Fisher now had the missing pieces to the puzzle. It was time to bring Diego Murcia in for the murders of Big Bob, Chase Burley, and Debra Coleheim.
ONE-HUNDRED SIX
Holt walked out of the bank with the contents of the safety deposit box in his hands. He then drove straight to an address he was familiar with.
Prior to going to the bank, he had a visitor at the Milton PD. Callaway had shown up holding a USB.
“What is it?” Holt had asked.
“It’s Cary Gilford confessing to the murder of his wife, Isabel Gilford.”
“How’d you get it?”
“It’s not important.”
Holt gave Callaway a hard stare. “If Gilford was coerced to confess, then it won’t hold up in court.”
Callaway smiled. “I don’t expect it to hold up in court.”
“Then what good is it to me?”
“You’ll know what to do with it when you hear it.”
Holt did listen, and what he heard made him take quick action.
He knocked on the door and waited.
A moment later, Brooke O’Shea answered.
“Detective,” she said with a smile. “What a surprise.”
“Can I come in?” he asked.
She looked unsure, but then she obliged.
He walked in and took a seat on the sofa. He unbuttoned his suit jacket.
“What is this about?” she asked.
“We’ve stumbled upon some new evidence.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“Let me play it for you.” Holt had copied the audio file Callaway had given him onto his cell phone. What he did not know was that Callaway had altered the contents to fit a narrative. Holt pressed a button.
Cary Gilford’s voice boomed out. “Brooke O’Shea was the one who planned my wife’s murder. Lee Callaway was always desperate for money, so he became the perfect patsy. Brooke has a safe deposit box at a bank near her condo building. Inside, you’ll find all the evidence of how she planned to do it. Brooke was going to dump the evidence in the ocean.”
Holt stopped the recording. “We have seized the deposit box’s contents as evidence.”
O’Shea’s face turned pale. “How’d you get into my box?”
Holt held up a piece of paper. “We got a warrant for it. It’s signed by a judge.”
She paused and then broke down in tears. “I had no choice,” she said. “Cary made me do it.”
“And you agreed to go along with it?” Holt asked.
“If I didn’t, he would have hurt me.” She pointed to the bruise on her face. “He did this to me. He has a violent temper. He is the real murderer. I was helpless to stop him.”
Holt stared at her and then clapped his hands. “You’re a very good actress, Ms. O’Shea. But I have to say, your charade won’t work with me. We have Mr. Gilford on tape pointing to you as the killer. If I were you, I would tell your side of the story.”
O’Shea stared at Holt and then sat down across from him. “Cary was in financial trouble. His investment firm wasn’t as successful as he’d led people to believe. In fact, it was a Ponzi scheme. His biggest investor was his wife’s parents. His wife was naïve and sheltered, but she wasn’t stupid. She could tell something was up when Cary was constantly trying to raise more funds. She demanded he come clean or else she’d go to the FBI. By this time, I had started a relationship with Cary. He was older, but he had money. I know this sounds so 1950s, but I wanted someone to take care of me. All women crave some form of security, whether it’s from their marriage or with money. When his wife gave him an ultimatum, he came to me and told me the truth. I loved him. So, I told him about a character I had played in a movie. And together we came up with a plan.”
“How would getting rid of Isabel Gilford solve your financial woes?” Holt asked.
“Isabel had a trust fund valued at over two-point-eight million dollars. If the beneficiary was deceased, the money in the fund would go to the surviving spouse. It was not enough to pay back all the investors Cary owed money to, but it was enough for us to take his boat and sail to some Caribbean island and start a new life together.”
“So, walk me through that night,” Holt said.
O’Shea paused, sighed, and said, “I asked Lee Callaway to come see me at the other house—the one under Isabel’s name. I then drugged his wine glass. During this time Cary picked up Isabel from the airport and drove her straight to the house. Cary offered her wine…”
“You needed her fingerprints on the wine glass to show that she and Callaway were actually together that night,” Holt said. “And you also wanted to show she had alcohol in her system, just like Callaway.”
“Yes.”
“Did you drug her, too?”
“No. We knew during the autopsy they would check her blood for foreign substances.”
“So, who stabbed Isabel Gilford?” Holt asked.
O’Shea was silent for a moment.
“Cary plunged the knife into her chest and I merely pushed it in further,” she replied. She let out a nervous laugh. “We were a team, and we wanted both of us to be equally involved.”
“How did Isabel Gilford get the bruise on her face?” Holt asked.
“Once she was dead, Cary hit her across the face. We had to make sure her injuries and my injuries were the same.”
“What did you do with Callaway?”
“He was still sedated, so we placed his fingerprints on the knife. We then took his digital camera, his dress shirt, and his hotel key. We planted the shirt in his hotel and destroyed the camera.”
“Why destroy the camera?”
“We were afraid it might have something incriminating against us.”
“Did it?”
