The Lee Callaway Boxed Set

by Thomas Fincham

  At his destination, Scott paid with cash, and the driver handed him a receipt. Scott stuck it in his jacket pocket and got out of the cab.

  Fisher looked around the busy intersection. She saw a bar, a fish-and-chips shop, a cell phone store, and many other businesses. Yonge Avenue was like any other downtown street in America.

  She could not understand why Scott would go through all that trouble to come here.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Callaway and Jimmy found a booth in the corner of the bar. Callaway ordered a beer, and Jimmy had whiskey.

  “You’re beaming like a little school girl,” Jimmy said, taking a sip from his drink. Callaway could still not believe the great Jimmy Keith was in Milton.

  “I’m so happy to see you, Jimmy,” Callaway replied.

  “I haven’t seen you in… what? Three years?”

  “Five years.”

  Jimmy’s eyebrows shot up. “That long, huh?”

  “I called you many times, but I got no answer,” Callaway said.

  “You did? Well, you should have left a message.”

  “I left one each time.”

  “Oh, right, sure.” Jimmy shrugged. “You know how it is in our line of work. We go where the job is.”

  The truth was that Jimmy was not the type to stick with a relationship for too long. His motto was I’m here for a good time, not a long time. When Callaway called him, he never expected Jimmy to reply. Callaway did it because he wanted to see if the old man had changed. He had not.

  Jimmy was one of the best, if not the best, private investigators Callaway had ever met. The man was possessed when he was working on a case. Nothing else mattered. Not family, not friends, not anyone or anything.

  He had never been married, but he fathered a child with a woman he had met only briefly. He never spoke about the son or daughter—Callaway wasn’t sure which one it was—and Callaway never pushed him on it either. It was none of his business.

  Jimmy was a hard-drinking, hard-living kind of man. He could drink anyone under the table and not get drunk. He had been with countless women, and he had tried every imaginable drug out there. If there was an example of a man squeezing every inch out of life, it was Jimmy.

  The lifestyle eventually caught up with him. Jimmy rarely had any money in his pockets, and the last Callaway heard was that he had suffered a heart attack. Callaway tried to get in touch with him at the time, but it seemed like Jimmy was avoiding him. Callaway didn’t blame him. Jimmy was a proud man. He didn’t want Callaway to see him in a hospital bed, hooked up to tubes and machines.

  Jimmy owned a rental property and a cabin boat. Whenever work dried up, he would rent out the main floor of the property and live in the basement. When things got even worse, he would rent out the entire house and live on the boat.

  Jimmy was a fighter and a survivor. If he found himself in a hole, he would find a way out of it.

  Callaway had taken a page out of Jimmy’s handbook. He was always broke. He had also been with multiple women, and he always found himself in trouble. But unlike Jimmy, who had his rental property and boat, Callaway had no assets to his name.

  But when it came to gambling, both men thought they were one opportunity away from hitting the jackpot.

  Jimmy took another sip and laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Callaway asked.

  “I just remembered the time when that husband chased me out of his house with a chainsaw.”

  “You did sleep with his wife, so what did you expect him to do? Buy you a drink?”

  “True, true, but the husband was a good runner. I was in my shorts and had no shoes on when I bolted out of there. Had you not shown up in the Charger, I would have been chopped up like firewood.”

  Callaway chuckled. “I had never seen a man with a beer belly jump through a window and into the passenger seat like you did.”

  “I was running for my life, kid. I would have jumped on a moving train to save my butt.”

  They both laughed hard.

  “How’s Nina?” Jimmy asked next.

  “She’s growing up fast.”

  “Do you see her often?”

  “Not as often as I would like to,” Callaway replied somberly.

  They were silent for a moment, then Callaway said, “Who needs family anyway? They’re only there to weigh you down. Isn’t that what you used to say?”

  “I did, but…”

  “So, what’re you doing in Milton?” Callaway asked.

