The Lee Callaway Boxed Set

by Thomas Fincham

  “The Charger is in the shop.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “It needs a bit of work.”

  “I bet the same person who did that to your face also smashed up the Charger.”

  She is very good.

  “You can say that.”

  He looked around. “The house looks great. I’m glad you fixed it.” Patti had been saving up to renovate the house, but that was not easy while being a single parent. The roof had been leaking, the basement was flooding, and some of the windows needed to be replaced.

  “Thanks to you,” she said. “I even managed to upgrade the kitchen cabinets.”

  “I’m glad I could help.” He looked down at Nina and smiled. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing softly. She looked like an angel.

  “Do you mind putting her to bed?” Patti asked. “I was on my feet all day. I can’t carry her upstairs.”

  “I would love to,” he replied, overjoyed by the opportunity.

  He gently lifted her up in his arms. She was much heavier than he remembered, but she was older now, so this was to be expected.

  He carefully took each step so as to not wake her.

  He placed her head on the pillow and covered her body with a blanket covered in hearts. He then watched her sleep for a couple of minutes. He had made a lot of mistakes in his life, but Nina was not one of them.

  He went downstairs.

  Patti said, “You hungry?”

  He stared at her.

  “I got takeout on the way home. You’re welcome to share some.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, that would be nice.”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Fisher found Holt behind his desk typing away on his computer. Even this early in the morning, she was not surprised to see him at the station.

  “How’s Nancy?” she asked.

  “She’s still at her mother’s,” he replied without looking up. “I’m inclined to leave her there until this case is resolved.”

  “You mean Isaiah’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “We don’t catch them all, you know.”

  “We will find the person who killed him,” Holt said with conviction.

  She wished she could believe that too. In her experience, the odds of solving a crime was very low. An investigation was a combination of grunt work and pure luck.

  If an investigation was like a mystery-room puzzle, where all pieces were scattered about and the players had to just find them, all investigations would be solved within hours.

  “What are you working on?” she asked.

  “I’m catching up on paperwork.”

  She spotted a newspaper on his desk. The front page headline read FALL FROM GRACE, BASKETBALL STAR’S SORDID LIFE WITH DRUGS.

  Isaiah’s high school graduation photo was next to the headline.

  Fisher scowled. How did the media get wind of the drugs so fast? Did somebody at the hospital blab, or was it somebody here? I hope it was the hospital, but if somebody here with a press connection talked, they better keep mum, or Greg is going to tear into them.

  She knew it was not unusual for reporters to cozy up to officers. The reporters got a scoop, and the officers got their names in print. In Isaiah’s case, no officer would dare say anything on the record. They preferred anonymity over finding themselves at the end of Holt’s fury. The reporters did not care either way. They got the story they wanted, and when the time was right, they would make it up to the officer by giving them a positive profile in the next story that involved them.

  “Does your sister know?” she asked.

  “I broke it to her last night.”

  “And?”

  “She doesn’t believe it.”

  “What about you?”

  Holt stopped typing and shrugged.

  “You can’t be serious,” Fisher said, surprised by his reaction. “You actually believe that headline there?”

  Holt finally looked at her. “I don’t believe it. I believe the evidence found at the scene.” He slid a document to her. “The lab report came back. There were traces of heroin in the Chrysler’s glove compartment. The result is one hundred percent conclusive.”

  “That still doesn’t prove Isaiah was involved in drugs,” she said.

  “What if he was?” Holt said. “There’s a lot we don’t know about the people we love. Isn’t that what you said to me back at the hospital?”

  She fell silent.

  “After our discovery, I remembered an incident I had forgotten about—or maybe chose to forget about. When Isaiah was sixteen, I caught him smoking pot behind his school. He was with other kids, and I happened to drive by when I saw him. He said it was his first time, but the way he inhaled the stuff told me it was not something new to him.”

  Fisher was quiet for a moment.

  “He was still a good kid,” she said.

  “He was,” Holt agreed.

  “And it still doesn’t change the fact that we have to find the person responsible for his death.”

  “It doesn’t,” Holt said firmly.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Callaway was behind his desk when he heard someone climbing the steps to his office. He stood up to check and saw Elle by the door.

  “You should not have come up on your own,” he said. “It’s not safe for you.” Rain had fallen earlier, and the metal steps were wet and slippery.

  “I managed fine, don’t you think?” she said with a brief smile.

  He guided her to the sofa. “How’re you feeling?” he asked. When he had left her apartment the night before, she was pretty down.

  “I’m feeling better, thank you,” she replied.

  Callaway looked at her face. Due to her blindness, he was unable to gauge her emotions. He could usually tell if someone was sad, angry, or confused just by looking them in the eye. The sociopaths or habitual liars were the hardest people to read. They were able to suppress their emotions deep inside them. But the eyes of average folks were a key to knowing what was going on with them. But with Elle, Callaway had to look for other indicators as to her mood.

  Elle gave him another brief smile. Callaway could tell it was forced.

  “I was going through the social networking sites for Linda Eustace,” Callaway said, “and I was wondering… is your family wealthy?”

