On the wall across from the sofa was a flat-screen TV, courtesy of a generous client. He grabbed the remote and turned the TV on. It was always on the twenty-four-hour news channel. Callaway always wanted to know what was going on in the city. There was no telling where he would find his next client.
He then turned on the laptop on the desk. He hoped someone had contacted him about a job. After what happened the night before, he could use some good news.
NINETEEN
The members of the crime scene unit went over the crime scene diligently. They found three shell casings—one near the front right tire, one underneath the Chrysler, and one on the passenger’s side floor mat. The evidence further supported the theory that Isaiah was ambushed. The key was still in the ignition, and his seatbelt was still on, which indicated he did not even have a chance to react.
Fisher pondered these facts over and over as she surveyed the crime scene. The press had gathered in full force. A star athlete had been murdered, and the press never failed to pander to public interest in such crimes. Were it not for Officer McConnell, the gathered press would be all over the scene. They could care less if they contaminated evidence. They had stories to file.
Fisher found herself glancing over at McConnell. She was not sure why. Maybe it was because he was tall and handsome. And she also caught him staring in her direction a few times.
She blushed whenever their eyes met. He merely smiled back. There was something happening between them, but she did not want to get distracted. She had a huge task in front of her, one that was tragic and personal.
Holt was a wreck when he had driven away. He did not want to leave, but he trusted her. She would not miss any details that could help them find the person who had brutally killed Isaiah.
Isaiah did not even see his attacker coming. His arms and hands had no defensive wounds, which further showed how his killer had snuck up on him.
Fisher shook her head. No person should die like this, she thought.
There was something else that troubled her about the scene. A six-foot-high wooden wall covered the back of the furniture store. There was no way the shooter could have driven up from behind, parked his car, fired into the Chrysler, and sped away.
There was only one way in and out at the furniture store, and the Chrysler was parked in such a way that it faced the door. Isaiah would have seen the killer approach.
What if he did, but he did nothing about it? What if he was waiting for his killer? That would explain why the keys were in the ignition, his seatbelt was secured, but the Chrysler was not running.
What if Isaiah came here to meet someone, but then an argument broke out and he was killed because of it?
This was a possibility, a very strong one.
But there was another possibility. What if the shooter came on foot? That would explain the ambush theory, and a shooter fleeing on foot could have been seen by someone. Maybe the person who called 9-1-1 had seen the killer. At the moment, though, they had no idea who he was or where he was.
Fisher rubbed her eyes. This was supposed to be her day off. With Isaiah being Holt’s nephew, Fisher was now the lead investigator on the case. The police department had guidelines for detectives working on cases involving loved ones. They were not entirely prohibited from participating, but it was frowned upon. There was fear that the personal nature of the investigation could affect the detective’s ability to do his or her job. But Fisher was now in charge, and Holt would assist her. She was not going to let him down.
Isaiah’s body had already been taken to the morgue, and the CSU would be on the scene for the next couple of hours. There was nothing more she could do here. She decided to survey the area. She wanted to know why Isaiah was here in the first place.
TWENTY
Fisher ducked under the yellow police tape. Immediately, the press converged on her. They snapped photos of her, aimed video cameras in her direction, and hurled questions at her. She suddenly felt overwhelmed.
It’s a good thing Holt’s not here, she thought. He would have punched some reporters.
She was trying to push her way through when Officer McConnell appeared next to her. He held the press back as she made her way across the road. She gave him an appreciative nod. He tapped the brim of his cap in return.
The furniture store was surrounded by apartment buildings and retail stores. On the opposite side was a motel. Fisher hoped their security cameras caught something.
As she got closer to the motel, her hopes were quickly dashed. The motel looked to be in far worse shape up close than from afar. The exterior paint was peeling or chipped, the cracked windows were held together by duct tape, and the front door handle was rusted and had turned brown.
She went inside. A pungent smell hit her nose—a combination of mold and body odors.
The lobby carpet was damp and stained. The interior walls were painted an ugly color, and the paint bubbled here and there. As she passed the elevators, a sign posted next to them made her pause: CHILDREN UNDER 18 NOT ACCOMPANIED BY AN ADULT ARE NOT PERMITTED TO USE THE ELEVATORS. STAIRS ONLY. She thought the rule was odd but continued ahead.
She found the owner in a cramped office. He gave her a gap-toothed smile. He was wearing an old shirt, jeans, and a large buckled belt.
“Morning, ma’am,” he said.
She flashed her badge. “What’s with the sign at the elevators?” she asked out of curiosity.
“Oh, that,” the owner replied with a short laugh. “The elevators don’t always work properly. We once had a kid get stuck in them. It took the firefighters two hours to get him out. The kid was traumatized from the ordeal. I figured I’d raise the age limit for elevator users in case something like that ever happened again.”
“Didn’t the kid’s parents sue you?”
“They wanted to, but once they realized this place was worth less than the cost of hiring a lawyer, they decided not to.”
