He thought about calling her but decided against it. Back at her apartment, she had told him she worked for a nonprofit organization that helped visually impaired people. She still had a life in Mayview that required her attention.
“What’s her deal, anyway?” Joely asked, snapping him out of his thoughts.
“Who?”
“The woman you were with earlier.”
“Her sister’s gone missing, and I am trying to help find her.”
“How’s your search coming along?”
He shrugged. “We’re making progress,” he said with little conviction.
“She’s got that quiet intensity to her,” Joely said.
Callaway raised an eyebrow. “How would you know that?”
“I’m a woman. I can sense these things. Don’t be fooled by her shy, introverted exterior. I bet if you put her in a corner, she’d fight her way out.”
Elle is highly motivated to find her sister, Callaway thought. She will do just about anything to know where Katie is.
“She’s also kind of cute, you know,” Joely said with a wink. “Have you…?”
Callaway shook his head. “She’s a client.”
“Hasn’t stopped you before.”
Callaway sighed. “You got me there.”
“Is it because she’s blind?” Joely asked.
Callaway was horrified at that thought. Would he be interested in someone who had some form of handicap? Of course he would. The reason he never thought of Elle in that way was because of what she was going through. She was not just a client who wanted to get money out of a cheating spouse; she was desperate to find a loved one whom she had not heard from in months.
A thought occurred to him, which he was not proud of. Her blindness had made him more attentive towards her, almost in a protective way. She never asked for special treatment. He just took it upon himself to tread carefully whenever he was around her.
He caught something playing on the TV behind Joely.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“All the stations have been playing it over and over,” she replied.
A man wearing a motorcycle helmet approached a parked vehicle and fired into it. The vehicle was blurred out to protect the viewer from seeing violent images, but Callaway could easily surmise the occupant had not survived the barrage of bullets.
The image of the shooter froze on the screen. The news anchor came on and said, “This man is a suspect in the death of Isaiah Whitcomb. Anyone with any knowledge as to his identity should contact the Milton Police Department.”
Holt must be devastated at the sight of his nephew being gunned down like that, Callaway thought. I can’t blame him. I would be too.
SEVENTY
Mainsville Penitentiary was a federal prison in New Jersey. It housed over two thousand of the most dangerous criminals in the state. The jail was surrounded by twenty-foot-high concrete walls topped with barbed wire. Surveillance cameras captured every inch of the structure, and close to two hundred trained guards monitored the inmates around the clock.
Cosimo went through a metal detector and a physical search. He was made to fill out a form and was then escorted down a narrow corridor. Instead of going to the visitors’ area where family members and lawyers met the prisoners, however, the guard took him to another part of the prison.
Cosimo’s visit was pre-planned. A huge sum of money had already been distributed to all the guards involved and their supervisor, a man more corrupt than most people Cosimo had worked for. The part of the prison he was going to had suffered a mysterious “camera malfunction” lest the warden know his most famous inmate was receiving a visitor, and Cosimo had provided the guards at the entrance with one of the several false identifications he utilized.
There was still the possibility the guards and their crooked supervisor could turn on him. Even if no one had been able to pin them on him, Cosimo was still behind half a dozen killings. His arrest would be a giant score for the authorities. But even the bent supervisor and his corrupt underlings knew the reach Cosimo’s employer had in the outside world. If they chose to renege on their deal, the retaliation would be swift. A car bomb, a hail of bullets during a quiet walk, or worse—the abduction of a loved one.
His employer had lost significant control when he was arrested, but he still had money stashed away that no federal agency could find or touch. Money was power, and it could compel people to do horrible things.
The guards and their supervisor were aware of this. But even then, Cosimo took no chances before arriving at the prison. He had surveilled the corrupt men’s places of residence. He had photographed their children, wives, mistresses, mothers, and anyone else who held value to them. He then sent copies of these pictures to each man. The message was clear: If you get any smart ideas, someone you know will get hurt.
The guard who walked next to him also received a package of photos, and his contempt for Cosimo was palpable. But Cosimo could care less. His freedom was at stake, and he would do just about anything to stay free.
They moved down a corridor and came to a stop at a heavy door. The guard unlocked the door with a key that was hooked on his belt and then held the door for him.
He understood. The guard will go no further.
Cosimo entered and realized he was in the prison’s laundromat. The industrial washers and dryers were on one side, and bins filled with laundry were on the other. The area was hot and stuffy and smelled of detergent.
The room was also empty.
This meeting’s going to be private.
Cosimo spotted a man sitting next to a table with clothes neatly folded on it.
He walked into the room and approached the inmate.
The man was short, balding, and he had on thick prescription glasses. His face was without a wrinkle, which made him look much younger than he was. He had a cross tattooed on his right arm, and a tattoo of a dagger on the left. The images were symbolic. He was both good and evil. Religious and feared. Peaceful and dangerous.
Paolo Beniti stood up and extended his arms for an embrace. Cosimo walked over and let the man hug him, and then Beniti kissed Cosimo on both cheeks.
