His eyes brimmed with tears. “I’m not a murderer. I used to be a computer programmer. I never meant to kill her. I wanted to give her all the happiness in the world.”
Goodwin put his hands over his face, pushed his glasses up above his eyes, and wept like a little boy.
“Where’s Linda’s body?” Callaway asked.
Goodwin composed himself. His eyes moved toward a door in the corner of the room. He wiped his face and stood up straight. “Like I said, you shouldn’t have come here.”
He walked over to a shelf and picked up a bottle of wine. He looked at it and smiled. “It’s the very bottle I hit Linda with. I think it might still have some of her blood on it.”
He gripped the bottle tight and moved toward Callaway.
“Don’t do this,” Callaway said.
“I have no choice.”
“The police are waiting outside.”
“No, they aren’t.”
“I’m friends with Detective Dana Fisher. She knows I’m here, and she’s waiting for my call.”
“No, she isn’t. When you came here, you were drunk. You had no idea I had even killed Linda.”
So much for that bluff, Callaway thought.
Goodwin began to raise the bottle. “I’m so sorry for this,” he said.
Sure you are, Callaway thought. What an idiot I was to let you get the drop on me…
Goodwin got ready to swing the bottle.
A gut instinct seized Callaway.
He rocked himself onto his right side.
Goodwin’s swing was clumsy. He had put too much weight on his right foot.
He missed Callaway and stumbled.
Callaway willed himself to roll over, chair and all.
Goodwin tripped over him and flew across the room head first.
Callaway heard a loud crack, followed by the sound of a bottle hitting an object and then the floor.
He glanced over.
Goodwin lay face first on the floor, out cold.
The wine bottle lay next to his head, still perfectly intact.
Callaway laughed, then he winced as pain stabbed his head.
Scumbag got hit with his own murder weapon!
“Are you all right?” a woman asked.
Callaway’s eyes widened.
Jennifer Paulsingh was on the basement stairs. She had a can of Mace in her hand.
“I’ll live,” Callaway replied, “but could you give me a hand here?”
She pocketed the Mace and quickly untied him. Callaway scrambled to his feet and checked on Goodwin. He was unconscious but still breathing.
He took the rope from the chair and tied Goodwin’s hands and feet.
He rushed to the door in the corner that led to a small kitchen, which had a sink, microwave, and a fridge.
He pulled open the refrigerator door.
He covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes wide with horror.
Stuffed inside the fridge was the body of Linda Eustace.
NINETY-NINE
Schaefer picked up a new set of IDs for Bruno Rocco. Schaefer had earned a good reputation amongst his peers at the agency. Even then, it took some IOUs to get it done fast. He checked his watch. He was running late.
Rocco was likely already at their meeting spot. If he hurried, he might get there in half an hour. Afterwards, he would take the first flight out of Milton and head straight back to sunny Florida.
He could not wait to get back on the golf course and leave this mess behind him. He was serious when he told Rocco this was the last favor. He could not be his get-out-of-jail ticket. There was only so much goodwill he had left before his superiors began asking questions.
He exited the government building and made his way to his car.
He abruptly slowed.
Standing next to the Buick was Detective Holt and Detective Fisher.
“In a rush to be somewhere, Agent Schaefer?” Holt asked.
Schaefer approached them with a smile. “You know how it is in our line of work. There is always somewhere we need to be.”
“I’m afraid we’ll need a bit of your time.”
“What is this about?”
“We would prefer if you came down to the station with us.”
The smile on Schaefer’s face evaporated. “Is something wrong?”
“We need to ask you a few questions.”
“You can ask me here. Unless you are willing to read me my rights.” Schaefer was not going to be pressured into doing something he was not willing to do.
“It’s about Bo Smith,” Fisher said.
Schaefer blinked. “Who?”
“Smith was the one who found the drugs in the Chrysler Isaiah Whitcomb was driving.”
“Okay, but what does that have to do with me?”
“Smith was found dead with a gunshot to the head.”
Schaefer’s mouth dropped.
Fisher said, “You were seen at the hospital asking questions about Smith. There are also witnesses who saw you in Smith’s apartment building the day he died.”
Schaefer was speechless. “I… I didn’t shoot him…”
He reached for his weapon.
Holt and Fisher pulled theirs and took aim. He quickly pulled his hand away. He raised his hands. “You can run ballistics on my gun. You’ll see I never fired it.”
Holt studied him. “I’m going to need your weapon.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Should you be?”
Schaefer paused to think.
He nodded.
Fisher removed his weapon from his holster.
“Tell us what’s going on,” Holt said.
“I have no idea.”
“Help us make sense of this. I’m asking you out of professional courtesy and nothing more. You came to us offering your assistance. We gave you information on Bo Smith. Then we find out he is dead. It seems more than a coincidence, don’t you think?”
“I had nothing to do with what happened.”
“Did you go speak to him?”
“Yes.”
“What did you talk about?”
Schaefer hesitated.
“You better be straight with us. So far, you’ve given us no reason to trust you.”’
“I wanted to know what he knew about Whitcomb’s murder.”
