TWENTY
Leslie Tillman was hysterical when Fisher met her at her hotel room not far from the movie studio. Tillman was originally from Texas. She moved to Los Angeles when she turned eighteen. She landed a few commercials and then found her way into minor parts on television.
The lead in Memories of a Killer was her big role. She was twenty-two with flawless skin—which made Fisher a little envious—perfect teeth, and eyes that could emote a variety of feelings. In short, she was made for the big screen.
She sat on a chair with her legs crossed. She wiped her eyes and said, “I’m sorry, but this came as a shock.”
“I understand,” Fisher said.
“I mean, he was alive yesterday, and today…” She covered her face with her hands and began to cry even more.
Fisher gave Tillman a moment to grieve.
“Were you a fan of Mr. Scott?” Fisher asked, hoping the question might distract her.
Tillman nodded. “I saw all his movies.”
“And what did you think of his take on Romeo and Juliet?”
She shrugged. “It was okay, I guess. I mean, he was still learning his craft, you know?”
Sure, Fisher thought. You’re too young to appreciate a classic like that.
“I understand you got to spend a couple of days with him?” Fisher asked.
“I did,” Tillman replied, “and even in that short time, I learned a lot from him.”
“Like what?”
“How to deliver your lines the right way. How to move around a camera. How to interact in a scene. I mean, I’ve taken acting classes, but when you get a chance to work with someone like Dillon, you don’t want to mess it up.”
“I heard from your director that he took you under his wing.”
“He was so gentle with me. He knew this was my first lead, and he told me he would not let me fail. I can’t believe I won’t get to work with him.”
Before Tillman could break down in tears, Fisher said, “What was it like working with him yesterday?”
“You mean during the rehearsals?”
“Yes.”
Tillman thought for a moment. “He was full of ideas and bursting with energy. He even asked me if I wanted to join him at his home later that night to go over the script.”
“And did you?” Fisher asked almost too quickly.
Tillman’s eyes moistened. “I was so excited and overwhelmed by the role that at the end of the day, I had a severe migraine, which I occasionally get, and so I had to say no to him.” She shook her head. “I now have to live with the knowledge that I turned down Dillon Scott. How stupid could I be?”
Fisher knew she was being overly dramatic, but she was an actress, so it was understandable. “Is it normal for an actor to ask another actor to come to their home late at night, especially one who is married?” Fisher asked.
“Sure, I guess,” Tillman replied. “I mean, it’s a big part, and I also play his love interest, so our chemistry has to be just right for it to be believable on the screen.”
“I thought he played a serial killer who attacks you in the film?” Fisher asked.
“You know about that?” Tillman asked, surprised.
“The director told me.”
“Okay, yes, he does, but I don’t fall in love with him as a killer, I fall in love with him as the investigator.”
Now I really wish this movie had been made, Fisher thought.
There was a pause before Fisher said, “Is there anything you can tell me that might help me find out what happened to Mr. Scott?”
Tillman thought for a moment. “Dillon kept looking at his cell phone all day. He would even stop in the middle of a scene to check it.”
That’s what the limo driver said too, Fisher thought. But that is nothing significant. Scott was famous. He must have had people reach out to him all the time.
Fisher stood up to leave, but a thought occurred to her. “What time did Mr. Scott ask you to meet him at his home?”
“What time?” Tillman asked, confused.
“You said he asked you to meet him later that night.”
“Oh, yes, he asked me what I was doing around nine.”
“And your rehearsal ended at six, is that correct?”
“It did.”
Fisher’s eyes narrowed. If the rehearsals ended at six, and Scott asked Tillman to meet at nine, there was still a gap of three hours that was unaccounted for.
TWENTY-ONE
Callaway tailed Frank Henderson as he made deliveries to the company’s retail stores in the city. Frank would pull up to the back of the stores, wait for the store’s employees to unload the goods, then head to the next location.
Once he was done, Frank returned to the company’s distribution center, and after parking the eighteen-wheeler, he got in his pickup truck. He then sat there for twenty minutes.
Callaway was across the street, watching Frank.
What are you waiting for? Callaway thought.
A woman emerged from one of the doors in the back of the building. Her blonde hair was tied in a bun. She had on a jacket, a skirt that went down to her knees, and ankle-high boots with heels. She shoved her hand in her purse and pulled out a cigarette and lighter. She lit the cigarette and took a long drag. She blew thick smoke and then walked across the back lot to the pickup truck. The woman didn’t look like she was in any hurry.
She got in the pickup’s passenger seat.
Without saying a word, Frank started the pickup and eased out of the parking lot. After they drove past the Impala, Callaway put the car in gear and followed them.
The pickup turned left, then right, and then it got onto the main highway. The truck roared down the lane at speeds well above the limit. Callaway pressed down hard on the accelerator. The Impala jerked once as it fought to go faster. Julio had assured Callaway the Impala had been serviced and that the engine was in good condition. So far, the Impala had not disappointed him. The car gradually began to gain speed, to the point where Callaway could keep pace with the pickup.
