How long was he going to chase someone who may never be found? It could not be forever, he knew. Sooner or later, he would have to stop his search.
He just was not sure how he would break that to Elle.
He was suddenly parched. His tongue stuck to the back of his throat.
I’ll have one quick drink and then I’ll head straight to the office, he thought.
NINETY-THREE
Schaefer was in the falafel shop with a can of soda in his hand and a shawarma on his Styrofoam plate. He was not hungry, but he could not sit there without ordering something. Not placing an order would attract attention to himself.
The shop was busier than the last time he was there. Two students were sitting in a corner laughing at something only they thought was funny. A woman in a burqa sat at the other table, talking on her cell phone. Three people were lined up at the counter waiting for their orders.
Maybe this wasn’t a good idea, Schaefer thought. We should have found a more private location to meet.
But time was running out, and when he called Brogdon, his reply was to meet at the same spot.
Schaefer and Brogdon never spoke longer than thirty seconds over the phone. Schaefer was well aware that cell phone conversations were never as secure as people thought they were. The government was always listening in. Schaefer had done that many times, and without a warrant too. Federal agencies and government departments broke the law all the time, which was not uncommon. Civil liberties be damned. The moment they mentioned national security to a judge, they were free to do whatever they wanted.
He glanced at his watch. The longer he sat there without touching his meal, the more suspicious he looked. The suit was already making him stick out amongst the patrons.
The door chimed, and a man entered the restaurant. The hood of a sweatshirt covered his head, and sunglasses covered his eyes.
He made his way straight to Schaefer’s table.
As he sat down, Schaefer said, “You have to get out of town. The detectives are on to you.”
Brogdon did not pull off his sunglasses, but Schaefer could still tell he was surprised. “How?” he asked.
“They have footage of you inside a hardware store.”
Brogdon’s jaw tightened. “I’m going to need another identity.”
Schaefer was ready to blow his top. “This is the third ID I’ve supplied you with. You remember what happened in the previous town?”
“The man was drunk, and he was rude to me.”
“He lost one eye because of you.”
Brogdon was silent for a moment. “Just get me another ID, okay?” he said. “I’ll start a new life somewhere far away from Milton.”
“I can’t promise you anything.”
Brogdon leaned closer. Schaefer could almost smell his breath. “You will do whatever I ask you to do. I took responsibility for crimes I never committed.”
“You murdered two people before I caught up with you,” Schaefer reminded him.
“One I planned to kill, and the other was at the wrong place at the wrong time,” Brogdon said.
“Is that what happened to Isaiah Whitcomb and Cassandra Stevens? You planned to kill Stevens, and Whitcomb was at the wrong place?”
“It was something like that,” Brogdon admitted.
Thick tension hung in the air between them.
Brogdon said, “I lied before a judge so that you could get the verdict you were looking for. I told them I was Don Beniti’s hired gun and that I murdered all of Beniti’s enemies at his behest. The truth was, until the last contract, I had never done a single job for Beniti. I lied for you, Agent Schaefer, and I got twelve years for that.”
Schaefer was seething. “When you killed those two people at the café, you should have gotten life, but because of me and our agreement, you only got twelve years, of which you only served half. So don’t get smart with me.”
Brogdon stared at him.
Schaefer took a deep breath. “You pack whatever you need and meet me outside the city. There is a gas station with a giant donut sign on the roof. You can’t miss it. You don’t go in the station because it’ll have security cameras. You meet me by the side of the road half a mile from the gas station. I’ll get you the new IDs, but you’ve used your last favor. After tonight, you are on your own. In fact, if I find out you hurt another person, I’ll put a bullet in your head myself. Got it?”
Brogdon grinned. “I got it.”
Schaefer did not like the smile, but since this murdering thug could get him in big trouble if he talked, he had no choice but to help him one last time.
NINETY-FOUR
Cosimo was parked across from the falafel shop.
Earlier, Cosimo had seen the agent speaking to the detective at the police department. Soon after their conversation, the agent drove off in a hurry. Cosimo followed after.
The agent cut in and out of traffic at speeds well above the speed limit. Cosimo could not risk being pulled over if he did the same. He was not a federal agent that a traffic cop would bow to. He was a hit man who had been eluding the authorities for years.
Cosimo was not worried about losing the agent, though. The tracker on the agent’s car would lead him back to him.
When the agent went inside the falafel shop, Cosimo had a feeling he was there to meet someone. He was willing to bet all the money Don Beniti had given to him that it was the target.
He stared at the shop.
A man appeared from the corner of the shop. His head was covered by his hoodie, and he had on dark sunglasses. Cosimo’s eyes narrowed. He focused on the way the man walked. You could disguise a person, but you could not disguise their walk.
It’s the target!
Cosimo opened the glove compartment and pulled out his weapon. He scanned his surroundings. There was no one around him. He carefully screwed the silencer over the gun’s muzzle and placed his weapon in his jacket pocket.
He got out.
A police cruiser pulled into the shop’s parking lot.