  “I’ll tell you, but first you tell me what’s bothering you.”

  Callaway shrugged. “Who said anything’s bothering me?”

  “You were all jumpy when I showed up at your office. If I had not announced myself, I might have caught a bullet through the door.”

  “I wasn’t going to shoot,” Callaway said.

  “Okay, sure, but I can always tell when something’s on your mind.”

  Callaway spent five minutes telling Jimmy about the Frank Henderson situation.

  “You took on a case for only five hundred bucks?” Jimmy asked.

  “I’m kind of desperate. I need the money.”

  “Don’t we all,” Jimmy said wistfully.

  Callaway nodded and stared at his empty bottle.

  “Okay, kid,” Jimmy said. “I’ll help you.”

  Callaway looked up, surprised. “You will?”

  Jimmy smiled. “Sure. It’ll be like the good old days. Just the two of us against the world.”

  Callaway liked the sound of that.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Becky opened the door and found the house smelling of food. Her mom was usually not home at this time of day, so she was surprised when she saw her in front of the stove.

  “What’re you doing?” Becky asked.

  “I thought I’d make my baby her favorite meal.”

  “Okay,” Becky said, still not believing what was going on. Ever since her dad died, her mom had been working around the clock. Becky had gotten used to eating out or putting together a meal of her own.

  When she looked back on the past year, before her dad’s accident, Becky lived a sheltered life. She had parents who doted on her. They had each other to lean on, and this helped them protect their only child. Now that one of them was gone, the other was barely holding on by a thread.

  Becky had a lot of growing up to do the moment her dad was gone. She had to be the anchor for her mom.

  Her parents had met on a train. He used to take the train each morning when he was apprenticing as a woodworker. She took the train as a student on her way to earning a diploma in sociology. The woodworking never took off, so her dad got into construction. The sociology diploma never opened many doors for her mom, so she took any job available. But during the time when they were each building toward a career, they saw each other regularly on the same platform.

  Becky’s dad dropped out of school at a very young age to help his mother pay the bills, which meant he never got a formal education. When he saw Becky’s mom waiting for the train, clutching a textbook in her hand, he was instantly attracted to her. When he approached her, he was shaking. He said something incoherent and then quickly walked away, feeling ashamed. She found his awkward approach charming, and the next time they were at the same platform, she approached him. She saw a man who was big and strong but also had kind eyes and an easy smile.

  They got married soon after, and they had a little girl. They wanted more children, but Becky was born after several miscarriages. In fact, the pregnancy was fraught with so many health issues that Becky’s birth was a miracle.

  Her parents had created a beautiful and happy life, until it all came crashing down one terrible day. Becky was in class when the school principal called her to his office. What he told her pulled the ground from underneath her. She thought it was a cruel prank, but the look on the principal’s face told her it was not.

  Becky knew things would never be the same from that day on.

  “What’re you cooking?”
Becky asked.

  “Cheese and spinach lasagna,” her mom replied. She cut a piece and placed it on a plate. “I know it doesn’t compare to how your dad used to make it, but I gave it my best shot.” Her mom was eager to know what she thought.

  Becky took a bite. The lasagna was moist and full of flavor. “It’s perfect, Mom.”

  Her mom smiled. “That’s a relief. You don’t know how long I’ve been trying to get it just right.”

  She went to the stove to fill her own plate.

  Becky took another mouthful and said, “So what are you really doing home so early?”

  “There was a water issue in our building. It wasn’t safe, so they let us go home.”

  “With pay?” Becky asked.

  “No, unfortunately. I’m just an hourly worker, so it’s without pay.”

  There was silence between them. Becky knew they were struggling financially. Any time her mom didn’t work, they would fall behind on the bills.

  “Mom?” Becky said.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “I miss dad.”

  Her mom stared at her and she began to shake.

  Becky went over and hugged her. Her mom held her tight.

  “I know, baby,” she said. I miss your dad too.”