“We didn’t have time to check.”
Holt let silence hang in the air for a moment before he stood up and cuffed O’Shea’s wrists. After reading O’Shea her rights, he escorted her down to a waiting police cruiser.
ONE-HUNDRED SEVEN
Diego Murcia was a dangerous man.
Fisher never went into a situation like this without backup. She would have preferred Holt next to her when she made the arrest, but he was preoccupied with Callaway’s investigation.
Instead, she went with the second-best option:
Officer Lance McConnell.
She had gotten to know him well enough to trust him. He was not going to take her safety lightly.
She could request a SWAT team or additional officers, but that would attract too much attention. She wanted Diego alive.
Fisher was parked across from the club. There was already a long line of clubbers snaking around the building. A bouncer was selectively allowing the patrons in. Whenever the club’s doors were opened, Fisher heard loud music coming from inside.
McConnell sat behind the building in an unmarked vehicle. If Diego exited via the back, McConnell would be on him.
Fisher chose not to go into the club because there was no telling how Diego would react if he was cornered. With so many people in such a confined space, there was bound to be casualties if Diego put up a fight. Fisher would not allow innocent bystanders to get hurt.
It was better they waited for Diego to come out.
She was certain they would catch him. If Diego eluded them here and fled Milton, they would issue a nationwide warrant for his arrest.
Right now, she hoped it would not come to that.
She wanted to be the one to bring him in.
Twenty-five minutes later, Diego walked out of the club.
His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and the sides of his head were shaved. He had a pencil-thin moustache, and whiskers covered his chin. His arms were adorned with a variety of tattoos, and he wore a gold chain around his neck.
Fisher got out of the SUV and crossed the road. Diego casually strolled away from the club. He shoved his hand in one of his pants pockets. Fisher’s hand instinctively moved to her holster. To her relief, he pulled out a pack
of cigarettes and lit one up.
She was twenty feet away from him.
Diego blew out a plume of thick smoke, looking like he did not have a care in the world. The pack slipped out of his hands and fell to the ground. He turned and reached down to pick it up.
His eyes met hers.
She froze.
Their stares locked for a good second or two, and then Diego bolted.
“Shit,” Fisher cursed, and ran after him.
Diego was fast, and, in no time, there was a half a block gap between them. He had not reckoned with Fisher being as good a runner, though.
Seeing she was still following, he sprinted across the road, narrowly getting hit by an oncoming car.
The driver honked and yelled, but Diego paid him no heed.
Fisher gritted her teeth and followed.
There were more honks, punctuated by the sound of screeching brakes, but she also managed to get across without being run over.
Up ahead, Diego was barrelling through pedestrians. He knocked an elderly man to the ground and shoved a woman with a stroller. Two men almost went after him for what he had done. They stopped when they saw Fisher running toward them with a gun in her hand.
“Police!” she yelled.
The men got out of her way.
Diego was a good fifty feet away from her when she heard the sound of an approaching train.
There was a bridge that went over a set of tracks. Fisher stopped and looked to her right. A commuter train was approaching the overpass.
She looked up and saw that Diego had stopped too.
She had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Her fear turned out to be correct. He ran to the middle of the bridge and hauled himself on top of the metal railing.
He’s going to jump on the train! she thought.
It was a dangerous move, but the train’s speed might work in Diego’s favor. If he jumped at the right moment, he might just make it.
Fisher was not going to take any chances
Seeing there was no one else on the bridge, she knelt, aimed her weapon, and fired a shot at the precise moment Diego was about to leap.
She heard an audible scream and saw him disappear over the bridge.
Shit. I hope I did not send him under the train, Fisher thought.
She raced up and looked over.
The train was already gone, but Diego was hanging onto the edge of the bridge with one hand.
“You shot my leg,” he cried.
A car pulled up next to her.
McConnell jumped out.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she replied. “But he could use some help.”
McConnell glanced over. Diego looked like he was in excruciating pain.
“You sure we shouldn’t leave him like that?” McConnell asked.
Fisher sighed. “It’s not a bad idea, but I have a lot of questions I want to ask him, and I can’t do that if he’s dead.”
“But you’ve solved the case,” McConnell said with a smile. “You know he killed all those people.”
“Yes, but I still want to know what he did with the money he took from Big Bob’s safe.”
“You’re the boss.”
McConnell reached down and pulled Diego up.
ONE-HUNDRED EIGHT
Callaway was in his office when he heard footsteps coming up the metal stairs.
He got up from his desk and saw Holt was standing outside his door.
“Detective Holt,” he said. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“I didn’t want to do this over the phone.”
Callaway’s back arched. “Do what?”
“Tell you that we have Cary Gilford and Brooke O’Shea in custody. They are both willing to testify against each other. I feel we have enough to charge them for the death of Isabel Gilford.”
“You should also charge them with conspiracy to frame an innocent man.”
