“When I saw Richard leave, I went inside. I headed straight for Kyla’s bedroom, and what I saw made me sick to my stomach. I couldn’t believe what Richard had done. Horrified, I raced out of the house, and that’s when I ran into Pedro by the front door.”
Callaway remembered how Kyla had spoken to Pedro that day. He must have tried to get in touch with her, and when she did not respond, he came to check up on her.
“When I saw him, I knew how the situation looked,” Senator Lester said. “There was a dead body inside, and I was seen running out of the house. I then pulled out my gun, and I ordered Pedro to get in the trunk of my Lincoln.”
Callaway stopped him. “How did you manage to get Paul’s gun? I know you had convinced him to purchase one.”
Senator Lester nodded. “I supported a bill to make it illegal to purchase military grade weapons by civilians, but the outcry was more than I had expected. I was constantly getting death threats. I feared some gun-toting nutjob would show up at one of my rallies and do me harm. But I was in a difficult position. I couldn’t go out and purchase a weapon, and I couldn’t have armed bodyguards with me at all times. So, I came up with the idea to get Paul to buy a firearm. I had him show me the gun, and when he did, I knew where he kept it. The next time I was at Sharon’s house, I stole it. I then paid someone to break into the box for me.”
“It seems like you pay your way out of any trouble,” Callaway said. “Then what did you do with Pedro?”
Senator Lester shook his head at what happened next. “I drove him to the back of the strip mall. I had campaigned there a few weeks earlier, so I knew the mall did not have adequate security. I shot Pedro in the trunk of the Lincoln and then I dumped his body in the dumpster. I hoped no one had seen me, but I guess I was wrong.”
“You weren’t. The call from Mike Grabonsky was only a ruse to get you here. No one caught you leaving the mall that night.”
“Now what happens?” Senator Lester asked.
“Now you go to jail for the murder of Pedro Catano.”
Senator Lester stood up and pulled out the Glock from his pocket. He aimed it at Callaway. “I don’t think so. I doubt very much that you also recorded this conversation of ours.”
“I didn’t have to,” Callaway replied. “There are two detectives sitting in a parked car outside the house. They know I am not carrying a weapon. This means you can’t shoot me and argue self-defense. Plus, I bet that gun you are holding is registered to Paul, which means there’s no way he could have shot Pedro, and there is definitely no way for you to pin my death on him when he is at his mother’s house right now, surrounded by a press mob.”
Senator Lester contemplated Callaway’s words.
“There is no way out, sir. Drop the weapon and give yourself up.”
A wan smile crossed Senator Lester’s face. “There’s always a way out,” he said bitterly.
He aimed the gun squarely at Callaway’s head.
Callaway stood frozen.
Senator Lester turned the gun around and placed it in his mouth.
Before Callaway could stop him, he pulled the trigger.
His skull exploded, and he dropped to the floor like a rag doll.
Senator Barron Lester was dead before he hit the floor.
NINETY-FIVE
Callaway was in his office when there was a knock at the door. He got up to check and found Paul standing by the door with a smile on his face. Paul looked better than the last time he had seen him at his mother’s house. The past week or so had taken a toll on him, but now, a tremendous weight was off his shoulders, and his relief showed on his face. He no longer looked like a man who was contemplating suicide.
All charges had been dropped against him. Dr. Richard Lester would go on trial for the murder of Kyla Gardener, and Senator Lester had already paid the ultimate price for Pedro Catano’s murder.
“What are you doing here?” Callaway asked.
“I thought I should come and thank you in person.”
Callaway shrugged. “You thanked me enough on the phone already.”
“I know, but it still wasn’t enough,” Paul said. “Without your help, I would probably be in prison, or dead.”
Callaway did not know how to reply.
Paul said, “Detective Holt dropped by to see me this morning.”
Callaway was surprised. “He did?”
“He apologized for the way he pursued me in Kyla’s death.”
“And what was your reply?”
“I accepted it. I mean, it’s not every day a lead investigator comes to your door to say he’s sorry.”
“If I were in your place, I would have squeezed every drop of the apology out of Holt.”
Paul was silent. He then lowered his head. “I never imagined my life would turn out this way.”
“I think it turned out for the better,” Callaway said.
Paul looked at him. “How?”
“Your wife, your brother-in-law, and your father-in-law are out of the picture. The Lester family tried to destroy you, but they ended up destroying themselves. You are free to do whatever you want with your life. If you choose, you can travel on that boat of yours now. Plus, with your wife dead, you’re Kyla’s next of kin, which means all the money she was going to inherit will come to you.”
“I would rather have my daughter than the money,” Paul said. “Even if she wasn’t my blood, I still loved her.”
“You’re a good man, Paul. I thought that the moment I met you.”
Paul pulled out an envelope and held it out for Callaway.
“What is this?” Callaway asked.
“Your fee for the job you did to prove my innocence.”
“I told you I was going to waive my fee.”
“I know, but I’m still paying it.”
Callaway peeked inside the envelope. There was a stack of hundred-dollar bills. “That’s a lot of money, Paul.”
