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

by Thomas Fincham

  Isaiah would sit and talk with him for hours. They would talk about sports, school, life, anything but the loss he had suffered. Isaiah was open with his emotions, and he was also communicative, something neither Holt nor Dennis were particularly very good at. This was a trait that made him a leader on his team.

  Fisher was grateful for what Isaiah had done. She hated to see her partner suffer. She feared after the loss of his adopted son, Holt might never return to work. He did, and he was a better detective than before.

  They emptied their bottles. “Thanks for the drink,” Holt said, and stood up.

  “Why don’t you call it a night?” Fisher suggested. “It’s been an emotionally draining day. Go home and get some rest. Tomorrow I promise we’ll leave no stones unturned to find who did this to Isaiah.”

  Holt stared at her.

  His shoulders drooped and he nodded.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The city morgue was located in an old government building. The exterior was ugly and uninviting, and the interior was no different. The walls were painted in dark colors, and the floor tiles looked like they had not been changed in decades.

  Callaway did not come to the morgue often—there was never really much need in his line of work—but when he did, he always found himself depressed afterwards.

  What did I expect? he thought. A celebration of someone’s death?

  There was only one person on duty this late at night. The morgue attendant was young and pale, with bushy hair and thick round glasses. He did not look far removed from some of the dead in the morgue.

  Callaway introduced himself and Elle. He hated to bring her here, but he had to make sure of something.

  “Do you have any unidentified bodies?” Callaway asked.

  “Loads,” the attendant answered.

  Callaway did not like the sound of that.

  “We do our best to ID them so we can contact their next of kin, but sometimes it’s just not possible,” the attendant said.

  Callaway understood. The bodies were in the worst shape imaginable.

  Callaway held the Polaroid out for the morgue attendant. “Any chance someone resembling her was brought in?”

  The attendant pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted. “I think we may have someone who looks like her.”

  Callaway’s heart dropped. He turned to look at Elle. She was tightly gripping her walking cane.

  “Can we see her?” Callaway asked.

  “Sure, you can, but…”

  Callaway smiled, shoved his hand in his pocket, and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “That’s for you, my man,” he said.

  The attendant shook his head. “I was saying, you can see the body, but you’re going to have to sign the register over there.”

  He pointed to a ledger on the counter.

  “Oh,” Callaway said, placing the bill back in his pocket. Jumping to conclusions, Lee? he thought.

  They followed the attendant down the hall. The lights were fluorescent, and they flickered above their heads. Callaway felt like he was in some gory horror movie. A shiver went up his spine at the thought of a crazed maniac waiting for them with a chainsaw in the next room. He glanced at Elle. She was walking calmly next to him.

  They entered a room that was slightly cold. Several gurneys lay side by side. The attendant approached one and said, “She was brought in this morning.”

  “This morning?” Callaway said.

  “Yeah, that’s what I said.”

  Elle’s sister has been missing for three months, he thought. Maybe someone discovered her body just now.

  A long white sheet was placed over the body. Callaway was almost glad that Elle would not be able to see whatever gruesome image lay underneath the sheet.

  The attendant paused to give Callaway a moment to brace himself. He then pulled the sheet cloth away, revealing the face of a young woman. Her skin had turned gray. Her lips were blue, and her eyes were closed.

  “Can you describe her, please?” Elle said.

  “Um, sure,” the attendant said. “The victim looks to be around the age of twenty to twenty-four, she is five-two, and she has blonde hair.”

  Elle was silent.

  Callaway said, “Her sister was turning twenty-two, she was five-two to five-three, and she also had blonde hair.”

  “Oh,” the attendant said.

  “Where did they find her?” Elle asked.

  The attendant grabbed a clipboard and flipped a page. “She was found overdosed behind a dance club. She had a combination of recreational drugs and alcohol in her system.”

  “My sister did not do drugs,” Elle said.

  “Right, sure. Anyway, they tried to revive her, but it was too late,” the attendant said.

  Callaway said, “Who was she with?”

  The attendant checked the clipboard. “Doesn’t say, but sometimes the clubs don’t want the responsibility, or they don’t want to deal with the police, so they’ll leave the body outside. They’ll argue the person walked out on their own accord and then dropped dead. It did not happen on their property, so it’s not their problem.”

  “She had no ID on her?” Callaway asked.

  “None the paramedics could find. It could have been in her purse, which she wasn’t carrying when they found her.”

  “You check for fingerprints?”

  “Sure, but it’ll take some time to get a match. Like I said, they brought her in this morning.”

  Callaway rubbed his chin, thinking.

  “Does your sister have any birth marks or any distinguishing marks on her body?” the attendant asked Elle.

  “Yes,” Elle replied. “She has a mole on the side of her neck.”

  The attendant turned the head to the side. He lifted the hair up. The skin on the neck was clear of any blemishes or spots that might look like a mole.

  Callaway leaned in to make sure.

  “No,” the attendant said.