“And?”
“He knew only what he had already told you guys.”
“Then what happened?”
“I left.”
Holt stared at him.
“I swear,” Schaefer pleaded. “When I left, he was still alive.”
“What do you know about Bruno Rocco?” Holt asked.
Schaefer turned pale. “Bruno Rocco?”
“Yes,” Holt said with a clenched jaw.
Fisher’s phone buzzed. She answered and hung up. “You wouldn’t believe this,” she said to Holt.
He sighed. “Don’t tell me, there is another dead body.”
“Okay, I won’t.” She turned to Schaefer. “I think you better come with us. This will interest you.”
ONE-HUNDRED
Bruno Rocco lay on the side of the road with a bullet between his eyes. His white van was parked twenty feet away from him. A truck driver on his way to the gas station had spotted the van and pulled over. The moment he saw the body, he called 9-1-1.
The police had blocked off the road and surrounded the area with yellow police tape. Holt and Fisher walked around the scene with looks of utter confusion on their faces. Schaefer was in the back seat of Holt’s car. He too was shocked and dumbfounded by what he saw.
Fisher’s face, illuminated by over half a dozen flashing police cruiser lights, said, “What was he doing in the middle of nowhere?”
Holt frowned. “I have no idea, but I think someone might know.”
He stormed back to the car and pulled Schaefer out by his jacket collar. “You better start talking before I take you back to the station in handcuffs.”
“I don’t know,” Schaefer sai
d. “I’m as surprised as you.”
“You knew Bruno Rocco. You had cut a deal with him. We know all about that,” Holt growled. “And now he’s dead. What the hell is going on?”
Schaefer looked at his jacket pocket.
Holt shoved his hand inside and pulled out a plastic baggie. Inside was a driver’s license with Rocco’s photo, a Social Security card, and a folded copy of a birth certificate. But the license read Marco Keswick.
Holt’s eyes blazed with fury. “You knew he had killed my nephew, and you were helping him escape!”
Holt punched Schaefer across the face.
Schaefer fell on the gravel and spat blood from his mouth.
Holt cocked his fist again.
Fisher restrained him.
“Why?” Holt roared at the agent. “Why would you protect a murderer?”
Schaefer held up his hands to protect himself in case Holt took another swing. “I had no choice. Rocco had a recording of me feeding him lies to tell the judge. If it got out to the public, my career would have been ruined. Not to mention the verdict against Paolo Beniti and his associates would have been thrown out. Years of hard work went into putting Beniti behind bars, and if Rocco spilled what he knew, our hard work would have been for nothing.”
“He was my nephew,” Holt said and stormed away.
Fisher gave Schaefer a hard look. “You will answer for this mess, Agent Schaefer.”
Schaefer lowered his head.
ONE HUNDRED-ONE
Police officers arrived at the gallery the moment Callaway made the call. They were followed by the crime scene investigation unit and two detectives whom Callaway had never met before.
Holt and Fisher are likely busy investigating Isaiah’s murder, he thought.
The detectives took his statement and also Jennifer Paulsingh’s.
Goodwin was arrested and charged with Linda’s murder. The detectives believed Goodwin would spend the rest of his life inside a prison cell.
Linda’s body was removed from the fridge, and by the looks of it, she had died from blunt force trauma. The wine bottle was tagged and taken as evidence.
Callaway was checked by paramedics on the scene. The lump on the back of his head was not life-threatening, but he was advised to go to the hospital for x-rays. He declined. All he needed was a couple of painkillers and a good night’s rest.
He spotted Jennifer in the back seat of a squad car. He walked over to her, and an officer let him get in next to her. She was crying hysterically, and a part of him wanted to reach over and comfort her.
“I can’t believe Linda is gone,” she said. “I knew something bad had happened to her, but until I saw her like that, I never truly believed it.”
“At least now we know the truth,” he said.
They were silent for a moment.
“How did you know I was at the gallery?” he asked.
She looked up at him. Her eyes were raw and swollen. “I didn’t know you were here. I came to collect the money Carl and Glenn owed me. They were terrible at paying the girls on time. I found the gallery empty. I think Carl had forgotten to lock up. I searched for him, and I heard noises coming from downstairs. I went to check, and that’s when I heard the entire confession.”
“Did you ever think it was Goodwin?” Callaway asked.
“No, not in a million years. I never got a negative vibe from him,” Jennifer replied.
Callaway nodded.
He realized there was someone he had to call. Elle. She needed to know that they had found… Katie.
He pulled out his cell phone and sighed. “We should let Linda’s sister know we found her.”
“Sister?”
“Yeah, I should have told you the first time we met,” he said. “It was Linda’s sister who had hired me to find her.’
Jennifer looked at him like he was crazy. “Linda doesn’t have a sister,” she said.
“Sure she does,” he said with a short laugh. “And… her name is not Linda. It’s actually Katie Pearson.”
“No, it isn’t,” Jennifer said. “I should know. I’ve known Linda since grade school.”
Callaway opened his mouth but then shut it. He quickly dialed the number Elle had given him and waited.
