“How do I find Glenn Maker?” Callaway asked.
Mason was silent. It was his negotiating tactic. He would not give up the address unless Callaway handed over more money.
Callaway said, “Listen, I paid you a grand to find me information on Linda Eustace and Bruno Rocco. What about him?”
“I asked around, but no one’s heard of him,” Mason replied.
“Then I guess I’m owed a refund.”
“I don’t do refunds,” Mason shot back.
“Our deal was, you find information that I can use and you get paid. Glenn Maker’s name I can use, but unless you find something useful on Bruno Rocco, I will be in your office to collect my five hundred bucks.”
“Okay, okay, slow down,” Mason said. “I’ll tell you where you can find Maker.”
Callaway jotted down the address. After hanging up, he thought about calling Elle. She deserved to know what he had found. Might not be a good idea just yet, he thought. If Katie’s working as an escort, Elle will be devastated. Better I first confirm Mason’s findings and then gently break it to her.
He did not know how she would react to the news. She was already dealing with the knowledge of her sister’s false identity. This new revelation would be a double whammy.
He would visit Glenn Maker without her lest she get overwhelmed.
He drove to the address. For a second, he thought Mason had pulled a fast one on him. Instead of finding a seedy-looking property, he was in front of a decent house on a residential street. There was even a park with a playground across the road. Parents and their children were visible from where he sat in the Impala.
He pulled out his cell phone to give Mason a piece of his mind, but intuition stopped him.
Why don’t I go up and knock on the door? he thought. What’s the worst that could happen? I’m already here.
He got out, approached the front door, and rang the doorbell.
SEVENTY-FOUR
As Callaway waited, he scanned the street again. It was quiet except for a woman walking her dog. She looked like she was heading toward the park.
He was about to ring the doorbell again when he heard a man’s voice. It was coming from an intercom next to the doorbell. “Who is it?”
“I’m looking for Glenn Maker.”
“Who wants to know?”
Callaway spotted a camera above the door. Maker appeared to take security very seriously. Callaway considered telling him the truth, but something told him Maker would not open the door to just anyone. He was running a website for escorts, after all, which made him sort of a pimp. He would have to try a different approach.
“My name’s Gator Peckerwood,” Callaway claimed. He pulled out the card with his alias on it and waved the card at the camera fast so Maker could not catch the lettering. “I work for A to Z Delivery.” Callaway had spotted several cardboard boxes from A to Z stacked next to a garbage bin. “We have become aware that our customers’ packages have gone missing, and we want to speak to you to see how we can make your deliveries more secure.” Callaway knew that in some cities, mail theft had become such a big issue that delivery companies were considering installing large boxes to hold packages outside people’s houses.
“Finally you guys are taking it seriously,” Maker said over the intercom. “I’ve had a dozen packages go missing. I’ve caught people on my camera pulling up to my house, parking their car, grabbing my package, and driving away.”
“That’s why I am here, to make certain that this doesn’t happen to you again, sir,” Callaway said. “I’ve got a few documents that require your signature. This way I can have everything set up for you.”
“Give me a minute.”
Callaway waited.
The door swung open. Callaway was half-expecting a man with a fur coat, top hat, and a gold cane. Maker was wearing a t-shirt, baggy shorts, white socks, and he had a smartwatch on his wrist.
“Where do I sign?” Maker asked eagerly.
Callaway shoved his way into the house.
“What’re you doing?” Maker demanded, sounding confused.
Callaway pulled out Katie’s photo and said, “I’m looking for this woman. Tell me where I can find her.”
“How would I know?” Maker claimed.
“She was on your website, which either makes her a client of yours or a client of someone else’s. Her name is Katie Pearson, but she might be going by the name of Linda Eustace.”
“Are you a customer?”
“No, I’m a private investigator hired to find her.”
Maker suddenly looked emboldened. “Get out of my house before I call the cops.”
Callaway crossed his arms over his chest. “Go ahead, and what will you tell them?”
“I’ll tell them that you forced your way in.”
“With what? I don’t carry a weapon. And I didn’t threaten you.”
“My camera will tell the truth.”
“It will show you opening the door for me, and me going through it.”
Maker thought for a moment. “You have to leave.”
“Why?” Callaway asked. He caught sight of a framed photo hanging on a wall in the hallway. Maker was dressed in a tux next to a woman in a wedding gown. “So you’re married,” Callaway said with a smile. “Does your wife know that you’re a pimp?”
“I’m not,” Maker said, his eyes wide with horror.
“Does she know you run a website for escorts?” Callaway said. “I bet she doesn’t. Why don’t I wait for her and tell her myself?”
Callaway walked over to the sofa and took a seat.
Maker came over. He had broken into a cold sweat. “Listen man, you gotta leave or else my marriage will be over.”
“Tell me what I need to know and I’ll go.”
Maker stared at him. He sighed. He took a seat across from Callaway and said, “I recognize the name you mentioned, but I’ve never met her.”
Callaway frowned. “You’re a pimp who’s never met his girl?”