“What about liability insurance? They could have gotten something from that.”
“I got no insurance,” the owner replied.
Fisher was surprised.
“I got a license, though,” the owner said. “It’s probably forty years old. I got it here somewhere if you want to take a look.”
“No thanks,” Fisher replied. “Are you aware there was a murder across the road from your motel?”
His eyes widened. “There was?”
“You didn’t know?”
“No. I rarely leave the motel. I have to be here in case a guest arrives.”
Right, Fisher thought.
“And do you get a lot of guests?” she asked.
“Absolutely.”
“You do?” she said, not believing him.
“We charge by the hour, so we see people at all times of the day… and night.”
She understood. He was referring to hookers and their clients. His motel was used as a rendezvous spot.
“Do you have security cameras?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Never needed them. Can’t afford them either. Plus, my guests would prefer not to be recorded entering and leaving the establishment.” The owner made it sound like his was a five-star hotel. It’s more like a dump, Fisher thought. The people who visit are nothing but unsavory characters.
What was Isaiah doing in a neighborhood like this?
TWENTY-ONE
After going through his emails, Callaway leaned back in his chair, feeling completely dejected. He could not believe no one was reaching out to hire him. There was not a single message about a job. Just to make sure everything was working properly, he went on to his website and used the Contact page to send himself a message. It came through without a hitch.
How can I have no queries? he thought. The city was brimming with cheaters and philanderers. Surely, they could use his services.
After the Paul Gardener case, Callaway figured he would hit it big. People would be contacting him in droves. And they were.
Unfortunately,
all these people wanted him to do something he was not qualified for. Relatives wrote to him seeking help in exonerating their loved ones. Even convicted criminals were sending him information on their cases with the hope that Callaway would somehow be able to get them out of prison. They thought he was some kind of “miracle man” who would find the missing evidence that could lead them to their freedom.
Most, though perhaps not all, were guilty of the crimes they were punished for. A jury of their peers had gone through the evidence and given a verdict against them. There was nothing Callaway could really do to change that. He was not a lawyer, and he was no longer a law enforcement member. True, he had contacts both in high and low places—mostly low places—and he was dogged and determined to complete any job he had agreed to take on. Apart from that, he was no different than other civilians.
There were cases of unsolved murders or missing persons going back decades that broke his heart. The people who contacted him about such cases were barely clinging onto hope, and they felt Callaway was their last resort.
He could always take their money and “try” to look into those cold cases, but he knew he would only be toying with his clients’ emotions. He did not have the time or the resources to take on cases that dated back many years. If the police could not do anything, how could a guy like him do it?
Losing a loved one to a crime and never being able to see them again was not something Callaway took lightly. The people who reached out to him were looking for answers, or they simply wanted justice or closure. He knew full well he could never give that to them, so he always politely turned them away. Better to disappoint them now than take their money and disappoint them later when he came up empty. The latter would be like pouring salt on their wounds. He would not take advantage of the desperate, which is exactly what these people were. Callaway was not the savior they were looking for.
He sighed and rubbed his face. His hand inadvertently touched his nose. Bolts of pain shot up into his brain. He grimaced. He had placed a bandage over his nose, but even then, it was still sensitive.
He would need more painkillers.
TWENTY-TWO
Fisher was at the Milton PD seated behind her desk when she spotted Holt stepping out of the elevator.
She got up and approached him. His face was drawn, and he looked like he had been through hell.
“How’s Marjorie doing?” she asked.
“Not well.”
“And your brother-in-law?”
“Dennis is not talking much. I think it hit him harder than Marjorie. He’s grieving in his own way, I guess.”
“Did you take them to the morgue?” Fisher asked.
“I did,” Holt said. “I knew it was Isaiah already, but Marjorie and Dennis wanted to see him with their own eyes. They wanted to confirm their worst fear.”
Holt’s jaw tightened.
“How are you doing?” Fisher gently asked him. She could see he was trying to put up a stalwart front, but she could also see the turmoil in his bloodshot eyes.
“I’m good.”
Fisher looked around. There was no one around them. “You can talk to me, Greg. I’m your partner.”
“I said I’m good.”
His eyes moistened.
Fisher sighed. “If you don’t talk to me, I’m going to report you to OAP.”
The Officer Assistance Program was set up to help officers with professional or personal matters. If they were under mental stress, going through difficulties at home, or having financial troubles, they were required to speak to an OAP staff member. The department believed officers under some form of duress would not be able to perform their duties as required. Worse, they could do something that could harm their career, or more importantly, affect the department negatively. The latter was the real reason for the OAP. A vast majority of the officers believed the department could care less about what they were going through. The only thing that mattered was the budget and the performance of the department as a whole.
Holt grimaced at the thought of going to the OAP for help. He sighed, sounding heartbroken. “I never thought losing Isaiah would affect me so much,” he said slowly. “Nancy and I have been through our share of hardships, and I always figured because of that, I would be able to handle anything life threw my way. I’m not so sure of that anymore.”