An automated message told him the number was no longer in service.
He stared at the phone in utter silence.
He got out of the squad car. “I have to go,” he said to Jennifer, and he rushed away.
ONE HUNDRED-TWO
Agent Schaefer gave a statement at the Milton Police Department. He confessed to helping Bruno Rocco access new IDs, but he vehemently denied helping Rocco in the murder of Isaiah Whitcomb or Cassandra Stevens. His flight itinerary confirmed that his arrival in Milton was after their deaths. Schaefer also took no responsibility for Bo Smith’s death. He held firm that Smith was alive when he left him at his apartment.
Schaefer’s weapon had already been sent to the lab. A bullet from his gun would be matched to the bullet found in Smith. They would know soon enough if he was telling the truth.
Fisher and Holt now believed Rocco might have had something to do with Smith’s demise. Smith was at the scene of Isaiah’s murder. Rocco may have wanted to tie up all loose ends before he left Milton for good.
An officer knocked on the door. Fisher left the interview room. When she returned, she said, “Agent Schaefer, do you know a man by the name of Cosimo?”
Schaefer’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I do.”
“Who is he?”
“He worked as a hit man for Paolo Beniti. We’ve been looking for him ever since we arrested Beniti and his associates.”
Fisher said, “We got an anonymous tip that Cosimo is in Milton. He was seen at a falafel shop earlier today.”
Schaefer’s eyes widened. “I was there today.”
“With Rocco?” Holt asked in a harsh voice.
Schaefer did not respond. But his silence told them he was.
Fisher said, “Does Cosimo have aliases?”
“Of course he does,” Schaefer replied. “That’s how he’s eluded us for so long.”
“Do you know any of them?”
“Sure, I guess.”
Fisher took down the names and began checking them on her phone. After a few minutes, she said, “Nothing.”
“If he had used any of them, the airlines would have flagged them,” Schaefer said.
Fisher mulled this over. “What’s Cosimo’s full name?”
“Cosimo Castigiano.”
Fisher checked. “There is an Enzo Castigiano who landed in Milton yesterday on an American Airlines flight from New Jersey.”
“Enzo Castigiano is his father’s name,” Schaefer said. “He died a long time ago. Cosimo must be using his ID as a cover.”
“And you wouldn’t believe this,” she said. “He just booked a return flight for later tonight.”
“You have to get him before he leaves Milton,” Schaefer said. “When Beniti found out Rocco had cut a deal with us, he put a bounty on his head. I’ll bet every penny that Cosimo finally caught up with Rocco and completed the hit.”
ONE HUNDRED-THREE
Callaway drove like a madman. It was bad enough he was nursing a hangover. He now also had to contend with a lump on his head.
He should have gone to the hospital. What if I’ve suffered brain damage? he thought.
He shook the absurd thought away. If his injury was serious, the paramedics would have taken him away in an ambulance.
He took a deep breath to calm himself. Nothing was making sense. His thoughts were all over the place.
What Jennifer Paulsingh told him had shaken him to the core. He was now on his way to Mayview to find out the truth.
He found a parking spot and raced into the apartment building. He took the elevator up and banged on Elle’s door.
“Elle!” he said. “It’s Lee. Open the door!”
He waited and banged his fist again. A neighbor popped his head out. He loo
ked at Callaway suspiciously.
“Do you know if she’s in?” Callaway asked, pointing at the door.
The neighbor shook his head. “I don’t know. I was at work all day. Maybe you can ask the superintendent.”
“Where can I find him?”
“I’ll give you his number.”
After calling the superintendent, Callaway waited impatiently in the front lobby. A Hispanic man stepped out of the elevator. The man’s face was twisted into a scowl. He did not like being disturbed this late in the day.
Callaway explained that Elle was not answering her phone. He was worried for her health.
The superintendent took him back up to her floor. After knocking on the door a few times to make sure Elle was not asleep or bathing, he unlocked the door.
Callaway pushed past him and rushed inside. The living room was as he had last seen it. Clean, organized, and with nothing out of place.
He checked the bedroom and saw something on the bed. He picked it up and realized it was a black burqa, a piece of clothing used by Muslim women to cover themselves.
What the hell? he thought, utterly confused.
He checked the closet and saw a walking stick. He grabbed the stick when he noticed a pair of sunglasses and gloves on the floor. There was nothing else in the closet.
He went back out and found the superintendent standing in the apartment’s front hall. “Everything okay, sir?”
Without answering, Callaway moved away from him. He was in a daze as he went to the living room and dropped onto the sofa. His head was reeling when he put his hands over his face.
Things were now beginning to make sense. There was a reason he had never seen any photos of Linda with Elle.
Linda didn’t have a sister.
There were no text messages between the sisters either.
Linda had never even met Elle.
The first landlord had never heard of Katie.
Katie did not live there.
Her co-workers did not remember her at the fast food restaurant.
Katie never worked there.
No one had heard of Katie.
The Gone Sister (A Private Investigator Mystery Series of Crime and Suspense, Lee Callaway #2) Page 22
