The Gone Sister (A Private Investigator Mystery Series of Crime and Suspense, Lee Callaway #2)

by Thomas Fincham

  “Didn’t the kid’s parents sue you?”

  “They wanted to, but once they realized this place was worth less than the cost of hiring a lawyer, they decided not to.”

  “What about liability insurance? They could have gotten something from that.”

  “I got no insurance,” the owner replied.

  Fisher was surprised.

  “I got a license, though,” the owner said. “It’s probably forty years old. I got it here somewhere if you want to take a look.”

  “No thanks,” Fisher replied. “Are you aware there was a murder across the road from your motel?”

  His eyes widened. “There was?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “No. I rarely leave the motel. I have to be here in case a guest arrives.”

  Right, Fisher thought.

  “And do you get a lot of guests?” she asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “You do?” she said, not believing him.

  “We charge by the hour, so we see people at all times of the day… and night.”

  She understood. He was referring to hookers and their clients. His motel was used as a rendezvous spot.

  “Do you have security cameras?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Never needed them. Can’t afford them either. Plus, my guests would prefer not to be recorded entering and leaving the establishment.” The owner made it sound like his was a five-star hotel. It’s more like a dump, Fisher thought. The people who visit are nothing but unsavory characters.

  What was Isaiah doing in a neighborhood like this?

  TWENTY-ONE

  After going through his emails, Callaway leaned back in his chair, feeling completely dejected. He could not believe no one was reaching out to hire him. There was not a single message about a job. Just to make sure everything was working properly, he went on to his website and used the Contact page to send himself a message. It came through without a hitch.

  How can I have no queries? he thought. The city was brimming with cheaters and philanderers. Surely, they could use his services.

  After the Paul Gardener case, Callaway figured he would hit it big. People would be contacting him in droves. And they were.

  Unfortunately, all these people wanted him to do something he was not qualified for. Relatives wrote to him seeking help in exonerating their loved ones. Even convicted criminals were sending him information on their cases with the hope that Callaway would somehow be able to get them out of prison. They thought he was some kind of “miracle man” who would find the missing evidence that could lead them to their freedom.

  Most, though perhaps not all, were guilty of the crimes they were punished for. A jury of their peers had gone through the evidence and given a verdict against them. There was nothing Callaway could really do to change that. He was not a lawyer, and he was no longer a law enforcement member. True, he had contacts both in high and low places—mostly low places—and he was dogged and determined to complete any job he had agreed to take on. Apart from that, he was no different than other civilians.

  There were cases of unsolved murders or missing persons going back decades that broke his heart. The people who contacted him about such cases were barely clinging onto hope, and they felt Callaway was their last resort.

  He could always take their money and “try” to look into those cold cases, but he knew he would only be toying with his clients’ emotions. He did not have the time or the resources to take on cases that dated back many years. If the police could not do anything, how could a guy like him do it?

  Losing a loved one to a crime and never being able to see them again was not something Callaway took lightly. The people who reached out to him were looking for answers, or they simply wanted justice or closure. He knew full well he could never give that to them, so he always politely turned them away. Better to disappoint them now than take their money and disappoint them later when he came up empty. The latter would be like pouring salt on their wounds. He would not take advantage of the desperate, which is exactly what these people were. Callaway was not the savior they were looking for.

  He sighed and rubbed his face. His hand inadvertently touched his nose. Bolts of pain shot up into his brain. He grimaced. He had placed a bandage over his nose, but even then, it was still sensitive.

  He would need more painkillers.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Fisher was at the Milton PD seated behind her desk when she spotted Holt stepping out of the elevator.

  She got up and approached him. His face was drawn, and he looked like he had been through hell.

  “How’s Marjorie doing?” she asked.

  “Not well.”

  “And your brother-in-law?”

  “Dennis is not talking much. I think it hit him harder than Marjorie. He’s grieving in his own way, I guess.”

  “Did you take them to the morgue?” Fisher asked.

  “I did,” Holt said. “I knew it was Isaiah already, but Marjorie and Dennis wanted to see him with their own eyes. They wanted to confirm their worst fear.”

  Holt’s jaw tightened.

  “How are you doing?” Fisher gently asked him. She could see he was trying to put up a stalwart front, but she could also see the turmoil in his bloodshot eyes.

  “I’m good.”

  Fisher looked around. There was no one around them. “You can talk to me, Greg. I’m your partner.”

  “I said I’m good.”

  His eyes moistened.

  Fisher sighed. “If you don’t talk to me, I’m going to report you to OAP.”

  The Officer Assistance Program was set up to help officers with professional or personal matters. If they were under mental stress, going through difficulties at home, or having financial troubles, they were required to speak to an OAP staff member. The department believed officers under some form of duress would not be able to perform their duties as required. Worse, they could do something that could harm their career, or more importantly, affect the department negatively. The latter was the real reason for the OAP. A vast majority of the officers believed the department could care less about what they were going through. The only thing that mattered was the budget and the performance of the department as a whole.

