“And what’s going on with the music producer?” Callaway asked.
Joely’s dream was to become a singer. After she posted her songs online, a producer contacted her. The last time Callaway was at the restaurant, she was going to record a song with the producer.
She frowned. “It didn’t work out.”
“Why not?”
“Let’s say, he was more interested in other things than my singing career.”
Callaway’s eyes narrowed. “I’m guessing he didn’t want a professional relationship?”
She shook her head. “And if I went along with it, he promised he would make me a star.”
Callaway knew men with power were always using this tactic to get women to go to bed with them. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book. Make outlandish promises, and when you get what you want, you break those promises.
“I’m sorry,” Callaway said.
Joely shrugged. “It’s okay. So, why does your nose look like a ripe tomato?” she asked.
“It’s that bad, huh?” he replied, not touching his nose. The pain was still fresh in his mind.
“You still haven’t seen it?”
“I’m trying not to.”
Joely grinned. “If you ask me, it looks really nasty. Must hurt like hell.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Callaway asked.
“Oh, definitely. I bet you deserved it,” she replied.
“I didn’t.”
She stared at him.
“Okay. I fully deserved it.” His stomach grumbled. “Can I get a bite to eat?” he asked.
“Money first.”
“Come on,” he pleaded. “I gave the husband everything I had on me to stop him from hurting me more.”
Joely crossed her arms over her chest. “Sorry, Lee. I can’t risk losing this job. I need it. You can always go to a homeless shelter down the block. I’m sure their kitchen is still open right now.”
“I’m not homeless,” he said, waving a finger at her. “I’m Lee Callaway, private investigator extraordinaire. Wait here.”
He got up and left the restaurant. He went to the Impala and looked through the glove compartment. He then checked the middle console. They were both empty.
Callaway then flipped the cigarette lighter panel and smiled. The small slot held a bunch of loose coins.
Julio must have left spare change in case he needed it for an emergency.
Callaway hated taking the coins, but he was hungry, and he had no money on him. He had full intention of returning it, though, and that was not considered stealing but more like borrowing.
He scooped out the change and went back inside the restaurant.
FOURTEEN
Fisher cupped her hands over her eyes and peeked through the front window. The furniture store was empty. She was not expecting anything different. There was a for-rent sign taped to the glass, and by the looks of things, the building had been vacant for quite some time. Graffiti was sprayed across the window in various colors. Profanity and crude images were painted for everyone to see.
“I’m not sure if it has surveillance,” Fisher said.
“It does, but take a look,” Holt said, pointing up with his index finger.
There was a camera at the upper right corner of the front windows, but the camera was tilted at an awkward angle and looked like someone had taken a baseball bat to it.
“I doubt it caught anything,” Fisher said.
Holt was thinking the same thing.
“We should contact the owner. He needs to know something… tragic happened on his property,” Fisher said, choosing her words carefully. With Holt’s emotions raw, saying “death” or “murder” would only hurt him further.
She pulled out her cell phone and dialed the number on the for-rent sign. She was greeted with the voice message of a real estate firm. The owner must have listed the property with the real estate firm in order to find a tenant. By the looks of things, there were no takers.
This isn’t surprising, Fisher thought.
The area did not give off the vibe that businesses thrived in this neighborhood. When she drove here, she had seen other stores with closing-sale signs or for-lease signs, and some stores were boarded up with plywood.
Fisher wondered why Isaiah, a kid from a nice family and neighborhood, was in a seedy place like this so early in the morning.
Her thoughts were broken when Holt asked, “Who called it in?”
She blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Who found the body? Someone had to have reported it for the officer to arrive at the scene.”
“That’s a good question.” She punched in a number that took her directly to the 9-1-1 command center. After providing her badge number, she asked the person on the line to replay the call. Fisher put it on speaker so Holt could hear it too.
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” the operator asked.
“Yeah, there’s a guy dead in a parked car in front of Elegant Furniture.” The voice sounded young and rough.
“Did you say a person is dead?”
“Yeah, he’s dead.”
“Are you certain?”
“Listen, lady, the brother looks like he got shot up by some bad dudes. He’s Isaiah Whitcomb, the basketball player. I’ve seen his games on TV.”
“And where is the body?”
“At the corner of Fairwood and Elm.”
“I’ll send an officer over. Please stay where you are to answer any questions the officer may have.”
“Sorry, lady. I gotta go.”
The line went dead.
Holt and Fisher looked at each other.
FIFTEEN
Fisher shut her cell phone as she pondered what she had just heard. Officer McConnell had not seen anyone at the scene. Could the person who called 9-1-1 be responsible for Isaiah’s death? Fisher did not think that was likely. Why would he call it in if he was the killer? It just did not make sense. But then again, stranger things had happened before. Regardless of his innocence or guilt, they had to find him. He might know something that could shed light on what happened here.
