Holt adored his wife, and he was devoted to her. They had endured a lot as a couple.
Tragedy can tear a couple apart, but in their case, tragedy made their relationship much stronger.
They were an odd couple. Holt was tough and gruff, and Nancy was tiny and pleasant. What they each lacked, the other made up for. They complemented each other like no one Fisher had seen before.
Holt wanted details on the Dillon Scott case. He had a TV and internet in his hotel suite, so he was following the murder case with great interest. Did she have a suspect in sight? Had she found a motive? Was the department pressuring her to solve the case quickly?
After making some excuse, she finally had to end the call. She didn’t want him getting too involved at this stage of the investigation. He would turn into an armchair detective and call her every hour for an update.
If she didn’t solve the case by the time he returned, she would fill him in on everything—he was her partner, after all—but until then, she was on her own.
She turned her attention back to a piece of paper on her desk. Prior to Holt’s telephone call, she was studying Dillon Scott’s phone logs.
Unfortunately, they were of no use to her.
Scott had made several calls on the day he died. One was to his wife, another to his agent, and a couple were to a prepaid number that was not registered to anyone. Fisher had considered trying to trace that number, but she doubted it would be much help. The Milton PD did not have access to the same technology that perhaps the National Security Agency or the Department of Homeland Security might have. They couldn’t pinpoint a target’s exact location or listen in on their conversations. The most the Milton PD could do was triangulate which cell tower the signal had pinged from. This was unnecessary because she already had an idea of where these calls originated from.
They were made between six thirty and seven thirty PM. The first one was at six forty, a few minutes before the taxi picked Scott up. The last and final call was at seven twenty-two, a few minutes after the taxi driver had dropped Scott off at Yonge Avenue.
This further reinforced Fisher’s belief that Scott had taken the taxi to meet someone and that this person had guided him to where they were supposed to meet. It explained why Scott had constantly checked his phone throughout the day.
But what about the backpack he was seen carrying in the taxi’s CCTV camera? What did he do with that?
Fisher sighed. She almost wished the department had sent her to the conference in Vegas as well. Unlike Holt, she didn’t mind listening to people share their experiences in law enforcement. Their stories might have given her ideas about how to solve Scott’s murder.
FORTY
The station wagon was parked in the driveway. Callaway and Jimmy waited outside while Frank and Ledford went inside the house.
Callaway believed Frank was taking detours during his routine deliveries where people were handing him envelopes of monies for goods they took off his eighteen-wheeler. At the end of the day, he would drive Ledford to her house, where she and her husband would count the money. Once they were satisfied it was all there, Frank would then head home to his wife and children.
Callaway was still not sure how Frank was involved in all of this, but he could tell by his demeanor it was not by choice.
He watched as Frank came out of the house, got in his pickup, and drove off. Callaway turned to Jimmy and said, “Let me handle this.”
“You sure?” Jimmy asked.
“I am,” Callaway replied. If things went south, he did not want Jimmy involved. Plus, he had brought his weapon as backup.
He got out, walked up to the house, and knocked on the front door.
The door swung open and he was face-to-face with Sandra. She was wearing a jacket and skirt, and she reeked of cigarettes.
“Yes?” she said.
“Sandra Wolkoff?” Callaway asked.
She blinked. Callaway knew why. She had not heard anyone call her by that name since she left Michigan as a felon.
“I… don’t… know who…?” she stammered.
“Or do you prefer I call you Sandra Ledford?” Callaway said.
A man appeared behind her. He was tall, skinny, and he had on a sweatshirt and dirty jeans. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“Carl Wolkoff, I presume,” Callaway replied. “Or do you prefer I call you Carl Wibley?”
He froze just like his wife had.
Callaway pulled out his business card, the one that read Gator Peckerwood—a fake name Callaway used whenever he wanted to shield his identity—and held it out. “I’ve been hired by your employer to investigate the theft of their property.”
“Theft?” Carl and Sandra said in unison, trying to act surprised.
“Yes, and my investigation has led me to you both.”
“Us?” Again, they resorted to mock surprise.
Callaway produced photos of Frank with Boban and his cousin. He also produced photos of Frank with Sandra.
“What does this have to do with us?” Sandra asked. “This looks like Frank is responsible for the theft in our company. You should have him arrested.”
“The photos may show that, but Boban Milodovic—” Callaway pointed him out just in case they tried to deny it, “—doesn’t know who Frank Henderson is, but he does know a woman named Sandra. I’m sure if I played a recording of your voice to him, he would confirm you are his contact. I also checked your company’s records. You are the account manager for their shipping department.” Callaway turned to Carl. “I also found out that a Carl Wibley works at the company’s loading dock.”
Carl averted his eyes.
