They agreed to meet at the motel. He chose the location because he knew it had no surveillance. She was so dumb to show up by herself. She underestimated what he was capable of. The moment she was alone, he attacked her. He beat and tortured her for hours. He wanted to know if she had told anyone of his real identity. She denied it, but he did not believe her. As the night progressed, he went to the bathroom to take a leak. He thought, mistakenly, that she was unconscious, but when he came back out, he caught her talking to someone on her phone. He took the phone from her and made her tell him what she told the person on the other line. He now had another problem on his hands. If that person appeared at the motel, it would lead to more questions.
Across the road was a furniture store. It was dark and vacant. He texted back to the telephone number Stevens had just called. He told the person to meet her at the furniture store’s parking lot.
He then knocked Stevens unconscious and duct-taped her hands, feet, and mouth. He then watched from the window as a car pulled up at the furniture store.
It was early in the morning, so he knew he had no time to waste. He had driven on his motorcycle, so it was fitting that he would execute Whitcomb in the manner he was accustomed to before he went to prison and then wound up a protected witness.
He approached the car from behind and shot the young man behind the wheel three times. He then took his cell phone. He did not want his phone to be linked with hers. He also placed a bag of heroin in the glove compartment.
The painting job was a façade for the U.S. Marshals who were tasked to administer the Witness Protection Program. He had only met the marshal in charge of his case once, when he was first relocated. The marshal was a man who was overworked and underpaid. After providing Rocco with his new identifications, he never once checked up on him.
Rocco was not too worried. He had Agent Schaefer to keep an eye on him. Or was it the other way around?
He smiled at that thought.
After killing Whitcomb, he still had to get rid of Stevens. The police would quickly link the two deaths if they were within the same proximity, and he could not transport Stevens on a motorcycle.
He left her back at the motel and returned to his apartment. He changed into his work clothes and drove his white van back to the motel. By then, the police had already arrived at the furniture store. Someone must have stumbled upon the body. He later saw on the news that it was a junkie named Bo Smith. Fortunately for him, the police were too busy with Whitcomb’s body to pay too much attention to him.
He snuck Stevens’s body out of the motel and loaded her into his van. As he was leaving, a police officer stopped him. He thought he was surely going to jail. But he played it cool. He asked what had happened, and the officer told him it was a homicide. The road was blocked, so the officer redirected him to another street. After that, he was gone.
He purchased the materials from a hardware store, which he now realized was a big mistake, and then shot Stevens in the head and dumped her body in the lake. After that, he destroyed the young man’s cell phone so it did not provide the police with a lead.
Everything was going smoothly until it suddenly fell apart. The detectives were looking for him, and he had to get as far away as possible.
He would be relieved once this was all behind him. Agent Schaefer would come through in their agreement. He always did. He did not have much choice.
He spotted the giant donut sign in the distance. The sign was hard to miss. A thousand light bulbs illuminated the donut like a heavenly sign.
He slowed down and pulled the van to the side of the road. He shut the engine off and waited.
He checked his watch. He still had lots of time. He thought about going into the gas station and buying something to eat. He was hungry, but he was not going to risk getting caught on the surveillance cameras. He had already made that mistake at the hardware store.
When he was a good distance away from Milton, he would stop for a bite.
He saw a flash of light in the rearview mirror. A car had pulled up and parked behind him.
Agent Schaefer’s early, he thought.
The headlights blinded him as he waited for the agent to come out and hand him his IDs.
After several minutes passed, he got out. He walked over to the car and found the engine still running.
He checked the driver’s seat.
No one was behind the wheel.
What the…? he thought.
He turned and suddenly froze.
NINETY-EIGHT
Callaway tried to lift his head up, but it hurt like nothing he had experienced before. The pain was ten times worse than a hangover. For a second, he did not know where he was. He blinked some more when he saw the figure standing before him, and he remembered what had happened.
Carl Goodwin had his arms crossed over his chest and a solemn look on his face.
The room they were in had a low ceiling and no windows.
“Where am I?” Callaway asked, wincing.
“You’re in the basement of the art gallery.”
Callaway looked down and saw he was sitting on a chair with his arms tied behind his back. His legs were also restrained with rope.
Goodwin sighed loudly. “You should not have come here. You realize what I have to do now, don’t you?”
Callaway took a deep breath. He tried to make the throbbing in his head go away, but it would not. He said, “What did you do to Linda? Did you kill her?”
Goodwin shut his eyes, acting as if it troubled him to even think about her. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” Callaway said. “I’ve spent countless hours looking for her, so I think I deserve to know what happened to her.”
Goodwin stared at him and then sighed. “I never meant to hurt her. I liked her. I really liked her. I had seen her many times at the gallery when she would come to meet the clients. I would talk to her before the client’s arrival. She was smart, funny, and she knew quite a bit about art. I hoped one day she would work at the gallery with me. But she had other plans in her life. She wanted to travel the world. She wanted to fly first class. She wanted to dine at the fanciest restaurants out there. She wanted to buy the nicest things money could buy. She wanted a life other than the one she had. I thought it was a bit shallow of her, but I figured she was still young. I asked her out a couple of times, but she turned me down. She wasn’t interested in dating me.”
