She unlocked her apartment door and entered. Warm air hit her, and she felt like she was walking into a sauna. The apartment was hot and stuffy, and she almost couldn’t breathe.
She walked over to a wall and checked. For some strange reason, the thermostat was turned up high. She turned it down and moved to the glass doors that led out to the balcony. She slid them open. She would give the cool air a minute or two to circulate through the apartment before she went back inside.
She leaned over the balcony railing and stared down at the streets below. She was fifteen floors up, but she could still make out people. Down below, a man was walking his dog while he smoked a cigarette.
The view across from her balcony was terrible. She was surrounded by buildings just like hers. Sometimes when she couldn’t sleep, she would come out to the balcony and stare into the living rooms and bedrooms of the people living in those buildings. It was voyeuristic, even creepy, but it helped pass the time.
She sensed movement behind her.
She was about to turn when something strong gripped her legs.
The next second, she was over the balcony.
She let out a loud scream as she fell to her death.
TWO
Present Day
The sun was up, shining from a clear sky as the Honda SUV moved down the narrow road. On either side of the road were tall trees and bushes. The view was idyllic, almost serene.
Dana Fisher was a detective with the Milton Police Department. She was five-foot-five, weighed one hundred and ten pounds, and had dark, shoulder-length hair. Her thin nose pointed upwards, and it moved whenever she opened her mouth.
Her large green eyes took in the surroundings, and she almost wished she didn’t have to go where she was headed. There was a murder, and she was called in to investigate.
A part of her wanted to turn around and head in the opposite direction.
Fisher grew up in the city. She was constantly bombarded with noises from buses, garbage trucks, and drivers honking. This made her somewhat accustomed to the hustle and bustle of city life, but even so, she appreciated the beauty and tranquility of what nature provided.
She rolled down her window and inhaled the fresh air. It filled her lungs, giving her renewed energy.
She and her siblings were born a year apart from each other. After having two boys, her parents were grateful for a girl. They then wanted to give her a sister so that she too would have someone to play with. When the last child ended up being a boy as well, they stopped having kids.
Fisher and her siblings fought incessantly about everything. First they vied with each other to get their parents’ attention, then they squabbled over toys, who got to watch their favorite shows, and who was best at sports. That competitive spirit stayed with her when she reached adulthood.
Fisher had joined the police force straight out of college. Her first year as a recruit was spent patrolling the streets. She dealt with drug addicts, prostitutes, and civil complaints. She then moved up from recruit to officer, where she was involved in police raids on drug manufacturers, shutting down human trafficking, and capturing gang leaders.
She was quickly promoted to detective, and now she had her eyes set on becoming sergeant. She hoped she would make captain by the time she retired. She was fully confident she would.
She slowed the SUV when she spotted a deer by the side of the road. A doe. The deer watched her for a second. When the doe was certain Fisher was not a threat, it darted across the road.
She sighed. The day had started with so much potential, but from her experience conducting murder investigations, days never ended that way. By the time she got home that night, she would be mentally and physically drained.
She accelerated the SUV and continued down the road.
THREE
Her destination was tucked away behind a row of massive oak trees. To reach it, you had to get off the road, pass through a brick entrance, and drive up a long gravel path.
The house had a gray exterior, a triangular roof, and French windows. A police cruiser was parked next to a black limousine.
Fisher pulled up next to the cruiser and got out when a uniformed officer approached her. He was tall, and he had blonde hair hidden underneath his police cap. His deep blue eyes were set, and he had a prominent chin.
Fisher had first seen Officer Lance McConnell at the annual police games. He had won the 100-meter dash. She then met him twice during her last major murder investigation.
Whenever she was around McConnell, she found she could not stop blushing.
“Detective Fisher,” he said with a smile.
“Officer McConnell,” she replied. Her face burned. She coughed to regain her composure. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“I don’t normally patrol this area, but when someone called in sick, I was asked to come here,” McConnell said with a shrug.
The Milton PD was restructuring the way it policed the city. Officers were constantly being redeployed to areas with urgent needs. They called it Modernization of Service, which was a fancy way of saying they had no money to hire new officers and were forcing existing officers to take over their colleagues’ shifts. The police union was up in arms over this and had gone on a PR blitz. In their ads, they named the police chief, the head of the police services board, and the mayor as the people responsible for the thin-stretched service. It was going to be a bloody fight. Fisher hoped the union prevailed in the end.
“Will you be working solo on this?” McConnell asked.
Detective Greg Holt was her partner. After his nephew’s brutal murder, Holt was encouraged to take some time off. Holt refused like he always did. He lived for the job. Nothing else mattered when he was in pursuit of a killer.
The department—under the direction of the Officer Assistant Program, which was set up to monitor officers’ health—forced Holt to attend a law enforcement conference in Las Vegas. He was even allowed to bring his wife, Nancy, to this event. They figured, rightly, if Nancy was there, Holt would not put up a strong fight.
