Wakefield had a boyfriend? Fisher thought. I had no idea she even dated.
Wakefield turned back to the body and said, “I don’t see any signs of a struggle. The fingernails are clean, and there is no visible bruising anywhere on the face, neck, or arms.”
Fisher knew those areas of the body were more prone to attack. “Is the cause of death from falling on the coffee table?”
Wakefield leaned closer to Scott. With gloved hands, she turned his head to one side. “As you can see, there are shards of glass in the victim’s hair, which would indicate he fell on the table and broke it, but I don’t think he died from the impact.” She moved her fingers around the top of the head and then parted the hair to reveal a visible gash on the dome of the skull. “Without a thorough examination, I can only give you my perfunctory opinion.”
“Understood.”
“It looks like the victim died from blunt force trauma. His attacker hit him on the head. He then fell on top of the coffee table and rolled onto the floor.”
Fisher thought that made sense. “Did you notice anything else?”
“There is a stain on the carpet,” Wakefield replied.
“I noticed that too,” Fisher said. “I think the attacker cleaned the carpet with bleach. In fact, the entire crime scene looks like it has been restaged.”
“No, not that stain… that one,” Wakefield said, pointing at the foot of the sofa. There was a deep red splash on the white material.
How could I have missed it before? Fisher thought.
“Is that blood?” she asked
“I don’t think so,” Wakefield replied. “There doesn’t appear to be any indication of much blood from the head wound. Also, I have a similar type of rug at home, and I’ve been clumsy a few times as well.”
“So, what is it?”
“Red wine.”
Fisher’s eyes narrowed. “You believe the victim may have been drinking when he was attacked?”
“Yes.”
Fisher had not seen a glass on the floor when she surveyed the crime scene. She spotted a small table in the corner. She walked over. The table held several bottles of liquor, but no wine bottles or glasses.
The only logical explanation was that the attacker must have removed them.
TEN
Fisher decided to take a quick tour of the house. The crime scene unit would conduct a thorough examination by taking photographs of the scene, dusting for fingerprints on all locks and doors, and making sure all crucial evidence was tagged and sent for further analysis.
Fisher’s review was cursory. She just wanted to get a better idea of what might have transpired when the victim was murdered. She had a vague theory formulating in her mind. With Holt, she could toss ideas back and forth, trying to see if her theory was valid, but now that he was miles away, she had to figure things out by herself.
She knew Dillon Scott was not home alone the night before. He was having a get-together with someone over drinks. Perhaps during their get-together, they had a disagreement about something, and the other person hit him with a heavy object.
Fisher was certain the murder weapon was not in the house. If the attacker had cleaned up the crime scene, he or she would have definitely taken the weapon with them. The attacker would have been downright careless not to.
Even so, Fisher had to be certain.
She checked the kitchen. The fridge was stocked with bottled water and nothing else. She opened the lid of the garbage bin and found a Styrofoam box stuffed inside. She pried the box open and found a half-eaten sandwich, most likely from the day before.
She made her way upstairs. There were three bedrooms—two with beds and dressers, and one with a table and chair for an office. The first bedroom did not look like it had been touched. The master bedroom, however, had several pieces of luggage on the floor, and the bed sheets were in disarray.
A small blue case was on the nightstand next to the bed. She gently unzipped the case and found an insulin injection inside.
I didn’t know Dillon Scott had diabetes, she thought. That explains the bottles of water in the fridge.
In diabetics, excess sugar builds up in the blood stream, forcing the kidneys to work overtime to filter and absorb the sugar. Diabetics drink plenty of water to ensure the kidneys flush out excess sugar. The fact that the disease is so common these days explains why no celebrity media outlets reported Scott’s condition.
She spotted a folder on the bed. She picked the folder up and discovered it contained a movie script.
“Memories of a Killer,” she read out loud. “A psychological thriller about an investigator in pursuit of a killer who may not remember he committed the crimes.”
Fisher had stopped watching murder mysteries the moment she became a detective. Her work was already filled with dark and disturbing realities. She did not need to be reminded of them when she got home. She much preferred watching romantic comedies. Lately, though, she had found herself immersed in sci-fi and fantasy. There was something relaxing about watching people fight aliens or dragons. However, the script’s premise sounded interesting. She would have loved to see what Scott did with the material, but now she would never get to.
Only one piece of luggage was open. Scott had arrived two days earlier, which explained why he did not have time to unpack.
She took one look around the bedroom and left.
As she made her way downstairs, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something.
When she reached the main floor, she remembered what was missing.
Scott’s cell phone!
She had not found the phone on his person, nor was it anywhere else in the house. The driver had clearly stated that Scott kept staring at his cell phone throughout the ride to the house.
Could Scott have been messaging his attacker?
Did the attacker take the phone when he or she cleaned up the crime scene?
Fisher was not a hundred percent sure, but her gut instinct was telling her that was why Scott’s phone was nowhere to be seen.
