The Invisible Wife

by Thomas Fincham

Fisher began to see a scenario that started to make sense.

  When Fisher had first arrived at the scene, she did not see another vehicle outside the house apart from Holt’s car, McConnell’s cruiser, and Big Bob’s Rolls Royce. This meant someone had driven Suzanne to the house, and it could have only been Castroni.

  Was Castroni the reason for Big Bob and Suzanne’s impending divorce?

  If so, this would explain why Castroni was never at the scene. If he was, Fisher and Holt would have looked into him. They would have realized he was an ex-con.

  There was nothing to indicate that Big Bob had changed the alarm code after Mrs. Burley had moved out. She could have disabled the code to let Castroni in. Castroni could have killed Big Bob for the money in his safe. Big Bob was a large man, but it would not be hard for Castroni to subdue someone much older than him. After the crime was committed, Suzanne showed up at the house the next morning and called 9-1-1.

  It was a perfect plan because no one pointed a finger in her direction.

  Until now.

  NINETY-THREE

  Holt knocked on the door and waited. After speaking to Cary Gilford, he had driven straight to his assistant’s condo. According to Gilford, on the night of his wife’s death, he was with Brooke O’Shea.

  O’Shea answered the door with a smile on her face. “You must be Detective Holt,” she said. “Cary told me you’d be coming.”

  “I would like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course, please come in.”

  She held the door for him.

  The interior was brightly colored. Holt saw Brooke owned designer furniture and new appliances. Once they were seated on a leather sofa, Holt asked, “What happened to your face?”

  O’Shea instantly put her hand over her eye. “It was an accident,” she replied. “I can be clumsy sometimes.”

  Even with the makeup concealer, Holt could tell someone had struck her face. “Did Mr. Gilford hurt you?” he asked.

  “Cary is a very caring man…”

  Holt cut her off. “We have reason to believe he has struck his wife before.”

  In his statement to the police, Callaway had made similar assertions. But Wakefield believed the mark on Isabel Burley’s face was recent, which meant it could have likely come from Callaway’s hands.

  But two different individuals with similar wounds cannot be a coincidence. Can it?

  O’Shea sighed. “We had a heated argument and Cary lost control.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “In my condo.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “And you still decided to spend the night with him?”

  “I know how this looks,” she said. “Cary is not a violent person. I wouldn’t stay with him if he was.”

  “But he still hit you.”

  “I said some horrible things to him. I don’t think any man would appreciate their manhood being attacked.”

  Holt gave O’Shea a hard look. “No one deserves to be subjected to abuse, no matter what was said.”

  “Cary felt terrible about what happened, and later that night he came back to make it up to me. He bought me a diamond necklace.” The smile returned to her face. “Would you like to see it?”

  “No, thank you,” Holt replied. “And when Mr. Gilford came to apologize, he ended up spending the night with you?”

  O’Shea looked away in embarrassment. “Yes, he was here the entire night. But I can tell you, Cary and I are not proud of what happened.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure what Cary told you, but he was supposed to see Isabel. But one thing led to another and he didn’t leave until the next morning.” Brooke O’Shea shook her head, tears brimming in her eyes. She choked up and said, “I never thought something like that would happen to her.”

  “But you were sleeping with her husband,” Holt said. “I would assume you would be happy to see her go.”

  She looked horrified. “I didn’t hate her. I had never even met or spoken to her.” She wiped her eyes. “Yes, I love Cary, but that doesn’t mean I wanted her gone.”

  Holt stared at her.

  “Plus, Cary was going to leave her anyway,” O’Shea added.

  NINETY-FOUR

  Callaway hung up the phone in frustration. He had spoken to Fisher, but she told him she was no longer working his case. Holt was.

  She advised him to go through a lawyer if he wanted to discuss anything with the police.

  Callaway was not sure if Roth would be willing to look at his case from a different angle. As far as he was concerned, Callaway should look at securing other legal counsel.

  I don’t have time for that, Callaway thought.

  Begrudgingly, he drove straight to the Milton PD. At the front desk he asked for Holt. As he waited in the lobby, Holt appeared from the elevators. He had a look of disdain on his face.

  “I hope you’ve come to confess,” he said.

  “I’m here to tell you that I’ve been set up,” Callaway replied.

  Holt gave him a hard stare. “Sure, that’s what they all say.”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  Callaway held up the day’s newspaper. On the third page there was a photo of Isabel Gilford. She was standing on the deck of a boat, wearing a patterned shirt and khaki pants, and she had a smile on her face. “The woman who hired me to follow her husband was not Isabel Gilford.”

  Holt scoffed. “So, who was it?”

  “I don’t know, but it wasn’t this woman.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Callaway pointed at the photo. “The hair is the same, maybe the nose too, but the eyes and the smile are different.”

  “You shouldn’t be talking to me without your lawyer.”

  “That’s what Fisher said too.”

  “And she’s right.”

  Holt turned to leave.

  Callaway reached out and grabbed his arm.

  Holt’s eyes lit up with fury.

