She gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, I just want to understand what you are saying. That’s all.”
“Some of the actors treat us like we are their servants,” Gill explained. “Like we’re supposed to be at their beck and call twenty-four seven. There have been a dozen times when I’ve had to wait in my vehicle for hours while they got ready to go. There have also been times when I’ve shown up and they’ve disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” she asked, curious.
“Yeah, they decided to go with someone else instead, and they didn’t bother to notify me. I wouldn’t find out until much later. Even though I’m still being paid, I think it’s disrespectful.”
Fisher sensed Gill was frustrated. “Okay, so you called him before you arrived at the property, is that correct?”
“Yes. I called the contact number I was provided for Mr. Scott, but he didn’t pick up. I was concerned. I had to drive him for his rehearsals, and I didn’t want him to be late. The studios blame us when it happens.” He shook his head at the absurdity. “Most of these studio bosses don’t have the power to make these stars do anything they don’t want to, so how can we make them? We’re just hired hands.” He exhaled. “I then drove over here. I got out and knocked on the door. When I didn’t get a response, I checked the door and it was unlocked.”
This is interesting, she thought. “Unlocked?”
“Yeah.”
“Does the house have an alarm system?”
“I believe it does. I saw Mr. Scott punch in the code.”
“Do you know the code?”
Gill shook his head. “They don’t share that information with us.”
“Who would know then?”
“Mr. Scott, and I guess the production company.”
Fisher made a mental note of this. “When you found the door unlocked, what happened?”
“I called out Mr. Scott’s name. I thought maybe he was still asleep. I went inside, and that’s when I saw—” Gill gulped for breath, “—his body in the living room.”
“Did you touch anything?”
“I checked to see if he was okay.”
“So, you did?”
“Um, yeah, I guess so.”
“And then what did you do?”
“I ran out of the house and dialed 9-1-1.”
Fisher pondered this.
“What did you do yesterday?”
“Yesterday?”
“Yes, and don’t spare any of the details.”
“Um, okay, sure. So, I woke up in the morning and I—”
“No, Mr. Gill, I mean from the time you picked up Mr. Scott from the studio.”
“Oh, right. At exactly six o’clock, I was at the studio parking lot, waiting for Mr. Scott. He came out of the building and got in my limo.”
“What was he wearing?”
Gill paused to think for a moment. “He had on a white T-shirt, a green jacket, blue jeans, and I think he was also wearing black boots,” he said.
That’s what he’s wearing now, Fisher thought. Minus the boots.
“What was his demeanor like?”
Gill looked confused. “Demeanor?”
“Was he quiet? Talkative? Upset?”
“They don’t really talk to us. Most of them don’t even acknowledge that we exist. They are usually on their phones, or if they have company, they talk to them.”
“Was Mr. Scott alone?”
“Oh, yes.”
“So, you picked him up and you…”
Fisher let her words trail off.
“I drove him straight to the house,” Gill said.
“And during the drive, did he call anyone?”
Gill pondered Fisher’s question. “He kept checking his phone,” he replied, “but I don’t think he spoke to anyone. I mean, as drivers, we are supposed to be invisible, but it’s easy to listen in on their conversations if they are talking loudly. The majority of the actors don’t care what they are saying in the limo. They know we would never disclose what was said to anyone. If we did, we would never work in the industry again. These people value their privacy like it’s the most precious thing in the world. I guess they have to because they are so famous. I know of a driver who mistakenly spoke up while the client was talking to someone on the phone. The client was confused about what day it was, and the driver was trying to be helpful. He was let go right after, when the client complained. The driver was hired to take the client from point A to point B, not to eavesdrop on her personal conversations.”
“What time did you drop him off at the house?”
“Around six thirty.”
“And did you wait around on the property?”
“I asked Mr. Scott if he wanted to go anywhere. Usually after a long day, they like to go to a club, a restaurant, a bar, somewhere to unwind, but Mr. Scott said he wanted to go over his script. I reminded him I would pick him up at nine thirty the next morning. He said that was fine. I then drove home.”
Fisher’s eyes narrowed. Up until six thirty the night before, Dillon Scott was still alive. Now she had to find out what he did after that, which led to his demise.
EIGHT
Callaway got off the bus. He was scowling. After dropping off the minivan, he didn’t have enough money to take a taxi back. A cab would cost a lot more than the tip the customer had given him.
He had to walk four blocks before he found a bus stop, and then he had to wait a half hour for a bus to arrive. If that wasn’t bad enough, he had to sit between a man whose large butt took up a section of his seat and a man who had fallen asleep with his head on Callaway’s shoulder.
Callaway thought about moving to another seat, but he was sandwiched so tight he could barely move an inch. He was relieved when the sleeping man finally got off the bus. Callaway wasn’t sure how the man knew it was his stop. He just stood up, wiped drool off his face, and disembarked.
Maybe this is his daily routine, Callaway thought, and his body has an internal alarm clock.
