The Dead Daughter

by Thomas Fincham

  She looked away again. “I don’t know… I don’t know anything…”

  She put her hands over her face.

  Holt let silence fill the room for a moment. “Mrs. Gardener—Sharon, can you remember anything from your interaction with your husband?” he asked.

  She sighed. “After I called 9-1-1, I ran straight to the guesthouse. I found him sleeping on the recliner. I called out his name, but he did not wake up. I yelled, and still he did not stir. For a second, I thought he was… dead.”

  “Dead?” Holt said.

  She nodded. “Paul’s not a deep sleeper, but this morning, I couldn’t get him to open his eyes. When the officer arrived at the house, I explained to him what was going on, and he had to physically shake Paul awake. When I told Paul about Kyla, he ran out of the guesthouse and into the house.”

  By then, we were at the scene, examining the body, Holt thought.

  Sharon said, “After that, I don’t know where Paul went.”

  Holt thought of something. “When we were going through your security cameras, we noticed that for a couple of hours, the cameras were turned off. Do you know why?”

  She stared at them. “I’m not sure. They are always on during the night and even the day, when we are not home.”

  “Are they automatically turned on, or do you have to do it manually?” Fisher asked.

  “Manually. They are linked to our home alarm.”

  “Who knows the passwords?”

  “I do, and Paul and Kyla, too.”

  Holt said, “Would your husband have a reason to turn them off?”

  “I don’t know, but why would he?”

  That’s something we will ask him, he thought.

  A member of the crime scene unit entered the room. “You guys need to see this,” he said.

  They followed him outside. He led them to the Audi and pointed to the glove compartment. Fisher grabbed a pair of latex gloves and leaned in.

  She pulled out what looked like a kitchen knife. The blade was stained with blood.

  Holt turned to Sharon. “Whose car is this?” He already knew the answer, but he wanted to see Sharon’s reaction.

  Her eyes were full of disbelief.

  “It’s my husband’s car,” she replied.

  EIGHT

  The Callaway Private Investigation Office was located above a soup and noodle restaurant. To get to his office, you had to go behind the building, take the narrow metal stairs up, and knock on a black metal door.

  There were no signs outside informing patrons that such an office existed. There were two reasons for that. One: there was no space to put a sign. Two: Callaway didn’t want unexpected visitors.

  Over the years, his reckless behavior had gotten him in trouble more times than he could count. There were wives whose husbands were looking for him because he had gotten involved with them. There were unsavory people he had borrowed money from that he never paid back. There were even old landlords to whom he had neglected to pay rent before he up and left.

  Callaway resented his actions. He never imagined he would become one of those people who were always taking advantage of others. He firmly believed he was not.

  The wives he slept with? Their husbands were doing the same thing. In fact, the wives were mostly his clients. They had hired him to dig up dirt on their cheating husbands. These women had been ignored, disrespected, and even abused in some cases. He made them feel beautiful and worthy again. He had always vowed to stop mixing business with pleasure, but it was far harder than it seemed.

  The money he owed was mostly to criminals and lowlifes. They had not gotten their money the right way, and as such, Callaway did not feel too guilty for keeping some of it. He had also vowed to stop associating with such people. They were known to get physically violent when they did not get their money back.

  As far as the landlords were concerned, most of them barely took care of their property, and a lot of their properties were not even up to code. The first landlord Callaway refused to pay was because the roof was so badly leaking that there was a strong possibility it would cave in. The second landlord would shut off the heat during the winter to save money, and the last landlord did little about the rat infestation.

  His current landlord was not any better. His unit had no air conditioning, and during the winter months, the heating barely warmed the small room. To make matters worse, the room was cramped and windowless. Even if Callaway wanted to install an air conditioner on his own dime, there was no window to set one up in.

  During the summer months, though, Callaway would leave the front door open and place a running fan in front of it, allowing cool air to circulate through the room. When the room turned chilly in the winter, Callaway would run a small heater, which he hid behind a Bankers Box underneath his desk. If his landlord ever paid him a surprise visit, she would never know he had one. She had repeatedly complained about how high her electricity bill had become ever since he moved in. He could tell her off if he wanted to, but he was not a tenant who paid his rent on time. It was better to keep his grievances to himself.

  In short, he had become the clichéd private investigator from the pulp mysteries he had read as a kid. He drank, he gambled, he womanized, and most times, he did not have two pennies to rub together. He also had an ex-wife and daughter he barely saw. His life was anything but desirable, and he had no one to blame but himself.

  Callaway was once a deputy sheriff in a small town. He had a house, a wife, and a small child. The money was stable, and the crime rate was close to nonexistent. It was a quiet and peaceful existence. It should have been enough for any sensible man. But Callaway was anything but sensible. He wanted excitement and adventure, and when he moved to Milton, he got that and more. There was even danger to contend with.

  When confronted with the truth, a few cheating husbands had resorted to pulling a gun on him. If it were not for his quick thinking, he would not still be alive.