“It’s the money I would have paid Roth for the trial anyway. I figured you should have it instead.”
“But…”
“Take it. I would have had to pay Roth three times what I’m giving you now, so it’s a bargain in my opinion.”
“In that case, I’ll keep it,” Callaway said.
Paul held out his hand. “Thanks again for what you did for me. I will never forget it.”
Callaway shook Paul’s hand. “You take care of yourself, Paul.”
NINETY-SIX
When Paul was gone, Callaway went inside and counted the money. It was indeed a lot. He suddenly began to feel lucky. Maybe he should go to the racetrack, the casino, or a bookie’s. He could double or triple his money.
He got in his car and drove away. But instead of going to any of those places, he decided to go someplace far more important.
“You’re back,” Patti said, looking surprised.
“Is Nina home?”
“Yeah, why? Everything okay?”
“I got three tickets to the baseball game, and I was wondering if you and Nina would like to go with me.”
“You mean as a family?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I don’t know if it’s a good idea, Lee.”
He held out an envelope for her.
“What’s this?” she said.
“It’s for you and Nina.”
Her eyes went wide at the stack of bills. “That’s lot of money.”
“If I kept it, I’d end up burning it. I know you can do a lot of good with it.”
“Is this from the Paul Gardener case?” she asked.
“It is.”
“I read about it in the newspapers. I’m proud of you, Lee. Even Nina was excited to tell her friends about it.”
Nina appeared from behind her mother. “Daddy!” she said.
“Hey, baby.” Callaway hugged her. He did not want to let go of her, ever. He said, “So, Mommy, what do you say?”
Patti turned to Nina. “Darling, do you think we should go to a baseball game with Daddy?”
>
Nina jumped up in the air. “Yes! I want to go to a baseball game.”
Patti smiled. “Why don’t you come in and sit down? It’ll take us a couple of minutes to get ready.”
Callaway smiled and went inside the house.
THE GONE SISTER
ONE
Several Years Earlier
Anthony “Fatboy” Carvalho lit up a cigarette and took a long drag. He had earned his nickname back when he used to weigh almost three hundred pounds. After a heart attack at the age of thirty-five, however, he changed his diet and started exercising. He lost close to a hundred pounds in two years, and he planned to lose another twenty by the end of this year.
He had also stopped drinking, but he could not kick smoking. Cigarettes were his constant companion during his weight loss. He would light up a cigarette whenever he had a craving for food. His smoking was probably worse than his excess weight, but he would take things one step at a time. First he would finish losing weight, and then he would quit smoking.
Fatboy was sitting at a table on a restaurant’s outdoor patio. He could feel the sun beating down on him, making his neck burn, but he did not mind it. The vitamin D was good for him. His shirt and jacket hung loosely over his slimmer frame. His belt was on its last notch to keep his pants from falling off. He had still not upgraded his attire. He wanted to hit his target weight and then do a complete overhaul of his wardrobe. Why waste money on clothes before that? he figured.
The waitress brought over his espresso. She was young and blonde. He felt an impulse to get her number, but he quickly decided not to. He was not presentable yet. He still had more work to do on his body.
There was, however, another reason for hesitation.
He was a marked man.
Fatboy worked as the right-hand man for Paolo Beniti. Beniti imported heroin from the Balkans and Eastern Europe, and then he sold the drug through a network of dealers in the city. He also wholesaled heroin, which enabled him to keep the peace with other distributors. If they ran short, he was more than willing to sell the drug to them. He was also involved in selling counterfeit brand-name goods, and he owned retail properties and small businesses throughout the city.
Beniti valued obedience above everything else, and if one of his subordinates deviated from his instructions, Beniti’s reprisals were ruthless.
Several months earlier, Fatboy had gotten into an altercation with the son of a casino owner. The altercation had left Fatboy with a black eye, a swollen cheek, and a bruised ego. If Fatboy was not in the process of losing weight, he would have used his bulk to win the fight. Beniti had ordered Fatboy not to retaliate, as Beniti was friends with the casino owner.
Fatboy did not listen.
When he saw his opportunity, he attacked the casino owner’s son with a baseball bat. He broke several of the boy’s bones and walked away feeling satisfied.
The boy had to spend a month in the hospital.
Naturally, Beniti was not pleased. Fatboy apologized and swore he would never disobey his commands again, but he knew he had crossed the line.
Fatboy was notorious for his temper. His bad attitude made him feared in the organization, but his anger had put him in the position he was in now. Had he let bygones be bygones, he would not be sitting here drinking espresso, wondering if this would be the last drink he ever tasted. But what was done was done. Sooner or later, someone would come for him.
But Fatboy would not go down without a fight.
He always kept a watchful eye on his surroundings, making sure nothing caught him by surprise. This survival tactic had kept him alive before, so why not now?
He was also proactive.
Fatboy had done what his dead associates never did. He had gone to the feds. He promised the FBI valuable information on Beniti and his associates in return for immunity and protection.
He took a sip of his espresso and checked his watch. His FBI contact would be here any minute.