  “She also has a dark spot on her upper right shoulder. It’s the size of my palm.” Elle held up her gloved hand. “Katie called it her good luck charm.”

  The attendant flipped the body over. He grabbed a flashlight and moved the light over the skin. It was white and pale. “No dark spot of any kind.”

  Elle turned and left the room.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Out in the hall, Callaway found Elle crying.

  “You didn’t have to come here,” he said, feeling concerned.

  “No, I wanted to,” she said.

  “It’s not Katie.”

  “I know, but that girl in there, she’s someone’s sister, someone’s daughter. I couldn’t help but think of her family and how they must be worried sick about her.”

  “I’m sure they are looking for her just like you are looking for your sister,” Callaway said.

  “Are they?” she asked.

  Callaway had no answer. If he had not heard back from a loved one, he would be on the phone or knocking on doors to find out what happened.

  Elle said, “When we were young, my parents took me and my sister on a camping trip. While my parents were getting dinner ready, Katie decided we should go check out the woods nearby. I thought it was a bad idea. It was getting dark, and I worried we might get lost. Katie was more adventurous than me. She always had been. She wanted to experience life to the fullest. She wanted to go skydiving, cliff jumping, bungee jumping—you name it, she wanted to do it. I never talked her out of it. It almost felt like she was living her life for the both of us. Anyway, it got dark really quickly, and we got separated in the woods. She was running ahead of me, and I couldn’t keep up. I yelled her name as I frantically searched for her. When I found her, she was huddled under a tree, crying hysterically. I promised her that I would not let anything happen to her and…”

  Her voice trailed off. There was a long moment of silence before she adjusted her dark glasses and said, “I have to find her. I will find her.” There was conviction in her voice Callaway had not heard before.


  He said, “I promise we won’t stop until we know what happened to her.”

  “Thank you,” she said with a weak smile.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Fisher opened the door to her apartment and entered. She placed her keys in the bowl in the hall and headed to the kitchen. On top of the fridge was a lockbox. She placed her weapon inside and shut the box. The box was strategically placed. The kitchen was next to the hall and the front door. If there was any threat, Fisher could swiftly get to the box and her weapon without being in the line of fire. Her training kept her on high alert even when she was off duty.

  She pulled off her boots and rubbed her soles. She was used to being on her feet, but that day had an added strain. The adrenaline had worn off a long time ago. She had been pushing herself with caffeine, but now she was lethargic. Maybe it was the beer she had.

  She checked her voicemail, and there was one from her best friend. She was wondering when they could schedule lunch next.

  Fisher suddenly felt a headache coming on. She massaged her temples and exhaled. She was not sure when her next day off would be. Holt would not stop until he found Isaiah’s killer, and as his partner, Fisher could not let him go at it alone.

  Holt’s obsession knew no limits. He was still actively looking into cases dating back ten years. He would not classify them as cold cases. He genuinely believed he would solve them before he retired.

  Fisher did not have the heart to tell him that might not happen. Unsolved cases were part of the profession. She only hoped Isaiah’s did not turn into one. If that happened, she feared Holt would quit the force to focus solely on finding the person who ended his nephew’s life.

  She spotted the romance novel on the coffee table. She was supposed to catch up on her reading that day. At the moment, though, her mind was all over the place. She would not be able to focus on a book.

  She dropped on the sofa and turned on the TV. She hoped a light romantic comedy would help alleviate the stress she was under. On the screen, the leading man was trying his best to woo the girl of his dreams. Fisher, however, was not paying attention. She was thinking about Isaiah.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Holt and Fisher had already listened to the 9-1-1 call and found it had come from a blocked number. The caller had not left a name, nor did he stay at the scene of the crime. If they were going to make any progress on the case, they needed to find who this person was. They believed he must live in the vicinity of where Isaiah was killed. How else would he have found Isaiah’s body? This narrowed their search down, but it was still labor-intensive.

  They knocked on all doors within walking distance of the furniture store. People clammed up the moment they found out they were speaking to cops. The neighborhood had seen its share of tragedies, and people were suspicious of the police. Drugs and violence had become an everyday part of people’s lives. They feared retribution from local gangs if they spoke up.

  Fisher was glad she did not go for her morning run. Her feet were still sore from the day before. I should have worn flats instead of heels, she thought as she moved to the next door.

  Holt was breathing hard next to her. His forehead glistened with sweat as he adjusted his shirt collar and tie.

  An hour later, Fisher was beat, and she could tell Holt was too. But the look of determination on his face told her he was not about to stop.

  “We should head back to the station,” she said. “We can make more progress at our desks than pounding the pavement.”

  “Someone had to have seen something,” Holt said with a scowl.

  Holt was like a pit bull who had taken a bite and was not willing to let go. Unfortunately, he had not bitten into anything that was useful to them.

  Fisher blinked as something flashed in her eyes. She squinted and realized she was seeing light reflecting off the lens of a camera. It was next to a window on the third floor of an apartment building.