  Callaway quickly pulled his hand away.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” Callaway slowly said. “But I don’t know who else to turn to.”

  “Call legal aid. They’ll help you.”

  “You have to believe me. The woman who was with me last night was not the woman who was found dead this morning.”

  “So, who was with you then?”

  Callaway’s shoulders sank. “I don’t know.”

  Callaway was certain without a shadow of a doubt he was right. The photo of Isabel he saw on TV back at the bar clearly showed he had been meeting with an imposter.

  He now realized the meetings inside the dark limousine were not to hide what they were up to. The meetings were to hide… her.

  She did not want her true self known. She wore hats, large sunglasses, and even oversized clothing. She was playing a character, and that character was Isabel Gilford.

  But why? What was the charade all about?

  And how could Callaway prove what he knew to be true?

  He had been thrown into a deep, dark hole he did not know how to get out of.

  Holt’s voice broke his reverie. “You wasted your time coming here, Callaway.”

  “Listen,” Callaway said to him. “I know you don’t like me or what I do as a private investigator, but it is your sworn duty as a police detective to catch the real murderer. You may believe that I’m that person, and that’s fine for you. It’s not fine for me. I’m not guilty, and I will keep saying so until I reach my grave.”

  NINETY-FIVE

  The more Fisher thought about Rick Castroni, the more she was convinced he was Big Bob’s killer. He fit the profile. He was big and strong. He was dating Big Bob’s wife, Suzanne. And he had a rap sheet that included armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon.

  Fisher now wished she had caught on to Castroni earlier. Perhaps Chase Burley and Debra Coleheim would have been saved.

  But on
e thing troubled her.

  Debra Coleheim was also raped. Castroni’s record did not include sexual assault.

  This, however, did not mean he could not have committed the heinous crime. Debra Coleheim worked as a prostitute, which Castroni could have taken as his right to attack her.

  Fisher was parked across from Big Bob’s house when she saw Castroni come out. He walked over to the GMC Terrain, got behind the wheel, and drove away.

  Fisher followed him.

  She did not have a plan per se. She just wanted to see where he was going, what he was doing, and who he was meeting. This would give her a better understanding who she was up against.

  Castroni was a dangerous man, but was he also a killer and a rapist? She wanted to find out. She also hoped he would commit some infraction that would give her the opening she needed to arrest him. This way she would get him inside a room to interrogate him. She believed in her abilities to get a confession out of him.

  The GMC weaved through traffic, sometimes at speeds slightly over the limit, but still not enough for her to pull him over. The arrest should be such that a defense lawyer could not tear it apart in front of a judge and jury.

  Everything she did from now until later had to be done by the book. If Castroni was involved in any illegal activity, then she had a duty to act. Ten minutes later, the GMC pulled into the back of a church.

  Fisher was suddenly confused.

  She watched as Castroni got out and entered the church.

  She thought about driving away, but she did not want Castroni out of her sight. This was the first big break she had on the case and she was not about to lose it.

  She got out of the SUV, walked up the flight of stairs, and entered through a set of wooden doors. The nave of the church was empty.

  She moved further in and spotted a door on the right. She went through the door and down a narrow corridor. She saw a light coming through another set of doors. She stopped and peeked inside.

  The room was well lit. There were a dozen chairs placed in a circle in the middle of the room. All the chairs were occupied.

  Castroni was sitting in one. He looked calm and collected.

  Fisher decided to head back to her SUV.

  NINETY-SIX

  The rain pounded on the Charger’s windshield. Callaway sat behind the wheel with a somber look on his face. He did not know what to do next. His visit to Holt had been a waste of time.

  What was I expecting anyway? he thought. “Okay, Lee, I will take a look”? The guy hates my guts, and he’s got no reason to listen to me if I’ve got nothing concrete.

  He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

  He considered going back to the house where her body was discovered. But he talked himself out of it. The house was still an active crime scene. A police cruiser was most likely stationed on the property.

  If Callaway was caught snooping around, there would be additional charges on top of the murder charge. But he could not sit idle while Holt and the District Attorney’s office nailed him in a coffin. If he was smart, he would get himself a lawyer from legal aid and hope and pray he or she was competent enough to defend him, or at the very least make sure he did not get the death penalty.

  There was also the plea deal Roth had mentioned. If Callaway picked up the phone right now and told Roth he was ready to agree to one, Roth would make sure to hammer out a deal that was beneficial to him.

  Callaway was not going to plead guilty, no matter how dire the situation was. He was not a murderer. He knew himself better than anyone. He was not capable of committing such a terrible act.

  Then there was Nina.

  What would she think knowing her father was a convicted murderer?

  Patti had so far told her nothing. She was going to wait until after the trial to break the news to her. Callaway hoped the news of his arrest had not made it to her school yet.

  If the news has, she’s in for some hazing, Callaway thought. Kids can be cruel.

  He sighed.

  I’d rather jump in front of a truck than see my little girl suffer like that.

  The rain had turned into a light drizzle.

