“Then what are you saying?” Fisher asked.
“It seems someone may have injected the victim with enough glucose to induce him to have a severe heart attack.”
NINETY
Callaway spent an hour going through the contents in Jimmy’s shoebox. The police report concluded that Gail’s death was either an accident or a suicide. They could not say which one with certainty, but they had ruled out murder.
The autopsy report explained Gail had suffered a ruptured spleen, cracked ribs, broken arms and legs, facial fractures, and brain hemorrhaging. The latter was the cause of her death.
Anyone who fell fifteen floors would suffer that, and much more, Callaway thought.
Scott’s statement was verified by the lead detective on the case. Scott was indeed in Vermont shooting a movie at the time of Gail’s death.
A statement by Brad Kirkman was also verified. He was on a flight out of Bayview on the night Gail died.
Then there was the witness at the crime scene, Douglas Hoyte. He said he had seen a woman run out of the building right after Gail’s fall. The woman’s name was Tamara Davis, and she was homeless and a drug addict.
According to Jimmy’s notes, he had searched for Tamara throughout Bayview and had come up empty. Jimmy believed Tamara had either left the city, was dead, or perhaps someone was hiding her. He had no proof to confirm his theories, but Callaway could tell he was troubled by the fact he was unable to locate her.
Jimmy had a nose for trouble and for sniffing out clues. He was like a bloodhound who could follow a trail from one end of the city to the other, so it wasn’t inconceivable for Jimmy to think someone was helping Tamara elude the authorities.
But why? Who would want her to stay quiet?
After an online search, Callaway found she had died of a drug overdose.
Callaway decided to start his investigation by speaking to Douglas Hoyte.
The apartment building was two blocks from where Gail lived. When Callaway knocked at Hoyte’s fourth-floor unit, he didn’t look displeased or annoyed by the unexpected visit. He smiled and invited Callaway in.
“I worked thirty-two years as an electrician,” he said. “It got me out of the house every day. But after I got severe arthritis, I had to retire and stay home. Now all I do is take Goldie out for a walk or watch TV all day.”
Goldie, Callaway assumed, was the Golden Retriever in Hoyte’s one-bedroom apartment. “I don’t get many visitors, you see,” Hoyte said.
Callaway nodded.
“Can I get you a beer?” Hoyte asked. He had gray hair, taut skin, and droopy eyelids. When he smiled, he revealed yellow smoker’s teeth.
“I’m good, thanks,” Callaway replied.
“You said you wanted to know what happened to that girl who fell from her apartment, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure what more I can tell you that I didn’t already tell the police, or the private investigator that showed up at my door.”
“I’m just trying to get a better idea of what might have happened, so whatever you tell me is greatly appreciated.”
“Okay, sure. I guess I’ll start by saying that every night after dinner, Goldie and I go out for a walk. I don’t like smoking indoors, so while she gets her exercise, I can light up, you know? Anyway, we usually go a couple of blocks. When I first started, I could barely walk one block before I started wheezing. The smoking doesn’t help. You smoke?”
Callaway shook his head.
“Don’t ever start. It’s worse than having a nagging wife. At least you can divorce the wife, but if you’re not strong enough, the smoking will stick with you until you die.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“So, I was doing my usual walk when I heard a scream. I first thought it was screeching tires or something else, but a few seconds later, I heard what sounded like a wet bag hitting concrete. Goldie started going crazy. I had never seen her like that. She’s very nurturing. She knows when I’m sick or if I’m feeling down, so when she started barking persistently, I had to check it out. I knew where I had heard the sound come from, and when I went over, I saw the girl on the ground. I thought maybe she had slipped and hurt herself, but then I saw the blood.” Hoyte sighed. He shook his head. “There was so much blood, I knew something bad had happened. I then dialed 9-1-1.”
“Did you see anyone on the balcony?” Callaway asked.
“Sure.”
Callaway blinked. “You did?”
“Yeah. I think all the neighbors heard the scream like I did, and they all came out onto their balconies to see what it was.”
Right.
“Did you notice anything suspicious?” Callaway asked.
“I saw a lady run out of the back of the building. She was black, and she wore dirty clothes. She looked homeless, but it was dark, so I can’t be a hundred percent sure. I told the police about her, though. I don’t know what they did with that information.”
The police did search for her, Callaway thought. But Tamara Davis was eventually found dead.
“I feel bad for the girl,” Hoyte said. “She was young, and I saw photos of her family in the newspaper. They looked like nice people. It was a real tragedy.”
“It was,” Callaway agreed.
There was a reason Jimmy’s visit to Hoyte was fruitless. The man didn’t know anything. He was merely the first person at the body.
“Thanks for your time,” Callaway said.
“No problem,” Hoyte replied.
Callaway was moving to the door when he stopped. There were two hand-carries in the hallway. “You’re going somewhere?”
Hoyte smiled. “As a matter of fact, I am. You were lucky to catch me at home when you did.”
“Lucky?”