ELEVEN
The Chevy Impala was a nineties model with over three hundred thousand miles on the odometer. The exterior was covered in rust spots and had a few dents. The interior was brown and ugly, and there were tears in the seat fabric. Even with all the imperfections, Callaway had come to enjoy driving the vehicle. Julio’s loaner was reliable.
He would miss the Impala when he got his Charger back.
He pulled into a parking spot outside a restaurant. He found Joely behind the counter, serving a customer a plate full of eggs, toast, and bacon.
Callaway pulled up a stool and sat at the counter.
Joely Patterson filled the customer’s cup with steaming coffee and then came over to him. She had blonde hair that she kept pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a white apron over her tight-fitting T-shirt. The necklace she wore had a pendant that read Joshua.
Joely was a single mother who had aspirations of becoming a singer. She thought she had finally caught her break when a music producer asked to hear her work. She soon realized the producer was interested in her body, not her voice.
“Nice to see you this morning, Lee,” she said with a smile.
Callaway smiled back. “I figured I’d come and see you. How’s Joshua, by the way?” he asked.
Joely beamed with motherly pride. “He’s growing up fast. I signed him up in a pee-wee baseball league, and I tell you, Joshua is a natural. He can hit the ball farther than the older kids. When he makes it to the pros, I’ll quit this job and never set foot in a diner again.”
Joshua was only six years old, and the odds of making it to the major leagues were no better than winning the lottery.
“You can’t give up on your dreams,” Callaway said. “Sooner or later, someone will see your talent and offer you a big contract. Then you can quit this job and never set foot in another diner again.”
Her ex-husband, Joshua’s father, was an equipment manager for a rock
band. While touring on the road with the band, he called Joely and told her he wanted a divorce. He last saw Joshua when he was two.
Joely’s smile widened. “Thanks Lee, but flattery won’t get you a free meal.”
“I meant every word of it,” he said, sticking his hand in his back pocket. He pulled out the ten-dollar tip the minivan’s owner had given him and dropped it on the counter. “I’ll have whatever that’ll cover,” he said.
Callaway had stopped asking Joely for favors. Bill, the restaurant owner, had warned her not to serve him if he did not bring cash. She was raising a child with her waitressing job, and Callaway was not about to jeopardize that.
She grabbed the bill. “Have you ever thought about getting a steady job? One that will leave you with money in your pocket?” She thought it was cool that he was a private investigator, but she knew the work was sporadic and the pay was negligible.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” he confessed. He was getting tired of being broke. If he didn’t get a case soon, he would have to face the hard truth that his chosen profession was nothing more than a fanciful hobby.
She leaned closer. “One of our cooks quit two days ago. Bill is looking to hire someone to replace him. I know Bill doesn’t like you very much, but I could maybe try to convince him to take you on, you know.”
“Thanks, I appreciate the gesture, but I’m not much of a cook.” Callaway suddenly realized he did not have many skills to offer potential employers. He was not good with numbers, so a desk job was out of the question. Plus, sitting in a cubicle like a caged animal would make him gouge his eyes out with his fingers. He was not good with his hands, so a job in the trades was out of the question. Julio could not offer him a position in his garage because Callaway knew next to nothing about what was under a car’s hood. Also, Callaway did not trust himself with someone else’s vehicle. He would easily botch any repair job.
“I can serve customers,” he said.
“That’s my job,” she said with a mock scowl. “And with your demeanor, you’ll only drive customers away.”
She was right, he knew. He could be salty and a jerk when he was having a bad day. Joely, on the other hand, had a gift for making customers feel special.
She held up the ten-dollar bill. “Let me get you the biggest meal we’ve got on the menu,” she said with a smile.
TWELVE
The news of Dillon Scott’s death had spread like wildfire. Someone had tipped off the press, and Fisher believed the limo driver, Mr. Gill, was doing so when she first arrived.
The press was the least of her worries. They understood the rules of an active crime scene. If they broke them, their access to future police briefings would be restricted. The police department rarely took such drastic actions—they did not want to appear to influence public opinion—but sometimes such actions were necessary.
Fisher was far more concerned about Scott’s fans. Their love and devotion was so blind that it made them act irrationally. It was not uncommon to have someone get past the yellow police tape just to get close to their idols.
To prevent something like that from happening, the Milton PD had stationed additional officers at the scene. Police cruisers blocked off the entrance on the main road.
Fisher stood in front of the house, watching the chaos from a distance. She could see a row of vans lining the side of the main road. All major news outlets were there, but also amongst them were vans for tabloid magazines, entertainment channels, and even talk shows. The media circus was in full swing.
She felt immense weight on her chest. The world’s eyes were on her as she searched for Scott’s killer. She wished Holt was next to her. He would take some of the pressure off her. She knew he would gladly end his forced retreat and be on the next flight to Milton if she made the call.
She would not.
Holt was long overdue for a break.