Holt shut his eyes and rubbed his temples. Fisher could tell the pressure was getting to him. He had a job to do, but he also had his family who were now going to look to him for answers.
“You need to go talk to your sister,” Fisher said.
Holt grimaced. She could tell he did not want to leave the scene. He was also delaying facing Marjorie.
“We’ve got everything we need,” she added. “The press is going to want a statement soon. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be in front of the cameras. And I especially don’t think it’s a good idea for Marjorie to find out about Isaiah via the news.”
Holt’s shoulders sank and he let out a loud sigh.
“If you want, I’ll do it,” she said.
He shook his head. “Isaiah was family. It’s my duty.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, I’ll be fine.”
“Okay.”
Holt pulled out his cell phone. “I have to call Nancy first. If she found out from someone else, it would devastate her.”
Fisher understood. Holt’s wife had seen her share of trauma, and it had left her mentally unstable. Even the most trivial setback could send her spiraling into a deep depression.
Holt’s devotion to his wife was unlike anything Fisher had ever seen. He protected her as if she was the most fragile thing in the world. If Fisher could describe them, Holt was a granite rock while Nancy was a delicate flower.
To an outsider, their relationship was baffling. Even Fisher wondered how they were still married to each other. But over the years, she realized Nancy gave Holt the hope he needed to keep going.
Holt’s work made him see the evil side of human nature. Nancy made him see the beauty in an otherwise bleak world.
They were sort of like Yin and Yang, and they complimented each other in ways no one fully underst
ood, not even Fisher.
As Holt walked away, Fisher could not help but feel sorry for him. He not only had to break the news to his sister, he also had to break it to Nancy.
Fisher did not want to be in his shoes right now.
SIXTEEN
After a breakfast that consisted of a cup of coffee, a slice of toast, and one egg—all he could afford from the spare change he had found in the Impala—Callaway drove to his new digs, a hotel room he had booked for a month. He could have found something more permanent, but he was never sure when his next assignment would come. There was also the matter of providing first and last month’s rent. He just did not have the money. The hotel was much cheaper by comparison. And if he ever fell behind, he did not need to worry about being evicted. He would just go someplace else, maybe even a rooming house if it came down to it.
The hotel was not five-star by any means. The place was barely two-star, but it was the only place he could afford at the moment. The hotel had running hot water, functioning plumbing, and he was assured the heating worked. Since the weather was still warm, he would take their word about the heat system. He had seen a few cockroaches, but so far, no rodents. If he ever saw mice or a rat, he would vacate the unit in an instant. Callaway could not stand the sight of those little creatures. He shivered at the mere thought of them.
When Callaway came to check in, he had seen a long line of people at the elevators. He had specifically requested a unit on one of the lower levels so he could take the stairs. He was booked a room on the third floor.
He unlocked the door and entered the cramped room. It had a bed on the right, and a futon sat beside the bed. A TV stand was across from the futon. The room had a bathroom but no kitchen. Callaway did not know how to cook, so a kitchen would have been useless. A tiny fridge would have been nice, but the room did come with a tiny microwave. Callaway could always re-heat his takeout leftovers.
He pulled off his coat and dropped it on the bed. He made his way to the bathroom. He braced himself and turned on the lights.
He looked far worse than he imagined.
The reflection in the mirror was not a pretty sight. His nose had swollen into a lump. The redness in his eyes had not dissipated, and there was still puffiness underneath the eyelids. He turned on the taps and tried to wipe off the blood on his shirt. He realized his cleaning attempt was futile. Even though the t-shirt was black, the stain would be there forever.
He pulled the shirt off and threw it in the garbage.
He then took a long, hot shower. He savored cleansing his body of all the filth from the last twenty-four hours.
Feeling somewhat refreshed, he went out and sat on the bed. He grabbed a bottle of painkillers from the side table, dropped two pills into his palm, and downed the pills with a glass of water.
He pushed himself up on the bed and rested his head on the wall. He closed his eyes and waited for the painkillers to take effect.
He felt like crap, and he looked it too.
Why can’t I be more like my parents? he thought. They were good people who went to church every Sunday. His father never drank, gambled, or womanized. The only thing that mattered was God and family.
Callaway was the opposite. He had not stepped inside a church in decades, and his actions and vices had led to the dissolution of his marriage.
I’m a perfect example of how to screw up your life, he thought.
His eyes snapped open when he realized he did not have his digital camera. In his rush to get away, he had left his camera at the client’s house. The camera did not have any incriminating photos, only what he took of the client’s wife when he was on a stakeout at the house. But now he would have to go and purchase a new camera, another expense he could not afford.
He felt a migraine coming on.
He reached for more painkillers.
SEVENTEEN
Holt watched as Marjorie sobbed into her hands. Dennis stood silently by the kitchen sink.