“I was supposed to be on a flight to Minnesota to meet my grandson. He was born last night. There’s a pilot strike, so my flight got delayed. I always call before I go. I hate waiting at the airport. And I’m glad I called. My plane doesn’t leave for another couple of hours. You can tell Goldie is not talking to me.”
The Golden Retriever had her head down. Callaway had to admit she did look sad.
“She wants to go with me, but I have to leave her with a neighbor until I get back,” Hoyte said.
He knelt down and rubbed Goldie behind her ears.
Callaway thanked him and left.
NINETY-ONE
Fisher was in Sherman Grumbly’s office.
“Thank you for having an officer bring the script to my office,” Grumbly said. “It took years to get this project off the ground. When Dillon signed on, it was a bittersweet moment. I thought all the hard work and dedication had finally led us to this point. With Dillon, we knew we had a hit on our hands. Now I’m not so sure. The movie was financed through private investors and government grants. The investors started pulling out once they heard what happened, and unless we have money to start the production, we will lose the grants as well.”
Grumbly looked like he was under immense stress. This was likely his last chance to show the industry he could release a successful movie. Fisher was aware that actors, directors, and producers lived and died by their last movie. If that failed, there was no guarantee they would get picked up for another project, or in the producer’s case, have their next project greenlit.
“I will be flying to Los Angeles tomorrow,” Grumbly said. “I will speak to agents, managers, and lead actors to try and drum up interest in the project.”
She could tell from his face that it was going to be an uphill battle. If Grumbly could not sign another star, the project might never see the light of day.
Fisher was not here to discuss the movie business, but before she got to the main reasons for her visit, she wanted to ask something. “There were rumors that Mr. Scott had non-disclosure agreements with certain individuals. Were you aware of this?”
Grumbly looked taken aback. “What kind of agreements?”
Fisher wanted to s
ee if Grumbly knew of Scott’s sordid past. She also wanted to know how complicit he was in working with a man who preyed on innocent women.
“Dillon had a great reputation,” he said. “It was what helped us raise the funds to get the project off the ground.”
“Yes, of course,” Fisher said. She then dove in. “Did you know about Mr. Scott’s medical condition, specifically about his diabetes?”
“Sure. We had him do a physical to make sure he could complete the project. It’s a requirement for insurance purposes. His diabetes was under control, and his overall health was excellent.”
“Who else was aware of his condition?”
Grumbly frowned, thinking. “Um… I guess his doctors… his agent… and his wife for sure.”
“Mrs. Scott?”
“Absolutely. Before you qualify for insurance, they look at the actor’s family medical history. Mrs. Scott is also diabetic.”
“She is?” Fisher asked, surprised.
“Yes. But it’s standard procedure because of the amount of money invested in the project. It also lets the director know how far he can push the actor.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, we knew Dillon was diabetic…”
“Did you also know he suffered from Diabetic Heart Disease?”
“Oh yes, but I was assured by medical professionals that if Dillon kept his sugar levels under control, it was not going to be a health issue. In fact, in his contract, it was outlined that he could not be forced to do any cardiovascular activities, so we had stunt people perform scenes that required a lot of running or jumping. We once had an actress who was allergic to a specific plant. When we shot a scene in a forest, we had to remove all traces of that particular plant. It was a costly thing, but a necessary one. The actors’ union would have crucified us, not to mention the press if they found out we were negligent. So, yes, we took all precautions with Dillon.”
NINETY-TWO
Brad Kirkman was in his office. He was seated behind his desk, and he had a cell phone cradled to his ear.
Callaway knocked on the door. Kirkman looked up. “Can I help you?” he said.
“I’m from the Daily Times,” Callaway claimed. “I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”
“Where’s Louise?” Kirkman asked, annoyed.
“Who?”
“My secretary. You can book an appointment with her.”
“There was no one at the desk,” Callaway said.
Kirkman frowned. “She’s probably out to lunch. Why don’t you leave your name and telephone number and I’ll have her schedule you in. I’m very busy at the moment.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I drove all the way from Franklin.”
That caught Kirkman’s attention. “Did you say Franklin?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And what was the name of the newspaper?”
“The Daily Times.”
“I’ve read it. You know their lead reporter, Hyder Ali?”
Callaway was familiar with the name, but he had never met Ali. “Of course I am,” he claimed. “Hyder and I share desks.”
“I’m a fan of his work,” Kirkman said, putting the phone down. “Brad Kirkman.”
He extended his hand. Callaway shook it.
“Gator Peckerwood.”
Kirkman’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a real name?”
“Unfortunately, it is.” He pulled out a business card. “My parents are from Louisiana.”
“That explains it.” Kirkman looked at the card. “It doesn’t have the name of your newspaper.”
“I was in a rush. I left all my official business cards behind. If you call the number, you will get the Daily Times’ main directory.” Callaway doubted Kirkman would call.
“So, what can I do for you?” Kirkman asked.
“I’m writing an article on Gail Roberts, and I was hoping you’d give me a quote.”