“A loss is a loss,” Fisher said. “No matter who it is and when it happens, it affects us all in powerful ways.”
Holt let her words of wisdom sink in.
“How is Nancy?” she asked.
“She did not take the news well,” he replied. “I sent her to her mother’s. I thought it would be good for her.” He cleared his throat and wiped his eyes. “What’s going on with the case?”
The determination was back in his voice.
“I still have not been able to contact the furniture store owner.”
“Do you have his address? We should go knock on his door,” Holt said, eager to do something.
“I think we should focus on the owner of the Chrysler.”
“Do you have a name?”
“I ran the license plate through the motor vehicle database and found it’s registered to a Jay Bledson.”
Holt’s eyes widened.
“I know who that is,” he said.
TWENTY-THREE
Callaway was browsing news articles on his laptop when he heard a noise that made him pause.
Someone was walking up to his office.
He was not expecting anyone. He glanced at the desk drawer where he now kept his gun.
He reached for the drawer, but a gut feeling made him pull his hand back.
I’m being paranoid, he thought, shaking his head. I don’t owe money to anyone, nor have I done anything wrong.
The footsteps came to a halt. The door opened, and a woman poked her head in. Callaway relaxed. His landlady was short, slim, and Asian. Her hair was tied into a ponytail, and she had on a floral-pattern dress and flat heels.
His landlady never showed up unless he was behind on rent or he did something that warranted her speaking to him. On a number of occasions, he had forgotten to turn off the lights before leaving, or left the TV on at full volume all night. Once during the winter, he did not shut the door properly, and strong winds blew it open. The heaters worked on overdrive to warm up the room, and the heating bill skyrocketed.
The landlady was a stickler for money, and Callaway could not fault her for that. His rent barely covered any expenses, and she also had the soup and noodle restaurant to run. He had heard the restaurant was struggling as of late.
He raised his arms up high. “Ms. Chen, I didn’t do it. I swear.”
She ignored his comment and looked around the office. She did not step inside. The office was his property, after all, just as long as his rent was up to date.
“I’m good for this month and next,” he added. With the fee from the Gardener case, he was able to cover his unpaid rent and also pay in advance for the upcoming months.
“I’m not here about that,” she said with a wave of her hand. Her eyes narrowed. “What happened to your face?”
“It’s not important.”
“You look like a guy who got beat up by a woman.”
“Not a woman, but her husband,” he said, correcting her.
“You look like a sad pig,” Ms. Chen said before she burst out laughing.
He sighed. I better get used to the jokes until my face heals, he thought. “What can I do for you, Ms. Chen?”
She turned serious again. “There is a lady in the restaurant who wants to talk to you.”
“Why doesn’t she come to my office? I’m right upstairs.”
“She can’t.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll see for yourself.”
She turned around and descended the metal stairs.
What the hell just happened? he thought.
He locked his office and went down to the restaurant. It was small with enough spac
e for eight tables and chairs. He quickly spotted a woman seated at one of the tables by the windows.
She had dark cropped hair, and she wore an oversized sweater. Her eyes were covered by large sunglasses, which Callaway recognized as those worn by people with sight impairment. The walking cane next to the table further confirmed this. She also wore black leather gloves.
He approached her table. She smiled. “You’re Lee Callaway, right?” she said.
“How’d you know?” he asked, surprised.
“When I asked the lady for you, I heard her leave the restaurant. The door chimes whenever someone enters and leaves. The lady’s shoes also make a very distinctive sound when they hit the floor, so I could tell when she was back. Right after that, I heard the door chime again, along with footsteps approaching me, so I can only assume you are Lee Callaway.”
The smile did not fade from her face.
“Amazing,” he said. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
“Please do,” she replied. “It would make for an awkward conversation if I’m sitting and you’re standing.”
He pulled up a chair. He was almost grateful she could not see the heavy bandage covering his nose. “What can I do for you, Ms.…?”
“Elle Pearson, but please call me Elle.”
“Okay, what can I do for you, Elle?”
“I need your help finding my sister.”
TWENTY-FOUR
The Milton College boasted over five thousand undergraduates and close to three thousand graduate students. The school specialized in arts and sciences and had a separate school of engineering.
Isaiah was not a top prospect in high school. He only blossomed once he got to college. As a result, top basketball programs in the country were not knocking on his door. North Carolina, Louisville, Duke, Kentucky, had all passed on him.
Holt remembered that Isaiah was crushed. He believed he had what it took to make it in the top-tier schools. Dennis, on the other hand, was grateful his son had not been accepted in any of those programs. He worried Isaiah would get lost in the limelight. He also wanted Isaiah to get an education. Dennis was an alumnus of Milton College. He wanted his son to follow in his footsteps. But he was not ignorant of Isaiah’s potential.
The Lee Callaway Boxed Set Page 27