He looked away like it stung to even speak of her disinterest in him.
“I finally got fed up, and I offered to pay for her services. When she came, I had converted this basement into a private restaurant. I had spent all day cooking something delicious for her. I opened a bottle of wine I had kept for special occasions. I even picked out some romantic music for us to enjoy. I hoped after she saw all the work I had put into the night, she might change her mind about me paying to be with her.”
He grimaced, and his lips curled into a frown.
“I hated it when she went with the other men. It was a cold transaction and nothing more. I was willing to offer her love, comfort, and security.”
He balled his fists. “Instead of realizing how lucky she was that I had shown interest in her, she laughed in my face. She said it was sweet, but I still had to pay her for her time. I don’t know what happened, but I snapped, and I hit her with a wine bottle. She fell to the ground and went limp. I thought she had passed out, but when I checked, she was dead.”
His eyes brimmed with tears. “I’m not a murderer. I used to be a computer programmer. I never meant to kill her. I wanted to give her all the happiness in the world.”
Goodwin put his hands over his face, pushed his glasses up above his eyes, and wept like a little boy.
“Where’s Linda’s body?” Callaway asked.
Goodwin composed himself. His eyes moved toward a door in the corner of the room. He wiped his face and stood up straight. “Like I said, you shouldn’t have come here.”
He walked over
to a shelf and picked up a bottle of wine. He looked at it and smiled. “It’s the very bottle I hit Linda with. I think it might still have some of her blood on it.”
He gripped the bottle tight and moved toward Callaway.
“Don’t do this,” Callaway said.
“I have no choice.”
“The police are waiting outside.”
“No, they aren’t.”
“I’m friends with Detective Dana Fisher. She knows I’m here, and she’s waiting for my call.”
“No, she isn’t. When you came here, you were drunk. You had no idea I had even killed Linda.”
So much for that bluff, Callaway thought.
Goodwin began to raise the bottle. “I’m so sorry for this,” he said.
Sure you are, Callaway thought. What an idiot I was to let you get the drop on me…
Goodwin got ready to swing the bottle.
A gut instinct seized Callaway.
He rocked himself onto his right side.
Goodwin’s swing was clumsy. He had put too much weight on his right foot.
He missed Callaway and stumbled.
Callaway willed himself to roll over, chair and all.
Goodwin tripped over him and flew across the room head first.
Callaway heard a loud crack, followed by the sound of a bottle hitting an object and then the floor.
He glanced over.
Goodwin lay face first on the floor, out cold.
The wine bottle lay next to his head, still perfectly intact.
Callaway laughed, then he winced as pain stabbed his head.
Scumbag got hit with his own murder weapon!
“Are you all right?” a woman asked.
Callaway’s eyes widened.
Jennifer Paulsingh was on the basement stairs. She had a can of Mace in her hand.
“I’ll live,” Callaway replied, “but could you give me a hand here?”
She pocketed the Mace and quickly untied him. Callaway scrambled to his feet and checked on Goodwin. He was unconscious but still breathing.
He took the rope from the chair and tied Goodwin’s hands and feet.
He rushed to the door in the corner that led to a small kitchen, which had a sink, microwave, and a fridge.
He pulled open the refrigerator door.
He covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes wide with horror.
Stuffed inside the fridge was the body of Linda Eustace.
NINETY-NINE
Schaefer picked up a new set of IDs for Bruno Rocco. Schaefer had earned a good reputation amongst his peers at the agency. Even then, it took some IOUs to get it done fast. He checked his watch. He was running late.
Rocco was likely already at their meeting spot. If he hurried, he might get there in half an hour. Afterwards, he would take the first flight out of Milton and head straight back to sunny Florida.
He could not wait to get back on the golf course and leave this mess behind him. He was serious when he told Rocco this was the last favor. He could not be his get-out-of-jail ticket. There was only so much goodwill he had left before his superiors began asking questions.
He exited the government building and made his way to his car.
He abruptly slowed.
Standing next to the Buick was Detective Holt and Detective Fisher.
“In a rush to be somewhere, Agent Schaefer?” Holt asked.
Schaefer approached them with a smile. “You know how it is in our line of work. There is always somewhere we need to be.”
“I’m afraid we’ll need a bit of your time.”
“What is this about?”
“We would prefer if you came down to the station with us.”
The smile on Schaefer’s face evaporated. “Is something wrong?”
“We need to ask you a few questions.”
“You can ask me here. Unless you are willing to read me my rights.” Schaefer was not going to be pressured into doing something he was not willing to do.
“It’s about Bo Smith,” Fisher said.
Schaefer blinked. “Who?”
“Smith was the one who found the drugs in the Chrysler Isaiah Whitcomb was driving.”
“Okay, but what does that have to do with me?”
“Smith was found dead with a gunshot to the head.”