Nancy was Holt’s Achilles’ heel. He would do anything to make her happy, even if it meant sitting through long lectures and presentations, surrounded by thousands of strangers.
Fisher knew Holt deserved a break whether he liked it or not. He had been through so much in the past couple of years. Holt and Nancy had adopted a boy from Ukraine. The boy did not live to see his first birthday, dying from a rare form of cancer. And when his nephew was gunned down, Holt had reached the breaking point. Thankfully, they were able to find his murderer, and Holt was able to provide closure for his sister, Marjorie.
Fisher spotted a man next to the limousine. The man looked pale as he spoke into his cell phone.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
“He called 9-1-1.”
“Let’s go take a look at who the victim is.”
“I think you’ll recognize him when you see him,” McConnell said.
A knot formed in the pit of Fisher’s stomach. It was the same feeling she had when she found out Holt’s nephew was murdered. “I will?” she slowly said.
“It’s Dillon Scott.”
FOUR
Dillon Scott had starred in over thirty film productions. Ten of those had opened at number one at the box office. Scott had started in showbiz when he was sixteen years old. His first role was in a TV series, where he played a troubled kid with a heart of gold. He reminded viewers of a young James Dean. He became an overnight star and was named Most Likely to Win an Academy Award.
He spent three years on the short-lived TV series. In his public life, he mostly imitated his character on the show. He was caught on camera taking drugs, got charged with DUIs, and even spent a night in jail for assaulting an extra on set.
He then disappeared from the public eye. He cleaned up his act, and two years later, at the age of twenty-two, he starred in a remake of Romeo and Juliet. His portrayal of the tragic lead character made him a heartthrob for young gir
ls. The movie was a smash hit.
His subsequent movies made him one of Hollywood’s leading men. He dated starlets, young and old, but then he did something that surprised even his most die-hard fans. He married an unknown woman by the name of Rachel Poole. She worked as a real estate agent, and she had sold Scott a six-bedroom mansion in Beverly Hills. They ended up having two children—a boy and a girl—and Scott settled into being a bankable movie star.
At the height of his fame, he was commanding a salary of ten million dollars per movie. He was everywhere, starring in action-adventure, science fiction, romance, and even drama films. In one dramatic role, he played a quadriplegic detective, which got him his first Oscar nomination.
He parlayed his success into charitable work that focused on children in poor countries. He backed projects in Africa, India, and Latin America. He gave his time and money to set up orphanages in many parts of the world.
His last couple of movies had flopped at the box office, however, and his star had started to fade. Even then, audiences loved him for his roles. He was the all-American good guy who, against all odds, would still come out on top.
Fisher would never admit it to anyone—especially not Holt—but she had a crush on Scott when she was a teenager.
Like many girls her age, she had a poster of him playing Romeo. He had long hair, piercing blue eyes, a slight grin, and he looked like he was staring directly at her.
She dreamed of marrying him one day, even though he was much older than her. According to his date of birth, Scott was forty-five as of this year.
She had followed his career with the enthusiasm of an ardent fan. She knew Scott was on the verge of a major comeback. He was signed on to play Jean Valjean in the reproduction of Les Miserables. His performance would remind viewers of the time he had won them over as Romeo. Fisher was certain he would be back on top in no time.
She was shocked he was dead.
FIVE
The hula girl figurine wiggled her hips on top of the van’s dashboard. The girl had a smile that he found enticing and also disturbing. He was not sure why. Maybe because whoever painted her face made her eyes bulge out and her lips three sizes too big.
He scanned the minivan’s interior. The dashboard, handrest, and even the steering wheel were covered in colorful stickers. He looked down at the floor mats, and all he saw were cartoon characters.
Lee Callaway was tall, tanned, and he had strands of silver around his temples. He had also begun to get gray strands on the top of his head, but those were still unnoticeable.
Callaway felt out of place behind the wheel of the minivan. He was wearing a black coat, dark sunglasses, and he had stubble on his cheeks. Parents held their children closer as he drove past them. He looked like he was out to kidnap their children.
He missed his Dodge Charger. That car was pure muscle and power. Whenever he accelerated, he could feel the adrenaline course through his veins.
The Charger was the reason he was driving the minivan. It had suffered exterior damage when a client had gone at it with a baseball bat. At least that’s what Callaway thought was used. The weapon could have been a tire iron or a wrench. Whatever was used had cracked the Charger’s windshield, smashed the taillights, and dented the body.
The car had since been restored to its full glory, but Callaway did not have the money to pay for the work done. He rarely had money to begin with, but that was another story.
The auto shop’s owner had done him favors before, and Callaway was not about to swindle him out of his hard work.
He offered to repay the owner by taking on small tasks at the shop. It would take months, maybe even years, but Callaway was adamant he would pay every penny he owed him.
