“But you see them.”
“I do, but I don’t know their names or anything about them. If anyone asked, they were here to create art. Also, the girls are young and mostly students. They seem to like the way it’s set up.”
Callaway thought of something. “But once the girls leave with the clients, you don’t know where they are going or what’s happening with them.”
“Glenn and I discussed this, and to make it even safer for the girls, we book a room in a fancy hotel under the website’s name so there is no record of the client ever staying there. We get a good rate at the hotel. The girls don’t mind having a percentage taken out of their fee to pay for it. The hotel has great security, and it’s clean. Not like the back of a car or a grungy motel.”
“Can you give us the address of this hotel?” Callaway asked. “The security cameras might have caught Linda with the client on the night we believe she disappeared.”
“It won’t be necessary.”
“Why not?”
“These girls are young and tech-savvy. On their smartphones, the girls sign in to the website with a password only they know to confirm the transaction. Once they are done, they sign in again to tell us the transaction is complete. If they don’t do that, they don’t get paid. This also lets us know something is not right if we don’t hear back from them. It has never happened, but if it does, we have footage of them meeting the client, and we’ll take it straight to the authorities. We have no issues with working with the police. We will tell them the girl is a friend of ours and we saw her at the gallery with a man. As we have not heard back from her, we are concerned for her safety.”
“You and your partner have thought this through,” Callaway said.
“We have,” Goodwin said with a smile.
“Can you show us the footage of Linda from the day she disappeared?”
“I would, but I don’t keep records going back that far. Why would I? If nothing happened, I don’t see a point in storing that much data.”
Callaway turned to Elle. She had not said a word, but he was certain she had heard everything. She must be thinking the same thing he was.
We hit another dead end.
“And Linda sent you the confirmation that told you she completed the transaction?” Callaway asked.
“She must have, or else I would have gone straight to the police,” Goodwin replied. “Plus, there is no girl that has any outstanding balance with us, which means they completed the transaction, and they were all paid.”
EIGHTY-FIVE
The media had converged like vultures on a carcass. They surrounded the building, hoping to get a shot of the lake behind.
The medical examiner had already removed the body, but Holt and Fisher still extended the police tape to block off the site. It was still an active crime scene.
Members of the crime scene unit were still scouring the area for shell casings. Fisher doubted they would find them. The killer had planned this out. The building had no security cameras of any kind. The place was a perfect spot to dump a body. Had the rope not severed, releasing the victim to the surface, her body would have likely decomposed underwater. They had also caught a lucky break with how the body was found. If the young men who hung out here to skateboard had chosen to go elsewhere, there was no telling when the body would have been discovered.
Holt approached Fisher with an intense look on his face. She knew he had been thinking hard about something.
“You come up with any theories?” she asked.
“I might have, but I’m not sure.”
“It’s better than what we know already, which is nothing. So what’s on your mind?”
“The killer used garbage bags, duct tape, and a rope, right?”
“Sure.”
“Without a receipt of some sort, we don’t know where the killer could have purchased those items, but the killer had also used something to weigh the body down.”
“Okay,” Fisher said, trying to follow his thinking.
“I checked the property, but I saw nothing that could be used as an anchor.”
“What about the four-by-fours or the wooden crates?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Wood expands in water. Any of those items would float up to the surface in no time. I was thinking more like large rocks, bricks, or concrete blocks.”
Fisher’s eyes narrowed. “You think the killer may have purchased something to use as an anchor?”
“Yes.”
“But we don’t know what that could be until we get a team of divers to go into the lake and retrieve whatever might be down there.”
“That’ll take time,” Holt said. “On our drive over here, I remember passing by a large hardware store. I think we should go check it out.”
EIGHTY-SIX
Cosimo was parked in the hospital parking lot. Cosimo had followed Agent Schaefer’s Buick all the way to the hospital. He was not sure what the agent was doing there. He had considered following him inside, but he knew that would be too risky.
Agent Schaefer would recognize him the moment he saw him. All of Don Beniti’s associates had become a target for the FBI, including him. He had eluded capture due to his various aliases. He had seriously considered leaving the profession and moving to some island nation with no extradition treaty with the United States. He could spend the rest of his life sipping margaritas on a beach somewhere. But being a hit man was the only trade he knew. The moment he had turned fourteen, he quit school and joined a local gang. He started off by stealing cigarettes and moved his way up to robbing liquor stores. When he caught the eye of a mob boss, he was promoted to being an enforcer for him. If someone needed to be taught a lesson, he was the man. But he did not like the job very much. First, he was not very big or strong. Second, he did not like inflicting unnecessary pain on others. Torture was not his thing.
What he was really good at, and what he truly enjoyed, was eliminating people. Hits required a certain level of skill. He could blend in easily and disappear without a trace after a kill. Also, the jobs were clean. He rarely got his hands dirty. One bullet between the eyes, and the target was dead.
He had used other methods as well, but nothing compared to a gun in his hand. Guns gave him an advantage other methods did not. He could eliminate the target from a distance.