“This is what I think happens,” Callaway said. “You, Sandra, have access to all the goods that are shipped out each day. You alter the invoices by omitting a certain number of items. A box here, a box there, nothing too obvious to raise any red flags, but it can be substantial over the course of a month or a year. Now, Carl here loads all the goods into Frank’s eighteen-wheeler, but he separates the omitted items. Frank delivers those items to your contacts and collects the money, which he hands over to you at the end of his shift. The actual recipients are never aware that they are missing any items because what is on the invoices is what is being delivered to them. If there is anything not on the invoice that they had requested, they would call you, Sandra, and you would tell them the item was out of stock or give them some other excuse, and that you will make sure they get it in the next delivery. Have I understood how it works, or am I completely off base?”
Sandra and Carl stayed silent.
“I also know that a Sandra Wolkoff and a Carl Wolkoff are wanted in Michigan for fraud and theft,” Callaway added. “I’m certain your employer was not aware of this when they hired you both.”
The blood had drained from Sandra’s and Carl’s faces. “What… what do you want?” Carl asked.
“First, tell me what the deal is with Frank Henderson,” Callaway said.
Carl bit his lip and then exhaled. He knew the jig was up. “When we came up with the plan, we knew we could not do it without a driver on our side. We approached a couple of drivers, but we knew right away they were either straight and would rat us out, or they were crooked and would screw us. Sandra happened to talk to Frank and found out his wife had an accident.”
Callaway remembered Betty mentioning her accident.
“Frank was drowning in debt from the medical bills. We decided to help him out.”
“How much?” Callaway asked.
“Close to twelve thousand dollars.”
Callaway grimaced. No wonder Frank looked defeated, Callaway thought. It was a lot of money.
Callaway said, “And now he works for you until his debt is repaid.”
“Yes,” Carl replied.
“It’s repaid as of now,” Callaway said firmly.
“What do you mean?” Sandra shot back.
“I mean, you are done with your operation, and Frank doesn’t owe you a penn
y.” Callaway could see they were not too happy, but he wanted a commitment out of them. “Listen, I have to file a report to your employer regarding my investigation. If you don’t want me to include what I’ve uncovered, then you’ll do what I say. Do you understand?”
Carl looked at his wife and then nodded. “Yes, we understand.”
***
Callaway walked back to the Impala.
“How’d it go?” Jimmy asked.
“They had no choice.”
Jimmy smiled. “That’s what I’m talking about. This calls for a drink.”
“I like the sound of that.”
Callaway started the engine.
They had driven around the block when Jimmy said, “Hold up.”
Callaway braked. “What’s going on?”
“I just remembered I gotta do something first,” Jimmy replied. “Why don’t you go ahead and I’ll meet you later at the bar.”
Callaway frowned. “Are you sure? I’ll drive you if you want.”
“Listen, kid,” Jimmy said, getting out of the Impala, “I don’t need a chaperone, okay?”
Callaway watched as he disappeared from view.
Callaway sighed and drove off.
FORTY-ONE
Fisher was in a brightly lit room inside the Milton Forensic Center. The room was painted white from top to bottom. The lights bounced off the white walls. She had to blink a few times to let her eyes adjust.
Two tables were in the middle of the room. On top of each were dummy heads made from synthetic latex material. Red liquid was splattered all around the heads.
Wakefield stood between the tables. She had on a white lab coat, which was now stained with red. She was also wearing gloves and protective goggles.
“Thank you for coming, Detective Fisher,” Wakefield said. “The victim, Dillon Scott, showed signs of blunt force trauma, likely caused by a heavy object. With your help, we concluded it may have been inflicted using the bookend in the house. This led me to conduct several tests in order to recreate what may have happened. The angle of Mr. Scott’s wound is in the middle of the head.” She pointed to the dummy head on her right. “Mr. Scott is five feet, ten inches in height.” She pressed a button on the side of the table, and the platform rose to the required height. She then held up what looked like a hammer. “I am around five feet, three inches, and when I swung the hammer down onto this head, the splatter of the blood on the wall does not match the trajectory of the blood found at the crime scene.”
Fisher squinted, confused. “There was hardly any blood.”
“Exactly!” Wakefield agreed. “I then conducted a detailed examination of Mr. Scott’s wound. The angle and the depth of the wound makes me conclude that the attacker was not my height.” She pointed to the dummy head on her left. “I raised myself up on a stool, which elevated me up to a height of over six feet. I then conducted the same experiment. Again, the blood splatter was not useful in this test, but the angle and the depth of the wound was a match.” She turned to Fisher. “I am confident Mr. Scott’s attacker was taller than him.”
Fisher mulled this over. “So, we are looking for a man over six feet in height?”
Wakefield frowned. “I’m not certain.”
“But you just said the wound matched up when you elevated yourself.”
“It does, but the wound is not deep enough to have caused Mr. Scott’s demise.”
Fisher blinked. “So it’s not death by blunt force trauma?”
Wakefield shook her head. “The wound is superficial. The force of the impact did not penetrate or crack the cranium. There was no damage whatsoever to the brain or any vital nerves.”
“What are you saying?”
