“Was there anyone on the team he was particularly close to?” Holt asked.
“Sure. Our point guard.”
THIRTY
Byron Fox choked back tears as he sat across from Holt and Fisher. They were in the campus cafeteria. Byron sported an afro, a goatee, and a stud earring in his left ear. He took a sip of his juice. Holt and Fisher had coffee and tea, respectively.
“I can’t believe Isaiah’s dead,” Byron said, shaking his head. “Who would do something like that to him?”
“We are trying to find out,” Fisher replied.
Byron looked at her and nodded.
“Your coach said you and Isaiah were close,” Fisher said.
“Yeah, we were.”
Fisher wanted to ease into the questioning, so she started with the soft questions. “How’d you two meet?”
“On the court, of course. If you were on his team, Isaiah had your back. As a point guard, it was my job to dribble the ball up. The opposing team would send bigger players on me. They would try to trap me so I would give up the ball. Sometimes they’d get rough to mess up my game. Isaiah would have none of that. If a player shoved me, the next time they had the ball and they were going around a screen, Isaiah would give him an elbow to the face. He wouldn’t get away with it all the time. The refs would whistle him. But it would send a message to the opposing team that if they tried anything, they’d have to deal with him.”
“But your friendship was off the court as well, right?” Fisher asked.
“Yeah, for sure. When we weren’t practicing or working out or playing, we listened to music. We both liked R&B and rap. We argued nonstop on who the best band was or who the best singer was. We were planning to record our own songs.”
Holt remembered how Isaiah knew all the lyrics to the songs that came on the radio. He would sing along whenever he was in the car. If Isaiah had not gotten into sports, he definitely would have done something in music.
“Do you know why Isaiah left in such a hurry this morning?” Fisher asked, getting to the point.
“I had no idea he was even gone. I was sleeping when someone woke me up and told me.”
“When did you last see him?” Fisher asked.
Byron thought for a moment. “We hung around last night.”
“And how was his demeanor?”
Byron stared at her. “Demeanor?”
“I mean, was he upset, angry, calm, anxious…?”
“Oh, right. He was calm, I guess.” Byron sat up straight. “What I’m saying is that with Isaiah, you could never really tell. He never wore his emotions on his sleeve, you know. In my case, if I was excited, everyone knew I was, and if I was down, then you knew to stay away from me.”
“So, there was nothing out of the ordinary with Isaiah last night?” Fisher prodded.
“I mean, he was on the phone most of the time.”
“Who was he talking to?” Holt asked.
“I’m not sure, but I think it was a girl,” Byron replied.
“What’s her name?” Holt asked.
“I don’t know. We talked about everything, but certain things he kept to himself. I didn’t push him on it. It was none of my business. I had to respect his privacy, you know. He never asked me questions about my personal life. I never told him my dad was in and out of prison for dealing drugs, or that my mom was caught for shoplifting because we had no money.” Byron shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m telling you guys this stuff. You are the police. My head’s been really messed up ever since I found out about Isaiah.”
Fisher was not interested in Byron’s personal life. “How did you know it was a girl Isaiah was talking to?” she asked.
“He would leave the room whenever he would get a call. A couple of times, I heard him say the word ‘baby.’”
“Baby?” Fisher asked, confused.
“Yeah, like ‘baby I’ll take care of you,’ ‘baby I love you,’ like what you’d call your girlfriend, you know,” Byron replied.
THIRTY-ONE
The fast food restaurant already had a line at its counter when Callaway and Elle arrived. Callaway asked Elle to take a seat at a table while he stood in line behind a large man.
Elle said her sister worked at this location. She and Callaway hoped someone at the restaurant might have information on Katie.
Callaway glanced over at Elle. She was sitting upright with her cane in her hand. He could not imagine what she must be going through. Not being able to see and not knowing where her sister was.
After the large man had ordered his super-sized combo, Callaway approached the counter and asked the girl on duty for the manager.
She waved a man over. He was young, with pimples all over his face and whiskers on his chin. His name tag read Gary.
“What can I do for you?” Gary asked.
Callaway pulled out the Polaroid. “I’m looking for this woman. Her name is Katie Pearson. She was an employee here.”
Gary stared at the photo. He shook his head. “I’ve never seen her before.”
Callaway blinked. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I would remember someone who worked for me.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Four years, and a year and a half of those as a manager.”
Callaway frowned. “Can you show the photo to your employees? Maybe someone might remember seeing her.”
“I don’t know. We’re kind of busy right now.”
“Please. It’s important.” Callaway pointed at Elle. “Her sister hasn’t spoken to her in months.”
“Okay, sure,” Gary said. “Give me a minute.”
Callaway walked over to Elle. As if sensing him, or perhaps smelling him, her back straightened and she turned to him. “What did they say?” she asked.
