The Broken Mother

by Thomas Fincham

  Holt snorted. Another dead end, he thought.

  “Why are you so interested in looking at security cameras?” the man asked.

  “I thought it might catch someone I’m looking for.”

  “Why don’t you go across the street?” the man suggested. “The couple there have cameras in their house.”

  “They do?” Holt said.

  “Sure. The husband is nice. A few months back, someone robbed their house. The couple had installed wireless cameras so they could watch their house from their cell phones. The robbers found a way to hack into their wireless system. Don’t ask me how, but from what the husband told me, it’s not that hard. Anyway, the robbers were able to disable the security and get inside the house. Now the couple has gone back to the old-fashioned alarm systems that are connected to your home telephone.”

  Holt thought for a moment. “Thanks,” he said.

  He walked across the street.

  SEVENTY-SIX

  Ulrich sat in a windowless room. He was no longer handcuffed because he was not under arrest. He could walk out of the room if he wanted.

  Fisher hoped he would not. She wanted to ask him questions, and she preferred he answered them voluntarily.

  “You can’t do this,” Ulrich said, rubbing his wrists. They were still raw from when Fisher cuffed them. “This is police brutality. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Fisher was seated across from him at the metal table. She crossed her arms over her chest and said, “Okay, then explain to me what’s going on in your house.”

  “Nothing is going on,” Ulrich said, acting innocent. “And who says it’s my house anyway?”

  “According to land records, you purchased it four years ago.”

  “So what? I could have rented it out to someone.”

  “Did you?”

  “What?”

  “Rent it out?”

  He shrugged. “I could have, but what I’m saying is, I don’t know what’s going on in the house.”

  “I saw your car parked in the driveway. Plus, it looked like you had access to the house because I saw you going in and out.”

  “I don’t know what you saw, but I can tell you, I got nothing to do with whatever is going on in there.”

  Fisher’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you just said you don’t know what’s going on in there?”

  Ulrich paused to compose his thoughts. “I don’t,” he said.

  “All right,” Fisher said. “Where were you on the morning of…?” She provided a time and date.

  Ulrich shrugged. “I was probably sleeping. I don’t usually get up until noon.”

  “Can anyone confirm this?”

  “Um… maybe one of the girls…”

  “Those girls who live in that house?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The house that doesn’t belong to you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Those same girls whose activity you know nothing about?”

  Ulrich bit his lip and looked away.

  “What do you have against Emily’s Place?” Fisher asked.

  He turned back to her. “Who said I’ve got anything against them?”

  “I have a good source who says you do.”

  Ulrich stared at her. She could tell he was debating whether she was telling him the truth or bluffing.

  “I’ve had a few bad experiences with the place, okay?”

  “Like what?”

  He took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring as he did so. He then exhaled. “A couple of my girls ran away. Emily’s Place helped them out.”

  “Is it safe to say you didn’t like the people who worked there?” Fisher asked.

  “Listen, those girls made me a lot of money, so yeah, I don’t think fondly of Emily’s Place, but that does not mean I had anything to do with what happened there.”

  “You want me to believe that?”

  “You can believe whatever you want,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “but you won’t pin that stuff on me.”

  “Do you own a gun, Mr. Ulrich?” Fisher asked.

  His eyes narrowed. “What kind of a question is that? You patted me down before you brought me in here. I don’t have a gun on me.”

  “I never asked if you had a weapon on your person,” Fisher said. “I asked if you own a gun. It could be in your house, in your vehicle, or someplace else you prefer to keep it. So, do you?”

  Ulrich was silent for a moment. His shoulders sank. “Yeah, I got a gun.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Locked up in the house.”

  “I bet it’s not registered because I found no record of you owning a gun in any database.”

  “It’s not,” Ulrich confessed.

  “What make and model is it?”

  “Why is that important?”

  “It is.”

  “A Glock 19.”

  Fisher frowned. The murder weapon was a Smith & Wesson 9mm.

  “Do you know an Earl Munchin?”

  “Who?” Ulrich looked confused.

  “He goes to the same meetings you go to.”

  “What meetings?”

  “The Men’s Support Alliance meetings.”

  Ulrich snorted. “I’m not a member of that organization. I could care less about men’s rights movement.”

  “But you go to their meetings.”

  “The only reason I go there is to get more business. Most of those guys are divorced, single, or stuck in a bad marriage. They cry that they got screwed by their ex-wives, or that they can’t see their children, and that they are lonely. I offer them a night with one of my girls. They are happy, and I am happy. As far as I am concerned, it’s a win-win situation for everyone.”

  “Not for the girls it isn’t,” Fisher said.

  “Hey, those girls choose to be there. They can leave whenever they want.”

  “What about that girl you were dragging by the arm when I showed up? She didn’t look like she had much choice.”

  Ulrich shrugged. “I was trying to help her?”

