The Gone Sister

by Thomas Fincham

  “I’m guessing, yes. The photos of her are tagged for countries like Spain, Barbados, and Jamaica. There are others of her in Miami and Las Vegas, but it’s the countries that I’m curious about. How could a student working at a fast food restaurant afford to go to these places?”

  “I don’t know. I wish I did.”

  Elle was quiet for a moment. “I now realize I did not know my sister as well as I thought I did,” she said. “Everything she told me over the phone was a lie. She never lived at the address she gave me, she did not work at the place she told me she did, and she enrolled at the fashion academy under a different name. I think she was creating a new life for herself. A life that did not involve me. I held her back, and the moment she arrived in Milton, she was free to be whoever she wanted.”

  She took a deep breath.

  A thought occurred to Callaway. “Was Katie seeing someone? Was a rich boyfriend perhaps funding her trips?”

  Elle placed her finger on her chin as she thought. “When Katie moved to Milton, she mentioned she had met someone,” she replied.

  “Who?” Callaway asked, almost jumping off his chair.

  “I believe she told me his name was… Bruno Rocco.”

  “Bruno Rocco?” he repeated.

  “Yes, that’s what I think she said.”

  He turned to the laptop and typed the name in. He frowned. “There are no Bruno Roccos living in Milton. Perhaps it was a false name she gave you.”

  Elle sighed. “I can’t believe I did not mention this to you earlier. I never made much of it. Do you think this Bruno Rocco knows what happened to my sister?”

  “Could be, but how long ago did your sister tell you she had met him?”

  “When she moved to Milton.”

  Callaway frowned again. “That’s over a year ago, and I don’t see any photos of her with any man. He could just be an acquaintance, or a friend. I’ll ask around to see if anyone knows someone with that name. In the meantime, we know Katie was living a double life as Linda Eustace. This gives us something to work with. And I know just where to start.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  Fisher spotted a manila envelope on her desk chair. She grabbed it and realized it contained Isaiah’s cell phone records.

  She ripped the envelope open and pulled out the call sheet. She scanned the sheet and then rushed to Holt’s desk. He was still working away on his computer.

  “On the morning Isaiah was killed, he had made several calls to one number,” she said.

  “Give me the number,” he said.

  She read the digits, and he punched them in. “It’s registered to a Cassandra Stevens,” he said.

  Fisher flipped through the documents in her hand. “There are also several text messages between Isaiah and Cassandra Stevens.”

  She let Holt see them.

  Isaiah: HEY GIRL, I’M STILL WAITING FOR YOUR CALL.

  Isaiah: HOW’D THE MEETING GO?

  Isaiah: ARE YOU OKAY? I’M WORRIED ABOUT YOU.

  Isaiah: CALL ME. PLEASE.

  “All these messages were sent in the early morning,” Holt said, scanning the phone log. “She then called him back close to two hours after his last message. They spoke for one minute and twenty-seven seconds.”

  “He texted her again soon after that,” Fisher said.

  Isaiah: YOU GOT CUT OFF.

  Isaiah: WHAT HAPPENED?

  Isaiah: IF YOU DON’T CALL ME BACK, I WILL CALL THE POLICE.

  “She then sent him a reply,” Fisher said, pointing to a message.

  Cassandra: I’M OK. EVERYTHING IS FINE NOW. MEET ME AT THE FURNITURE STORE PARKING LOT AND WAIT FOR ME.

  “That’s where he was found,” Holt said, looking up.

  “He then sent her another text,” Fisher said.

  Isaiah: I’M ON MY WAY.

  “And there is one final text from Isaiah to her.”

  Isaiah: I’M HERE. LET ME KNOW WHERE YOU ARE AND I’LL COME GET YOU.

  Soon after that text, Isaiah was murdered.

  Holt and Fisher pondered what they had just read.

  “Now we know why Isaiah was in that neighborhood,” Holt said. “He went to meet this woman.”