  “I think we may have found something,” she said.

  When Holt saw what she was pointing at, a smile crossed his face.

  They hurried into the building and took the elevator up to the third floor. Fisher had counted the windows from outside, and if her math was correct, the apartment with the camera was three units down from the end of the building.

  They located the apartment. Fisher knocked. When they did not get a response, Holt banged on the door with his fist.

  “I’m coming! I’m coming! Hold your horses!” an old man shouted.

  They saw a shadow through the peep hole. Holt and Fisher held up their badges.

  The door opened slightly. A small man wearing a purple robe stuck his head out. He had silver hair, wrinkled skin, and tiny eyes.

  “Can I help you?” he asked hesitantly.

  Fisher spoke before Holt did. She worried he was too pumped up and might scare the man. “Is that your camera pointed down to the street?”

  “Yes, it is. But I’m not a voyeur,” he said, suddenly defensive.

  “We’re not concerned about that,” Fisher said. “Can we take a look at your footage?”

  “Um…”

  The old man hesitated. “Do you have a warrant…?”

  Holt said, “It’s very important, sir. A young man was shot two blocks from here, and we want to make sure your camera didn’t catch anything vital to our investigation.”

  The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Is it the basketball player they are talking about on the news?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Oh, ok.” The old man held the door open for them. They entered and found the apartment crammed with every knickknack imaginable. The man did not look like a hoarder, but he was getting close to becoming one.

  He took them to a corner where a laptop was placed on a table.

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” Fisher said, “why do you have a camera rigged up?”

  “This building is old and falling apart, but for the past couple of months, management has started fixing it up. The basement garage is under construction, which means I have to park on the street in the meantime.” He pointed at a row of cars parked next to the sidewalk. “That blue Mustang over there, that’s mine. I’ve had it for over thirty years. It’s my constant companion. I won’t let anything happen to it. But ever since I had to move it outside, I’ve had kids scratch it with keys, leave garbage on it. I’ve even had someone spray-paint male genitals across the side door. So to stop these kids from messing with my Mustang, I installed the camera, and I put up a sign on the windshield stating that if anyone tries anything, the camera will record them, and I will report them to the police.”

  “Has it worked?” Fisher asked.

  The old man sighed and shook his head. “Not really. These kids cover their faces when they vandalize my car, but I figure I gotta try something to deter them, you know?”

  Holt was getting impatient. “Can we see the footage from yesterday?”

  “Do you have the exact time you want to look at? Or else you’ll be sitting here all day.”

  Holt turned to Fisher. “When did the 9-1-1 call come, do you remember?”

  Fisher did.

  The man sat down behind the laptop and quickly began to tap the keys. He then hit the last key a little too dramatically. “Voila!” he said, leaning back in his chair.

  Holt and Fisher strained their eyes to get a better look. The image was of the street next to the building. They could see the row of cars.

  Fisher found herself shifting her feet in anticipation. She was not sure if they would see anything, but they desperately needed some sort of miracle.

  A man appeared down the street. He had on a hoodie, and he was riding a bicycle. He had a backpack slung over his right shoulder.

  He suddenly stopped. He was two cars away from the Mustang. The man pulled out what looked like a cell phone. He looked around and dialed a number.

  “It’s the exact time the 9-1-1 call was made,” Fisher said, pointing to the time at the bottom of the screen. />
  Holt grunted.

  When the man ended the call, Fisher said, “Pause it.”

  The old man did.

  Fisher said, “The call to the 9-1-1 command center was less than a minute.” She then pointed to the time again. “The call he just made was also less than a minute.”

  Holt’s face was dark.

  Fisher knew exactly what was going through his mind.

  The man on the bicycle knows what happened to Isaiah.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Callaway took a bite of the egg sandwich, chewed it, and swallowed it down with hot coffee. Joely had topped his cup with a fresh brew. Callaway now had enough money to pay for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

  Elle’s five-thousand-dollar retainer had come at the most opportune time. He could now even pay Julio for the repairs on the Charger, but he would have to catch him later on those oil changes. He was refreshing the loose change in Julio’s Impala, though.

  Callaway casually glanced at the newspaper on the table. The front page was all about the Isaiah Whitcomb murder. Callaway knew Whitcomb was related to Holt. He had had a few run-ins with Holt, and he could not say they were pleasant. The man was a good detective, he had to give him that. But according to Callaway, Holt sometimes did not see the forest for the trees. His strong desire to apprehend the perpetrator could almost blind him from looking at other scenarios or suspects.

  The door chimed, and Elle walked in. Callaway waved at her, but then he turned beet red when he realized his gesture was useless.

  He got up and escorted her to his table.

  Once seated, Joely came over with a coffee pot in her hand. “What can I get you guys?” she asked.

  “I’m good,” Callaway said, putting his hand over his cup. He already had two cups, and he worried he would have to run to the bathroom again if he had any more.

  “What about the lady?” Joely asked with a smile. Callaway could tell there was something behind her smile.