She stared at the Polaroid. “I’m one hundred percent positive. She was in one of my makeup classes. She never spoke to anyone. She pretty much kept to herself, but she was great with cosmetics. She could make a homeless person look like a celebrity. She had the talent.”
Callaway’s brow furrowed. “Do you have any idea where we can find her?”
The woman shook her head. “Like I said, I never spoke to her. Then one day she stopped coming to class.”
“Do you know when that was?”
The woman pondered Callaway’s question. “If I had to take a guess, the last time I saw her was probably a couple of months ago.”
“Could it have been three months ago?” Callaway asked.
The woman thought some more. “It could have.”
That’s how long Elle’s sister has been missing, he thought.
Another thought occurred to him. If that woman in the Polaroid is not Katie Pearson, then who is Linda Eustace?
FORTY-THREE
When Holt received the call from Marjorie, he rushed over as quickly as possible. He drove around Marjorie’s neighborhood in a panic. Marjorie told him Dennis had not come home the night before, and he was not picking up his phone. He was known to take his boat onto Milton Lake and not return until the crack of dawn. Marjorie went to look for him, but no one at the marina had seen Dennis. She had called his work, his friends, and his co-workers, but no one had spoken to him since they had extended their condolences.
Worried sick that something might have happened, she contacted Holt. He assured her he would find him.
Dennis had always been odd, as most computer engineers were. He preferred being left alone to tinker with his gadgets, spend hours glued to his computer screen, or sit in a small boat all day waiting for fish to bite.
Holt was never bothered by Dennis’s peculiar behavior. He was an educated man who was also deeply devoted to his family. Holt was beyond ecstatic when Marjorie married Dennis. He saw the love he had for her.
Dennis always made sure Marjorie was not without anything. He showered her with gifts, dinners, and vacations. He helped out around the house and with the kids as well. Even though Marjorie worked as a physical therapist, it was Dennis’s income that provided them a comfortable lifestyle.
Dennis’s story was not unlike many in America. He grew up in a poor black neighborhood to a single mother and an absent father. He and his four siblings lived in a crammed one-bedroom apartment, with Dennis sharing a bunk bed in the living room with his brother. His two sisters slept with their mother in her room.
Dennis had seen his mother’s struggles and had vowed his life would be different. He would get an education, take care of his soul mate, and be there for his children. Dennis was proud he had accomplished all that and much more.
As Holt drove around, he felt a sharp pain in the pit of his stomach. He knew how close Dennis and Isaiah were. When Isaiah was younger, father and son were inseparable. Dennis would take him fishing. He would spend hours playing video games with him. They even shared a love for comic books. Still, the two could not have been more opposite from one another. While Dennis was shy, reserved, and introverted, Isaiah was gregarious, loud, and was the life of the party.
Holt felt that Dennis saw in Isaiah what he wished he could be. Isaiah had an inner fire that could not be banked. He was going to do something that only a select few ever got the chance to do: make it to the pros and earn millions of dollars in the process. But now, Dennis’s hopes for his only son were shattered.
FORTY-FOUR
Holt was about to turn the car around and head back to Marjorie’s house when he spotted a man sitting on a bench across from a basketball court.
Holt parked and approached him.
Dennis was wearing a sweatshirt and track pants. He had a day-old growth of beard on his face, and his eyes were bloodshot. Holt took a seat next to him. He saw a case of beer underneath the bench, and a half-empty beer bottle next to Dennis’s foot.
“How’re you doing, Dennis?” Holt asked.
Dennis did not turn to him. He was staring directly at the empty basketball court.
Holt smelled alcohol on him, and he wondered how many bottles he had drunk.
Dennis was fortunate no one had reported him to the police. He would be charged with public consumption of alcohol, which was a state felony.
After a brief pause, Dennis replied, “I used to bring Isaiah here when he was a boy. I would let him play with the bigger kids. I used to push him hard.” Dennis’s eyes welled up. “I wanted him to get better and make a name for himself. Now I don’t care for any of that. I just want my son back.”
He covered his face with his hands and broke down.
Holt wanted to comfort his brother-in-law, but he did not know how. He was fighting back tears as well.
“I already miss him so much,” Dennis said.
“I do too,” Holt said.
Dennis abruptly lifted his head and wiped his face with the back of his sweatshirt sleeve. He inhaled deeply and reached for the beer bottle.
Holt stopped him. “Why don’t you let me take that,” he said. “I think you’ve had enough for one day.”
Dennis stared at him and then nodded.
Holt drove him back to the house.
Marjorie was waiting by the front door. She looked relieved when she saw that her husband was with her brother. She hugged Dennis and mouthed, “Thank you,” to Holt.
They disappeared inside.
Holt was about to drive off when a girl came running out of the house. Holt rolled down the window as she approached.
His niece had golden curly hair, emerald eyes, and freckles on her cheeks. As a child of an interracial couple, she had features from both her parents. But Brit had her mother’s smile, which always warmed his heart.
But at the moment, Brit was frowning.