He checked his watch. He was in no hurry. Patience was a key to survival in his profession. That and having a ready plan. Even now he had a plan, having scoped out all the exits and where the security cameras were. If he had to make a quick getaway, he already had one mapped out.
He kept his eye on the hospital entrance. He saw Agent Schaefer walk out. The agent made his way to his Buick and drove away.
Cosimo started the car and followed after him.
He kept a few cars back as the Buick changed lanes. He was not worried about losing Schaefer. While the agent was in the hospital, Cosimo had placed a tracking device underneath the vehicle. On his smartphone, he could see a moving red dot that told him the direction the Buick was headed.
He followed for another twenty minutes.
The Buick pulled into the parking lot of an apartment building.
Agent Schaefer got out and made his way to the front entrance. Cosimo debated waiting for him, but then a thought occurred to him.
What if the target is inside?
He quickly got out and hurried to the front entrance. He paused outside and looked into the lobby. Agent Schaefer was waiting by the elevators. He had not spotted him. Cosimo pulled out his phone and made it look like he was deep in conversation. After Schaefer boarded an elevator, Cosimo rushed inside.
He watched as the elevator stopped on the fourth floor.
He dashed for the stairs and raced up two steps at a time. He stopped on the fourth floor’s landing and stuck his head into the hall. He saw Agent Schaefer standing by the door of an apartment. He looked like he was speaking to someone inside. He had his credentials out, and he waved it whenever he needed to emph
asize something. The conversation lasted a good ten minutes before Agent Schaefer turned and moved to the elevator.
When he was out of sight, Cosimo pulled out his weapon and headed to the apartment. The tracker would tell him where the agent was headed next, so he was not concerned about losing him.
What mattered was who was in the apartment.
He knocked on the door and moved aside. He could see a shadow in the peep hole. He knocked again.
The door swung open.
“Hey man, I told you I don’t know nothing,” a male voice said.
Cosimo made himself visible. He saw that the speaker was a black man.
The man quickly froze at the sight of the weapon. “Who are you?” he asked.
“You and I are going to have a long talk,” Cosimo said as he pushed his way in and slammed the door behind him.
EIGHTY-SEVEN
The hardware store manager was surprised to see two detectives in his store. He had not yet heard the news about a dead body being found not too far away from his location.
The manager was short, stocky, and he had on a green vest. He frowned and said, “You want to know if we sell concrete slabs?”
“Concrete slabs, cement blocks, patio stones, bricks, anything that can be used as weights,” Holt replied.
The manager pondered this odd question. “Sure, we have a landscaping section.”
Fisher said, “Can you find out if someone purchased any of those items?”
The manager’s mouth nearly dropped. “We ring up thousands of sales each day. I’m not sure how we can find out who purchased what.”
Fisher and Holt were silent.
The manager asked, “What day were these items purchased?”
“We don’t know,” Holt replied.
The manager almost laughed. “Then it’s like finding a needle in a haystack. I’m sorry, but it can’t be done.”
Holt grunted and began to make his way to the exit.
Fisher said, “Can you ask your staff if someone came by in the last couple of days and asked where the landscaping section was? Or maybe asked where they could find a rope or duct tape?”
The manager stared at her, unsure if he should oblige her request.
“It’s important,” Fisher added. “If it wasn’t, we wouldn’t be here.”
The manager sighed. “Okay, let me find out.”
He left them.
Holt said, “Why did you ask him that?”
“We have to assume whoever dumped the body did not know the area too well. If they did, they would have known the lake’s floor was covered in jagged rocks. This means they must have come to the hardware store for the first time and asked for help locating whatever they were looking for.”
Holt shook his head. “That’s a long shot.”
She gave him a stern look. “But it’s worth a shot. We don’t have anything to go on right now.”
A moment later, the manager returned with an employee. “Herb,” the manager said, “tell them what you told me.”
Herb was tall, rail-thin, and he had acne on his face. “A guy came in and asked me where we kept our cement,” he said.
“What else did he ask you?” Fisher said.
“He was also looking for a sturdy rope.”
Fisher shot a glance at Holt.
“What did this man look like?” Fisher asked.
Herb shrugged. “I dunno. He was wearing a checkered shirt, I guess.”
“What else?”
“Um…” He searched his mind. “I remember he had paint stains all over his shirt and pants.”
“He was a painter?”
“I’m not sure.”
“When was this?”
“Um… I think it was two days ago.”
“Do you remember the exact time?”
For a second, Fisher thought Herb would tell her how absurd her question was, but instead he said, “I kind of do remember. It was right before my smoke break.”
With this information in hand, the manager took the detectives to his office. A security officer was seated behind a set of monitors. The manager told him exactly what he was looking for.
The security officer began to rewind the footage on one of the screens. A moment later, he played the footage at normal speed.