“We can look at other charges, of course, such as providing false statements to the police or obstruction of justice. However, I think murder is sufficient enough to put them away for a very long time. You are free to file a civil suit against them if you like.”
Callaway’s eyes narrowed. “I might just do that.”
Holt held up a hand. “But I must warn you that Cary Gilford was running a Ponzi scheme. You might not get anything once his investors get their share.”
Callaway frowned. “If I remember correctly, you said there was an insurance policy with my name on it,” he said.
“It’s invalid. The victim’s signature was forged.”
“So, I’m not rich?” Callaway asked.
“No, but you are free.”
Callaway smiled. “I can live with that.”
After a minute of silence passed, Holt said, “You’re okay for a private investigator.”
“And you’re okay for a detective.”
Holt smiled and then left.
Callaway smiled too.
If Holt can smile. There is hope for humanity yet.
ONE-HUNDRED NINE
The commuter train Diego nearly jumped on top of turned out to be a good omen. After interviewing him at the hospital, Fisher drove to the Cupperton Train Station, which was located ten miles from where she had caught Diego.
With a key in her hand, Fisher approached a set of blue lockers. She searched for locker number 1228, found it, unlocked it, and pulled out a gray school backpack. Inside were bundles of hundred-dollar bills wrapped in elastic bands.
Diego confessed he had gone to Big Bob’s house to teach him a lesson for what he had done to Manuela. Big Bob and Diego got into an argument, and Diego stabbed him to death. He then decided to rob him as well. Chase had seen Manuela on the night his father had died. Diego worried that when the police caught up to him, Chase might reveal something that could lead back to Manuela and to him, so Diego found him and killed him. He also killed and raped Debra Coleheim because she was a witness to Chase’s murder.
Fisher was about to zip up the backpack when something caught her attention. An object was lying between the stacks of money. She reached in and pulled out a wallet. It was gold plated with the letters “R.B.” encrusted in diamonds. Fisher knew the initials stood for Robert Burley.
She could see why Diego took the wallet. Such a fancy item would fetch a nice sum on the black market.
She noticed a piece of paper folded inside the wallet.
She pulled the paper out and found a letter written in blue ink:
Dear Mr. Burley,
My name is Irma Randall. I am writing to you because I know you claimed my lottery ticket. On the day you won the big prize, I had sold my Ford station wagon to you at your dealership. I had lost my job and I needed the money to pay my rent. I have two young children, and I am raising them without their father, who died in a terrible car accident.
I know the ticket was mine because I play the same numbers each week: 9, 32, 11, 3, 29.
9 is the date of my daughter’s birthday.
32 was how old my husband was at the time of his death.
11 is the date of my son’s birthday.
3 is my lucky number.
29 was the day when my husband and I got married.
I always kept my lottery tickets stuck to the Ford’s visor, and I forgot to remove my ticket when I handed over the vehicle to you. When I realized my mistake, I went back to your dealership that very day, but by then it was closed.
I have tried contacting you, but you have refused to speak to me. I have also gone to several lawyers, but unless I pay them a retainer, they won’t even look into my case.
I know I can’t prove this in court, but I hope you would do the right thing. I am not greedy. I don’t want the entire lottery winnings. I just need enough to take care of my children and to provide a roof over our heads.
Signed,
Irma Randall
Fisher knew it was not uncommon for strangers to show up
claiming a piece of the lottery winnings. It was also not uncommon for strangers to beg, lie, and tell their sob stories to the winners with the hope that they would receive a share of the money.
So maybe this Irma Randall was laying a guilt trip on Big Bob, Fisher thought. But then, why did Big Bob keep her note in his expensive wallet for all these years?
Also, Big Bob was stabbed in his living room, but he crawled across the house and died on his way to his office.
Fisher always thought he was concerned about the money in the safe. What if he was more concerned about the letter inside the safe and what it would mean if it got out into the world?
Fisher was not sure if that was the case, but there was one thing she was sure of. No one knew the exact amount Diego had taken from Big Bob’s safe. By Fisher’s estimate, there was a substantial sum still in the backpack.
Fisher knew if Irma Randall lived in Milton, it would not be hard to track her down. It might be a little too late, but something was better than nothing.
ONE-HUNDRED TEN
Callaway found Nina sitting on a swing at a playground near Patti’s house. His daughter had her head down, and she looked gloomy.
She was still upset with him for what he had said to Jamie. Callaway could live with Nina being upset with him. He was just glad she was not aware of what he had gone through the last couple of days.
He took a seat on the swing next to hers.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said.
She did not reply.
“You come here often?” he asked.
Still no reply.
He shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out a basic mobile phone. “I got this for you.”
She looked at the phone. “It’s ugly.”
“It’s not much to look at, but from what I’ve been told, it’s got an amazing battery that can last for days without a single charge.”
“Can I take photos with it?” she asked.
The Invisible Wife Page 24