“Do you mind if I sit with you, Uncle Greg?” she asked.
He unlocked the doors. She got in the passenger seat.
“How are you?” he asked.
She shrugged and then hugged herself.
Holt suddenly felt a pang of guilt. Ever since the murder, Holt’s thoughts were preoccupied with Isaiah and Marjorie and Dennis. He had forgotten that Brit had lost a brother.
Unlike his connection with Isaiah, Holt did not have much of a relationship with Brit. Maybe that had to do with the fact that she was a girl. He was never interested in all the girly stuff she was into, so they had nothing to talk about. But he still loved her and cared for her. She was a sweet girl who was receptive to other people’s feelings. She had what some would call “emotional intelligence” on top of being academically intelligent.
Holt always hoped that as she got older, they would find something they were both passionate about.
Brit said, “Mom and Dad are really messed up after what happened. I’m worried about them.”
“They’re grieving, so things won’t be normal for some time.”
Brit pondered her uncle’s words and then nodded. “I can’t believe he’s gone,” she said.
“I know,” Holt said.
She turned and faced the open window. The cool air blew into the car. He thought about rolling up the window, but he did not. He was not sure if she was cold or hot.
“Was Isaiah seeing anyone?” he asked. He wondered if Brit might be able to confirm Byron Fox’s claim that Isaiah was talking to a woman the night he died.
“I don’t know,” Brit replied. “I’ve been busy with my studies, and ever since Isaiah went to college, I barely got to see him.”
Brit was only at the Cougars’ season-opening game. She was not a sports fan.
They were silent for a moment before Brit turned to Holt and said, “Uncle Greg, why would someone hurt Isaiah?”
Her eyes were brimming with tears.
Holt had been thinking the same thing. Isaiah was the type of person who would never hurt a fly. What had he done to deserve this fate? he thought.
“I promise, I will find who took Isaiah from us,” he said.
Brit leaned over and hugged him. A strong emotion rose inside him, and he put his arms around her. He wanted to tell her everything would be all right and everything would go back to normal. But he knew they would never be the same and that they would never fully recover from the loss of Isaiah.
FORTY-FIVE
Elle and Callaway were back at his office. Elle was seated on the sofa bed, and Callaway was seated at his small desk. He had to escort Elle up the narrow stairs. He stayed behind her in case she missed a step and tumbled backward. She was much shorter than him. Even in her oversized sweater, he could tell she did not weigh much. He would have no problem catching her if she fell.
The office was crammed, and now that he paid attention, he realized the office also reeked of stale body odors and rotted food. Callaway had slept in the office whenever he was evicted from his apartment, which resulted in him not showering for days or weeks. He did not cook, so takeout was his form of getting a meal. There were empty Styrofoam boxes piled up in the corner.
He should have cleaned out the office, but he never expected to bring a client here. He normally met them at their place of residence, at a coffee shop or bar, or sometimes in a park where the client did not want anyone finding out he or she had hired a private investigator. It was mostly paranoia, Callaway believed. He was not some spy who had information that could threaten national security. He was a PI who caught people who were a threat to their marriages and nothing more.
On his laptop, he typed the name given to them by the student at the fashion academy. To his surprise, the search resulted in a dozen hits. Linda Eustace was active on several social networking sites. He clicked on them. There were photos of her lounging on a beach, drinking colorful umbrella drinks, and posing in front of well-known monuments around the world.
He figured the student might have been mistaken, but as he stared at the montage of photos, he could not help but see that Linda Eustace was indeed Katie Pearson.
“What did you find?” Elle asked.
He was not sure how to break his discovery to her.
“Unfortunately,” Callaway replied gently, “Linda Eustace is your sister. There are dozens of photos of her on the internet.”
He was met with silence. “Are you sure?” she finally said.
“The resemblance is uncanny, I’m afraid.”
Callaway thought of something. “The Polaroid you gave me, are you sure it’s Katie’s.”
Elle scowled. “Are you asking me this because I’m blind?”
Callaway winced, but he had to ask. What if the photo was of someone else? “You said you had lost your eyesight when you were fourteen,” Callaway said. “The Polaroid looks like it was taken when your sister was in her early twenties, so how would you know it’s her?”
“She gave it to me only a year ago.”
“Why?”
“I asked her for it.”
He frowned. Something doesn’t add up, he thought.
Elle said, “She was leaving for Milton, and it was the first time she would be away from me. I wasn’t emotionally ready to let go. I actually tried to talk her out of going, but I knew I could only keep her with me for so long. Eventually, she would have to find her way into the world. She gave me the Polaroid so that I would always have a piece of her with me.” She laughed. “It sounds so absurd now that I think about it. People normally keep a memento like a necklace, or a ring, maybe even a scarf with their loved one’s perfume on it. I chose to keep a photo that I can’t even tell is hers.”
Callaway was silent again. What she was saying made sense, but he had a nagging feeling he could not push away.