  Fisher’s jaw clenched. “Help her? How?”

  Ulrich smiled. “I was encouraging her to work so that she could get paid.”

  “So, you don’t deny that you are running a brothel from your house.”’

  The smile on Ulrich’s face faded. “Listen, I’m done here.” He stood up. “If you got something on me, then you can arrest me right now. If you don’t, then I’m walking out of here.”

  Just then, Fisher’s phone buzzed. She answered, listened, and then hung up.

  “Sit down, Mr. Ulrich,” she said firmly.

  Ulrich stared at her but did as instructed.

  “What’s that girl’s name you were trying to help?” she asked.

  “It’s Svetlana.”

  “The officer at your house just informed me that she is not eighteen. She’s seventeen, in fact, which makes her a minor. And her real name isn’t Svetlana.”

  “I didn’t know that. She lied to me then.”

  “You never bothered to check for ID?”

  Ulrich paused. Fisher could see his wheels turning as he tried to cook up an excuse.

  “I must have, but maybe she gave me a fake one.”

  “Listen, Mr. Ulrich,” Fisher said. “I’m not going to waste any more time with you.”

  “So, I can go?”

  “No. What you are going to do is call your lawyer. The more you lie to me, the more you are going to have to explain yourself in front of a judge.”

  Ulrich opened his mouth but then shut it.

  “Would you like to call your lawyer, Mr. Ulrich? Or would you like to provide me with a statement about what’s really going on in your house?”

  He looked down at his hands. “I would like to call my lawyer, please.”

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  Fisher walked out of the interview room. She saw Holt waiting for her in the hallway.

  “I see you brought a suspect in for questioning without me,” he said.
r />   “I’m sorry,” she said. “I—”

  He held his hand up. “I’m not offended.” He paused and then said, “So? What did you find out? I only got here a couple of minutes ago before you came out.”’

  She shook her head. “Nothing related to the murders.”

  “Okay, then why is he still in the room?”

  “I found out he was running a brothel from his house.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  She paused. “It might be better if I plead the fifth.” Like Ulrich, Fisher knew the more she talked, the more she would end up incriminating herself. Also, if Holt found out she had involved Callaway in her schemes, he would definitely be offended.

  “While you were phishing for a suspect…” Holt said.

  “I wasn’t phishing,” she corrected him. “I had a good hunch.”

  “Okay, while you were busy dismantling an illegal prostitution establishment, I’ve made some progress on the case.”

  Fisher’s eyes widened. “You have?”

  He told her how the killer had made his escape. He also told her what he found at Gene Caldwell’s house. “And when I went to the house across from the convenience store, I discovered that the homeowner had a special camera installed in the front with a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the street.”

  “Tell me you caught the killer on tape,” Fisher said eagerly.

  “Yes and no. Yes, there is footage of him walking to his car and driving away. No, the vehicle was too far away to capture the license plate number. However, I was able to make out the make and model of the vehicle.”

  “And what is it?”

  “The killer drove a black Volvo SUV.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I was debating getting one myself, but I opted for the sedan instead because when I thought about it, I don’t really need too much cargo space.”

  Fisher rubbed her chin in thought. “Even with that information, it could be anyone. I bet there are thousands of people who drive that particular vehicle just in Milton.”

  “I agree, but there is something else that’s even more troubling,” he said.

  “Like what?”

  “The killer was still inside Emily’s Place when Angel had shown up.”

  Fisher’s brow furrowed. “Who’s Angel?”

  “The homeless woman who called 9-1-1.”

  “Oh, right. So, why is that troubling?”

  “The killer was waiting for someone. I can’t be a hundred percent sure, but he was likely waiting for Nikki Jones to arrive at work.”

  Fisher’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “He wanted her dead as well.”

  “Exactly. The murders occurred before Angel had arrived at the scene. Which gave the killer enough time to make his escape from the front. He chose to stay behind and leave from the back, which makes me think he was waiting for Nikki Jones.”

  Fisher pulled out her cell phone. “We have to call her. Her life could be in danger.”

  “I’ve tried. She’s not answering her phone.”

  “Then we have to go to her house and warn her.”

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  After his discussion with the wannabe-mobsters at the bar, Callaway decided to go to his office. His mind was still racing over what they had said. They were willing to hurt Joely and Josh just to make an example of Dean.

  Callaway was wrong. Dean was nothing like him. He would never put Patti and Nina in harms way. True, when things had gotten a little dicey for him—like when he was evicted from an apartment or stalked by an irate client’s husband—he had sought refuge with Patti and Nina until things cooled down. But he never showed up at their door when dangerous people were after him. He knew that would be the first place they would look for him, especially because he had a daughter.

  It was not beneath criminals to use a child to get to people who owed them something, but Callaway knew real mobsters did not go after a man’s wife and children. Only wannabes did.