Paying off the bill would be much easier and a lot quicker if Callaway landed a solid case. He was a private investigator who rarely investigated anything. He was desperate and broke. He was accustomed to following cheating spouses, but he was now even willing to find people’s missing pets.
Boo Boo hasn’t been seen in days? No problem. PI Lee Callaway will bring her home.
He turned on the radio. The speakers blared children’s music. He pressed a button and another children’s song came on. After failing to find an adult radio station, he let the children’s music play.
Ten minutes later, he found himself singing along with the songs. They were kind of catchy, and also positive. They made him feel like he could do anything if he set his mind to it.
If this orphaned girl can become a princess, he thought, why can’t I get my Charger back?
He reached his destination: a bungalow. He parked in the driveway. A woman holding a baby came out to meet him. He handed her the invoice. The minivan had come to the mechanic shop for an oil change, a wheel alignment, and a transmission fluid replacement. The woman did not have a second car, so the shop owner agreed to have one of his employees drive her van back to her. Fortunately, Callaway was at the shop, and he gladly took on the task.
The woman paid him the amount on the invoice, and then she handed him an additional ten dollars as a tip.
Lady, I’m not some pizza delivery guy, he wanted to say. But he pocketed the cash. He was not about to turn down a kind gesture.
He thanked her and left.
SIX
Dillon Scott lay on the living room carpet. His eyes were closed, and even in death, he was still handsome. He had aged gracefully in front of his audience. His face was slightly wrinkled, but it made him more distinguished. His hair was still thick with not a gray strand in sight. He had a small scar at the top of his chin. He had gotten it in a fight during his troubled youth. Someone had hit him with a beer bottle. The wound required over forty stitches to close up.
Fisher found the scar charming. She couldn’t help but stare at it whenever she watched one of his movies. The scar gave him an air of danger, even when he was playing a helpless schmuck. As a viewer, you could never tell when he would rise up and save the day.
His arms rested by his sides as if he was asleep.
Did someone move his body? Fisher thought. And was his death caused by falling on the table?
She couldn’t be sure.
The coffee table’s glass top was in pieces. Shards of glass lay scattered around Scott.
She took a step back to get a better view of the scene. The sectional sofa took up most of the living room. Behind the sofa was a built-in bookshelf that held many books. The coffee table was in front of the sofa, and across from it was a fireplace. On top of the fireplace was a large LCD screen. It was not turned on, which told her Scott was not watching TV at the time of the attack.
He had been attacked; she was certain of that. She could not imagine him fainting on the coffee table. The body’s positioning would be more… natural. The arms would be at different angles, the legs would be spread apart, the head would likely be turned left or right, and the probability of the body being on one of its sides would also be very high.
It looked like the scene was staged.
But why?
Even if it was, what did the killer gain by moving the body? And why not move the body completely, perhaps out of the house even? The house was in a secluded location. The next neighbor was half a mile away.
The only logical explanation was that the killer was cleaning up evidence that may have been left behind.
She walked around the room. She hoped one of the framed photos on the wall would give her an idea of what the room looked like before the murder. It was common to see families posing on a sofa or in front of the fireplace. She might detect what, if anything, had been altered by the killer.
She frowned when she saw that all the photos were of landscapes, architecture, and nature.
She did learn one thing as she moved around the living room. The house did not belong to Dillon Scott. There was nothing personal she could find anywhere. No photos of him or his wife and children. No posters of movies he had starred in.
She was told that actors were v
ain and insecure. They constantly needed to be reminded that they were movie stars and deserved the attention they received.
Maybe Scott was different. Maybe he didn’t care for the adulation.
If that was the case, he would be a rarity in the profession.
SEVEN
Fisher left the house and walked up to the limousine parked in the driveway. A man was behind the wheel. He got out the moment he saw her approach. He was wearing a suit, tie, and polished shoes. He was clean-shaven, and his hair was gelled back.
“Officer McConnell told me you called 9-1-1,” Fisher said.
The man swallowed. “Um, yeah, I did.”
She could tell she would have to be gentle with him. The man looked like he was about to faint. “Your name?” she asked.
“David Gill.”
“What were you doing here, Mr. Gill?”
“I was hired by the studio to drive Mr. Scott.”
“When did Mr. Scott move into this property?”
“I picked him up from the airport two days ago.”
“And you’ve been driving him around Milton ever since?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, tell me what happened before you called 9-1-1.”
He took a deep breath. “It’s my job to also make sure Mr. Scott is ready before I pick him up. I’ve been a limo driver for almost ten years, and you wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve showed up and the client was still in bed. A lot of actors aren’t known for being punctual or considerate.”
Fisher’s brow furrowed. “Considerate?”
Gill’s eyes widened. “I mean... um…”
The Lee Callaway Boxed Set Page 47