After a couple of miles, the pickup got off at the next exit. Callaway quickly did the same.
Henderson and the woman drove for another ten minutes, weaving through smaller streets until they pulled into the driveway of a two-story house and stopped behind a station wagon.
Frank and the woman got out. Callaway pulled out his camera and snapped photos of them as they walked up to the house and disappeared through the front door.
Betty Henderson was right, Callaway thought. Her husband was spending time with another woman.
Almost an hour later, Frank came out of the house. His face was drawn as he made his way to the pickup. He got behind the wheel and pulled out of the driveway.
The drive back to his house was close to thirty-five minutes. Callaway did not let him out of his sight once. Only when Frank was inside his home did Callaway decide to discontinue the tail. There was nothing more to be gained. He had concrete proof Frank was cheating on his wife.
Now came the hard part. He had to somehow convince Frank to give up his affair.
TWENTY-TWO
Becky was curled up on the sofa. A movie was playing on the TV. She had spent the day avoiding reading, watching, or listening to the news. She didn’t want to know what was happening in the city.
Her mom was still at work. She used to work as a payroll administrator for a large packaging company, but after the company was bought by a rival, she was let go. The rival company already had an in-house payroll administrator.
She was now a full-time receptionist for a food processing company, and on the weekends, she worked as a cashier at a grocery store. Becky knew how hard her mom was working just to put a roof over their heads.
Things were not always like this. When her father was still alive, they were a happy family. Her father worked for a small construction company, and one day he was drilling a hole next to a concrete wall when the wall collapsed on him. He died on the spot.
The construction company refused to pay compensation. Her father was taking medical marijuana for an old back injury, and he had neglected to inform his employer. They took this as an opportunity not to pay his family. They argued the marijuana had impaired his judgment.
Her mom thought about hiring a lawyer, but no one wanted to take the case. They knew even if they won, the possibility of actually recouping the money would be very low. The construction company owners would declare bankruptcy or shut down the business just to avoid paying. Then they would reopen under another name and continue operation.
The lawyers could file a personal lawsuit against the individual owners, but the owners were clever not to keep any assets under their name. The chance of getting money out of them would turn into a long, drawn-out process.
There was also the option of a settlement, but that only worked if the construction company agreed they had done something wrong, which they had refused to do. They stuck to their conclusion that it was human error that caused the death.
What weakened their case even more was that OSHA, or the Occupational Safety and Health Administration, could not find anything to indicate the company was at fault.
Becky knew her dad would have never put his safety at risk if he believed the medication was affecting his ability to work. There were many days he would not go into work if he was not a hundred percent well.
Right after her dad died, her mom lost her payroll job. Her mom’s positivity and resilience was what kept them from falling apart.
Then there was someone who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. He had become her guardian angel. He had assured Becky that he would take care of her, and she believed him.
Everything was getting better, but then it abruptly fell apart.
Becky wanted to cry again, but she had no more tears left. Her eyes were dry and itchy. She had already gone through a full box of tissues.
She checked her cell phone for the umpteenth time. There were messages from her friends. They asked how she was feeling. She finally told them she was sick. One friend offered to come to her house to give her company. Becky refused, claiming she wasn’t sure what she had and that it could be contagious.
Becky was not suffering from anything except the fear that at any moment, someone would knock at the door and take her away.
TWENTY-THREE
The morgue was in an old government building that had not been renovated in years. The building’s exterior façade was cold and ominous. The interior was no better. The walls were painted in dark colors, and the floor tiles had turned an ugly shade of yellow. Fluorescent light bulbs flickered in the hallways, sending a threatening vibe to anyone who passed under them.
Fisher stood next to Rachel Scott. She had flown from Bayview to see her dead husband. She was dressed all in black—black coat, black heels, even her nails and lips were painted black. It was as if she came prepared to look the part of a grieving widow.
Fisher couldn’t blame her. The press had gathered outside the morgue. They wanted a photo of the Mrs. Dillon Scott. After years of being married to a star, she knew what a perfect photo op could mean.
Her skin was without a blemish or wrinkle, almost too smooth for a woman her age. According to the newspapers, she was five years younger than Scott, which would make her forty. But even with all the Botox, Fisher could see dark circles around her eyes. She had been crying prior to arriving at the morgue. The stress of losing a loved one was hitting her hard.
Scott’s body lay on a gurney in the cold room, covered in a green sheet. Wakefield stood on the other side of the gurney. As the medical examiner, she was preparing for the autopsy, but she could not proceed until the victim’s next of kin performed the standard procedure of formally identifying the victim.
Rachel Scott shivered. Fisher placed her hand on her arm. “Are you okay?” Fisher asked, concerned.
Rachel bit her bottom lip and nodded. “Please show me.”
Wakefield pulled the sheet back to reveal the face. It was gray and frozen. Even in death, Scott had left a beautiful corpse.