“The manager has never seen Katie, but he’ll ask his employees,” Callaway replied.
“How can that be?” Elle asked, surprised.
“Are you sure it’s the right address?” Callaway asked.
“Of course it is.”
Elle thought for a moment. “Across the street, is there a record store?”
Callaway looked out the window. The sign had two vinyl records at the beginning and end of the name. “Yes, there is.”
Elle smiled. “On her breaks, Katie would go to the store and browse through the records in their catalog. She loved jazz and classical music.”
The manager returned. “I’m sorry, but none of my employees have seen this person.”
“That’s not possible,” Elle said sternly. “My sister works here.”
“If she did, we would have some record of her employment. No one by the name of Katie Pearson ever worked here, ma’am.”
There was silence when Elle said, “Is your name Gary Nelson?”
“Yes, it is.”
“And you live with your parents in Lafferty?”
Gary’s mouth dropped. “Yeah, I do.”
“I also know you have an employee who hurt his arm while surfing in Miami. You have another employee who broke off her engagement when she caught her fiancé with her best friend.”
“How do you know all that?”Gary asked.
Callaway was thinking the same thing.
“I know because my sister told me,” Elle said.
Gary swallowed and adjusted his cap.
Callaway turned to him. “How do you explain this?” he asked.
“I can’t,” Gary replied, still bewildered. “You can check what I just told you with my employees if you like.”
“I intend to,” Callaway said. He was not leaving until he got to the bottom of this.
THIRTY-TWO
Holt was seated at the dining table. Marjorie was at the stove making tea. Fisher was upstairs in Isaiah’s bedroom.
Holt was not ready to go through Isaiah’s stuff. He feared he would break down if he did.
He looked out the window at the backyard. Dennis had set up a basketball net so Isaiah could practice. Holt
remembered many nights when he would drop by and see Isaiah shooting baskets in total darkness. Holt once asked him why he did not just turn on the floodlights Dennis had installed. Isaiah told Holt he wanted to see if he could make a basket blind.
Holt was reminded of his time in high school. He was tall with big hands, and his high school coach encouraged him to try out for the basketball team. He made it on the team, but he was relegated to the bench for most of the games. What he never forgot was how his coach would make his players shut their eyes and practice shooting without a ball. The coach believed mental visualization was just as important as physically shooting the ball.
Marjorie came over and placed a steaming cup before him. “I’m not sure how your partner takes it, so I didn’t put any milk or sugar in her cup.”
“Fisher likes it black,” he said.
“Should I go upstairs and call her? It’ll get cold,” Marjorie asked.
“No. Let her do her job,” Holt replied. “Plus, she prefers her tea lukewarm anyway.”
Marjorie nodded and sat down. Holt could not help but feel like his sister had aged significantly since he broke the news to her.
“How’s Dennis doing?” he asked.
“He’s withdrawn into himself. When his mother passed away, he drew into himself for weeks. It’s his way of grieving. But I am worried. I need him now more than ever, and if he shuts himself off from me, I don’t know how I’m going to get through this.”
Holt placed his hand over hers. “I’m always going to be here for you,” he said. He meant every word of it. Marjorie gave him hope and courage at times when he had none. If it were not for her, he would not have become a police detective. He would have gotten himself into trouble with the law and would be rotting in jail.
Growing up, Holt was always getting into fights. Kids picked on him because of his size. They felt like if they could take him down, then no one would mess with them in school. He was no gentle giant, though. He had a mean streak in him. He once knocked out a kid’s two front teeth with a single punch.
Holt hated bullies, but after years of fending them off, he became one himself. He started picking on kids much smaller than him. He was also going through teen angst, which made him a horrible person to deal with. When Marjorie found out, she broke down crying. She told him to leave the house and never come back. She was much older than him, and she was working during the day and studying at night to put a roof over their heads. Holt remembered feeling worse than trash. He had let down the one person who meant more to him than anyone in the world. He vowed he would never do anything to hurt her again. And he never did.
“Where’s Brit?” he asked. He still had not spoken to his niece.
“She’s really upset,” Marjorie replied. “She’s still at her friend’s house. It might be better for her to be with someone her age right now. Later I’ll take her someplace to talk.”
Holt nodded and took a sip from his cup.
Fisher appeared in the kitchen. She was holding a large plastic bag. She had tagged items that could be useful in their investigation.
Marjorie said, “Your tea is ready.”
Fisher grabbed the cup, took a sip, and then gulped it down in one breath. “Thanks,” she said.
Outside the house, Holt asked, “Did you find anything in Isaiah’s room?”
“His laptop is password-protected,” she replied. “I’m hoping someone in IT can access it. But I didn’t find his cell phone.”
Holt frowned. “We didn’t find it on him either.”
“He wouldn’t have left it at home,” Fisher said. “Kids nowadays can’t live with a minute away from their phones.”
