The Charger was the reason he was driving the minivan. It had suffered exterior damage when a client had gone at it with a baseball bat. At least that’s what Callaway thought was used. The weapon could have been a tire iron or a wrench. Whatever was used had cracked the Charger’s windshield, smashed the taillights, and dented the body.
The car had since been restored to its full glory, but Callaway did not have the money to pay for the work done. He rarely had money to begin with, but that was another story.
The auto shop’s owner had done him favors before, and Callaway was not about to swindle him out of his hard work.
He offered to repay the owner by taking on small tasks at the shop. It would take months, maybe even years, but Callaway was adamant he would pay every penny he owed him.
Paying off the bill would be much easier and a lot quicker if Callaway landed a solid case. He was a private investigator who rarely investigated anything. He was desperate and broke. He was accustomed to following cheating spouses, but he was now even willing to find people’s missing pets.
Boo Boo hasn’t been seen in days? No problem. PI Lee Callaway will bring her home.
He turned on the radio. The speakers blared children’s music. He pressed a button and another children’s song came on. After failing to find an adult radio station, he let the children’s music play.
Ten minutes later, he found himself singing along with the songs. They were kind of catchy, and also positive. They made him feel like he could do anything if he set his mind to it.
If this orphaned girl can become a princess, he thought, why can’t I get my Charger back?
He reached his destination: a bungalow. He parked in the driveway. A woman holding a baby came out to meet him. He handed her the invoice. The minivan had come to the mechanic shop for an oil change, a wheel alignment, and a transmission fluid replacement. The woman did not have a second car, so the shop owner agreed to have one of his employees drive her van back to her. Fortunately, Callaway was at the shop, and he gladly took on the task.
The woman paid him the amount on the invoice, and then she handed him an additional ten dollars as a tip.
Lady, I’m not some pizza delivery guy, he wanted to say. But he pocketed the cash. He was not about to turn down a kind gesture.
He thanked her and left.
SIX
Dillon Scott lay on the living room carpet. His eyes were closed, and even in death, he was still handsome. He had aged gracefully in front of his audience. His face was slightly wrinkled, but it made him more distinguished. His hair was still thick with not a gray strand in sight. He had a small scar at the top of his chin. He had gotten it in a fight during his troubled youth. Someone had hit him with a beer bottle. The wound required over forty stitches to close up.
Fisher found the scar charming. She couldn’t help but stare at it whenever she watched one of his movies. The scar gave him an air of danger, even when he was playing a helpless schmuck. As a viewer, you could never tell when he would rise up and save the day.
His arms rested by his sides as if he was asleep.
Did someone move his body? Fisher thought. And was his death caused by falling on the table?
She couldn’t be sure.
The coffee table’s glass top was in pieces. Shards of glass lay scattered around Scott.
She took a step back to get a better view of the scene. The sectional sofa took up most of the living room. Behind the sofa was a built-in bookshelf that held many books. The coffee table was in front of the sofa, and across from it was a fireplace. On top of the fireplace was a large LCD screen. It was not turned on, which told her Scott was not watching TV at the time of the attack.
He had been attacked; she was certain of that. She could not imagine him fainting on the coffee table. The body’s positioning would be more… natural. The arms would be at different angles, the legs would be spread apart, the head would likely be turned left or right, and the probability of the body being on one of its sides would also be very high.
It looked like the scene was staged.
But why?
Even if it was, what did the killer gain by moving the body? And why not move the body completely, perhaps out of the house even? The house was in a secluded location. The next neighbor was half a mile away.
The only logical explanation was that the killer was cleaning up evidence that may have been left behind.
She walked around the room. She hoped one of the framed photos on the wall would give her an idea of what the room looked like before the murder. It was common to see families posing on a sofa or in front of the fireplace. She might detect what, if anything, had been altered by the killer.
She frowned when she saw that all the photos were of landscapes, architecture, and nature.
She did learn one thing as she moved around the living room. The house did not belong to Dillon Scott. There was nothing personal she could find anywhere. No photos of him or his wife and children. No posters of movies he had starred in.
She was told that actors were vain and insecure. They constantly needed to be reminded that they were movie stars and deserved the attention they received.
Maybe Scott was different. Maybe he didn’t care for the adulation.
If that was the case, he would be a rarity in the profession.
SEVEN
Fisher left the house and walked up to the limousine parked in the driveway. A man was behind the wheel. He got out the moment he saw her approach. He was wearing a suit, tie, and polished shoes. He was clean-shaven, and his hair was gelled back.
“Officer McConnell told me you called 9-1-1,” Fisher said.
The man swallowed. “Um, yeah, I did.”
She could tell she would have to be gentle with him. The man looked like he was about to faint. “Your name?” she asked.
“David Gill.”
“What were you doing here, Mr. Gill?”
“I was hired by the studio to drive Mr. Scott.”
“When did Mr. Scott move into this property?”
“I picked him up from the airport two days ago.”