  Maybe things are different now, he thought. Maybe these modern-day gangsters are more ruthless than their predecessors.

  He made his way up the metal stairs to his office.

  He stopped in his tracks.

  Standing on the landing was Hope Parsons.

  She was wearing a long coat. Underneath the coat, Callaway saw she had on her pajamas and night slippers.

  “Should you be out this late?” he asked, concerned.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said. Her eyes were distant, as if she was not entirely there. “I need to know what you found out about Noah.”

  “I’m still working on it.”

  She hugged herself and began to rock back and forth on her toes. Her eyes flickered and she began to moan in a low voice.

  “Are you okay?” Callaway asked.

  She did not respond, still moaning.

  “Do you want to come inside?”

  He quickly pulled out his office keys.

  “I didn’t kill Noah.” Hope had stopped rocking in place. “I know I didn’t.”

  “Okay,” Callaway said, grateful she was not having an episode of some sort.

  “Do you believe me?” she asked.

  He did not know how to respond. He was worried about saying something that might trigger a negative reaction. But at the same time, he did not want to give her false hope that could push her over the edge.

  “I don’t know what to believe.”

  She lowered her gaze, and her eyes began to glaze over.

  Before she could drift into some distant land, he said, “You didn’t take Noah to the lake, did you?”

  The sound of her son’s name snapped her back into reality. “No, I didn’t.”

  “So, he was already at the lake when you got there?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What was he doing at the lake?”

  “He was flying.”

  Callaway blinked, not sure he had heard correctly. “Flying?”

  “Like an angel. His arms and legs were spread apart, and he was flying.”

  Callaway considered what she had just said. “Was he floating?”

  She looked at him. “I’m not sure what you mean?”

  “Was he in the water when you got there?”

  She searched her memory. “I’m not sure.”

  “When you found him… flying, what did he say to you?”

  “He didn’t say anything to me. He didn’t look well.”

  “How so?”

  “His cheeks weren’t pink anymore. They were blue.”

  “Blue?”

  She did not respond. Her eyes were transfixed on the metal grating of the landing.

  “Hope, why were Noah’s cheeks blue?”

  She smiled. “Noah is a good boy. He loves to eat his vegetables. And he loves to play with his friends.”

  “What are the names of his friends, Hope?” Callaway asked.

  She was unresponsive. She was as still as a statue, staring at nothing in particular.

  August Livingston appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Thank heavens she’s here,” he said, rushing up the flight of stairs. “I’ve been looking for her all over.”

  “How’d you know she’d be here?” Callaway asked.

  “I didn’t. I remembered she showed me your business card. I figured I’d come and check,” he replied. “Mr. Munro doesn’t know she’s not at the facility. If he found out, he’d revoke her day pass.”

  Robert Munro would want even the tiniest excuse to lock Hope up for good, Callaway thought.

  Livingston came up to them. “She missed her medication. She’s normally much better, I swear.”

  “Don’t worry,” Callaway said. “I won’t mention this to anyone.”

  Livingston placed his hand on her elbow. “Come on, Hope,” he said gently. “It’s time to go home.”

  She blinked and looked up at him. “Home?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said with a smile. “Say goodby
e to Mr. Callaway now.”

  She waved at him.

  Callaway waved back and watched them go down the stairs.

  He suddenly wished he had a magic wand that he could wave to make all Hope’s problems go away. She was tormented by the thought of what she had done to her child, and Callaway was no longer sure how he could prove otherwise.

  SEVENTY-NINE

  Fisher had left Nikki Jones a detailed message, explaining that her life might be in danger. She hoped that, wherever Nikki Jones was, she had listened to the message and had taken the necessary precautions.

  In order to make sure she was aware of their concern, they were on their way to her house. The last thing they needed was another person from Emily’s Place dead. The media would have a field day if that happened, and the public outcry would place additional pressure on them. Everyone would want to know, including Fisher and Holt’s supervisors, why they still had not captured the murderer. They would believe, perhaps rightly, that had the killer been in police custody, another death could have been prevented.

  Fisher and Holt hoped that would not be the case.

  So far, there was no indication the killer had gone after Nikki Jones. Fisher and Holt had spoken to her after the murders. She was shaken by the deaths of her colleagues, but she did not come across as someone who was scared for her life. Plus, she had taken refuge at a friend’s house that day.

  Maybe that’s where she is right now, Fisher thought.

  She kicked herself for not pushing Nikki Jones on who this friend was and where he or she was living. Knowing where Nikki could be would also ease the sharp pain Fisher was feeling in her chest. Ever since Holt told her the killer had waited for Nikki at the center, Fisher could not shake the bad feeling that Nikki had been harmed.

  “Relax,” Holt said from the passenger seat.

  “I am relaxed,” she replied.

  “Well, you are grabbing the steering wheel like you are about to choke it.”

  Fisher glanced at her hands. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the wheel.