  “Could she be the woman Byron Fox was talking about?” Fisher asked.

  Holt stood up and grabbed his coat. “We need to speak to her. She may know what happened to Isaiah.”

  SIXTY

  The red neon silhouette of a woman flashed brightly above the black exterior of the Gentlemen’s Hideout.

  “This can’t be the right address,” Holt said, staring at the listing for Cassandra Stevens he had pulled from the online phone directory.

  “I’m not surprised,” Fisher said.

  “Why not?”

  “Just look at the name. It’s one a lot of strippers use.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I’ve worked undercover before,” she replied. “Cherry, Candy, Charity, Chastity, Cassandra—they all have the same ring to it.”

  “I don’t know. Cassandra sounds different than the others.”

  Fisher rolled her eyes. “Would Cassie work better for you?”

  He opened his mouth but then closed it. “What was Isaiah doing with a stripper?” he said a second later.

  “I’m not sure, but let’s find out.”

  Fisher pulled the door handle, but the door was locked. She checked the schedule on the front window and saw the club did not open until after lunch. It was still mid-morning.

  “Maybe we should come back later,” Holt said.

  “Wait.” She pointed to a notice next to the club’s hours. The club was looking for girls, and there was a number to call if they were interested. Fisher dialed the number and got a man on the line. He told her he was the club’s owner.

  When she told him who she was and why she needed to speak to him, he said, “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be right over.”

  Exactly twenty minutes later, a black Mercedes pulled into the parking lot. A man in his fifties with gray hair, a slight pouch, and a double chin got out and approached them.

  “Derek Kuzminskas,” he said.

  Fisher and Holt introduced themselves. “We are looking for a woman who may work in your establishment,” Fisher said. “Cassandra Stevens.”

  “Yeah, Cassie is one of my dancers,” he said.

  Fisher smiled at Holt. Cassie.

  “You mean she’s a stripper,” Fisher said.

  “They prefer to be called dancers,” he said, correcting her. “Cassie is a regular and one of my main attractions.”

  “Is she working today?”

  “I’m not sure. She hasn’t come to work for the past two days.”

  Fisher shot a glance at Holt. He was thinking what she was. That’s how long Isaiah’s been dead.

  “Is it normal for girls not to show up for work?” Fisher asked.

  “It is, and it is not,” Kuzminskas replied.

  Holt and Fisher looked puzzled.

  “Okay, this is how it works,” Kuzminskas said. “If a girl is a good dancer and customers keep coming back to see her, she gets the best time slot, which is usually when the club is super busy. If a girl shows up on time and on the days she is supposed to, she gets the other preferred time slots. If a girl misses her time to go on stage or she isn’t very good at it—you gotta realize, not every woman is cut out for this kind of work—then we let her go, or if she’s desperate, we’ll give her a slot when there’s hardly anyone at the club. The girls call it ‘purgatory.’ So, to answer your question, this isn’t a nine-to-five job where if you don’t show up, your boss will call you at home to ask why, you know what I mean?”

  “But Cassandra was a regular, you said. Isn’t it unusual for her not to show up when she is scheduled to?” Fisher asked

  “It is, but I don’t run after these girls. If one stops showing up, then there are many more to take her place. It’s the way the business works.”

  Fisher thought this over. “Can you giv
e us her home address?”

  “I can’t confirm what she gave me is her real address. I bet Cassie’s not even her real name.”

  “I suppose you don’t ask your dancers for their Social Security numbers then,” Fisher said. Thanks to her undercover work, she knew strip club owners did not follow normal employment practices.

  Kuzminskas chuckled. “Listen, I pay these girls in cash. They want it that way. They got family troubles, or they are running away from some kind of trouble. They don’t want anyone finding them, especially not the government. Also, some of them do this to earn enough for school. You wouldn’t believe how many student doctors or lawyers work here. Plus, they don’t want their family or friends finding out what they do when they are not studying.”