  He shut the door to his office and took a seat behind a small desk. There was a sofa in the corner, which Callaway had come to use as a bed. He was glad he did not need it at the moment. The beach house was far more comfortable than the springy sofa.

  He removed a laptop from his bag and placed it on his desk. While the computer loaded, he grabbed the remote and turned on the flat-screen TV, which hung on the wall. The TV was the only expensive item in the office. A client had gifted it to him a couple of months ago, right after Callaway had been kicked out of his apartment.

  The TV was always tuned to the 24-hour news channel. Callaway wanted to know what was happening in the city. This allowed him to seek out potential clients.

  He pulled out his cell phone and checked his messages. That was another reason Callaway did not need a sign outside his office. If people wanted to get in touch with him, they could always call him.

  He knew word of mouth was the best advertisement. Old clients were always referring him to new ones. Every once in a while, he would drop a business card where he thought someone could use his services. His website had his contact information, and a telephone number was taped on his office door. If someone ever called, they did not need to meet him at his office either. His motto was: Don’t come to me, I’ll come to you.

  NINE

  Paul Gardener was still dressed in the clothes he was wearing when he first met the detectives, including the bloodstained golf shirt. A police officer had not left Gardener’s side at any time, even when he went to the bathroom. There was no telling what Gardener could do to the evidence if he was left alone.

  Holt stared at him across the table. Gardener looked dazed and confused. He asked every so often why he was at the police station and not at home with his family. He complained of a headache and asked for painkillers. He was provided a cup of coffee instead. The department was not about to provide medication to a suspect unless it was on the advice of a medical professional.

  Holt now believed Gardener was the sole suspect in this case. It was just
a matter of how long it took for him to confess.

  “Can you tell me what’s going on?” Gardener asked, almost pleading.

  Fisher, who was sitting next to Holt, said, “Mr. Gardener, your daughter was found dead in her bedroom. Do you know how that could have happened?”

  “How would I know? And why are you asking me this?” Gardener shot back.

  Fisher ignored Gardener’s question. “Do you know how you got blood on your shirt?”

  Holt wanted to seize the golf shirt as evidence, but he could not do that until they arrested Gardener. There should be no doubt to a judge or jury that the evidence was found on Gardener, not planted by the police after the fact.

  “I have no idea how it got on me,” Gardener said. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “You’re entitled to one, but you are not under arrest. We are just having a conversation.”

  “It feels like I’m being interrogated.”

  Holt moved forward, his elbows on the table. “We are just trying to find out how your daughter ended up dead.”

  Gardener stared at him and nodded.

  Fisher said, “Can you go over what happened last night? And please, don’t spare any details. It could be vital.”

  “Where do you want me to start?” Gardener asked.

  “From the time you got home.”

  Gardener took a deep breath. “Okay. Um… let me see… I came back from work, and I went straight to the guesthouse.”

  “What happened next?” Fisher asked.

  “I had a glass of scotch and watched some TV.”

  “Do you drink every night?”

  “No, I’m not a big drinker, but yesterday I had a tough day at work.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m president and CEO of a small software company. We create apps for mobile devices.”

  “So you went to the guesthouse and had a drink, then what?” Fisher asked.

  “I watched a basketball game.”

  “Who was playing?”

  Gardener closed his eyes a moment. “Cleveland and Golden State.”

  “Who won?”

  “I’m not sure. It was a late game. I fell asleep before the start of the fourth quarter.”

  “What time was it?”

  “What time was what?”

  “What time did you fall asleep?”

  Gardener licked his lips. “I don’t know, eleven or eleven-thirty, maybe.”

  Holt placed his palm on the table. “Do you know why anyone would turn off the security cameras?”

  “What?” Gardener replied, surprised. “We leave them on all night.”

  “They weren’t on last night.”

  “How could that be? I didn’t disable them. I was in the guesthouse all night.”

  “You said your company makes apps for mobile devices, is that correct?” Holt asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of apps?”

  “We’re a boutique software company; we make products based on customer demands. If a restaurant owner wants to know how much money is going in and out of his cash register in real time, we can create an app that links the software in the register to the app.”

  “Can you link your home security system to an app?” Holt asked.

  “Of course, it’s now become standard with all security devices.”

  “Do you have such an app on your phone?”

  Gardener opened his mouth but then stopped. After a brief pause, he said, “I do.”

  An awkward silence filled the interrogation room.

  Fisher said, “What’s your relationship with your daughter?”

  “I love Kyla. She’s my little girl.” Gardener’s eyes turned moist, but he quickly controlled his emotions. He looked Holt and Fisher directly in the eye. “I know what you guys are thinking, but I did not hurt my daughter. I can’t imagine anyone doing that to their own child.”

  Fisher changed the subject. “What’s your relationship with your wife?”

  Gardener sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “You can tell from the way we are sleeping in separate beds that it’s not great.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Are you married?” Gardener asked.

  Fisher shook her head, “But Detective Holt’s been married for twenty-three years,” she said.