  Elle shook her head. “No, my father worked in a cubicle his entire life. And my mother worked mostly administrative jobs.”

  “According to the posts by Linda—I mean, Katie—she’s traveled extensively in the past year.”

  “Ever since she came to Milton, you mean?” Elle asked.

  “I’m guessing, yes. The photos of her are tagged for countries like Spain, Barbados, and Jamaica. There are others of her in Miami and Las Vegas, but it’s the countries that I’m curious about. How could a student working at a fast food restaurant afford to go to these places?”

  “I don’t know. I wish I did.”

  Elle was quiet for a moment. “I now realize I did not know my sister as well as I thought I did,” she said. “Everything she told me over the phone was a lie. She never lived at the address she gave me, she did not work at the place she told me she did, and she enrolled at the fashion academy under a different name. I think she was creating a new life for herself. A life that did not involve me. I held her back, and the moment she arrived in Milton, she was free to be whoever she wanted.”

  She took a deep breath.

  A thought occurred to Callaway. “Was Katie seeing someone? Was a rich boyfriend perhaps funding her trips?”

  Elle placed her finger on her chin as she thought. “When Katie moved to Milton, she mentioned she had met someone,” she replied.

  “Who?” Callaway asked, almost jumping off his chair.

  “I believe she told me his name was… Bruno Rocco.”

  “Bruno Rocco?” he repeated.

  “Yes, that’s what I think she said.”

  He turned to the laptop and typed the name in. He frowned.
“There are no Bruno Roccos living in Milton. Perhaps it was a false name she gave you.”

  Elle sighed. “I can’t believe I did not mention this to you earlier. I never made much of it. Do you think this Bruno Rocco knows what happened to my sister?”

  “Could be, but how long ago did your sister tell you she had met him?”

  “When she moved to Milton.”

  Callaway frowned again. “That’s over a year ago, and I don’t see any photos of her with any man. He could just be an acquaintance, or a friend. I’ll ask around to see if anyone knows someone with that name. In the meantime, we know Katie was living a double life as Linda Eustace. This gives us something to work with. And I know just where to start.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  Fisher spotted a manila envelope on her desk chair. She grabbed it and realized it contained Isaiah’s cell phone records.

  She ripped the envelope open and pulled out the call sheet. She scanned the sheet and then rushed to Holt’s desk. He was still working away on his computer.

  “On the morning Isaiah was killed, he had made several calls to one number,” she said.

  “Give me the number,” he said.

  She read the digits, and he punched them in. “It’s registered to a Cassandra Stevens,” he said.

  Fisher flipped through the documents in her hand. “There are also several text messages between Isaiah and Cassandra Stevens.”

  She let Holt see them.

  Isaiah: HEY GIRL, I’M STILL WAITING FOR YOUR CALL.

  Isaiah: HOW’D THE MEETING GO?

  Isaiah: ARE YOU OKAY? I’M WORRIED ABOUT YOU.

  Isaiah: CALL ME. PLEASE.

  “All these messages were sent in the early morning,” Holt said, scanning the phone log. “She then called him back close to two hours after his last message. They spoke for one minute and twenty-seven seconds.”

  “He texted her again soon after that,” Fisher said.

  Isaiah: YOU GOT CUT OFF.

  Isaiah: WHAT HAPPENED?

  Isaiah: IF YOU DON’T CALL ME BACK, I WILL CALL THE POLICE.

  “She then sent him a reply,” Fisher said, pointing to a message.

  Cassandra: I’M OK. EVERYTHING IS FINE NOW. MEET ME AT THE FURNITURE STORE PARKING LOT AND WAIT FOR ME.

  “That’s where he was found,” Holt said, looking up.

  “He then sent her another text,” Fisher said.

  Isaiah: I’M ON MY WAY.

  “And there is one final text from Isaiah to her.”

  Isaiah: I’M HERE. LET ME KNOW WHERE YOU ARE AND I’LL COME GET YOU.

  Soon after that text, Isaiah was murdered.

  Holt and Fisher pondered what they had just read.

  “Now we know why Isaiah was in that neighborhood,” Holt said. “He went to meet this woman.”

  “Could she be the woman Byron Fox was talking about?” Fisher asked.

  Holt stood up and grabbed his coat. “We need to speak to her. She may know what happened to Isaiah.”

  SIXTY

  The red neon silhouette of a woman flashed brightly above the black exterior of the Gentlemen’s Hideout.

  “This can’t be the right address,” Holt said, staring at the listing for Cassandra Stevens he had pulled from the online phone directory.

  “I’m not surprised,” Fisher said.

  “Why not?”

  “Just look at the name. It’s one a lot of strippers use.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I’ve worked undercover before,” she replied. “Cherry, Candy, Charity, Chastity, Cassandra—they all have the same ring to it.”

  “I don’t know. Cassandra sounds different than the others.”

  Fisher rolled her eyes. “Would Cassie work better for you?”

  He opened his mouth but then closed it. “What was Isaiah doing with a stripper?” he said a second later.

  “I’m not sure, but let’s find out.”