Elle said, “When I’d not had any contact with Katie, I would take out the photo and hold it. It felt like she was right there with me. Once, though, I spilled coffee over the photo, and I thought I’d ruined it completely. I asked a neighbor if it was destroyed. He told me the photo was not damaged, but there was a brown stain on the back. Is there?”
Callaway flipped the Polaroid over. There was indeed a dark smudge on the back. “Yes.”
She smiled. “Then that is Katie’s photo you are holding.” Her smile faded when she said,
“This Linda Eustace… how can you be sure it’s Katie? What if it’s someone who looks like her?”
Callaway again wanted to tell her they were the same person. He scrolled through the social networking site and said, “The last photo was posted exactly three months ago. It was around the time your sister disappeared.”
Elle’s face darkened. She reached for her walking cane and stood up. He feared she would leave the office.
“Why would she lie to me?” Elle said. “Why would she not tell me about this other life she was living as Linda Eustace?”
“Maybe she thought you’d be hurt if you knew she was having a great time traveling around the world without you.”
“I would never be jealous of my little sister. Her happiness means everything to me.”
Callaway suddenly understood what was nagging him. Maybe Elle’s sister was living a double life that she did not want her to find out about.
“When we first spoke, you said this was your first time visiting Milton,” he said. “I never asked you then, but why had you not visited before?”
“I offered to come,” Elle said. “Each time I did, Katie would make some excuse. She’d say she was too busy with work or school. One time I told her I had packed my bags and I wanted her to pick me up from the bus stop. I was hoping she would take me to where she was staying, but she said she’d caught a viral infection and was bedridden. She did not want me to catch it.” Elle frowned. “She knew of my phobia about germs, so it was convenient for her to use it to talk me out of coming to Milton.” She shook her head. “How stupid I was not to realize she was keeping me at a distance.”
FORTY-SIX
They parked next to a police cruiser and got out. Holt and Fisher approached the uniformed officer. He was tall and slim with long sideburns and a heavy mustache. He looked like he had stepped out of a 1980s cop show.
“Erik Wilcox,” he said.
“Officer Wilcox, what have you got for us?” Holt asked.
“I’ve patrolled this neighborhood for a couple of years now, and I’ve come to know some of the residents pretty well. One of them said they recognized him.” Wilcox held up the photo of the bicyclist. “His name is Bo Smith. He is a small-time drug dealer. They say he’s been in and out of prison for fraud and theft.” Wilcox pointed at a nearby apartment building. The exterior was painted gray, and the building had rail balconies and large windows. Most were either shaded or were too high to see inside. “The resident said he’s seen Smith riding his bike up and down the neighborhood, and that he lives in one of the units in that building.”
“Is he armed and dangerous?” Holt asked.
“I don’t know.”
Fisher said, “Should we call for backup?”
She could tell Holt was itching to go in and get Bo Smith. If he could do it himself, he would. But he turned to her and said, “What do you think?”
Fisher ran the scenarios through her mind.
Holt was not known for his tact. If there was crucial information he needed, he would use his size and his position on the force to intimidate the witness. Fisher did not agree with him, but she understood why he did that. The bad guys did not play by the rules, so why should they not be allowed to bend them once in a while? Unfortunately, the defense team would have a field day in court should their client lodge a complaint about Holt’s behavior.
Technically, they did not have an arrest warrant for Smith. He was not a suspect in Isaiah’s death. He was a person of interest. They only wanted to know what he knew. The defense would ask, Was a SWAT team necessary when you merely wanted to speak to Smith? Was a group of armed officers required to gather such information? Worst of all, the defense would argue that their client only provided
the information out of fear for his safety. He was outnumbered and outgunned. He had no choice but to cooperate with the police. The defense would then ask the judge to rule Smith’s information as inadmissible.
They were not going to go in heavy, not when Smith had given no indication he was a threat. He had made the 9-1-1 call, after all. If he was responsible for Isaiah’s death, he surely would not have done so.
Then there was the matter of their security. What if Smith was dangerous? What if he had a cache of weapons on his premises? This was something she could not take lightly. She would never forgive herself if anything happened to those under her command.
“It’s your call, Detective Fisher,” Holt said, knowing full well she was mulling over all her options. “Whatever you decide, we’ll go with that.” He wanted her to know he was not going to hold her decision against her.
Fisher turned to Wilcox. “Which floor is Smith on?”
“Fourth. Apartment 407.”
“We go in right now in case someone alerts Smith that we are looking for him,” Fisher said.
Holt smiled. She was basically saying, We don’t have time to wait for backup because Smith could disappear.
She unlocked her trunk and pulled out two Kevlar vests. “But we go in with protection.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Holt said, grabbing a vest from her. He was grinning from ear to ear.
She just hoped they would not need them.
FORTY-SEVEN
After checking their weapons, they moved toward the front of the building. An older man with grocery bags had just scanned his key fob when they caught up to him. They held the door for him, but the look on his face said he would rather not go inside.
“I think I forgot something in my car,” he said as he hurried away.
They moved into the lobby and saw a group of people waiting by the elevators. The moment they saw them, they scattered.
The Lee Callaway Boxed Set Page 32