  Holt grimaced at the thought of going to the OAP for help. He sighed, sounding heartbroken. “I never thought losing Isaiah would affect me so much,” he said slowly. “Nancy and I have been through our share of hardships, and I always figured because of that, I would be able to handle anything life threw my way. I’m not so sure of that anymore.”

  “A loss is a loss,” Fisher said. “No matter who it is and when it happens, it affects us all in powerful ways.”

  Holt let her words of wisdom sink in.

  “How is Nancy?” she asked.

  “She did not take the news well,” he replied. “I sent her to her mother’s. I thought it would be good for her.” He cleared his throat and wiped his eyes. “What’s going on with the case?”

  The determination was back in his voice.

  “I still have not been able to contact the furniture store owner.”

  “Do you have his address? We should go knock on his door,” Holt said, eager to do something.

  “I think we should focus on the owner of the Chrysler.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “I ran the license plate through the motor vehicle database and found it’s registered to a Jay Bledson.”

  Holt’s eyes widened.

  “I know who that is,” he said.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Callaway was browsing news articles on his laptop when he heard a noise that made him pause.

  Someone was walking up to his office.

  He was not expecting anyone. He glanced at the desk drawer where he now kept his gun.

  He reached for the drawer, but a gut feeling made him pull his hand back.

  I’m being paranoid, he thought, shaking his head. I don’t owe money to anyone, nor have
I done anything wrong.

  The footsteps came to a halt. The door opened, and a woman poked her head in. Callaway relaxed. His landlady was short, slim, and Asian. Her hair was tied into a ponytail, and she had on a floral-pattern dress and flat heels.

  His landlady never showed up unless he was behind on rent or he did something that warranted her speaking to him. On a number of occasions, he had forgotten to turn off the lights before leaving, or left the TV on at full volume all night. Once during the winter, he did not shut the door properly, and strong winds blew it open. The heaters worked on overdrive to warm up the room, and the heating bill skyrocketed.

  The landlady was a stickler for money, and Callaway could not fault her for that. His rent barely covered any expenses, and she also had the soup and noodle restaurant to run. He had heard the restaurant was struggling as of late.

  He raised his arms up high. “Ms. Chen, I didn’t do it. I swear.”

  She ignored his comment and looked around the office. She did not step inside. The office was his property, after all, just as long as his rent was up to date.

  “I’m good for this month and next,” he added. With the fee from the Gardener case, he was able to cover his unpaid rent and also pay in advance for the upcoming months.

  “I’m not here about that,” she said with a wave of her hand. Her eyes narrowed. “What happened to your face?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “You look like a guy who got beat up by a woman.”

  “Not a woman, but her husband,” he said, correcting her.

  “You look like a sad pig,” Ms. Chen said before she burst out laughing.

  He sighed. I better get used to the jokes until my face heals, he thought. “What can I do for you, Ms. Chen?”

  She turned serious again. “There is a lady in the restaurant who wants to talk to you.”

  “Why doesn’t she come to my office? I’m right upstairs.”

  “She can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ll see for yourself.”

  She turned around and descended the metal stairs.

  What the hell just happened? he thought.

  He locked his office and went down to the restaurant. It was small with enough space for eight tables and chairs. He quickly spotted a woman seated at one of the tables by the windows.

  She had dark cropped hair, and she wore an oversized sweater. Her eyes were covered by large sunglasses, which Callaway recognized as those worn by people with sight impairment. The walking cane next to the table further confirmed this. She also wore black leather gloves.

  He approached her table. She smiled. “You’re Lee Callaway, right?” she said.

  “How’d you know?” he asked, surprised.

  “When I asked the lady for you, I heard her leave the restaurant. The door chimes whenever someone enters and leaves. The lady’s shoes also make a very distinctive sound when they hit the floor, so I could tell when she was back. Right after that, I heard the door chime again, along with footsteps approaching me, so I can only assume you are Lee Callaway.”

  The smile did not fade from her face.

  “Amazing,” he said. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

  “Please do,” she replied. “It would make for an awkward conversation if I’m sitting and you’re standing.”

  He pulled up a chair. He was almost grateful she could not see the heavy bandage covering his nose. “What can I do for you, Ms.…?”

  “Elle Pearson, but please call me Elle.”

  “Okay, what can I do for you, Elle?”

  “I need your help finding my sister.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The Milton College boasted over five thousand undergraduates and close to three thousand graduate students. The school specialized in arts and sciences and had a separate school of engineering.

  Isaiah was not a top prospect in high school. He only blossomed once he got to college. As a result, top basketball programs in the country were not knocking on his door. North Carolina, Louisville, Duke, Kentucky, had all passed on him.

  Holt remembered that Isaiah was crushed. He believed he had what it took to make it in the top-tier schools. Dennis, on the other hand, was grateful his son had not been accepted in any of those programs. He worried Isaiah would get lost in the limelight. He also wanted Isaiah to get an education. Dennis was an alumnus of Milton College. He wanted his son to follow in his footsteps. But he was not ignorant of Isaiah’s potential.