  They both cried at losing someone who meant the world to them.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Osman was on the phone as he hurried down the street. He had called all his contacts, and after two hours, someone had the information he was looking for.

  The crack house was above a tattoo parlor. To get to it, you had to go through a narrow alley next to the parlor, turn right, and then go up a flight of stairs. Osman would have never known the house existed had his contact not told him.

  He raced down the street, found the tattoo parlor, and then proceeded to find his way to the crack house. He grimaced as he tiptoed over syringes and drug paraphernalia. This was another reason he could not wait to leave the business behind.

  He sold drugs to just about everyone, but he disliked seeing them as they jacked up. He feared getting poked by one of the contaminated needles. He didn’t believe you had to try your product in order to sell it. This was not some car, computer, or kitchen appliance he was promoting. This stuff already had an established market. The buyers wanted to get their hands on his products as soon as they could.

  In his experience, it was not the addicts who made good customers, it was the casual or recreational users. The addicts were certainly repeat customers, but they were usually without money. They would beg, steal, and sell themselves to raise the cash needed to satisfy their addiction, but their money was only enough for that one hit. Afterwards, they were back on the streets hustling to get more money.

  The casual or recreational users didn’t know what the drugs went for on the open market. They never haggled with him, and they always paid what was charged. They also came from a variety of backgrounds. Osman sold drugs to executives, lawyers, and even politicians. Once they had their drugs, they couldn’t wait to get far away from him. They didn’t want anyone to see them associating with a drug dealer.

  Osman was not offended. He never liked these people to begin with. They thought they were so high and mighty, but in reality, they were weak and pathetic. They thought the drugs gave them super abilities in order to function at a high level, but their addiction made them dependent on the drugs instead.

  Osman was able to resist the siren call of drugs, which made him far tougher than all those people combined, even if they never realized it.

  He made his way up the stairs and to a weather-beaten door. With his gloved hand, he turned the handle, and as he expected, the door was locked.

  He banged his fist on the door and waited.

  The door opened an inch a minute later. A young man with shaggy hair and glassy eyes said, “Can I help you?”

  Osman shoved the man back and entered the crack house. The man tried to protest, but he didn’t put up much of a fight.

  The interior was dark. Heavy curtains were placed over the windows. The only source of light was from the yellow lamp in the corner.

  As he moved from room to room, he saw garbage and debris everywhere. There were mattresses and worn-out cushions on the floor. People were lying on them with needles sticking out of their arms and legs. Their eyes told him they were in a place far, far away.

  He scanned their faces until he saw who he was looking for. She was on the floor next to the bathtub. The bathroom was grimy, and the putrid smell made him cover his nose. He fought his gag reflex as he stood in the confined space.

  Tamara Davis was wearing tattered clothes and dirty shoes. Her hair was coarse, looking like it had not been washed in months. Her nails were long and yellow.

  As he stared at her, he could feel anger rise up in him. “Tamara, what the hell you doing here?”

  She turned her head in his direction. Her eyes were distant, but a smile broke across her face, revealing stained and chipped teeth. “Hey Osman, whatch you doin’ here?” she asked.

  “I’ve been searching the entire city for you,” he replied.

  “I was right here the whole time,” she said.

  He could tell she was high. “What’s wrong with you?” he growled. “I give you money, and the first thing you do is get all jacked up.”

  “A girl gotta have some fun, right?”

  “I should have left you where I found you.”

  She was still smiling when she said, “If you did that, then how would you have gotten all that money, huh?”

  “Shut your mouth!” he said, raising his voice. He looked around. There was no one else in the bathroom.

  She was not deterred. “I am your ATM. Isn’t that what you said? You have to be nice to me, or else I will go to the police and tell them I didn’t really see Dillon Scott that night. I really saw—”

  “Shut your trap,” he snapped. “Someone could hear you.”

