The Dead Daughter

by Thomas Fincham

  “But he does have connections and access to resources. Last year, he went on three trips overseas. To South Africa, the Cayman Islands, and Switzerland.”

  Roth was not aware of any trips, but he would confirm this with Paul later. He knew Barrows was preparing a case to convince the judge to deny bail and that she wanted to see his rebuttals. “All three have extradition treaties with the US,” he said.

  “Yes, but I will argue that if he can visit those countries, what is stopping him from going elsewhere?”

  Roth believed Barrows was grasping at straws, hoping one of them would achieve her objective. He said, “I know people who have traveled to many more countries than that in a given year.”

  “Many of those people are not charged with murdering their daughter.”

  He smiled. This was the opening he was waiting for. “My client did not murder his daughter. He had no motive to harm her.”

  “The motive will become known in due time,” she said. “Your client was at the scene of the crime. The victim’s blood was on him. The murder weapon was in his vehicle. When provided with these facts, a jury will return from their deliberations with a verdict of guilty.”

  “But when presented the other way, they may not,” he said.

  She waited for his explanation.

  “It doesn’t make sense that a man would kill his daughter, hide the weapon in his car, and then decide to stay on the premises and fall asleep. If he had committed the murder, should he not be fleeing the crime scene instead of going back?”

  “Maybe he decided to flee and had made it all the way to the car but then realized he couldn’t drive in his condition.”

  Roth was confused. “Condition?”

  “Your client had been drinking that night. A bottle of scotch was found in the guesthouse.”

  “He only consumed half a glass.”

  “So you say.”

  She was testing him. She wanted to see how hard he was willing to fight back.

  Barrows continued. “In his inebriated state, he decided to sleep it off, and thus was woken up by his wife the next day.”

  Roth could punch a dozen holes in her theory, but he was not willing to get into it now. He would leave that for when they were before a judge and jury.

  “Speaking of the wife,” he said, “if my client stayed put to sleep from the alcohol, as you say, wouldn’t he have been worried his wife would eventually find out what he had just done?”

  “She did find out when she went into her daughter’s room.”

  “Yes, but why didn’t she hear anything during the night?” he said. “The couple’s bedroom is next door to their daughter’s.”

  “She couldn’t because she was under the influence of sleeping medication.”

  His smile widened even more. “She wasn’t home that night.”

  Barrows was taken aback. “What?”

  Roth removed a set of photos from his briefcase and placed them before her. “These were taken on the night Kyla Gardener was murdered. You can see from the date stamp that Mrs. Gardener had left the house for almost three hours. My client could have used that as an opportunity to make his escape.”

  The surprise was still visible on her face. “Who took these?”

  There was no point in hiding the truth, Roth knew. Sooner or later, he would have to reveal this fact, whether it was now or through a judge’s order. “My client was suspicious his wife was cheating on him, and to verify this, he hired a private investigator. I will be submitting these photos as evidence.”

  Barrows face was grim. Roth was beaming on the inside. He had scored one for the defense. If the prosecutor was going to use Sharon Gardener as a witness against her husband—there was a strong possibility of this because the couple was in the process of divorcing—they would think twice now.

  She cleared her throat and said, “We’re not here to argue about your client’s guilt. We’ll have plenty of time for that. We are here to discuss whether he should be set free before the trial.”

  “My client is not a threat to himself or anyone else. If you go to the judge with what you’ve just told me, I guarantee the judge will grant my client bail.”

  Barrows smiled.

  Roth suddenly felt unnerved.

  “Detectives Holt and Fisher were at the scene of the crime, and they discovered something interesting.”

  He sat up in his seat. He now regretted not visiting the crime scene before he came here. “I hope everything was as it should be.”

  “It was. An officer appointed by the court made sure of that.” She opened a desk drawer and pulled out a plastic bag. Inside was a yellow piece of paper. “It’s a purchase agreement between your client and a company located in Milton. It’s dated less than a month ago.”

  Without looking at the document, he asked, “What’s it for?”

  “Your client bought a small boat.”

  It was his turn to be taken by surprise, but he controlled his emotions as best as he could. “Maybe he likes to fish.”

