“He wouldn’t have left it at home,” Fisher said. “Kids nowadays can’t live with a minute away from their phones.”
“They sure can’t,” Holt said.
“Maybe the shooter took it,” Fisher suggested.
Holt pondered the possibility. “But why?” he asked.
“Maybe it had something the shooter didn’t want anyone to see.”
“We need to see his phone logs,” Holt said.
“I’ll contact his service provider.”
THIRTY-THREE
Callaway spoke to each employee at the fast food restaurant, and they all said the same thing: they had never heard of or seen Katie Pearson.
Callaway knew someone was not telling the truth. His instincts were saying Elle was leading him on a wild goose chase, but he could not find a single reason why the woman would fabricate a story about a missing sister. She knew intimate details about each of the employees, and those could only have come from someone who had worked there.
On average, people spent more time with their co-workers than their family members. They shared just about everything with each other. The camaraderie was especially strong in the service industries. The hours were long, the work was hard, and the pay was often very low. The people an employee relied upon to get through the day were those who were with them in the trenches. They knew what each other was going through, and they could sympathize with their plight because they too were going through the same thing. Callaway missed being a deputy sheriff for that reason alone. The rapport he had with the other members of the sheriff’s department was something he never forgot. As a private eye, he worked mostly on his own. He had no one to gripe to. Not that anyone would listen. He gave up a stable and secure job for something with no benefits and no respect. Most people did not know what private investigators really did, so there was no way for them to truly value the service provided. Whatever they knew came from detective novels and movies, which always depicted tough-guy sleuths taking on cases involving damsels in distress. Callaway wished his life was as exciting as that, but in reality, his was boring and uneventful.
Elle’s case had intrigued him. She had put up five thousand dollars, and Callaway would scour every inch of the city to find her sister.
He had visited all the hospitals in Milton. Even though her sister had been missing for three months, there was still the possibility a Jane Doe had been admitted to one of them.
What if her sister had gotten in an accident and was so badly hurt she was unable to communicate? What if something terrible had happened and the authorities were unable to identify who she was? The what-ifs were endless, and Callaway had to make sure something worse had not befallen her sister.
At each hospital, Callaway provided Katie’s name, her photo, and a detailed description of her in case her appearance had changed from the time the photo was taken. The person at the information desk would go through all the records dating back three months. Whenever the answer was no, Callaway could sense both relief and disappointment in Elle’s voice. On one hand, she was relieved nothing had happened to her sister, but on the other, she was disappointed they had not found Katie yet.
As they drove, Callaway said, “There is one more place we still have to check.”
He wished they did not have to go there, but he saw no other option.
THIRTY-FOUR
Fisher glanced at her watch. She was at the Milton PD, and the time was getting late. She had hoped to run some things through the police database before she headed home.
Isaiah’s death had hit close to home, and both she and Holt were making sure nothing was overlooked. The first few hours of an investigation were crucial. If any evidence was missed at the crime scene, there was still a chance to go back and retrieve it. Later, there was a strong possibility people or the elements—if the crime scene was outside—could taint or destroy the evidence. If witnesses were not interviewed immediately, their memories of the events could fade, or they could suddenly change their stories.
Fisher grabbed her coat and headed for the elevator.
She saw that Holt was at his desk.
“You should go home and get some rest,” Fisher said.
“I just had coffee. I’m good,” he said, not looking up from his computer.
When Holt put his mind to something, he became obsessive. He could work all night to satisfy whatever was bothering him.
Fisher had a feeling there was more to his late work than just tenacity. Nancy was at her mother’s house, and Holt would be going home to an empty house. He did not want to be alone. Fisher did not want him to be either.
“All right,” she said. “If you’re not leaving, then I’m not leaving either.”
He finally looked up. “You need sleep, Fisher.”
She smiled. “I’m making fresh coffee.”
He stared at her. “Today was your day off, you know.”
“It was, but this is more important.”
He suddenly looked unsure. He wanted to keep working, but he did not want Fisher to work late because of him.
Fisher said, “Why don’t I buy you a drink? We’ve had a long day, and I think we need something to unwind with.”
“I have a lot of things to do,” Holt said.
“Just one drink, that’s all.”
He stared at her for a moment. “Fine, but only one,” he said.
The bar was just around the block from the police department. The place was frequented mostly by off-duty cops.
They ordered beers and found a table in the corner. Holt took a sip and said, “After finishing this, I’m heading back to my desk, just so you know.”
“I know,” Fisher said with a smile.
They drank in silence. Every once in a while, someone from the department would come over and give their condolences to Holt. They all knew who Isaiah was. It was not hard to miss a large framed photo of Isaiah on Holt’s desk. The young man meant a great deal to him. She knew that when Holt’s adopted son died, it was Isaiah who had moved in with him and Nancy because Holt was overcome with grief.