The image was black and white, but it was sharp and in high contrast. The hardware store’s automatic doors slid open, and a man came in. He was tall, wearing a checkered shirt, cargo pants, and work boots. His hair was dark, and he walked with purpose.
He stopped by the entrance and looked around. He was searching for the signs atop the aisles. He then spotted an employee and waved him over. It was Herb. They exchanged a few words, and the man turned right and headed toward the other side of the store.
He disappeared from view.
“Can you follow him?” Holt asked.
The security officer quickly punched a key, and the screen flickered to another image. The man was walking down the aisle. He stopped at a section. He grabbed a bundle of rope and looked at the price. He put the rope back, grabbed another one, and did the same. He did this a few times until he was satisfied with one. He slung the bundle of rope over his shoulder and headed in another direction.
The image flickered as the security officer punched another key.
The man was in the landscape section now. He looked around and then picked up a piece of concrete block. The block’s weight bowed him down as he made his way to the checkout.
Fisher watched with bated breath. They could see the time stamp at the bottom of the screen. She prayed the man paid with credit or debit instead of cash, making it easy to pull up the transaction and find out the man’s name.
The man pulled out some bills and handed it to the cashier. He grabbed his change and receipt and left the store.
Fisher sighed.
“Do you have cameras in the parking lot?” Holt asked.
The image flickered again.
The man was leaving the hardware store. Fisher’s back tensed. The moment the man entered his vehicle, they would have his license plate.
The man continued walking. He moved farther and farther away from the camera. He had parked at the far end of the lot. There was no way to distinguish the make and model of the car he was driving.
Holt turned to the security officer, “Can you find the clearest picture of this man?”
“Sure,” the officer replied.
“We want a copy of it.”
EIGHTY-EIGHT
“What do we do now?” Elle asked Callaway. They were walking down the street toward the Impala, which was parked a block away from the art gallery.
Callaway felt like he was spinning his wheels. Nothing made sense to him anymore. How could a simple search turn into something so complicated?
He knew the answer all too well. Katie had lied to her sister. She told Elle what she wanted to hear. Behind her back, she lived a life that was reckless and possibly dangerous.
The life of an escort was anything but glamorous. Linda’s social media posts about her visits to all those countries was not indicative of the profession’s sordid truths. Most girls got into being escorts because they saw no other option to earn a living. Some were forced into the trade. Sex trafficking was a massive economic concern for most governments. The amount of money the traffickers made off the girls was staggering. And then there were the social implications of prostitution. These girls were ostracized and considered worse than lepers by the general population. Most people did not understand why someone would sell their bodies for money.
No matter how Glenn Maker and Carl Goodwin sugarcoated it, prostitution was dirty and ugly.
Callaway felt a strong migraine coming on. His nose throbbed with pain. The swelling had subsided, and he did not need to put a new bandage over his nose, but it was still not healed.
“How do we find my sister now?” Elle asked as they walked.
He had no idea. He felt terrible for Elle. The moment they
saw a glimmer of hope, it was cruelly taken away from them.
“We will not stop until we know what happened to her,” Callaway replied, trying to sound positive. But deep down, he was feeling doubtful himself.
He stopped and pulled out his cell phone.
“What’s going on?” Elle asked.
“I know someone who might be able to help us,” he replied.
“Who?”
“She’s a reporter in Fairview. I worked with her on a case there.”
“Are you referring to Echo Rose?” Elle asked.
Callaway looked at her. “How did you know?”
“I told you I did my homework before I hired you, remember?”
“I do.”
He turned back to his cell phone. “Linda’s best friend, Jennifer Paulsingh, last spoke to her before she was supposed to meet a client.”
“Okay,” Elle said.
“Maker and Goodwin have set up a system to protect the girls. What if someone—maybe a client—forced Linda to punch her password into the website so Maker and Goodwin would think everything was all right with her? If we find out when that reply was made, maybe it can tell us the exact time of her disappearance.”
Callaway quickly messaged Echo.
“And you think Echo Rose can help us in this regard?” Elle asked.
“Echo is one of the best hackers I know, if not the best. She can hack into anything, even Glenn Maker’s website.”
Callaway hated to bother Echo, but he was at the end of his rope.
After he sent the text, something flickering in a storefront window caught his eye.
Several display televisions were relaying the news. Callaway could not hear the audio, but the scroll at the bottom read WOMAN’S BODY DISCOVERED IN LAKE BEHIND ABANDONED BUILDING.
His heart sank, and he was again grateful Elle could not see what he was seeing.
He quickly scrolled through his contact list and speed-dialed a number.
EIGHTY-NINE
Fisher spotted the Impala as it pulled into the parking lot and found a spot. Callaway had called her, and she had driven to the morgue after speaking to him. She did not tell Holt where she was going. Holt was somewhat possessive with the cases he worked on, and there was no way he would allow a private investigator to become privy to his investigation. Plus, Holt and Callaway had a history. Callaway had made Holt look foolish on another case. If Holt found out she was speaking to him, he would blow his top.
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