He heard a commotion. A male customer two tables down was arguing with the pretty blonde waitress. The man was loud and rude. Fatboy felt an urge to get up, go give the man a hard slap, and say, That’s no way to speak to a lady.
He got ready to rise to his feet when he heard a rumble. Fatboy turned to see what it was.
A motorcyclist pulled up next to the patio, stopping five feet from Fatboy. The rider—a man—was dressed in black. Black leather jacket, black pants and boots, and a black helmet. He looked like the Grim Reaper.
Fatboy knew what this was. My time is up, he thought.
Fatboy and the hit man went for their guns.
The hit man whipped out a 9mm and fired first.
A bullet ripped through Fatboy’s shoulder, spinning him in his chair. Fatboy fell to the deck and pulled his table in front of him as a shield.
The hit man blazed away at Fatboy, but his bullets smacked into the metal table instead.
Pandemonium broke loose as café customers and employees fled the patio, screaming and ducking as they fled.
Fatboy finally drew his gun—a revolver—and fired back.
He caught the shooter off guard. He turned to flee, but he slipped and fell.
Fatboy felt a surge of rage. He got up from behind the table and fired again. His bullet struck the shooter in the back, but the shooter was able to turn and fire off one more burst.
One of his shots hit Fatboy squarely in the chest.
He dropped to the deck.
The shooter hopped on his motorcycle and rode away.
Fatboy clutched at his chest as blood covered his shirt. His ears rang, and he felt disoriented.
He glanced off to his right and saw people huddled around someone on the deck. He could not tell who.
Why aren’t they checking on me? he wondered. I’m also hurt.
He realized he was still gripping his revolver. He let the gun slip from his fingers. His eyelids suddenly felt heavy, and his entire body was on fire with pain.
His breathing became labored as he shut his eyes and fell into a sea of darkness.
TWO
Present Day
Her legs ached as she made her way up the narrow street. The predawn glow filled the eastern horizon, but the streetlights were still lit.
The woman wore a light-colored hoodie and track pants. Rock music blared through her earbuds, giving her the energy to keep pushing even when she was on the brink of exhaustion.
Dana Fisher loved to go for a run early in the morning when everyone was still asleep. There were no people, cars, or pets to contend with. She felt like she was on a solitary journey. Her destination was not important, nor was finishing her run by a certain time. The only thing that mattered to Fisher was getting in a good workout.
She checked her athletic watch. She had a good heartbeat, a high burned-calorie count, and the miles run were more than on her last sprint.
She smiled and resumed her run, pushing herself even harder. She raced down the street, cut through a park, went over a railway line, and then made her way back to her apartment building.
As Fisher entered the lobby, she pulled off her soaking wet hoodie, revealing her dark shoulder-length hair. She was five-five and weighed close to a hundred and ten pounds. Her nose was thin and pointed upwards, and it moved whenever she opened her mouth. Her green eyes were large and expressive, and they were staring at her reflection in the lobby’s mirrored wall.
She was a member of the Milton Police Department. She had ambitions to become a captain one day. So far, she was enjoying her time as a detective. Being a peace officer was gritty and gruesome work, but it gave her invaluable experience. She had learned to be better focused, patient, and compartmentalize her tasks: all skills she would need when the time came for her to run her own police precinct.
She had no doubt she would one day.
While she waited in the lobby, she saw that one of the three elevators was not working. There was always something wrong in her building. If it was not the elevators, it was the h
ot water shutting off in the middle of a shower, or the heating system not producing enough air to warm a room. Or worse, the fire alarms malfunctioned when there could be a potential emergency.
She had thought about moving out, but with the rent so high in the city, it was almost impossible to find something affordable. With rent control, she was secure in not having to worry about her rent increasing exorbitantly. If she went to another location, the landlords could charge her whatever they wanted, as the rent control laws did not apply to new tenants. On top of that, there were the moving costs.
Until she could save enough money or get a promotion, she was staying put.
The other two working elevators were at the top floors. She decided to take the stairs instead. Unfortunately, she lived on the sixth floor.
Her apartment was brightly colored. She could not stand looking at the beige walls that had turned yellowish after years of dirt and grime, so she had given her place a new coat of paint right after she moved in.
The bedroom was on the right, the living room and kitchen on the left. At the far end was her favorite spot. The balcony had been enclosed by the previous tenants, giving her an extra room. She had converted the space into her meditation room.
The apartment walls were covered in family photos. In each picture, she was the one girl with three brothers. Maybe that explained why she was comfortable with butting heads with her male colleagues. Her parents were both professionals, and they had hoped their daughter would get a nine-to-five job behind a desk. She knew she was not ready for that at this stage of her life. She wanted to see the city, and as a detective, she saw more than what most people did.
Her cell phone buzzed. She thought about not answering.
Her phone continued to buzz.
She gritted her teeth, put her phone to her ear, and said, “Fisher.” She listened. “It’s my day off. Call Detective Holt.” She listened some more. She sighed. “Okay, fine. I’ll be right there.”
THREE
The Lee Callaway Boxed Set Page 23