Callaway was grateful to be out of the hot and stinking bus. The bus had no ventilation, making Callaway feel like a piece of steak being cooked to medium-rare.
He walked straight to a mechanic shop down the street. A Hispanic man appeared from behind the hood of a car. He had smooth dark hair, a pencil-thin mustache above his upper lip, and whiskers on his chin. He was wearing blue overalls.
“Lee, you’re back so early?” he asked with a smile, wiping grease off his hands with a small cloth.
“You call that early? It took me nearly an hour to get back here.”
Julio shrugged. “I figured it might take you the entire day.”
Callaway shook his head and pulled out the money the woman had given him.
Julio grabbed the cash and put it in his pocket.
“You’re not going to count it?” Callaway asked.
“Should I?” Julio asked.
“I mean, what if I pocketed some of it?”
“You could have, but I’ll eventually find out once I count it later.”
“For your information, it’s all there.”
“Good,” Julio said.
Callaway walked over to a black car in the back of the garage. His beloved Charger was good as new.
He moved his hand across the side of the car. He wanted his baby to know that he was doing everything he could to bring her home.
“Have you considered selling it?” Julio asked, coming up behind him.
Callaway glared at Julio as if he had called his mother fat and ugly. “It’s not for sale,” he growled.
“I know, I know,” Julio said. “It’s just that it will take you a very long time to pay me back if you keep doing these small jobs for me.”
“I’m well aware of that, Julio. Say, are you sure you don’t need my services?”
Julio looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I can be very useful to you.”
“Like how?”
“I can dig up dirt on your competition.”
“My competition?”
“Yeah, the other garages in the neighborhood.”
“You want to put them out of business?”
Callaway paused. “I didn’t mean that, but I could find out if they are overcharging their customers. It would be a great boost for your business if they were.”
Julio laughed. “All mechanics overcharge their customers, Lee. That’s how they stay in business.”
Callaway’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t overcharge me for the Charger, did you?”
Julio’s expression turned dead serious. He waved a finger at Callaway and said, “I did not charge you for labor, only for parts. I’m not making a penny off the Charger. I know how much it means to you, Lee.”
Julio was a hardworking family man. For that reason, Callaway had left the Charger at the shop until he had enough money to take the car back. Plus, after Callaway had dropped off the Charger for repairs, Julio had lent him an older model Chevy Impala so he would have a mode of transportation. Julio didn’t have to do that, but he did. Callaway had nothing but the utmost respect for him.
He leaned closer to the Charger and whispered, “I’ll be back for you, darling.”
He left the garage.
NINE
Fisher went back inside the house. She found a woman in a white lab coat leaning over the body.
Andrea Wakefield was petite with short, cropped hair, and she wore round prescription glasses. Her eyes were intently focused on the victim’s face as she recorded and stored all pertinent information in the back of her mind.
Fisher noticed that the medical examiner was smiling. Fisher had rarely seen Wakefield smile before.
Fisher felt almost guilty for intruding on her moment of bliss. She slowly asked, “Did you find anything interesting?”
Wakefield coughed as if she had been caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar. “I… um… I was admiring the victim’s skeletal structure.”
Fisher blinked. “Skeletal structure?”
Wakefield blushed. “I meant to say the victim is still striking.”
Fisher wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or something more morbid. The medical examiner spent most of her waking hours with cadavers. Fisher’s partner, Holt, always believed Wakefield had more affinity for the dead than the living.
“You’re a fan?” Fisher asked.
Wakefield nodded. “When I saw him in Romeo and Juliet, I was smitten.”
Fisher was surprised. There wasn’t a lot she knew about Wakefield, even though she had worked with the woman on numerous murder investigations.
The relationship between detectives and the medical examiner was built on trust. Without the medical examiner’s findings, the detectives had no case. The medical examiner was also called to testify in court, and the M.E.’s statements and the detectives’ statements could not be divergent, or else a savvy defense lawyer would tear their opinions to shreds.
Fisher believed they now had something in common: they both admired Dillon Scott. “Did you have a poster of him on your bedroom wall as well?” Fisher asked.
Wakefield shook her head. “No, but I watched Romeo and Juliet thirty-four times.”
That’s an odd number, Fisher thought. “Why thirty-four?”
“Well, during the thirty-fifth viewing, the DVD player stopped working. I might have watched the movie over a dozen times in a twenty-four-hour period.” She paused for a moment. “I had just come out of a long-term relationship, and I found the movie soothing, even though the lead characters met a tragic end.”
Wakefield had a boyfriend? Fisher thought. I had no idea she even dated.
Wakefield turned back to the body and said, “I don’t see any signs of a struggle. The fingernails are clean, and there is no visible bruising anywhere on the face, neck, or arms.”
Fisher knew those areas of the body were more prone to attack. “Is the cause of death from falling on the coffee table?”