She had already conducted a walk around the property. There were four security cameras—two in front, and two in back of the house. She noted the security company’s information. She would pay them a visit later in the day. She hoped the cameras had caught what had happened the night before.
She still had no motive and no murder weapon.
Officers had searched the grounds for anything that could have been used as a weapon. They came up empty. She was not surprised, and the zero results further confirmed her belief that the attacker had taken the weapon with them after sanitizing the crime scene.
The commotion on the main road suddenly got louder. There was a large crowd around the entrance. She could see people holding their cell phones as they took photos and videos.
They are taking photos of me, she thought.
The media was waiting for a statement, but she was in no mood to get in front of the cameras. She knew very little about what happened, and as such, she had little to tell them. Scott’s fans were anxious for word, but there was nothing she could do about that. The investigation was still in its infancy.
She turned back to the house and stopped. There were two marble lion statues on either side of the stairs leading up to the front door. The lions were seated with their heads held high, as if on high alert. What caught her attention was not the animals but how identical each statue was to the other.
Her eyes narrowed as something flashed in the back of her head.
She raced into the house. She found Wakefield was still with Scott’s body, which was now in a black body bag.
“Are you okay?” Wakefield asked when she saw the look on Fisher’s face.
Without responding, Fisher moved past her and headed for the bookshelf behind the sofa. She leaned over and picked up an object. The ivory bookend was carved in the shape of a Roman column.
Fisher turned to Wakefield. “Could this be used to harm someone?”
Wakefield came over and held the bookend in her hands. “It is sturdy and heavy. Yes, I do believe it could.”
“When I was examining the living room, I noticed one bookend, but I paid no attention to it. It was when I saw the identical lion statues outside that I realized there had to have been another identical bookend.”
Fisher pointed to an empty space on the shelf. She then took the bookend from Wakefield and placed it in the space. The bookend fit perfectly.
“The missing bookend is our murder weapon,” Fisher said.
THIRTEEN
Becky Miller lay in bed with a blanket over her head. A chill went through her body, and she quickly hugged herself tight. Her eyes were red and puffy. She had been crying for hours. She was scared.
She was sixteen years old. She was five-foot-three, weighed less than a hundred pounds, and had curly brown hair that reached to her shoulders.
She should have been in school, but she was at home, hiding in her bedroom. Her friends had called her, texted her, and some had sent her messages on her social media page.
She thought about telling them she was sick, but what if they started asking her more questions? Like what was wrong with her? Did she have a virus? She was not ready to face the queries just yet.
Her cell phone was next to her, and she could see it blinking, but she didn’t have the courage to check her messages. She was afraid of what she would see.
The last message she had read told her everything was fine and that she had nothing to worry about. The message made her feel good, but that lasted only a short moment. The reality was that everything was not fine—and might never be.
There was a knock at the door. Becky was so startled she almost jumped off the bed.
“Becky, are you okay, dear?” her mom asked.
“I’m fine, Mom,” she replied, her voice cracking.
“You don’t sound good.”
“I am, honest.”
“Can I come in?”
Becky knew if she protested, her mom would be even more concerned. She didn’t want her mom to worry because of her.
“Okay,” Becky finally said.
Sara Miller entere
d the room. She had curly brown hair, similar to her daughter’s. Wrinkles had begun to appear on her face, making her look older than she was. The past year had been tough on her, and it had been even tougher for Becky. But things had started to look up. Becky had found someone who was suffering as much as her, maybe even worse. She needed someone to share her pain, and he was just the person.
She was hoping to introduce him to her mom, but then the world came crashing down on her.
Her mom came over and sat on the edge of the bed. “Baby, why are you crying?” she softly asked.
“I feel cold.”
Her mom put her hand on her forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”
“I just don’t feel good.”
“Do you want me to take you to the doctor?”
“No. I just want to stay in bed today. Is that okay?”
“Of course it is. Do you want me to turn on the TV?”
“No!” Becky shouted.
Her mom was taken aback, but she said nothing.
“I just want to sleep,” Becky said.
Her mom smiled. “I have to go to work, but there’s meatloaf in the fridge. If you get hungry, you can microwave some for yourself.”
“Okay, I will.”
Her mom leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “I love you, baby.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
When her mom closed the door, Becky pulled the blanket over her head.
She began to cry again.
FOURTEEN
The meal consisted of homemade pancakes covered in maple syrup, fried eggs, buttered toast, a side of oven-roasted potatoes, and a steaming cup of coffee. Way more food than the ten dollars Callaway had given Joely could cover, but she had gone out of her way to stuff his plate with just about everything.
Callaway enjoyed every bite.
He was bursting at the seams as he climbed a flight of narrow metal stairs. The Callaway Private Investigation Office was on the second floor of a building located above a soup and noodle restaurant. The office had no sign indicating its location, but it did have a telephone number taped to the black metal door.
The Falling Girl (A Private Investigator Mystery Series of Crime and Suspense, Lee Callaway #3) Page 3
