permanent solution.

  Throughout the day, she’d been on and off the phone with Oliver. The article was already garnering attention and she could sense his excitement. Despite his low-key persona, despite his role as the publisher of a weekly handout, Oliver loved being in the middle of the action. “My phone is ringing nonstop. I’m so embarrassed your name’s not on this.”

  “When the time comes, we’ll have a long discussion with the Pulitzer committee.”

  He laughed. “I know you’re joking, but…”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Oliver’s very first call had come from the Police Community Liaison, denying any such arrest and demanding to know the name of their source. The second and third inquiries were from the mayor’s office, and the district attorney’s. The Austin Justice Coalition had also called, trying to judge the racial implications. Social media soon
joined in, with links to the article appearing on Twitter and Facebook. Some took the feminist approach, wondering how the police could justify protecting the identity of a man like this. “There are also a few dozen theories about who the suspect could be. Every local celebrity from the governor to Lance Armstrong. One theory says it was Keagan Blackburn.

  “You think it’s a lucky guess?”

  “Yes,” Oliver said, “although my heart skipped a beat, I have to tell you. The rationale was that he lives in the vicinity and that his wife walked out, turning him into this serial rapist-killer.”

  “Serial? It was just one.”

  “You know the internet. All in all, pretty manageable. We didn’t blow up nationally, but it’s good local attention.”

  Callie had thought about bringing Oliver up to speed on tonight’s plan and decided against it. He would only try to talk her out of it. Or try to come along.

  It took her over an hour to get ready. The gardener – Lou, she thought his name was – had brought over the dressing table from her old bedroom, the one she’d inherited from her mother. Anita McFee would sit there, staring into this same mirror, applying her party face, while Sarah, in her gray and white uniform, brought up a dressing drink, a small gin martini with an olive. It had been a tradition for women of a certain station to sip a little concoction while preparing for the evening. Callie smiled at the memory then went down to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of white wine, her own dressing drink, and returned to her mirror.

  Will, if that was his name, would be expecting real date attire. He basically knew what she looked like, a redhead named Heather with her face half in the shadows. Callie pulled back her hair and wrapped it in a ponytail. Now, how should this Heather dress? What kind of make-up? Should Callie use her own taste or go a little cheaper and more obvious? More eyeshadow maybe? It was like going undercover, complete with a disguise and a backstory. Her plan was to leave early, giving herself plenty of time, which meant, of course, that there was no traffic and she arrived there early.