Schaefer’s mouth dropped.
Fisher said, “You were seen at the hospital asking questions about Smith. There are also witnesses who saw you in Smith’s apartment building the day he died.”
Schaefer was speechless. “I… I didn’t shoot him…”
He reached for his weapon.
Holt and Fisher pulled theirs and took aim. He quickly pulled his hand away. He raised his hands. “You can run ballistics on my gun. You’ll see I never fired it.”
Holt studied him. “I’m going to need your weapon.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Should you be?”
Schaefer paused to think.
He nodded.
Fisher removed his weapon from his holster.
“Tell us what’s going on,” Holt said.
“I have no idea.”
“Help us make sense of this. I’m asking you out of professional courtesy and nothing more. You came to us offering your assistance. We gave you information on Bo Smith. Then we find out he is dead. It seems more than a coincidence, don’t you think?”
“I had nothing to do with what happened.”
“Did you go speak to him?”
“Yes.”
“What did you talk about?”
Schaefer hesitated.
“You better be straight with us. So far, you’ve given us no reason to trust you.”’
“I wanted to know what he knew about Whitcomb’s murder.”
“And?”
“He knew only what he had already told you guys.”
“Then what happened?”
“I left.”
Holt stared at him.
“I swear,” Schaefer pleaded. “When I left, he was still alive.”
“What do you know about Bruno Rocco?” Holt asked.
Schaefer turned pale. “Bruno Rocco?”
“Yes,” Holt said with a clenched jaw.
Fisher’s phone buzzed. She answered and hung up. “You wouldn’t believe this,” she said to Holt.
He sighed. “Don’t tell me, there is another dead body.”
“Okay, I won’t.” She turned to Schaefer. “I think you better come with us. This will interest you.”
ONE-HUNDRED
Bruno Rocco lay on the side of the road with a bullet between his eyes. His white van was parked twenty feet away from him. A truck driver on his way to the gas station had spotted the van and pulled over. The moment he saw the body, he called 9-1-1.
The police had blocked off the road and surrounded the area with yellow police tape. Holt and Fisher walked around the scene with looks of utter confusion on their faces. Schaefer was in the back seat of Holt’s car. He too was shocked and dumbfounded by what he saw.
Fisher’s face, illuminated by over half a dozen flashing police cruiser lights, said, “What was he doing in the middle of nowhere?”
Holt frowned. “I have no idea, but I think someone might know.”
He stormed back to the car and pulled Schaefer out by his jacket collar. “You better start talking before I take you back to the station in handcuffs.”
“I don’t know,” Schaefer said. “I’m as surprised as you.”
“You knew Bruno Rocco. You had cut a deal with him. We know all about that,” Holt growled. “And now he’s dead. What the hell is going on?”
Schaefer looked at his jacket pocket.
Holt shoved his hand inside and pulled out a plastic baggie. Inside was a driver’s license with Rocco’s photo, a Social Security card, and a folded copy of a birth certificate. But the license read Marco Keswick.
Holt’s eyes blazed with fury. “You knew he had killed my nephew, and you were helping hi
m escape!”
Holt punched Schaefer across the face.
Schaefer fell on the gravel and spat blood from his mouth.
Holt cocked his fist again.
Fisher restrained him.
“Why?” Holt roared at the agent. “Why would you protect a murderer?”
Schaefer held up his hands to protect himself in case Holt took another swing. “I had no choice. Rocco had a recording of me feeding him lies to tell the judge. If it got out to the public, my career would have been ruined. Not to mention the verdict against Paolo Beniti and his associates would have been thrown out. Years of hard work went into putting Beniti behind bars, and if Rocco spilled what he knew, our hard work would have been for nothing.”
“He was my nephew,” Holt said and stormed away.
Fisher gave Schaefer a hard look. “You will answer for this mess, Agent Schaefer.”
Schaefer lowered his head.
ONE HUNDRED-ONE
Police officers arrived at the gallery the moment Callaway made the call. They were followed by the crime scene investigation unit and two detectives whom Callaway had never met before.
Holt and Fisher are likely busy investigating Isaiah’s murder, he thought.
The detectives took his statement and also Jennifer Paulsingh’s.
Goodwin was arrested and charged with Linda’s murder. The detectives believed Goodwin would spend the rest of his life inside a prison cell.
Linda’s body was removed from the fridge, and by the looks of it, she had died from blunt force trauma. The wine bottle was tagged and taken as evidence.
Callaway was checked by paramedics on the scene. The lump on the back of his head was not life-threatening, but he was advised to go to the hospital for x-rays. He declined. All he needed was a couple of painkillers and a good night’s rest.
He spotted Jennifer in the back seat of a squad car. He walked over to her, and an officer let him get in next to her. She was crying hysterically, and a part of him wanted to reach over and comfort her.
“I can’t believe Linda is gone,” she said. “I knew something bad had happened to her, but until I saw her like that, I never truly believed it.”
The Lee Callaway Boxed Set Page 44