  Callaway was parked across from Cary and Isabel Gilford’s house.

  Gilford’s Audi was parked in front.

  Callaway was building the courage to go up and ring the bell. After speaking to Holt, he decided to do some more research on Cary and Isabel. As he sifted through the information once more, something stuck out.

  A week ago, Callaway had followed Gilford from his work to his house. When Gilford was getting out of the Audi, he was carrying flowers and chocolates. The next day, the fake Isabel Gilford had told him the flowers and chocolates were for their wedding anniversary.

  Callaway had discovered that their actual wedding anniversary was not for another four months.

  So what kind of charade was Gilford playing with the flowers and chocolates? And why was he and this fake Isabel Gilford working together?

  Callaway wanted to confront Gilford and ask him.

  He saw a black Subaru pull up to the house and park next to the Audi.

  A woman emerged from the driver’s side. Her hair was damp—likely from the rain—and as she walked up to the front door, Callaway’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  She’s Brooke O’Shea. Aka, Isabel Gilford!

  The silver hair was now blonde, and the long coat was gone, but her walk gave her away.

  A person could use makeup as a disguise, or speak with a different accent, but it was near impossible to fake a walk for a long time.

  Brooke O’Shea rang the doorbell. A moment later, Cary Gilford answered the door with a smile on his face.

  They embraced and kissed before disappearing behind the door.

  Callaway tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

  He gritted his teeth.

  Callaway started the Charger and then drove off.

  NINETY-SEVEN

  An hour had gone by and Castroni still had not left the church. Fisher still was not sure why he was here. There was nothing posted anywhere in the church to indicate what the meeting was about.

  The church doors opened, and men began to stroll out one by one. A couple of them stopped and gathered around another man. He was tall and balding, and he wore a clerical collar.

  Fisher saw none of the men was Castroni.

  Where did you go? she wondered.

  Castroni exited the church.

  He headed straight for his vehicle, got in, and drove off.

  Fisher debated following him, but she wanted to know what he was doing here.

  She watched as the men slowly began to clear out. She then got out of her SUV and walked to the front of the church.

  The priest was speaking to another man. He was short, with shaggy hair, and he had a nervous air about him.

  “The pain will never fully go away,” the priest said to him. “But time will make it more bearable.”

  The man nodded, and then left.

  The priest saw her standing by the steps. He smiled and said, “You’re here to make a prayer?”

  Fisher approached him. “I’m actually here to ask a few questions, Father.”

  “I don’t know if I have all the answers you seek, but I’ll do my best.”

  “I was inside the church earlier, and I saw all these men gathered in a room. I’m assuming it’s some sort of AA meeting?”

  The smile never left the priest’s face. “Not quite. Can I ask why you’re so interested?”

  She flashed her badge.

  The smile faded. “Is someone in trouble?” he asked, concerned.

  “It’ll depend on what you tell me.”

  The priest fell silent. He studied her and said, “The men in that room have all suffered some form of pain. Sexual abuse, physical abuse, substance abuse, depression, alcohol dependency—you name it, they’ve gone through it. The meetings are a way for them to vent their frustrations. We offer a sympathetic ear, and if they are intere
sted, we also offer programs to guide them so that they can lead a somewhat normal life.”

  “And why is Rick Castroni here?” Fisher asked.

  The smile came back to the priest’s face. “I see what this is about.”

  “I’m sorry?” she said.

  “The other men in the group don’t know, but Rick told me in private that he is seeing someone whose husband was recently murdered. You are here because of that, is it not?”

  “I am.”

  “Rick went through a difficult childhood. His father was, to say it lightly, very harsh with him. He dropped out of school at a young age. He got in trouble, and he was in and out of prison, but I can assure you, he is a changed man now.”

  I’ll be the judge of that, Fisher thought.

  “How regularly do you meet?” she asked.

  “Three times a week.”

  “Okay, and can you remember if you held a meeting on…” She gave him the date of the night Big Bob was murdered.

  The smile widened on the priest’s face. Fisher did not like that. “Follow me,” he said. They went inside the church, back through the narrow corridor, and into the room where she saw Castroni with the other men.

  The priest walked over to a table in the corner, picked up a piece of paper, and handed it to her. It was an advertisement for an event held at the church. “The fundraiser was from eight to ten p.m., and because of the turnout we ended up going very late. Rick and a couple of other guys stayed to help clean up. I think he was still here after eleven. I can give you the other men’s names who can vouch for him.”

  Fisher stared at the advertisement. “How many people were at the fundraiser?”

  “If I had to take a guess, I’d say close to fifty.”

  Fisher frowned. That was way too many people to interview.

  She hated to admit it, but she was now back to square one.

  NINETY-EIGHT

  When Callaway returned to his office, the first thing he did was turn on his laptop. While the computer booted up, he counted the money he had stashed in his sofa. He knew Holt and Fisher had already combed through his office, so he wanted to make sure everything was where it should be. Not that he thought the detectives—especially Fisher—would take the cash, but everything was now vital to him.