  In recent years, Milton College had risen from being known as an academic school to one which also had a thriving basketball program. They had the funding needed to push the program forward, and they had a young coach who knew how to connect with the players. Some of the top high school prospects in the state had joined the team. They saw the Milton Cougars as an opportunity to play big minutes and thus showcase their talent for professional scouts.

  Isaiah was just looking for the opportunity to step onto the court. He knew the moment he did, the world would see what he could do.

  When the college offered Isaiah a scholarship, Marjorie and Dennis were beyond elated. Their son would go to a respectable college, and he would not be far away from them. But it came with a caveat: Isaiah would have to prove he could make it onto the team.

  Over the summer, Isaiah was on campus every day. He worked harder for the upcoming season than all the prospects combined. Holt had driven him back and forth for practice on a number of occasions. He had seen the focus and determination on Isaiah’s face. He tried to tell him to enjoy his time as a student as these could be the best years of his youth. But Isaiah would have none of it. He wanted to succeed, and he was not going to let anything stop him.

  Holt could not fault Isaiah for wanting the best for himself. Holt also had the same sense of determination when he was focused on a case. He thought of nothing else but catching the perpetrator.

  Holt and Nancy were in the stands for Isaiah’s first game. Holt was overcome with pride when he saw Isaiah in the Milton Cougars uniform. Isaiah was subbed into the game in the middle of the first half with his team trailing behind by ten points. Isaiah’s infectious energy, his hounding of the other team’s best players, and his ability to hustle and do all the dirty work resulted in his team squeaking out a win. Isaiah tallied eight points, twelve rebounds, two steals, and three blocked shots in that game.

  The joy on Nancy’s face that night was something Holt would never forget.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The five-thousand-seat gymnasium was located in the middle of the campus. During home games, the crowds were loud and boisterous, sending a vibrant surge of energy into the arena. But now the gym was eerily quiet. The news of Isaiah’s death had reached the college.

  Holt and Fisher entered the gym and spotted two people at the other end of the court.

  An older man was consoling a student. The student was in tears as the man spoke gently and reassuringly to him.

  Holt had never spoken to Assistant Coach Jay Bledson before, but he had seen him on the sidelines during the games. Bledson was short in comparison to the players he coached. He was slim, and he was wearing a maroon t-shirt—the Cougars team color—and he had on black shorts.

  Holt introduced himself and Fisher, after which Bledson took them further away from the weeping student. He did not want the student to overhear their conversation.

  “Isaiah’s death has hit the team hard,” Bledson said with sadness in his eyes. “We have a road game tonight. I don’t think anyone on the team is thinking about that right now.”

  “Where’s Coach Loughton?” Holt asked. Earl Loughton was the Cougars’ head coach.

  “He’s meeting with faculty right now. And I believe afterwards he’ll visit Isaiah’s parents.”

  “Isaiah was my nephew,” Holt said.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Bledson said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Isaiah mentioned that someone in his family worked for the Milton Police
. I guess he was talking about you.”

  Holt felt a pang of sadness. Isaiah talked about me? he thought.

  “You’re here about the Chrysler, aren’t you?” Bledson asked, getting right to the point.

  “Yes. It is registered to you,” Holt replied. “Why was Isaiah driving it?”

  “He said he needed it to run an errand.”

  “And you let him take it?”

  “Sure, why not? Most of these kids come from poor families. They don’t have much money, so forget being able to own a car.”

  Holt felt a spark of irritation. “Isaiah’s parents have money,” he said.

  Bledson stared at him. “Listen. I try to help out these kids as best as I can. If they need to go somewhere, I’ll give them a ride. If they want to borrow my car while I’m on campus, I’ll let them. Just so long as they don’t damage it.”

  “What time did Isaiah borrow your car?” Holt asked.

  Bledson pondered the question. “I came to campus around six…”

  “This morning?”

  “Yes. I try to come in early. It gives me time to work out, and if any of the players want to run drills, I’m available to them.”

  “What happened after you came in?” Holt asked.

  “The moment Isaiah saw me, he asked to borrow the car.”

  “What was his demeanor like? Was he stressed or upset?”

  Bledson thought for a moment. “He looked like he hadn’t slept the entire night. I asked if everything was okay, and he gave me a noncommittal answer. I could tell he had a lot on his mind. I did not want to push it, though. He was in a hurry, and he had to be somewhere quick.”

  Was the furniture store where he had to be? Holt thought.

  Bledson said, “I let him take the car on one condition: He had to be back for the eleven a.m. practice. Coach Loughton would be furious if he wasn’t. I remember Isaiah grinned and said he’d be back before any of the guys broke a sweat.”

  Holt remembered that grin. It could be mischievous and reassuring. He often grinned when he was about to do something he should not.