Isaiah would sit and talk with him for hours. They would talk about sports, school, life, anything but the loss he had suffered. Isaiah was open with his emotions, and he was also communicative, something neither Holt nor Dennis were particularly very good at. This was a trait that made him a leader on his team.
Fisher was grateful for what Isaiah had done. She hated to see her partner suffer. She feared after the loss of his adopted son, Holt might never return to work. He did, and he was a better detective than before.
They emptied their bottles. “Thanks for the drink,” Holt said, and stood up.
“Why don’t you call it a night?” Fisher suggested. “It’s been an emotionally draining day. Go home and get some rest. Tomorrow I promise we’ll leave no stones unturned to find who did this to Isaiah.”
Holt stared at her.
His shoulders drooped and he nodded.
THIRTY-FIVE
The city morgue was located in an old government building. The exterior was ugly and uninviting, and the interior was no different. The walls were painted in dark colors, and the floor tiles looked like they had not been changed in decades.
Callaway did not come to the morgue often—there was never really much need in his line of work—but when he did, he always found himself depressed afterwards.
What did I expect? he thought. A celebration of someone’s death?
There was only one person on duty this late at night. The morgue attendant was young and pale, with bushy hair and thick round glasses. He did not look far removed from some of the dead in the morgue.
Callaway introduced himself and Elle. He hated to bring her here, but he had to make sure of something.
“Do you have any unidentified bodies?” Callaway asked.
“Loads,” the attendant answered.
Callaway did not like the sound of that.
“We do our best to ID them so we can contact thei
r next of kin, but sometimes it’s just not possible,” the attendant said.
Callaway understood. The bodies were in the worst shape imaginable.
Callaway held the Polaroid out for the morgue attendant. “Any chance someone resembling her was brought in?”
The attendant pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted. “I think we may have someone who looks like her.”
Callaway’s heart dropped. He turned to look at Elle. She was tightly gripping her walking cane.
“Can we see her?” Callaway asked.
“Sure, you can, but…”
Callaway smiled, shoved his hand in his pocket, and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “That’s for you, my man,” he said.
The attendant shook his head. “I was saying, you can see the body, but you’re going to have to sign the register over there.”
He pointed to a ledger on the counter.
“Oh,” Callaway said, placing the bill back in his pocket. Jumping to conclusions, Lee? he thought.
They followed the attendant down the hall. The lights were fluorescent, and they flickered above their heads. Callaway felt like he was in some gory horror movie. A shiver went up his spine at the thought of a crazed maniac waiting for them with a chainsaw in the next room. He glanced at Elle. She was walking calmly next to him.
They entered a room that was slightly cold. Several gurneys lay side by side. The attendant approached one and said, “She was brought in this morning.”
“This morning?” Callaway said.
“Yeah, that’s what I said.”
Elle’s sister has been missing for three months, he thought. Maybe someone discovered her body just now.
A long white sheet was placed over the body. Callaway was almost glad that Elle would not be able to see whatever gruesome image lay underneath the sheet.
The attendant paused to give Callaway a moment to brace himself. He then pulled the sheet cloth away, revealing the face of a young woman. Her skin had turned gray. Her lips were blue, and her eyes were closed.
“Can you describe her, please?” Elle said.
“Um, sure,” the attendant said. “The victim looks to be around the age of twenty to twenty-four, she is five-two, and she has blonde hair.”
Elle was silent.
Callaway said, “Her sister was turning twenty-two, she was five-two to five-three, and she also had blonde hair.”
“Oh,” the attendant said.
“Where did they find her?” Elle asked.
The attendant grabbed a clipboard and flipped a page. “She was found overdosed behind a dance club. She had a combination of recreational drugs and alcohol in her system.”
“My sister did not do drugs,” Elle said.
“Right, sure. Anyway, they tried to revive her, but it was too late,” the attendant said.
Callaway said, “Who was she with?”
The attendant checked the clipboard. “Doesn’t say, but sometimes the clubs don’t want the responsibility, or they don’t want to deal with the police, so they’ll leave the body outside. They’ll argue the person walked out on their own accord and then dropped dead. It did not happen on their property, so it’s not their problem.”
“She had no ID on her?” Callaway asked.
“None the paramedics could find. It could have been in her purse, which she wasn’t carrying when they found her.”
“You check for fingerprints?”
“Sure, but it’ll take some time to get a match. Like I said, they brought her in this morning.”
Callaway rubbed his chin, thinking.
“Does your sister have any birth marks or any distinguishing marks on her body?” the attendant asked Elle.
“Yes,” Elle replied. “She has a mole on the side of her neck.”
The attendant turned the head to the side. He lifted the hair up. The skin on the neck was clear of any blemishes or spots that might look like a mole.
Callaway leaned in to make sure.
“No,” the attendant said.
“She also has a dark spot on her upper right shoulder. It’s the size of my palm.” Elle held up her gloved hand. “Katie called it her good luck charm.”