Wakefield leaned closer to Scott. With gloved hands, she turned his head to one side. “As you can see, there are shards of glass in the victim’s hair, which would indicate he fell on the table and broke it, but I don’t think he died from the impact.” She moved her fingers around the top of the head and then parted the hair to reveal a visible gash on the dome of the skull. “Without a thorough examination, I can only give you my perfunctory opinion.”
“Understood.”
“It looks like the victim died from blunt force trauma. His attacker hit him on the head. He then fell on top of the coffee table and rolled onto the floor.”
Fisher thought that made sense. “Did you notice anything else?”
“There is a stain on the carpet,” Wakefield replied.
“I noticed that too,” Fisher said. “I think the attacker cleaned the carpet with bleach. In fact, the entire crime scene looks like it has been restaged.”
“No, not that stain… that one,” Wakefield said, pointing at the foot of the sofa. There was a deep red splash on the white material.
How could I have missed it before? Fisher thought.
“Is that blood?” she asked
“I don’t think so,” Wakefield replied. “There doesn’t appear to be any indication of much blood from the head wound. Also, I have a similar type of rug at home, and I’ve been clumsy a few times as well.”
“So, what is it?”
“Red wine.”
Fisher’s eyes narrowed. “You believe the victim may have been drinking when he was attacked?”
“Yes.”
Fisher had not seen a glass on the floor when she surveyed the crime scene. She spotted a small table in the corner. She walked over. The table held several bottles of liquor, but no wine bottles or glasses.
The only logical explanation was that the attacker must have removed them.
TEN
Fisher decided to take a quick tour of the house. The crime scene unit would conduct a thorough examination by taking photographs of the scene, dusting for fingerprints on all locks and doors, and making sure all crucial evidence was tagged and sent for further analysis.
Fisher’s review was cursory. She just wanted to get a better idea of what might have transpired when the victim was murdered. She had a vague theory formulating in her mind. With Holt, she could toss ideas back and forth, trying to see if her theory was valid, but now that he was miles away, she had to figure things out by herself.
She knew Dillon Scott was not home alone the night before. He was having a get-together with someone over drinks. Perhaps during their get-together, they had a disagreement about something, and the other person hit him with a heavy object.
Fisher was certain the murder weapon was not in the house. If the attacker had cleaned up the crime scene, he or she would have definitely taken the weapon with them. The attacker would have been downright careless not to.
Even so, Fisher had to be certain.
She checked the kitchen. The fridge was stocked with bottled water and nothing else. She opened the lid of the garbage bin and found a Styrofoam box stuffed inside. She pried the box open and found a half-eaten sandwich, most likely from the day before.
She made her way upstairs. There were three bedrooms—two with beds and dressers, and one with a table and chair for an office. The first bedroom did not look like it had been touched. The master bedroom, however, had several pieces of luggage on the floor, and the bed sheets were in disarray.
A small blue case was on the nightstand next to the bed. She gently unzipped the case and found an insulin injection inside.
I didn’t know Dillon Scott had diabetes, she thought. That explains the bottles of water in the fridge.
In diabetics, excess sugar builds up in the blood stream, forcing the kidneys to work overtime to filter and absorb the sugar. Diabetics drink plenty of water to ensure the kidneys flush out excess sugar. The fact that the disease is so common these days explains why no celebrity media outlets reported Scott’s condition.
She spotted a folder on the bed. She picked the folder up and discovered it contained a movie script.
“Memories of a Killer,” she read out loud. “A psychological thriller about an investigator in pursuit of a killer who may not remember he committed the crimes.”
Fisher had stopped watching murder mysteries the moment she became a detective. Her work was already filled with dark and disturbing realities. She did not need to be reminded of them when she got home. She much preferred watching romantic comedies. Lately, though, she had found herself immersed in sci-fi and fantasy. There was something relaxing about watching people fight aliens or dragons. However, the script’s premise sounded interesting. She would have loved to see what Scott did with the material, but now she would never get to.
Only one piece of luggage was open. Scott had arrived two days earlier, which explained why he did not have time to unpack.
She took one look around the bedroom and left.
As she made her way downstairs, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something.
When she reached the main floor, she remembered what was missing.
Scott’s cell phone!
She had not found the phone on his person, nor was it anywhere else in the house. The driver had clearly stated that Scott kept staring at his cell phone throughout the ride to the house.
Could Scott have been messaging his attacker?
Did the attacker take the phone when he or she cleaned up the crime scene?
Fisher was not a hundred percent sure, but her gut instinct was telling her that was why Scott’s phone was nowhere to be seen.
ELEVEN
The Chevy Impala was a nineties model with over three hundred thousand miles on the odometer. The exterior was covered in rust spots and had a few dents. The interior was brown and ugly, and there were tears in the seat fabric. Even with all the imperfections, Callaway had come to enjoy driving the vehicle. Julio’s loaner was reliable.
He would miss the Impala when he got his Charger back.
He pulled into a parking spot outside a restaurant. He found Joely behind the counter, serving a customer a plate full of eggs, toast, and bacon.
The Lee Callaway Boxed Set Page 48