  “Okay, give us the address you have on file,” Fisher said. “We’ll confirm if it’s real or not.”

  “Sure, I’ve got it in my office.”

  “Oh, and we’re going to need a photo of her,” Holt added.

  SIXTY-ONE

  The house was in a nice neighborhood. The home had a stucco exterior, a flat roof, and bay windows.

  Callaway pulled up behind a Porsche Cayenne. The Impala stuck out in the row of fancy parked cars that lined the street.

  His online search for Linda Eustace had led to this house. Callaway hoped the moment they knocked on the door, they would find Katie. The reunion would be odd, for sure. Katie had done everything to hide her other identity from Elle.

  “Are you sure you want to go in?” he asked Elle. “It might not go as you would like it to.”

  “If my sister is in there, then I want to meet her,” Elle replied. “I want her to tell me why she has kept me in the dark the entire year.”

  “Okay, sure, let’s go,” Callaway said.

  They walked up to the house. Callaway rang the doorbell. A moment later, a woman answered the door. She was wearing a blue dress, earrings, and high heels.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Sorry to bother you, but we’re looking for Linda Eustace.”

  “And you are?”

  “I’m Lee, and this is Linda’s sister, Elle.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know Linda had a sister,” the woman said. “She never once mentioned it.”

  Why would she? Callaway thought. It would lead people to ask more questions.

  “Do you know where Linda is?” Elle asked, eager to finally be face-to-face with her sister.

  The woman let out a short laugh. “I know this may sound strange, but Linda’s not been seen for almost three months.”

  That’s how long Elle’s not had any contact with her, Callaway thought.

  “And who are you?” he asked.

  “I’m Linda’s landlord. I own this house. Linda was renting my guesthouse. She used to give me a check at the end of each month, but then she just disappeared. After two months, I had to empty the guesthouse to rent it out again. I sold most of her furniture to recoup the unpaid rent. If I had known she had family, I would have contacted you instead. I’m really sorry about that.”

  Elle was silent. Callaway could feel her disappointment. He too was looking forward to some sort of resolution to the case.

  “I kept a box of her personal stuff,” the woman said. “I didn’t have the heart to throw it out. You can go through it. It’s in the garage.”

  “That would be nice. Thank you,” Elle said.

  Three cardboard boxes were piled up next to some gardening equipment in the corner. “It’s the one on the top,” the woman said, pointing. She then left to give them space to sift through the items.

  Callaway pulled the box down and opened it. At the top were trophies and medals. “Your sister was a swimmer?” he asked.

  Elle was surprised by the question. “Why do you ask?”

  “Never mind,” he said, and moved on. He found framed pictures under the trophies. He lifted the first one. Katie was smiling next to a diving board.

  “What did you find?” Elle asked anxiously.

  “Photos of Katie when she was younger.”

  “Do you mind?” Elle asked, removing the glove on her right hand.

  Callaway gave the picture to her. She moved her fingers over the photo. Callaway sensed she wanted to touch something that belonged to her sister, maybe allowing Elle to feel Katie in some way.

  Callaway lifted the next picture. Katie was posing with another woman. The woman had dark curly hair, a brown complexion, and hazel eyes.

  “Did Katie have any friends in Milton?” he asked.

  “She never mentioned anyone to me.”

  The way Katie and the woman were smiling and making peace signs at the camera told him they were good friends.

  He did not see any other photos. He was sad Katie had cut Elle out of her new life, but her behavior made sense. The more people she had from her past life, the more questions they would raise.

  What was Katie afraid of that made her change her identity? he thought.

  He pulled out a binder. On the front were the words Fashion Academy printed in neat shorthand.

  “This must be Katie’s stuff from when she was going to school,” he said.

  He shoved his hand deeper into the box and pulled out a small leather satchel. He unzipped the bag and realized it held women’s hygiene products.

  “What’s that?” Elle asked.

  Callaway handed the bag to her. He returned to the box. So far, he had not found anything that could be useful to them. He sifted through more items and realized there was nothing more to see.