“And you’ve been driving him around Milton ever since?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, tell me what happened before you called 9-1-1.”
He took a deep breath. “It’s my job to also make sure Mr. Scott is ready before I pick him up. I’ve been a limo driver for almost ten years, and you wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve showed up and the client was still in bed. A lot of actors aren’t known for being punctual or considerate.”
Fisher’s brow furrowed. “Considerate?”
Gill’s eyes widened. “I mean... um…”
She gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, I just want to understand what you are saying. That’s all.”
“Some of the actors treat us like we are their servants,” Gill explained. “Like we’re supposed to be at their beck and call twenty-four seven. There have been a dozen times when I’ve had to wait in my vehicle for hours while they got ready to go. There have also been times when I’ve shown up and they’ve disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” she asked, curious.
“Yeah, they decided to go with someone else instead, and they didn’t bother to notify me. I wouldn’t find out until much later. Even though I’m still being paid, I think it’s disrespectful.”
Fisher sensed Gill was frustrated. “Okay, so you called him before you arrived at the property, is that correct?”
“Yes. I called the contact number I was provided for Mr. Scott, but he didn’t pick up. I was concerned. I had to drive him for his rehearsals, and I didn’t want him to be late. The studios blame us when it happens.” He shook his head at the absurdity. “Most of these studio bosses don’t have the power to make these stars do anything they don’t want to, so how can we make them? We’re just hired hands.” He exhaled. “I then drove over here. I got out and knocked on the door. When I didn’t get a response, I checked the door and it was u
nlocked.”
This is interesting, she thought. “Unlocked?”
“Yeah.”
“Does the house have an alarm system?”
“I believe it does. I saw Mr. Scott punch in the code.”
“Do you know the code?”
Gill shook his head. “They don’t share that information with us.”
“Who would know then?”
“Mr. Scott, and I guess the production company.”
Fisher made a mental note of this. “When you found the door unlocked, what happened?”
“I called out Mr. Scott’s name. I thought maybe he was still asleep. I went inside, and that’s when I saw—” Gill gulped for breath, “—his body in the living room.”
“Did you touch anything?”
“I checked to see if he was okay.”
“So, you did?”
“Um, yeah, I guess so.”
“And then what did you do?”
“I ran out of the house and dialed 9-1-1.”
Fisher pondered this.
“What did you do yesterday?”
“Yesterday?”
“Yes, and don’t spare any of the details.”
“Um, okay, sure. So, I woke up in the morning and I—”
“No, Mr. Gill, I mean from the time you picked up Mr. Scott from the studio.”
“Oh, right. At exactly six o’clock, I was at the studio parking lot, waiting for Mr. Scott. He came out of the building and got in my limo.”
“What was he wearing?”
Gill paused to think for a moment. “He had on a white T-shirt, a green jacket, blue jeans, and I think he was also wearing black boots,” he said.
That’s what he’s wearing now, Fisher thought. Minus the boots.
“What was his demeanor like?”
Gill looked confused. “Demeanor?”
“Was he quiet? Talkative? Upset?”
“They don’t really talk to us. Most of them don’t even acknowledge that we exist. They are usually on their phones, or if they have company, they talk to them.”
“Was Mr. Scott alone?”
“Oh, yes.”
“So, you picked him up and you…”
Fisher let her words trail off.
“I drove him straight to the house,” Gill said.
“And during the drive, did he call anyone?”
Gill pondered Fisher’s question. “He kept checking his phone,” he replied, “but I don’t think he spoke to anyone. I mean, as drivers, we are supposed to be invisible, but it’s easy to listen in on their conversations if they are talking loudly. The majority of the actors don’t care what they are saying in the limo. They know we would never disclose what was said to anyone. If we did, we would never work in the industry again. These people value their privacy like it’s the most precious thing in the world. I guess they have to because they are so famous. I know of a driver who mistakenly spoke up while the client was talking to someone on the phone. The client was confused about what day it was, and the driver was trying to be helpful. He was let go right after, when the client complained. The driver was hired to take the client from point A to point B, not to eavesdrop on her personal conversations.”
“What time did you drop him off at the house?”
“Around six thirty.”
“And did you wait around on the property?”
“I asked Mr. Scott if he wanted to go anywhere. Usually after a long day, they like to go to a club, a restaurant, a bar, somewhere to unwind, but Mr. Scott said he wanted to go over his script. I reminded him I would pick him up at nine thirty the next morning. He said that was fine. I then drove home.”
Fisher’s eyes narrowed. Up until six thirty the night before, Dillon Scott was still alive. Now she had to find out what he did after that, which led to his demise.
EIGHT
Callaway got off the bus. He was scowling. After dropping off the minivan, he didn’t have enough money to take a taxi back. A cab would cost a lot more than the tip the customer had given him.
He had to walk four blocks before he found a bus stop, and then he had to wait a half hour for a bus to arrive. If that wasn’t bad enough, he had to sit between a man whose large butt took up a section of his seat and a man who had fallen asleep with his head on Callaway’s shoulder.