  She put her finger to her lips. “Shhhhh… I won’t tell no one. Your secret is safe with me.”

  She burst out laughing.

  He balled his fists. He wanted to make her stop laughing, but instead he walked out of the bathroom and left the crack house.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Jimmy eyed the Impala’s interior and frowned. “What happened to the Charger?”

  Callaway was behind the wheel. He let out a long sigh and told him.

  Jimmy shook his head. “Kid, you never put something irreplaceable at risk.” Jimmy was fully aware of how much the car meant to Callaway. He had many opportunities to sell or lose the car, but he always managed to hold on to it. The Charger was the one constant thing in his otherwise unstable life.

  They pulled up to a house.

  Jimmy said, “You sure it’s the right place?”

  It was a detached two-story with a long driveway and a double garage. “It’s the right address. And take a look.” Callaway pointed to a cargo van parked by the front of the house. “It’s the same van that pulled up next to Frank’s eighteen-wheeler.”

  Callaway had snapped a photo of the van’s license plate number. Once he had that, it was easy to locate the van’s owner.

  “It’s registered to a Boban Milodovic,” Callaway said.

  Jimmy stuck his hand in his coat pocket and pulled out a shiny police badge. Prior to getting into the PI business, Jimmy worked for the Miami Police Department. Jimmy had pissed off his superiors so much that they made his life so difficult, he was forced to quit.

  “They let you keep it?” Callaway asked, surprised.

  “Of course not. I know a guy who can make exact replicas. He’s so good he can get you a passport that will fool any Transport Security Officer. Now let’s go and talk to this guy.”

  They got out and approached the house. Callaway knocked on the door and waited. A minute later, a tall, skinny man answered. His head was shaved, and he had tattoos going up his arms.

  “Who are you?” the man asked with a scowl.

&nbs
p; Jimmy said, “Boban Milodovic?”

  “I don’t know that name,” he shot back.

  Jimmy held up his badge. “Lying to a police officer is against the law.”

  The moment Boban saw the badge, his bravado evaporated. “Hey man, I was just playing. What can I do for you, officer?”

  Jimmy turned to Callaway. He pulled out a photo and held it for Boban. “Do you mind explaining what’s going on here?”

  Boban grimaced. “Oh man,” he said.

  “Are you selling narcotics or illegal drugs?” Callaway asked.

  Boban waved his hands. “No, no, no. It’s nothing like that. I’m a wholesaler.”

  Callaway was confused. “Wholesaler?”

  “Yeah, let me show you.”

  He opened the garage door. Inside were boxes upon boxes of goods. Callaway and Jimmy spotted a TV in the corner, stereo systems, DVD players, jackets, shoes, even razor blades and deodorants.

  Boban said, “People sell me stuff, and I then resell it to small businesses.”

  “They sell you stolen goods, don’t they?” Callaway said.

  Boban shrugged. “I don’t ask them where they get it from.”

  “So you were meeting Frank Henderson to buy goods?” Callaway asked.

  “I don’t know who that is, but my contact told me to go meet the guy with the truck. I take my cousin with me to help me load the stuff in my van.”

  “Who’s your contact?”

  “A lady.”

  “Is her name Sandra Ledford?”

  “I don’t know her last name, but she told me to call her Sandra.”

  Callaway turned to Jimmy. “It’s the woman with Frank.”

  Jimmy nodded. He turned to Boban and said, “Boban, tell us everything you know, and we may consider not charging you with profiting from stolen property.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  Fisher hung up the phone and shook her head. Holt was on the other end. He was going insane listening to all the speeches at the law enforcement conference in Vegas. It was supposed to have been a retreat for him, but all he did was complain about how bored he was. Nancy was having a great time. While he was at the conference, she was spending her day at the spa or shopping. They would go to dinner in the evening, and they had even caught a few musicals. Seeing Nancy happy made the conference tolerable for him, or else he would have been on the next available flight back to Milton.