  He turned to Elle.

  He noticed something lying next to her foot.

  It wasn’t there before, he thought.

  “Did you drop something?” he asked.

  “Did I?”

  “Oh, right,” he said, feeling sheepish. He leaned down and picked the item up. It was a wallet-size black-and-white photo of a man. The picture looked like a mug shot. The man’s features were rough and hard. The back bore the initials BR.

  “Who’s BR?” Callaway asked.

  Elle thought for a moment. “Could it be Bruno Rocco?”

  “It might well be,” Callaway replied, staring at the photo.

  SIXTY-TWO

  Why was Isaiah calling a stripper on the morning of his death? Holt wondered.

  Fisher was right that Cassandra Stevens was not her real name. He was unable to find her in the police department’s database. He even tried “Cassie Stevens” and came up empty.

  The only thing they had was the address the strip club owner had given them. They were on their way to check.

  Fisher was in the passenger seat, and he could tell she had a lot on her mind.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “First it’s the heroin, and now it’s a stripper. What did Isaiah get himself into?”

  “Yeah, I was thinking that,” she admitted. “But I was also thinking that something doesn’t add up now that we know Cassandra Stevens is involved.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I don’t think Isaiah’s death had anything to do with drugs.”

  “But heroin residue was found in the Chrysler’s glove compartment.”

  “I think someone planted that there.”

  “Bo Smith?”

  “No. He wouldn’t risk putting it there and then get caught taking it. He nearly overdosed on the stuff.”

  “Okay, but I don’t see how the heroin doesn’t play a role in what happened.”

  “If you examine Isaiah’s text messages to Cassandra, you will see that she was in some sort of trouble and that he was worried about her. He even mentioned going to the police. Why would someone who was carrying heroin on him offer to contact the police? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “A lot doesn’t make sense at the moment,” Holt said.

  “Right. And then in her text back to Isaiah, Cassandra told him to meet her at the furniture store’s parking lot. This tells us Isaiah’s visit to that neighborhood had n
othing to do with a drug deal. He was just following her instructions. Also, Cassandra never once mentioned any drugs in her messages to him.”

  “But they did speak for one minute and twenty-seven seconds. That’s enough time for her to tell him to bring the drugs to that location.”

  Fisher gave him a hard look. “It sounds like you believe Isaiah was a drug dealer who died during a deal gone bad.”

  Holt shook his head. “No. As a detective, I follow the evidence, not what’s in my heart. Isaiah was found dead in a vehicle that had traces of an illegal drug. Whether it’s his or not is still to be determined. He was in contact with a woman who was not involved in a respectable profession. Whether she was his girlfriend or not, I am not sure. What I am sure of is that he had no business being where he was two days ago. He was supposed to be in class, which he had skipped to meet this woman. Isaiah made a choice—a terrible one—that resulted in him getting killed.”

  Holt’s knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel. He was preparing himself for the worst. In case the truth of Isaiah’s death turned out to be unpleasant, he wanted to be ready.

  They were now on a deserted open road. There was nothing but farmland on either side of them.

  “Where are we?” Fisher asked.

  “I don’t know, but I punched in the right address in the GPS.”

  The screen was indicating they were less than a mile away from their destination. Fisher had a sinking feeling they were not going to find what they were looking for.

  Her instincts were proved correct when the GPS alerted them that they had passed their stop. There was no sign of any residence as far as their eyes could see.

  The address Cassandra Stevens had given the strip club owner was false.

  SIXTY-THREE

  Callaway and Elle were back at the restaurant. Joely had already served them. Callaway had ordered coffee and a cherry-filled Danish while Elle requested plain tea.

  The box containing Katie’s personal items was in the Impala’s trunk. He did not want to leave the box behind. They would be put out to the curb as garbage otherwise.

  “I would like to take the box with me,” Elle said.

  “Of course, it’s your sister’s, and that makes it yours.”