The attendant flipped the body over. He grabbed a flashlight and moved the light over the skin. It was white and pale. “No dark spot of any kind.”
Elle turned and left the room.
THIRTY-SIX
Out in the hall, Callaway found Elle crying.
“You didn’t have to come here,” he said, feeling concerned.
“No, I wanted to,” she said.
“It’s not Katie.”
“I know, but that girl in there, she’s someone’s sister, someone’s daughter. I couldn’t help but think of her family and how they must be worried sick about her.”
“I’m sure they are looking for her just like you are looking for your sister,” Callaway said.
“Are they?” she asked.
Callaway had no answer. If he had not heard back from a loved one, he would be on the phone or knocking on doors to find out what happened.
Elle said, “When we were young, my parents took me and my sister on a camping trip. While my parents were getting dinner ready, Katie decided we should go check out the woods nearby. I thought it was a bad idea. It was getting dark, and I worried we might get lost. Katie was more adventurous than me. She always had been. She wanted to experience life to the fullest. She wanted to go skydiving, cliff jumping, bungee jumping—you name it, she wanted to do it. I never talked her out of it. It almost felt like she was living her life for the both of us. Anyway, it got dark really quickly, and we got separated in the woods. She was running ahead of me, and I couldn’t keep up. I yelled her name as I frantically searched for her. When I found her, she was huddled under a tree, crying hysterically. I promised her that I would not let anything happen to her and…”
Her voice trailed off. There was a long moment of silence before she adjusted her dark glasses and said, “I have to find her. I will find her.” There was conviction in her voice Callaway had not heard before.
He said, “I promise we won’t stop until we know what happened to her.”
“Thank you,” she said with a weak smile.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Fisher opened the door to her apartment and entered. She placed her keys in the bowl in the hall and headed to the kitchen. On top of the fridge was a lockbox. She placed her weapon inside and shut the box. The box was strategically placed. The kitchen was next to the hall and the front door. If there was any threat, Fisher could swiftly get to the box and her weapon without being in the line of fire. Her training kept her on high alert even when she was off duty.
She pulled off her boots and rubbed her soles. She was used to being on her feet, but that day had an added strain. The adrenaline had worn off a long time ago. She had been pushing herself with caffeine, but now she was lethargic. Maybe it was the beer she had.
She checked her voicemail, and there was one from her best friend. She was wondering when they could schedule lunch next.
Fisher suddenly felt a headache coming on. She massaged her temples and exhaled. She was not sure when her next day off would be. Holt would not stop until he found Isaiah’s killer, and as his partner, Fisher could not let him go at it alone.
Holt’s obsession knew no limits. He was still actively looking into cases dating back ten years. He would not classify them as cold cases. He genuinely believed he would solve them before he retired.
Fisher did not have the heart to tell him that might not happen. Unsolved cases were part of the profession. She only hoped Isaiah’s did not turn into one. If that happened, she feared Holt would quit the force to focus solely on finding the person who ended his nephew’s life.
She spotted the romance novel on the coffee table. She was supposed to catch up on her reading that day. At the moment, though, her mind was all over the place. She would not be able to focus on a book.
She dropped on the sofa and t
urned on the TV. She hoped a light romantic comedy would help alleviate the stress she was under. On the screen, the leading man was trying his best to woo the girl of his dreams. Fisher, however, was not paying attention. She was thinking about Isaiah.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Holt and Fisher had already listened to the 9-1-1 call and found it had come from a blocked number. The caller had not left a name, nor did he stay at the scene of the crime. If they were going to make any progress on the case, they needed to find who this person was. They believed he must live in the vicinity of where Isaiah was killed. How else would he have found Isaiah’s body? This narrowed their search down, but it was still labor-intensive.
They knocked on all doors within walking distance of the furniture store. People clammed up the moment they found out they were speaking to cops. The neighborhood had seen its share of tragedies, and people were suspicious of the police. Drugs and violence had become an everyday part of people’s lives. They feared retribution from local gangs if they spoke up.
Fisher was glad she did not go for her morning run. Her feet were still sore from the day before. I should have worn flats instead of heels, she thought as she moved to the next door.
Holt was breathing hard next to her. His forehead glistened with sweat as he adjusted his shirt collar and tie.
An hour later, Fisher was beat, and she could tell Holt was too. But the look of determination on his face told her he was not about to stop.
“We should head back to the station,” she said. “We can make more progress at our desks than pounding the pavement.”
“Someone had to have seen something,” Holt said with a scowl.
Holt was like a pit bull who had taken a bite and was not willing to let go. Unfortunately, he had not bitten into anything that was useful to them.
Fisher blinked as something flashed in her eyes. She squinted and realized she was seeing light reflecting off the lens of a camera. It was next to a window on the third floor of an apartment building.
The Lee Callaway Boxed Set Page 30