“They sure can’t,” Holt said.
“Maybe the shooter took it,” Fisher suggested.
Holt pondered the possibility. “But why?” he asked.
“Maybe it had something the shooter didn’t want anyone to see.”
“We need to see his phone logs,” Holt said.
“I’ll contact his service provider.”
THIRTY-THREE
Callaway spoke to each employee at the fast food restaurant, and they all said the same thing: they had never heard of or seen Katie Pearson.
Callaway knew someone was not telling the truth. His instincts were saying Elle was leading him on a wild goose chase, but he could not find a single reason why the woman would fabricate a story about a missing sister. She knew intimate details about each of the employees, and those could only have come from someone who had worked there.
On average, people spent more time with their co-workers than their family members. They shared just about everything with each other. The camaraderie was especially strong in the service industries. The hours were long, the work was hard, and the pay was often very low. The people an employee relied upon to get through the day were those who were with them in the trenches. They knew what each other was going through, and they could sympathize with their plight because they too were going through the same thing. Callaway missed being a deputy sheriff for that reason alone. The rapport he had with the other members of the sheriff’s department was something he never forgot. As a private eye, he worked mostly on his own. He had no one to gripe to. Not that anyone would listen. He gave up a stable and secure job for something with no benefits and no respect. Most people did not know what private investigators really did, so there was no way for them to truly value the service provided. Whatever they knew came from detective novels and movies, which always depicted tough-guy sleuths taking on cases involving damsels in distress. Callaway wished his life was as exciting as that, but in reality, his was boring and uneventful.
Elle’s case had intrigued him. She had put up five thousand dollars, and Callaway would scour every inch of the city to find her sister.
He had visited all the hospitals in Milton. Even though her sister had been missing for three months, there was still the possibility a Jane Doe had been admitted to one of them.
What if her sister had gotten in an accident and was so badly hurt she was unable to communicate? What if something terrible had happened and the authorities were unable to identify who she was? The what-ifs were endless, and Callaway had to make sure something worse had not befallen her sister.
At each hospital, Callaway provided Katie’s name, her photo, and a detailed description of her in case her appearance had changed from the time the photo was taken. The person at the information desk would go through all the records dating back three months. Whenever the answer was no, Callaway could sense both relief and disappointment in Elle’s voice. On one hand, she was relieved nothing had happened to her sister, but on the other, she was disappointed they had not found Katie yet.
As they drove, Callaway said, “There is one more place we still have to check.”
He wished they did not have to go there, but he saw no other option.
THIRTY-FOUR
Fisher glanced at her watch. She was at the Milton PD, and the time was getting late. She had hoped to run some things through the police database before she headed home.
Isaiah’s death had hit close to home, and both she and Holt were making sure nothing was overlooked. The first few hours of an investigation were crucial. If any evidence was missed at the crime scene, there was still a chance to go back and retrieve it. Later, there was a strong possibility people or the elements—if the crime scene was outside—could taint or destroy the evidence. If witnesses were not interviewed immediately, their memories of the events could fade, or they could suddenly change their stories.
Fisher grabbed her coat and headed for the elevator.
She saw that Holt was at his desk.
“You should go home and get some rest,” Fisher said.
“I just had coffee. I’m good,” he said, not looking up from his computer.
When Holt put his mind to something, he became obsessive. He could work all night to satisfy whatever was bothering him.
Fisher had a feeling there was more to his lat
e work than just tenacity. Nancy was at her mother’s house, and Holt would be going home to an empty house. He did not want to be alone. Fisher did not want him to be either.
“All right,” she said. “If you’re not leaving, then I’m not leaving either.”
He finally looked up. “You need sleep, Fisher.”
She smiled. “I’m making fresh coffee.”
He stared at her. “Today was your day off, you know.”
“It was, but this is more important.”
He suddenly looked unsure. He wanted to keep working, but he did not want Fisher to work late because of him.
Fisher said, “Why don’t I buy you a drink? We’ve had a long day, and I think we need something to unwind with.”
“I have a lot of things to do,” Holt said.
“Just one drink, that’s all.”
He stared at her for a moment. “Fine, but only one,” he said.
The bar was just around the block from the police department. The place was frequented mostly by off-duty cops.
They ordered beers and found a table in the corner. Holt took a sip and said, “After finishing this, I’m heading back to my desk, just so you know.”
“I know,” Fisher said with a smile.
They drank in silence. Every once in a while, someone from the department would come over and give their condolences to Holt. They all knew who Isaiah was. It was not hard to miss a large framed photo of Isaiah on Holt’s desk. The young man meant a great deal to him. She knew that when Holt’s adopted son died, it was Isaiah who had moved in with him and Nancy because Holt was overcome with grief.
The Gone Sister (A Private Investigator Mystery Series of Crime and Suspense, Lee Callaway #2) Page 7