“I told you I’m not a pimp. I’m a coder.”
“A what?”
“I sit at home and write codes for computer programs.”
“Is that what your wife thinks you do?”
He lowered his head, looking ashamed. “Yes. I lost my job at a tech company a year and a half ago. To pay the bills, I created the website. Its main purpose was to handle payments between the girls and their customers in a secure and confidential way.”
It’s good old prostitution for the twenty-first century, Callaway thought. What will they think up for the twenty-second?
“So how does it work?” he asked.
“The girls post their profiles on the website. If a prospective client is interested, he contacts the girls through the online system. If she accepts his offer, I set up the transaction and handle all the payments.”
“So you must have the clients’ names?” Callaway asked.
“No names. They all use aliases.”
Callaway was confused. “But if you handle the payments, then you must have their credit card information.”
Maker smiled, looking proud of his creation. “That’s what makes my website so different. The client is guaranteed that none of his information is stored anywhere.”
“How’s that possible? There is always a trail in any transaction.”
“The client pays in digital currency, which I convert and transfer to the girls in US dollars.”
Callaway thought for a moment. “How do these clients get purchase this digital currency?”
“I never ask where they get them, and they never tell me in order to protect their privacy. On the website, I direct them to various websites that sell digital currency. There are even people who will meet you in person, exchange money, and then transfer the currency digitally to you. It’s pretty sophisticated.”
Callaway mulled this over. “Are you able to see an address where the clients meet the girls?”
“No personal information is eve
r exchanged on the website. It’s to protect the clients.”
“What about the girls? Who protects them?” Callaway asked, putting an edge on his last word.
“I considered that before I set up the website,” Maker replied, sounding defensive. “I’m a married man. I even have a young daughter. So I do value these girls’ safety. We have something in place to protect them.”
“We?”
Maker opened his mouth but shut it. He stood up. “You have to go before my wife shows up. I’ve told you everything I know.”
“Give me something I can use to find Linda,” Callaway said. “Please.”
Maker stared at him. He sighed and said, “I can’t tell you anything about the clients because even I don’t know much about them, but what I can tell you is that Linda was referred to the website by a friend.”
Callaway’s eyes widened. “Give me the name.”
SEVENTY-FIVE
Holt and Fisher were at the motel across the road from the furniture store. Cassandra Steven’s phone call to Isaiah had pinged from a cell tower not far from the motel. They believed the call could only have come from there, but it raised a question: Why did Cassandra not ask Isaiah to meet her at the motel parking lot instead of the furniture store’s? Was she setting him up for his eventual demise? They needed answers.
They found the owner in his cramped office. He gave Fisher another gap-toothed smile and said, “Welcome back, Detective. How can I help you?”
Fisher pulled out Cassandra’s photo and held it up for the owner. “We believe this woman was staying in one of your rooms.”
The owner squinted and said, “Yeah, I remember her. She was here a couple of nights ago.”
Fisher looked over at Holt. That’s around the time Isaiah was killed.
“Was she with someone? Perhaps with a tall African-American man.”
The owner shrugged. “She came alone and paid cash. Like I told you the last time you were here, we charge by the hour, and we don’t ask any questions. I’m guessing she might have met a customer later in her room.”
“She’s a hooker?” Fisher asked.
“That’d be my guess. Why else would she be here?”
Fisher looked over at Holt. His face was drawn.
Isaiah was in contact with not just a stripper but also a prostitute.
“Can we see the room she paid for?” Fisher asked.
The owner checked his ledger and said, “It’s on the top floor. I’ll take you up myself.”
They moved to the elevators.
Fisher asked, “Is it safe?”
“It is if you are not underage.” The manager cackled at his joke. “Nothing will happen, Detective. You have my word.”
Right now, your word means very little to me, she thought.
The ride up was bumpy, but they emerged from the elevator in one piece. The owner escorted them to a room that had a bed in the middle, a sofa on one side, a TV across from it, and a bathroom next to it. A strong odor hung in the air that made Fisher pinch her nose.
She was walking around the room when she noticed a dark brown stain on the carpet. “That’s blood,” she said.
“I tried to clean it up as best as I could,” the owner said.
Holt glared at the owner and said, “You saw blood and you didn’t report it to the police?”
The owner suddenly looked defensive. “Listen,” he said, “the people that come here don’t want the police showing up and asking questions. My clientele involves hookers, drug dealers, crack addicts, and pimps. I am used to seeing blood in my units. I once had a fight break out where one renter smashed a mirror over another guy’s head. I had never seen that much blood in my life. I made the renter pay for the mess, but even then, it was impossible to clean up the blood entirely.”
As Fisher and Holt stared at the stain on the carpet, they could not help but wonder, Did Cassandra meet the same fate as Isaiah?
SEVENTY-SIX
Cosimo entered the suite and took in his surroundings. The room had a king-size bed, a stocked fridge, a plush leather sofa, a fifty-inch flat-screen TV, and a Jacuzzi hot tub. Cosimo did not care for any of the amenities. He was not going to use any of them.