  Fisher pulled the door handle, but the door was locked. She checked the schedule on the front window and saw the club did not open until after lunch. It was still mid-morning.

  “Maybe we should come back later,” Holt said.

  “Wait.” She pointed to a notice next to the club’s hours. The club was looking for girls, and there was a number to call if they were interested. Fisher dialed the number and got a man on the line. He told her he was the club’s owner.

  When she told him who she was and why she needed to speak to him, he said, “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be right over.”

  Exactly twenty minutes later, a black Mercedes pulled into the parking lot. A man in his fifties with gray hair, a slight pouch, and a double chin got out and approached them.

  “Derek Kuzminskas,” he said.

  Fisher and Holt introduced themselves. “We are looking for a woman who may work in your establishment,” Fisher said. “Cassandra Stevens.”

  “Yeah, Cassie is one of my dancers,” he said.

  Fisher smiled at Holt. Cassie.

  “You mean she’s a stripper,” Fisher said.

  “They prefer to be called dancers,” he said, correcting her. “Cassie is a regular and one of my main attractions.”

  “Is she working today?”

  “I’m not sure. She hasn’t come to work for the past two days.”

  Fisher shot a glance at Holt. He was thinking what she was. That’s how long Isaiah’s been dead.

  “Is it normal for girls not to show up for work?” Fisher asked.

  “It is, and it is not,” Kuzminskas replied.

  Holt and Fisher looked puzzled.

  “Okay, this is how it works,” Kuzminskas said. “If a girl is a good dancer and customers keep coming back to see her, she gets the best time slot, which is usually when the club is super busy. If a girl shows up on time and on the days she is supposed to, she gets the other preferred time slots. If a girl misses her time to go on stage or she isn’t very good at it—you gotta realize, not every woman is cut out for this kind of work—then we let her go, or if she’s desperate, we’ll give her a slot when there’s hardly anyone at the club. The girls call it ‘purgatory.’ So, to answer your question, this isn’t a nine-to-five job where if you don’t show up, your boss will call you at home to ask why, you know what I mean?”

  “But Cassandra was a regular, you said. Isn’t it unusual for her not to show up when she is scheduled to?” Fisher asked

  “It is, but I don’t run after these girls. If one stops showing up, then there are many more to take her place. It’s the way the business works.”

  Fisher thought this over. “Can you give us her home address?”

  “I can’t confirm what she gave me is her real address. I bet Cassie’s not even her real name.”

  “I suppose you don’t ask your dancers for their Social Security numbers then,” Fisher said. Thanks to her undercover work, she knew strip club owners did not follow normal employment practices.

  Kuzminskas chuckled. “Listen, I pay these girls in cash. They want it that way. They got family troubles, or they are running away from some kind of trouble. They don’t want anyone finding them, especially not the government. Also, some of them do this to earn enough for school. You wouldn’t believe how many student doctors or lawyers work here. Plus, they don’t want their family or friends finding out what they do when they are not studying.”

  “Okay, give us the address you have on file,” Fisher said. “We’ll confirm if it’s real or not.”

  “Sure, I’ve got it in my office.”

  “Oh, and we’re going to need a photo of her,” Holt added.

  SIXTY-ONE

  The house was in a nice neighborhood. The home had a stucco exterior, a flat roof, and bay windows.

  Callaway pulled up behind a Porsche Cayenne. The Impala stuck out in the row of fancy parked cars that lined the street.

  His online search for Linda Eustace had led to this house. Callaway hoped the moment they knocked on the door, they would find Kati
e. The reunion would be odd, for sure. Katie had done everything to hide her other identity from Elle.

  “Are you sure you want to go in?” he asked Elle. “It might not go as you would like it to.”

  “If my sister is in there, then I want to meet her,” Elle replied. “I want her to tell me why she has kept me in the dark the entire year.”

  “Okay, sure, let’s go,” Callaway said.

  They walked up to the house. Callaway rang the doorbell. A moment later, a woman answered the door. She was wearing a blue dress, earrings, and high heels.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Sorry to bother you, but we’re looking for Linda Eustace.”

  “And you are?”

  “I’m Lee, and this is Linda’s sister, Elle.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know Linda had a sister,” the woman said. “She never once mentioned it.”

  Why would she? Callaway thought. It would lead people to ask more questions.

  “Do you know where Linda is?” Elle asked, eager to finally be face-to-face with her sister.

  The woman let out a short laugh. “I know this may sound strange, but Linda’s not been seen for almost three months.”

  That’s how long Elle’s not had any contact with her, Callaway thought.

  “And who are you?” he asked.

  “I’m Linda’s landlord. I own this house. Linda was renting my guesthouse. She used to give me a check at the end of each month, but then she just disappeared. After two months, I had to empty the guesthouse to rent it out again. I sold most of her furniture to recoup the unpaid rent. If I had known she had family, I would have contacted you instead. I’m really sorry about that.”

  Elle was silent. Callaway could feel her disappointment. He too was looking forward to some sort of resolution to the case.

  “I kept a box of her personal stuff,” the woman said. “I didn’t have the heart to throw it out. You can go through it. It’s in the garage.”