Cosimo cursed and sat back down.
The cruiser stood still for what felt like several minutes, but then it moved forward toward a metal garbage bin in the lot. The officer behind the wheel leaned over, stuffed a paper bag in the bin, and drove off.
The cop was throwing out the remains of his lunch!
Cosimo cursed again. He was about to get out again when he spotted Agent Schaefer exiting the shop.
The agent stomped over to his Buick and drove away.
Cosimo waited a few seconds. As he expected, the target walked out of the shop’s front doors. He quickly turned right and disappeared around the corner.
Cosimo bolted out of the car. He crossed the street and hurried past the shop to where he had seen the target go.
He saw him up ahead about half a block away. The target was walking casually. He had no idea he was being followed.
He gripped the gun in his pocket. The moment he was close enough, he would pull it out and fire three bullets. One toward the target’s head, another toward his chest, and the last toward his stomach. Even if one hit the target, they were all lethal shots.
The target headed into an alley. Cosimo quickened his pace. He was not about to lose his prey. He reached the alley and saw the target was already at the other end of it.
He went into a jog.
At the end of the alley was another road where a white van was parked. The target was now getting into the driver’s seat.
He took three long strides and pulled out his weapon. He aimed at the driver’s side window.
A loud honk startled him.
He turned and saw a Nissan sedan in the alley. The driver honked again. Cosimo was blocking the exit. He hid the gun behind his back and moved aside. The driver quickly sped away.
Cosimo watched as the white van pulled out of its parking spot and drove way. Cosimo raced to the road and saw the van in the distance. It was too far to get a shot.
No matter, he thought. I n
ow know the make of the vehicle and its license plate number. I’ll catch up to it in no time.
NINETY-FIVE
Fisher was behind her computer. Holt was seated next to her. She did not tell him Callaway had provided her the name “Bruno Rocco,” or that she had met him at the morgue. It would lead to more questions, and she was in no mood to answer them. He was her partner, and he would have to trust her as she ran the name through an online search engine. She got over two dozen results. She clicked on the first link.
She squinted and said, “Bruno Rocco did time in Foxworth Prison for the murder of Anthony Carvalho and a waitress named Katherine Woodward. Carvalho was going to snitch on Paolo Beniti, a crime boss with deep roots in New Jersey. During a shoot-out with Carvalho at a restaurant, Rocco was hit badly. He somehow rode his motorcycle to a nearby hospital. Any time a patient comes in with gunshot wounds, stab wounds, or wounds due to a violent interaction, the hospital staff is required to contact the authorities.”
Holt frowned. “And you believe this Bruno Rocco is the same person we saw in the hardware store?”
“Give me one second,” she said.
She clicked on another link. An image popped up on the screen. It was the same photo Callaway had shown her earlier.
Holt’s eyes narrowed. “I see the resemblance, but I still don’t see what this has to do with the imprisonment of a mob boss?”
Fisher scrolled through another article. Her eyes went wide. “You won’t believe this.”
“What?”
“When Rocco was in the hospital, he cut a deal with the feds. Guess who the agent was?”
Holt’s face turned pale. “Don’t tell me. Special Agent Ed Schaefer.”
“Bingo! And because of Rocco’s testimony, a lot of bad people went to prison. And after serving the minimum required time, Rocco was put in the Witness Protection Program…”
“…And now he is in Milton living as someone else,” Holt said, finishing her sentence.
They were silent for a moment.
“Do you think Agent Schaefer is not being entirely truthful with us?” Fisher asked.
“I think he knows more than he’s letting on,” Holt replied. “In fact, he caught me returning to the station. He was eager to offer his assistance.”
“Something doesn’t feel right to me,” Fisher said.
“I know exactly what you mean.”
Fisher squinted at the monitor and said, “Hold on. Someone has posted a video of the shooting online.”
She clicked the link.
A video popped up. The camera was aimed at the patio of a restaurant. A large man was seated at a table. At another table, a blonde waitress was taking orders from a couple.
A motorcycle rolled up to the patio entrance. The rider was dressed in black from head to toe, and his face was covered by a motorcycle helmet. The rider jumped off the motorcycle, pulled out a gun, and fired at the large man. The first bullet hit the man, and he quickly took cover behind a table. People screamed and ducked for cover. As the rider turned to run, the large man pulled out a gun and fired in the rider’s direction. The bullet hit the rider in the back. He stumbled, and without looking back, he fired a burst. One of them hit the target, and another hit the waitress as she ducked for cover. The rider jumped back on the motorcycle and disappeared from view. People quickly huddled around the fallen woman. The large man let go of his weapon, and his body went limp. The entire video was less than a minute long.
Holt and Fisher sat in utter silence.
Holt gritted his teeth and said, “If Bruno Rocco is the man in the video, then he is the one who murdered Isaiah.”
“And if Bruno Rocco is responsible for dumping that body in the lake, then we have to assume she is none other than Cassandra Stevens, the woman Isaiah had gone to meet that morning.”