“It’s good to see you, Cosimo,” Beniti said, smiling like he was greeting an old friend. Cosimo had only met him once, and that was for a job. “Thank you for coming,” he said.
I didn’t have much choice, Cosimo thought. “Anything for you, Don Beniti,” he said in reply.
“I wish we could have met under different circumstances.” He looked around the laundromat with disdain. “But it is what it is.”
“I cried when they sentenced you to life,” Cosimo said. His thoughts, however, were different. I could care less what happens to you, old man. It was your hubris that was the end of you.
“Thank you,” Beniti said as if the comment touched his heart. “I am sure you have seen the video of the young athlete in Milton being murdered.”
“I have,” Cosimo said.
“It seems that after all these years, the man who put me in this wretched place has finally shown himself.”
Cosimo could not help but take a jab at Beniti’s mistake. “It seems that way, but if you had hired me in the first place all those years ago, you would not be in this situation, Don Beniti.”
Beniti shrugged. “It was an error I am paying dearly for. I wanted to keep it in-house, but I should have contracted the job out to someone with your special capabilities.”
Cosimo almost smiled. Good that you know you are to blame for your predicament.
The old man’s eyes glowed with pure hatred. “I want you to go to Milton and find him,” Beniti said. “I want you to make sure he knows I sent you. I want you to make him pay for his betrayal.”
“That’s what I’m good at,” Cosimo said with no emotion.
SEVENTY-ONE
Fisher entered the bar and looked around. The time was midday, but even then, the place was half full.
Don’t people have jobs? she
wondered. I doubt their bosses would let them drink during work hours.
While Fisher was still on duty, she was not here to indulge. She wanted a quiet spot to clear her mind. She was hoping to find a booth in the corner, but they seemed to be all taken.
I should go to the coffee shop across the street, she thought.
She was about to turn around and head back out the door when she spotted a familiar man sitting in one of the booths.
She smiled.
“Why am I not surprised to see you here?” she asked as she walked up to him.
Lee Callaway grinned. “I could say the same to you. You’re not working today?”
“I am,” she said.
“So if you’re not here to drink, then I’m guessing you are here to talk to me.”
“I am not here for you.”
He raised an eyebrow, but he kept grinning. “You sneaky girl. You are going to drink on the job. What will your poison of choice be? I’m buying.”
She shook her head. “I just needed to get away.”
“Let me guess, you need to get away from Holt?”
“It’s not always Holt I need a break from. We’re not a couple that needs time away from each other every so often.”
She took a seat across from him.
He leaned over and winked. “We could have made a beautiful couple, you know.”
Callaway and Fisher had dated once—and only once. She always reminded him of this whenever he brought up the subject. They were two different people. She was focused on a career and maybe a family down the road. He was focused on whatever caught his fancy, and he still had issues to sort out from his previous marriage.
Fisher strongly believed, even if Callaway vehemently denied it, that Callaway still harbored feelings for his ex-wife. She was the one he compared all his relationships to. In Fisher’s opinion, Patti was the best thing that ever happened to Callaway, and he was an idiot to give up on their marriage. He would look back one day with regret, but by then, it would be too late. People like Callaway were more interested in new shiny objects than paying attention to the object already in their hands. They were always searching for happiness in the distance when they did not realize it was already under their feet.
Fisher shook her head. She could not believe she was getting philosophical just thinking about Callaway. Maybe Callaway held potential in him to be a better husband, father, and person. If he only knew how to get out of his own way, perhaps he could do it.
“You okay?” he asked.
She blinked.
“You look like you are in a galaxy far, far away.”
“Sorry, I was just thinking.”
“What’ll you have?” he asked.
“Sparkling water,” she replied.
He got up, walked over to the bar, and returned with a glass. He sat back across from her.
“Thanks,” she said.
“I saw the video of the shooting on TV,” he said. “I bet it was Holt’s idea to release it to the media.”
She took a sip and sighed. “I tried to talk him out of it, but he is eager to find the person who murdered his nephew. I can’t blame him, though. This is the first big break we’ve had since we started our investigation.”
“Any potential leads?” he asked.
“The phones are ringing off the hook back at the station. Why do you think I needed to get away? It’s mostly people trying to settle a score with someone.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had one caller say it was his neighbor. He rides a motorcycle, so he had to be the shooter. When I pushed the caller, he confessed his neighbor would ride his motorcycle at all times of the day, and he wanted to scare him into stopping.” She took another sip from her glass. “I doubt any of the information will be useful.”
“You can’t be certain,” Callaway said.
“The shooter was covered from head to toe. It could be anyone. It could even be a muscular woman.”
Callaway thought for a moment. Fisher was right. There was not much to identify who the killer was.
He took a gulp from his glass. The scotch burned the back of his throat. Why am I drinking when I’m on the job as well? he wondered.
“Any new cases?” Fisher asked.