Kirkman frowned. “She died over a year ago, so why the sudden interest?”
“After Dillon Scott’s murder, I wanted to focus on a different angle to her story.”
“Angle?”
“I mean, don’t you find it odd that an employee of this production company is found dead, and then a year later, the co-owner of the same company is found dead as well? Could the same person who killed Gail Roberts have also killed Dillon Scott?”
Kirkman’s expression hardened. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“No joke at all.”
Kirkman stared at him and sighed. “First of all, Gail’s death was an accident. The police conducted a thorough investigation and came to that very conclusion. As for Dillon, didn’t someone just confessed to his murder?”
“They did, yes. Did Gail Roberts have any enemies?”
“No, she did not. Gail was a wonderful person. She was a valued member of our company. Her death was a loss we were still mourning when we found out what happened to Dillon. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an important call to make.”
“Sure,” Callaway said. “Just one more question. Where were you on the night—”
Without letting Callaway complete his sentence, Kirkman opened his desk drawer and held up a boarding pass. “I have shown this to everyone who has walked through the door asking if I had anything to do with Gail’s suicide.”
“I thought it was an accident,” Callaway said.
“The police believe it could have been either.”
“What do you believe?”
“I believe Gail was a talented person who could have done amazing things if she was still alive. She may have been suffering mentally, I don’t know. If she was, I would have tried to get her professional help. Unfortunately, her life was abruptly cut short. That’s my quote for your article.”
Callaway examined the boarding pass, smiled, and said, “Thank you for your time.”
NINETY-THREE
Fisher was back at her desk. She had checked her voicemail, and there was another message from Holt. He was flying back from Las Vegas the next day, and he was eager to get to work. He was excited and even proud that Fisher was able to wrap up Dillon Scott’s murder in less than a week. It was a great accomplishment for a detective to solve a case of this magnitude all alone.
Fisher didn’t share his enthusiasm. She didn’t find a suspect. The suspect came to her. She had nothing to do with it.
Which brought her back to Jimmy’s confession. Something did not add up.
After her meeting with Wakefield, she was left with more questions than answers. Jimmy admitted to hitting Scott on the head with the bookend, but according to Wakefield, Scott did not die from the head wound. He died from a heart attack caused by alleviated sugar levels.
Jimmy never once mentioned injecting Scott with any substance. Fisher doubted that Jimmy was even aware that Scott suffered from diabetes.
She could feel the pressure building up. Time was running out. When Holt arrived the next day, the seventy-two hours would be up. She had that much time to charge Jimmy with the murder. Her superiors and the public were waiting on her to do just that.
By all accounts, Jimmy truly believed he was responsible for what happened to Scott, but the medical examiner’s findings had shed a different light on his death. Maybe someone other than Jimmy had killed Scott, but in order to prove that, she had to find this person.
Whatever personal opinion she had of Scott, the fact was that he was murdered. Scott deserved a fate far worse than what he ultimately received. He died of a heart attack, induced or not. Millions of people die from one each day.
But millions of people did not use their power and privilege to hurt other people.
What Scott did was unforgivable. He destroyed and damaged who knew how many young women. Some would never be able to trust another man again.
This made her job difficult. Scott got what he deserved. But she had a duty to keep the public safe. The only way to do that was to find Scott’s killer.
She just wished she kne
w where to look.
Her eyes caught an object next to her laptop. She leaned over and picked the object up. It was a toll pass. All detectives were given one. Their jobs required them to cross cities, states, and borders, so it was easier for the department to pay for a monthly pass than reimburse them for the cost of each toll. She had used her pass when she drove through the Norton Bridge on her way to Bayview.
She was turning the pass over in her hand when a thought occurred to her.
NINETY-FOUR
Callaway had gone to Kirkman’s office for one reason: He wanted to see with his own eyes that Kirkman was indeed on a flight out of Bayview on the night Gail died. Kirkman was more than willing to wave a boarding pass for him and anyone else who showed up at his door with questions. He even said so himself.
His eagerness to provide this information was something even Jimmy noted in his diary. The boarding pass was genuine, no doubt about it, but why try to prove his innocence when he wasn’t guilty? He had a rock-solid alibi.
Or did he?
The boarding time on the pass was 9:20 PM. Gail fell to her death at 10:38 PM. So, if Gail died after the plane had already taken off, then there was no way Kirkman could be on the plane and in her apartment at the same time.
Or could he?
Callaway was waiting when his phone buzzed. He checked, and a smile crossed his face.
Prior to going to Kirkman’s office, he had called Echo Rose. Echo was a reporter in Fairview. She had helped him out on a case while he was there. In return, he had found the names of her birth parents.
He always hesitated about contacting her for help. He didn’t want to burden her with his problems. But Echo relished the opportunity to get justice.
She had what you would call “exceptional skills.” She was one of the best hackers he knew. She could break into anything—given time, of course.
The Lee Callaway Boxed Set Page 67