“We have to find this person,” Holt said with determination.
Fisher’s cell phone buzzed. For a second, she thought against picking it up, but she did. She listened and hung up.
“Guess what?” she said.
“What?”
“They found another dead body.”
Another one? Holt thought.
NINETY-SIX
Callaway stumbled into his office with a severe hangover. His one drink had turned into many. His brain was foggy as he dropped onto the sofa. The bar was only a block away. The trek normally took him less than five minutes, but that night, the walk took him twice as long.
He shut his eyes and cursed at himself. He should not have gone to the bar. He should have stayed in the office and worked on Elle’s case. Getting drunk was not going to help him find her sister.
His eyes welled up as a strong wave of emotion overcame him. He was using the alcohol to self-medicate. The possibility that Elle’s sister was still alive was nothing more than a fantastic dream. He had to face the hard truth. Elle’s sister was long gone, and no matter where he looked or how hard he looked, she was not coming back.
How am I going to face Elle? he thought. How am I going to tell her I can’t work on her case anymore? I’m not cut out for this kind of work. I chase cheating spouses.
Callaway wanted to curl up and fall asleep. Maybe when he woke up, this nightmare would be over.
He heard a buzzing noise. His eyes snapped open.
“What the hell?” he wondered aloud.
He looked around, feeling dazed and confused. He realized the buzzing came from his jacket pocket. He shoved his hand inside and pulled out his cell phone. He checked. There were several text messages. He blinked a couple of times to clear the blur from his eyes.
The messages were from Echo Rose. She had emailed him the information he was looking for.
That was fast, he thought.
He turned on his laptop, and while it booted up, he rubbed his eyes. He grabbed a bottle of painkillers and downed two pills with some water. He clicked her email, and as he went through it, he was even more confused.
He took a screenshot of the information with his phone and left the office. He went straight to a variety store. He bought coffee from a vending machine. The brew tasted like motor oil, but it was strong. After finishing the coffee, he could feel the fog lifting from his head.
He could confirm what Echo had sent him later, but he needed answers now. They would eat away at him otherwise.
He got behind the wheel of the Impala and somehow made it to his destination without hurting someone or killing himself.
He raced up to the door and found it was still open. He entered the art gallery and was immediately welcomed by Carl Goodwin.
“Mr. Callaway,” he said with a smile. “Are you back to create your own masterpiece?”
Callaway blinked. His head began to spin as blood rushed to his brain. He shut his eyes tight to make it go away.
“Are you okay?” Goodwin asked.
“I’m fine. I just ran too fast.” He opened his eyes and pulled out his cell phone. “Can you explain this to me?”
Goodwin frowned and took the phone. He looked at the screen and said, “I’m not sure what I’m looking at.”
“It’s the messages from your website.”
“How did you get them? They are password-protected.”
“I had someone… never mind. You said that once a girl agreed to take on a client, they sent a confirmation message.”
“Yes.”
“And once the transaction, as you call it, was complete, they sent you another message to say that it was.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“If you look at the screenshot on my phone, on the day Linda disappeared, she agreed to take on a client, but she never completed the transaction. You said all accounts were paid up, but according to this, Linda’s account was still open until she or someone else manually closed it today. How is that possible?”
“I’m not sure,” Goodwin said, staring at the screen. “Have you shown this to anyone?”
“Not yet.” Callaway shook his head a littl
e too wildly. He was still plastered. “I wanted to ask you first before I took any actions, you know.”
Goodwin smiled. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I’m sure there is a reasonable explanation. Let me make a call and find out for you.”
“Okay, good,” Callaway said with a smile.
Goodwin disappeared behind the back wall.
Callaway turned to one of the computer tablets displayed around the gallery. He swiped his hand over the screen, and it came alive.
His smile widened. I can be a master artist too, he thought. Look out, world. Here comes Lee Callaway, renaissance painter extraordinaire.
He chuckled.
He felt movement behind him. He turned to see who was there.
Something hit the back of his head.
He fell to the floor and blacked out.
NINETY-SEVEN
Bruno Rocco drove away from Milton in his white van. The sun had started to set, and the roads were relatively clear. He had stuffed everything that was important to him into a duffel bag. Rocco could not wait to leave Milton. He should have done so the moment he killed those two people.
Cassandra Stevens and Isaiah Whitcomb.
No one would miss the stripper, but he had no idea Whitcomb was related to a police detective. This had put a big target on his head.
He had met Stevens at the Gentlemen’s Hideout. She was a nice girl, but she was also willing to make extra cash on the side. She offered her services to him. One night at his apartment, after they had done the deed, she decided to steal from him. When she went through his stuff, she stumbled upon his real ID. He was not Kevin Brogdon, but Bruno Rocco. She figured he was a lowly criminal on the run from the law and that she could squeeze him for money. As a painter, he would be scared and fork up the cash the moment she made a threat to go to the police.
If she had done her homework, she would have known how dangerous he really was.
The Lee Callaway Boxed Set Page 43