At first, Marjorie did not believe him. She had even slapped him for saying something so terrible, but when she saw the pain in his eyes, she knew he was telling the truth.
Compared to him, Marjorie was half his size. She looked more like their mother while he looked more like their father.
Marjorie was seven years older than him. There was a brother in between, but he was born with cerebral palsy and died before the age of two. His mother thought having another baby would make her get over the grief of losing a child, but Holt’s birth reminded her of the boy she lost. She began to experience mental breakdowns. By the time Holt was four, she had been in and out of mental institutions over half a dozen times.
His father was a proud man, but after seeing his wife fall apart, he began to hit the bottle. He eventually drank himself to death, leaving Marjorie to take care of Holt and raise him. With the help of relatives—particularly his grandparents—Holt and Marjorie made it to adulthood.
This life experience was why he was so gentle and understanding with Nancy. Holt and his wife had adopted a little boy from Ukraine. The boy was supposed to complete their family. He did not live to see his first birthday, dying from a rare form of cancer.
His death had hit Nancy hard. The loss hit Holt harder. But instead of tearing their relationship apart, the loss made them closer.
Unlike his father, who was a product of the time when men did not share their feelings with their spouses, Holt shared everything with Nancy. He discovered that by sharing how he felt, he became extra sensitive to her needs.
As he watched Marjorie weep for her lost child, he could not help but feel like tragedy somehow followed his family wherever they went. There was a brother he never got to meet, then there was a child he never got to see grow up, and now there was Isaiah.
“Where’s Brit?” Holt asked. Britney was Isaiah’s younger sister. She was a senior in high school. If Isaiah excelled in sports, Brit excelled in academics. She had her eyes set on attending Harvard, MIT, or Stanford.
Marjorie looked up. “She’s having a sleepover at a friend’s house.” She turned to her husband. “We have to let her know.”
“I’ll call her right now,” Dennis said and left the room.
Marjorie faced Holt. She held out her arms and he embraced her. There were many times he had gone to her when he needed a shoulder to cry on. She was more of a mother to him than a sister.
“Oh, Greg,” she said.
Holt’s eyes were moist as he stared into hers. Until he met Nancy, he always thought Marjorie was the most beautiful woman in the world. With age, wrinkles had started to appear on her face. Gray strands were visible in her hair, but her eyes were still vibrant and youthful.
That day, however, they were filled with pain and anguish.
He wanted to tell her everything would be all right, but he knew it would never be. Holt had lost a child he barely knew, and it continued to haunt him. Isaiah was the first-born, and he had become the pride and joy of the family. Holt’s only wish now was that Marjorie did not fall apart like their mother. Marjorie had been the one constant thing in his life. She was the rock that held him together. If something happened to her, Holt did not know how he would keep going.
EIGHTEEN
The Callaway Private Investigation Office was on top of a soup and noodle restaurant. In order to get to the office, potential clients had to walk to the back of the building, go up the narrow metal stairs, and knock on a black metal door with no sign. There was only a telephone number taped to the door. If someone was eager to find him, they could always call him. Or better yet, they could visit his website and contact him there.
There were several reasons for not having a sign displayed outside. Over the years, Callaway had gotten himself into too many difficult situations. This had caused him to borrow money from unsavory people. These people did not take too kindly when their money was not paid back on time. Even if Callaway was only a few hours late with the money, he would have thugs on his tail in no time. Callaway preferred
not to deal with them in his office, where there was only one way in and out. It would be easy for someone to corner him in the office and do harm to him.
Then there were the husbands and wives of his clients. Callaway had caught them in uncompromising positions, and as such, they acted like cornered wild animals. They would do anything to prevent their misdeeds from reaching their spouses. If confronted, some clients’ spouses even offered to double his fee, just as long as he handed over the incriminating evidence.
Callaway never did.
Once he made an agreement with a client, it was set in stone. Callaway would not break it, no matter how much money was thrown his way. If word got out that his loyalty was not to his client but to the highest bidder, no one would hire him. Catching cheaters in action required a great deal of delicacy and trust. That trust was irreparable if broken, and he took winning and keeping the trust of his clients seriously.
He unlocked his office and entered. The space was small and windowless, lacked air conditioning, and the heating barely worked, making the winter months unbearable at times.
He could always close the office. It was not vital to his profession, but he liked the idea of having a place to go to. He could not imagine waiting at home for the phone to ring. Instead, he preferred waiting in his office for the phone to ring. Another factor for keeping the office was the low rent. It was perhaps the cheapest in the city.
He shut the door and pulled up a chair behind a small desk. A sofa was in the corner, which Callaway sometimes used as a bed. There were springs poking out from certain spots, but the sofa was not entirely uncomfortable. After an exhausting day, with nowhere else to go, the sofa was far better than sleeping on a park bench. If his office had a shower and bathroom, he would consider living there permanently just to save money.
The Lee Callaway Boxed Set Page 26