Rachel put a hand over her mouth. “It’s him.”
“Can you say it for the record?” Fisher said.
“It’s my husband, Dillon Jeffrey Scott.”
Wakefield would note Rachel’s identification in her report.
“How did he die?” Rachel asked.
“We believe it was from being hit on the head with a heavy object,” Fisher replied.
Rachel was confused. “A heavy object?”
“There was a bookend in the house, and we believe it may have been used to hurt him.”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“We are in the early stages of our investigation. We will let you know once we make any progress.”
Rachel nodded.
Wakefield covered the body.
Fisher and Rachel moved into the hall.
“I know this must be a difficult time for you,” Fisher said, “but do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Okay, I guess,” Rachel replied.
“When was the last time you spoke to your husband?”
“Yesterday.”
“Around what time?”
Rachel thought for a moment. “I think around six.”
“Did he tell you what he was doing?” Fisher asked.
“We spoke briefly. He said he was leaving rehearsals and heading home.”
“Was he meeting someone later that night, do you know?”
Rachel shook her head. “He never mentioned anything to me.” She paused. “You have to understand, Dillon was a star and he relished being one. It gave him a free card to do whatever he wanted. This meant he didn’t seek my permission to do something, even though I was his wife. I knew this before I married him, so I couldn’t hold it against him. I’m used to him keeping me in the dark because he’s always been away, shooting one movie after another.” She sighed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be complaining. My husband is dead, and my children are without a father, but the man who was at home was not the man who was on the big screen.”
“Can you elaborate?” Fisher asked, “I just want to know who could have done this to him.”
“Being married to an actor is not easy. I mean, the money is good, and sometimes even the fame is too, but you are constantly in the public eye, and that can be difficult for a marriage.”
“You and Mr. Scott were having marital problems?” Fisher asked.
“We had our disagreements. What married couple doesn’t?” Rachel replied. “What I’m trying to say is that even if Dillon was somewhere last night, he would not bother to tell me.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Callaway took the stairs to the hotel’s third floor. After constantly moving from one place to another, he had booked a room for a month. Nothing permanent, but it was much cheaper than renting an apartment. He didn’t have to provide first and last month’s rent or sign a long-term lease, and with landlords becoming more cautious, he didn’t have to give them access to his credit report. If he did, it would show him as a delinquent, which would not impress a potential landlord. Also, if he fell behind in his payments, he didn’t have to worry about being evicted. He would put all his stuff in his one suitcase and go someplace else.
The hotel was not a five-star, it was more like a two-star. He wasn’t sure why they didn’t just call it a motel.
What‘s the difference between the two? he wondered.
He wasn’t complaining, though. The monthly rate was far more affordable than most places in the city. His room had hot water, functioning plumbing, and the heating worked.
He once stayed in a basement apartment where the water was ice cold, the toilet didn’t flush all the way, and there was a strong draft coming through the windows, which were not properly insulated. The apartment was tolerable for a couple of days, until his toes started to tingle and go numb from the near negative temperature. He packed up and left that very night, forgoing the remainder of th
e month’s rent.
The landlord was a cranky old man who thought he was doing Callaway a favor for even renting his luxurious suite to him. Callaway had very little money, and the rent was very little as well, so he did not see a point in arguing with the old man for not providing the basic necessities.
The hotel room had a few cockroaches and other multi-legged critters, but no rats, thank goodness. If he saw even one, he would haul his butt out of there in no time. Rodents gave him the shivers.
He entered the cramped room. There was a bed on the right with a futon next to it. A TV sat across from the futon. He grabbed the remote and turned the TV on. Like the one in his office, it was set to a twenty-four-hour news channel. He pulled off his jacket and dropped it on the bed.
The room had a small bathroom but no kitchen. Callaway always ate out, so a kitchen would have served no purpose. The room came with a tiny microwave, which was useful for reheating leftovers.
Callaway had managed to squeeze in a minifridge he had found lying on the sidewalk. He had carried the fridge up to his room—something he later regretted doing because he was in terrible shape—but when he plugged the fridge in, to his surprise, the thing worked. He had stuffed it with cold drinks and microwave dinners.
He pulled out a bottle from the fridge and sat up on the bed. The reporters on TV were still talking about Dillon Scott’s murder. It was not every day a movie star was murdered in the city. But Callaway’s mind was not on Scott’s murder. It was on Frank Henderson.
Callaway took a sip from the bottle and wondered how he was going to confront Frank the next day. It was not going to be pleasant, but it was something he could not avoid forever.
TWENTY-FIVE
The apartment building was in dire need of repairs. The lobby had not had a facelift in years. Not all the elevators were operational at the same time. The heat and cooling systems were known to stop working during the cold and hot months, respectively. The fire alarms were likely not up to code, and the hot water sometimes shut off at the most inopportune times.
The Lee Callaway Boxed Set Page 51