Callaway thought about moving to another seat, but he was sandwiched so tight he could barely move an inch. He was relieved when the sleeping man finally got off the bus. Callaway wasn’t sure how the man knew it was his stop. He just stood up, wiped drool off his face, and disembarked.
Maybe this is his daily routine, Callaway thought, and his body has an internal alarm clock.
Callaway was grateful to be out of the hot and stinking bus. The bus had no ventilation, making Callaway feel like a piece of steak being cooked to medium-rare.
He walked straight to a mechanic shop down the street. A Hispanic man appeared from behind the hood of a car. He had smooth dark hair, a pencil-thin mustache above his upper lip, and whiskers on his chin. He was wearing blue overalls.
“Lee, you’re back so early?” he asked with a smile, wiping grease off his hands with a small cloth.
“You call that early? It took me nearly an hour to get back here.”
Julio shrugged. “I figured it might take you the entire day.”
Callaway shook his head and pulled out the money the woman had given him.
Julio grabbed the cash and put it in his pocket.
“You’re not going to count it?” Callaway asked.
“Should I?” Julio asked.
“I mean, what if I pocketed some of it?”
“You could have, but I’ll eventually find out once I count it later.”
“For your information, it’s all there.”
“Good,” Julio said.
Callaway walked over to a black car in the back of the garage. His beloved Charger was good as new.
He moved his hand across the side of the car. He wanted his baby to know that he was doing everything he could to bring her home.
“Have you considered selling it?” Julio asked, coming up behind him.
Callaway glared at Julio as if he had called his mother fat and ugly. “It’s not for sale,” he growled.
“I know, I know,” Julio said. “It’s just that it will take you a very long time to pay me back if you keep doing these small jobs for me.”
“I’m well aware of that, Julio. Say, are you sure you don’t need my services?”
Julio looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I can be very useful to you.”
“Like how?”
“I can dig up dirt on your competition.”
“My competition?”
“Yeah, the other garages in the neighborhood.”
“You want to put them out of business?”
Callaway paused. “I didn’t mean that, but I could find out if they are overcharging their customers. It would be a great boost for your business if they were.”
Julio laughed. “All mechanics overcharge their customers, Lee. That’s how they stay in business.”
Callaway’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t overcharge me for the Charger, did you?”
Julio’s expression turned dead serious. He waved a finger at Callaway and said, “I did not charge you for labor, only for parts. I’m not making a penny off the Charger. I know how much it means to you, Lee.”
Julio was a hardworking family man. For that reason, Callaway had left the Charger at the shop until he had enough money to take the car back. Plus, after Callaway had dropped off the Charger for repairs, Julio had lent him an older model Chevy Impala so he would have a mode of transportation. Julio didn’t have to do that, but he did. Callaway had nothing but the utmost respect for him.
He leaned closer to the Charger and whispered, “I’ll be back for you, darling.”
He left the garage.
NINE
Fisher went back inside the house. She foun
d a woman in a white lab coat leaning over the body.
Andrea Wakefield was petite with short, cropped hair, and she wore round prescription glasses. Her eyes were intently focused on the victim’s face as she recorded and stored all pertinent information in the back of her mind.
Fisher noticed that the medical examiner was smiling. Fisher had rarely seen Wakefield smile before.
Fisher felt almost guilty for intruding on her moment of bliss. She slowly asked, “Did you find anything interesting?”
Wakefield coughed as if she had been caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar. “I… um… I was admiring the victim’s skeletal structure.”
Fisher blinked. “Skeletal structure?”
Wakefield blushed. “I meant to say the victim is still striking.”
Fisher wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or something more morbid. The medical examiner spent most of her waking hours with cadavers. Fisher’s partner, Holt, always believed Wakefield had more affinity for the dead than the living.
“You’re a fan?” Fisher asked.
Wakefield nodded. “When I saw him in Romeo and Juliet, I was smitten.”
Fisher was surprised. There wasn’t a lot she knew about Wakefield, even though she had worked with the woman on numerous murder investigations.
The relationship between detectives and the medical examiner was built on trust. Without the medical examiner’s findings, the detectives had no case. The medical examiner was also called to testify in court, and the M.E.’s statements and the detectives’ statements could not be divergent, or else a savvy defense lawyer would tear their opinions to shreds.
Fisher believed they now had something in common: they both admired Dillon Scott. “Did you have a poster of him on your bedroom wall as well?” Fisher asked.
Wakefield shook her head. “No, but I watched Romeo and Juliet thirty-four times.”
That’s an odd number, Fisher thought. “Why thirty-four?”
“Well, during the thirty-fifth viewing, the DVD player stopped working. I might have watched the movie over a dozen times in a twenty-four-hour period.” She paused for a moment. “I had just come out of a long-term relationship, and I found the movie soothing, even though the lead characters met a tragic end.”
The Falling Girl (A Private Investigator Mystery Series of Crime and Suspense, Lee Callaway #3) Page 2