It was his turn to sigh. “Yeah.”
“As complicated as the Paul Gardener case?”
“Far more complicated than the Gardener case.”
Fisher checked her watch. “I’m in no hurry to go back to the station. You wanna tell me what it’s about?”
“Sure, but if you want a drink afterward, it’s not my fault.”
She smiled. “I’ll take my chances.”
SEVENTY-TWO
Special Agent Ed Schaefer of the Federal Bureau of Investigation parked his rented Buick outside a falafel shop. He could not believe he had to come all the way to Milton.
Schaefer was in the middle of an investigation in Florida involving casinos and organized crime. The view was great, the weather was perfect, and the women were nice and tanned.
When he saw the news, he knew he had to get on the first available flight out. He made some excuse to his superiors about needing to deal with a personal matter. They were not pleased. The investigation had been ongoing for months and had cost the Bureau a good chunk of their budget. But they agreed to let him take some time off, as Schaefer knew they would after all the positive exposure the Bureau had gotten from his last major investigation.
Schaefer was tall and wiry. His skin was weather-beaten and wrinkled, his eyes were gray and hollow, and his teeth were stained from years of smoking.
He reached for a pack in his suit jacket but decided against a smoke. He had an urgent matter to attend to.
He entered the shop, making the door chime. He looked around and spotted his man in the corner.
The man was wearing a checkered shirt, cargo pants, and work boots. A painter’s cap covered his dark hair, which was once a golden color. He had stubble on his cheeks, and his eyes were black.
The first time Schaefer had looked into those eyes, he almost shivered. He saw no soul in them. They belonged to a killer. Schaefer knew the moment he made a deal with him, there was no turning back. He was shaking hands with the devil.
Schaefer looked around the falafel shop. The owner was behind the counter. He was more interested in what was on the TV, which was playing a Middle Eastern program.
Good spot for a private meeting, Schaefer thought.
He approached the man and sat across from him. He slid a plate with a shawarma on it across to Schaefer.
“No thanks,” Schaefer said. “I’m not hungry.”
The man was not offended. He pulled back the plate and bit into his shawarma. The man’s real name had not been spoken in years, and Schaefer was not about to use it either. He feared someone might hear it. The man was known to the world as Kevin Brogdon.
“I saw the video,” Schaefer said. “Everyone did.”
He expected a response, but he got none.
Schaefer leaned closer. “What were you thinking? He was a state basketball star.”
“He should not have been there in the first place,” Brogdon replied without emotion.
“And what about the woman?”
“It’s been taken care of.”
“Are you sure? Or am I going to find another video?”
Brogdon was silent.
Schaefer gritted his teeth. “The deal was, you keep your head low and you follow the law. I did not say you could kill people.”
Brogdon leaned in closer. “I kept a low profile just like you told me, but I got bored, okay? I wanted to have some fun. I had no choice in what I did. The woman would have exposed me.” He pointed a finger at Schaefer. “She would have exposed you.”
Schaefer tried to keep his emotions in check. He did not want to cause a scene. The falafel shop was still relatively empty, but he had seen a customer or two glance in their direction.
Schaefer felt self-consc
ious in his black suit. He missed wearing golf shirts, shorts, and loafers. But Milton was cool and breezy, not sunny and balmy. He had no choice but to wear his business attire.
“Just make this go away,” Brogdon said.
Schaefer’s eyes widened. “Make this go away? Who do you think I am? The president? I am not supposed to even be here. I came because you messed up.”
“You came to protect yourself,” Brogdon said. “Because of me, Don Beniti is in prison. I gave him to you on a silver platter.”
Schaefer was silent.
Brogdon gave Schaefer a menacing and arrogant smile. “I heard the FBI gave you a medal for your exceptional work.”
Schaefer’s jaw clenched. A part of him wanted to get up and walk away. Brogdon was not his problem anymore. He had held up his end of the bargain.
“I should let the Beniti family find you,” Schaefer said. “Guess what they do to rats?”
Brogdon stared at him.
It was Schaefer’s turn to smile. “Oh wait, you do know what they do to those who betray the code. It was your job to make an example of those who did, wasn’t it?”
Brogdon moved his tongue over his front teeth and snarled. He said, “You owe me for the time I spent in prison for you.” He pointed again at Schaefer. His finger was inches from his face. “Don’t you ever forget that, got it?”
Schaefer held his stare and then sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, you keep your head down and don’t do anything stupid. You’ve already caused enough damage for the both of us.”
Brogdon smiled. “Sure, whatever you say. You’re the boss.”
SEVENTY-THREE
Callaway was on his way to his apartment when he received a call. Mason had information for him. Linda Eustace’s photo was on a website run by a man named Glenn Maker.
“What kind of website?” Callaway inquired.
“What do you think? It’s for escorts,” Mason replied.
Elle’s sister was an escort? Callaway thought. That explains how she was able to pay for all those overseas trips.
The Lee Callaway Boxed Set Page 38