The five-star hotel was selected for its location across the street from a convention center. For the next three days, the construction industry was holding its annual fair. Companies from all over were vying for people’s attention and their money. Cosimo, a stranger from out of town, would blend right in.
He provided a different name and ID when he checked in, one he had used numerous times. He had thought about retiring the alias, but he did not have time to get a new one made on short notice. The call from Don Beniti had caught him by surprise. Cosimo had just returned from a job in Montana and was not actively soliciting any new contracts. But Beniti’s offer was too enticing and lucrative to pass up. He was paid in cash, all up front.
The target had surfaced after years of hiding. There was no telling when he would disappear again. Maybe he already had, but Cosimo doubted that. The target had no idea Beniti had sent someone to snuff him out.
He had the target’s photo from years ago, but he was certain his appearance had been altered to make him unrecognizable. Even so, Beniti had contacts everywhere. They also believed the target was in Milton, but he was not just going to take their word for it. He would know the target was there when he saw him with his own eyes.
The basketball player’s murder had alleviated any doubts in his mind. Even though the shooter’s face was never seen on the video, Cosimo knew he was the target. He could tell from the way the shooter walked up to the car and the way he fired his gun.
You could change a person’s appearance, but it was hard to change the way a person moved or held their weapon.
And the motorcycle helmet, black leather jacket, and black pants and boots were a dead giveaway as to who it was.
You just made a grave error, Cosimo thought. It will now cost you your life.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Holt and Fisher were making their way to the police station’s entrance when a black sedan parked in an open space they were passing. The driver’s window rolled down, and a man asked, “Detective Holt and Detective Fisher?”
Holt’s eyes narrowed. “Can we help you?”
The man got out and said, “I’m Special Agent Ed Schaefer of the FBI.”
He showed them his credentials, and then he shook their hands.
“What can we do for you, Agent Schaefer?” Holt asked.
“Call me Ed.”
“Okay.”
“I want to make it clear that I’m not here on federal capacity,” Schaefer said. “I am visiting Milton on my own time. I heard about the Isaiah Whitcomb murder. I heard he was your nephew.”
“Yes, he was.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Schaefer said.
“Thank you,” Holt said.
“I want to offer you my assistance.”
Holt looked over at Fisher and back at Schaefer. “We appreciate your offer, but we can handle it,” he said.
“I am in no way saying you can’t,” Schaefer said. “I just want to say that your nephew’s murder has caught a lot of people’s attention. It’s all over the news.”
Holt’s eyes narrowed. “Agent Schaefer, with all due respect, if the FBI is only interested in the shooting because of the headlines or how good it will make them look when the shooter is caught, then you’re wasting your time. I don’t care who gets the credit. I only care that the person responsible for my nephew’s murder is in prison.”
Schaefer blinked and then said, “I think you may have misunderstood me. I have no intention of stealing anyone’s credit. I am here as a fellow law enforcement officer. I have family too, and your nephew’s death has affected me. I just felt an obligation to reach out to you. That’s all.”
Holt stared at him and then relaxed. “I apologize, it’s personal for me.”
“No apology necessary. I completel
y understand,” Schaefer said.
“How can you help us?” Fisher asked.
“I can run background checks on any suspects you might have. I can follow up on any leads you need looking into. I can be an extra pair of eyes and ears for you.” He paused for a moment. “I heard the shooting was drug-related. Is that true?”
Holt shook his head. “They were planted at the scene by the shooter. Isaiah was not involved in drugs of any kind.”
“That’s good to know,” Schaefer said, looking relieved. “But what about the person who called 9-1-1? Could he have a hand in what happened to your nephew?”
“Are you referring to Bo Smith?”
“Yes.”
“He’s clean. We thoroughly vetted his statements. He took the drugs from the Chrysler my nephew was driving, but he had nothing to do with his death.”
“Isn’t he a drug dealer?”
“A very low-level one.”
Fisher added, “Smith doesn’t have any priors for violent behavior. He doesn’t even own a gun.”
Schaefer mulled this over. “Well, that’s good to know. I also heard a woman may be involved in what happened.”
Holt nodded. “Cassandra Stevens was seen at the motel across from the furniture store where the shooting occurred.”
“Have you located her?”
“Not yet, but we are actively looking.”
Schaefer pulled out a business card and handed it to Holt. “If you need to bounce off any theories, or you need my assistance in any way, please don’t hesitate to contact me. My cell number is on there.”
“Thank you,” Holt said as he pocketed the card.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
After picking up the rental, Cosimo drove straight to the Milton Police Department. He knew that in order to get close to his target, he would have to follow the detectives who were working on the basketball player’s murder. Their investigation would lead him straight to his target.
He pulled into the department’s parking lot and spotted the two detectives. He had seen their photos in the local newspapers, so it was easy to recognize them. They were talking to someone, and when Cosimo looked carefully, his eyes widened in disbelief.
The Lee Callaway Boxed Set Page 39