“I am now leaning toward the conclusion that the head wound only rendered Mr. Scott unconscious, but it was not the cause of his death.”
“So what was?”
“At the moment, I’m not sure. By all observations, Mr. Scott looks healthy and in good shape. But I will conduct further testing before I can give you a definitive answer as to the cause of death.”
Fisher could tell Wakefield was perplexed by her findings. Determining how someone died without all the necessary information was like solving a puzzle without all the pieces. Wakefield would not stop until she satisfied both her curiosity and her duty as a medical examiner.
Fisher thought of something. “When I asked if we should be looking for a man over six feet in height, you looked uncertain.”
“A man of that size would have caused more damage,” Wakefield replied.
Fisher’s brow furrowed. “So, should we be looking for a woman instead?”
“I’m not certain of that either, but if you were looking for a woman, it would surely narrow your search.”
She’s right, Fisher thought. There aren’t a large number of women in Milton who are six feet tall.
But until Wakefield gave her more to work with, Fisher was no closer to finding who had killed Dillon Scott.
FORTY-TWO
Callaway was already on his second drink. He was at a bar not far from his office. Next to him was an empty stool and a glass of whiskey for Jimmy on the counter. They were supposed to celebrate the conclusion of a case.
Callaway was confident that Sandra and Carl Wolkoff would honor their agreement. They would stop selling stolen goods, and they would forgive all of Frank’s debts. If they didn’t, Callaway would make a phone call to the police department in Michigan, and another phone call to the department store’s main office. Not only would Sandra and Carl be charged for crimes in their home state, there would be additional charges in Milton as well.
While he was waiting for Jimmy, he had called Betty Henderson. He omitted certain details, like how Frank was selling stolen property. He would leave it to Frank to break that to her. He did tell her Frank was involved in a complicated situation, but that it was all behind him now. He would be back to being a devoted husband and a wonderful father.
The excitement in her voice made all the hard work worth it for him. In his line of work, he mostly chased adulterers, and when he completed the job, the clients were too heartbroken to be grateful for his findings. But every once in a while, he would get a case that had a happy ending.
Betty and Frank seemed like good people. The end of their marriage would have been a tragedy. For the kids, it would have been worse. Callaway was glad he was able to help.
He finished his glass and frowned. He had a feeling Jimmy was not going to show up. The man was known to disappear for days, weeks, months, or years.
He wasn’t even sure what Jimmy was doing in Milton. He had a feeling Jimmy needed money, but so far, he had not asked him for anything. Maybe after he saw his office and the Impala, he realized Callaway was in a worse financial situation than him. On top of that, the job for Betty Henderson only paid five hundred dollars, and most of it was already spent.
Callaway sighed. He was looking forward to spending time with the man who had taught him so much about the profession.
As he ordered another drink, the door opened and Jimmy sauntered in. He had a wide smile on his face. He came over and took a seat next to him.
“Is that for me?” he said, grabbing the glass of whiskey.
“I’ve been waiting for almost an hour,” Callaway said, sounding like a kid whose parent had forgotten to pick him up from school.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Jimmy said. “I had a good reason, okay?”
He pulled out an envelope and dropped it on the counter.
“What’s that?” Callaway asked.
“Take a look.”
Callaway held the envelope. It was thick and heavy. When he looked inside, his eyes widened.
“How much is it?” he asked.
Jimmy grinned. “Three grand.”
“Where did it come from?”
“It’s courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. Wolkoff.”
Callaway blinked.
“After you dropped me off at the corner, I went back
to the house, and with my badge in hand, I told them someone had reported them to the authorities. They probably figured it was you. They were sweating bullets. They begged me to take it easy, that it was a mistake and they would never do it again. I then offered them a solution.”
Callaway looked at the envelope. “You took a bribe?” he asked, disgusted at the thought.
Jimmy grimaced. “Bribe is too harsh a word,” he replied. “Let’s call it restitution for their crimes.”
Callaway shook his head. “I don’t know, Jimmy. This is not right.”
“What’s not right is that they committed a crime and you let them off the hook.”
“They forgave Frank’s debt,” Callaway corrected Jimmy.
“Sure, but how many times have you seen someone rob a bank, and when the police catch them, they just hand the money back and nothing happens to them? Never. The police retrieve the stolen cash, and they charge the robber with the crime.”
“You’re not even a real cop!” Callaway said.
“They don’t know that.”
Callaway knew arguing with Jimmy would do no good. He looked away.
“Okay,” Jimmy said. “If you don’t want the money, I’ll take it.”
“I never said that,” Callaway replied, still gripping the envelope. He knew the Wolkoffs were felons and they deserved more than a slap on the wrist. He could also use the money. The five hundred was nowhere near enough for the work he had done for the Hendersons.
Callaway exhaled. “So we split it fifty-fifty like the old times?”
“Why don’t you keep the whole thing?” Jimmy said.
The Lee Callaway Boxed Set Page 55