  Gardener turned to Holt. “Then you know the problems married couples go through.”

  Holt did. Marriage was not just about two people vowing to stay together through the good times and bad times. Marriage was about giving up a lot of yourself for the other person. Holt had sacrificed so much for the sake of the union, but he did not regret anything he had given up. He could not imagine his life without Nancy.

  Fisher said, “After you fell asleep, what happened?”

  “The next thing I remember, it’s morning and I was woken up by a police officer. I asked what was going on, and Sharon told me about Kyla. I didn’t believe her at first. Sharon was hysterical and not making any sense. I rushed over to the house to see for myself, and that’s when I saw you guys.”

  So far, Gardener’s story matched what they had learned from the surveillance footage and Sharon’s statement. But there was one thing missing. There was blood on the side of the Audi’s passenger door, which prompted the CSU officer to examine the car. Holt believed the blood could only have come from Gardener’s shirt, and the blood on the shirt could only have come from Kyla.

  Holt said, “We found a knife covered in blood in the glove compartment of your vehicle. Do want to explain how it got there?”

  Gardener’s face turned pale. “I think I would like to speak to my lawyer now.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Holt said. He turned to Fisher and nodded.

  She stood up and said, “Paul Gardener, you are under arrest for the murder of Kyla Gardener.”

  TEN

  Callaway decided to go to a diner and have breakfast. He had enjoyed a cup of coffee at the beach house, but there was no solid food in stock there.

  His stomach rumbled as he walked the block to the restaurant.

  Joely Paterson was behind the counter, serving hungry customers. She had blonde hair she liked to keep pulled back in a ponytail. She had on a tight-fitting t-shirt with an apron on top.

  The half-full restaurant had plenty of places to sit this time in the morning. Normally, Callaway would sit in one of the back corner booths, keeping away from the crowd, but today he grabbed a stool and sat at the counter.

  Joely came over. “I’ve only seen you once since you came back from Fairview. Were you working on another case?” she asked.

  Unlike other people, Joely was enamored with Callaway’s chosen profession. She too wanted more out of her life. She had dreamed of being a singer, but instead of following her dreams, she got married and then pregnant. Her then-husband worked as an equipment manager for a local rock band. He was away for long periods at a time when the band was on the road. After their last tour, he never came back. He called her from some town and told her he did not see himself married or as a father. He promised he would send her money, but he never did. Joely now had a four-year-old boy to take care of. Fortunately, she had a mother who was willing to help out.

  Callaway found her attractive, and he almost convinced her to go out with him. But the moment she became aware of his history, her interest vanished. He reminded her too much of her ex-husband. Callaway had left his wife and daughter to pursue a life of adventure, and he was always behind in his child support payments. He was what she despised in men. They were always looking for a good time but never wanted the responsibility that went with it.

  She warmed up to him when she found out about the cases he was involved in, the most important being the murder of Julia Seaborn.

  Julia’s body was found underneath Milton’s Westgate Bridge. When her case turned cold, her family hired Callaway to find her killer. Callaway’s search led him to Fairview, and with the help of a reporter, he not only solved Julia�
�s murder but also another girl’s. Callaway had hoped the case would be his calling card to fame and fortune, and that he would work on more intriguing cases from then on. Unfortunately, not everyone thought private investigators were reliable in solving serious crimes. They trusted the police detectives to do the job. When the money from the Seaborn case ran out, Callaway went back to photographing cheaters and adulterers.

  Callaway sighed. “I’m not working on anything worth talking about. What have you been up to?”

  “I got a call from a music producer,” Joely replied with a wide smile.

  “You did?” he asked, surprised.

  “He’s only worked with local talent, but it could lead to something big, right?”

  “Definitely, but how did you find him?”

  “He found me. I started posting songs online, which I shared on my social media page. People started listening to them, and they started sharing them with their friends and families. It’s not a big following—only a couple hundred people—but I figured I have to start somewhere, you know.”

  Callaway smiled. “Yeah, sure, good for you. Congrats.”

  “You’re just saying that so I will go out with you.”

  He shook his head. “No, I really mean it. I hope this is your big break.” Callaway knew she desperately wanted a better life for herself and her son. It must not be easy raising a kid on her own. He felt like human waste for the way he had treated his ex-wife. If he could go back and change one thing, it would be the way he walked away from his marriage.

  Joely was now beaming. “You know, you just made my day. And for that, you get a free coffee.”

  “Can I get something to eat too? I’m short on cash.”

  “Fine, but this is the last time. Bill is already on my case for giving freebies to customers,” Joely replied. Bill was a somewhat stingy manager with a by-the-book attitude.

  Callaway smiled again. “You have a heart of gold and a voice of an angel.”

  Joely smiled back. “Stop it. Flattery will not get you an extra meal.”

  Callaway looked around and found the morning newspaper on a stool. He was flipping through the pages when his breakfast came. It was eggs with toast. There was also a cup of piping hot coffee.