  “We found no fishing equipment in the house. In fact, your client doesn’t even have a fishing license to his name. We will argue that it was all premeditated, and that after killing his daughter, your client had planned to sail away.” She dropped the bag on the desk. “I’ll be filing this as evidence.”

  She had just scored one for the prosecution.

  The silence hung in the air as they both stared at each other, wondering who would blink first.

  Barrows said, “I’m willing to offer a plea deal. I already have too many cases on my desk that need my immediate attention. We will drop murder in the first degree and instead go for a lesser charge if your client pleads guilty. He’s only forty-six. He’ll be out in twenty years and be able to resume his life.”

  “Let me think about it,” Roth said.

  TWENTY

  Callaway knocked on the steel door and waited. He was in a spot located behind a strip club. A second later, a small window slid open and two eyes appeared. He felt like he was in some bad cop movie.

  “What do you want?” the man demanded.

  “Baxter, open the door. It’s Lee Callaway,” he replied, annoyed.

  “Who?”

  “Do you want me to leave? I’ll go. Then you’ll have to answer to Mason.”

  A bolt was turned, a chain was removed, and the door was unlocked. Baxter was six-four, two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle, and he sported a buzz cut. He always wore a tight t-shirt, which made his big arms look even bigger.

  Callaway moved past him and went up the stairs. He could hear sounds from the club coming through the wall. He was confronted with another door. He waited as Baxter trudged up behind him. He was always surprised how the man was able to fit through the narrow stairs. It was Baxter’s duty to let people in—with his boss’s permission, of course. One time, Callaway barged in, and Baxter almost lost his mind. The man was a little loose in the head, Callaway figured. But he took his job seriously. He had to give him that.

  The office was small and narrow. A wide desk took up most of the space. A man was seated in a leather chair behind the desk. Mason was short, rail thin, and every inch of his arms was covered in tattoos. He sported a small goatee, and he wore wiry, rimmed prescription glasses.

  “Lee, my friend,” Mason said with a smile. “Come in and have a seat.”

  “I didn’t know I was your friend,” Callaway said.

  Mason made a melodramatic gesture, acting as if Callaway had insulted him. “You were always my friend.”

  Callaway shot a look at Baxter. “If I was your friend, then why was your guard dog ready to break my leg the last time I was in here?”

  “That was business, you know that,” Mason replied.

  Callaway had found himself in a tight spot, and with nowhere else to go, he showed up at Mason’s doorstep. Mason was more than willing to extend him the loan, but when Callaway fell behind, Mason sent Baxter to recoup the money. Fortunately, Callaway was able t
o talk his way out of serious injury.

  “I’ve got a job for you,” Mason said.

  “I’m not taking any more jobs from you.”

  “You took the last one.”

  “Only because I owed you money.”

  “Listen, I’m interested in hiring you, Mr. Private Investigator.” Mason gave him a smile, which was anything but pleasant. “I bet you need the cash. Why else would you be here?”

  Callaway hated that Mason was right. Why could he not just get a stable nine-to-five job and be done with dealing with lowlifes like Mason?

  “I only came to see what you wanted,” Callaway said.

  “Well, I want you to find someone for me.”

  “I bet this person owes you money.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then no thanks. I’m not going to find this person so Baxter can hurt him.”

  “We don’t want to hurt him, Lee. He made an agreement with us, which he reneged on. We just want our money.”

  Callaway stared at him.

  Mason’s expression hardened. “We will find him, with or without your help.”

  Callaway did not like the sound of that.

  “How much does he owe you?”

  “Ten grand, but after interest and late penalties, it is twelve grand. And if you collect in full, you keep ten percent.”

  That’s over a thousand dollars, Callaway thought. That would come in handy right about now.

  “What if he doesn’t have the money?” Callaway said. “I’m guessing he doesn’t, which is why he has become scarce.”

  “He owns a classic Plymouth Road Runner. He put it up as collateral. It’s gotta be worth at least twenty grand. You find him, you’ll find the car.”

  Callaway thought Mason’s offer over. “Okay, I’ll do it. But if I find him, you don’t hurt him. You sell the car and get your money.”

  “That’s what I keep saying. I just want my money. That’s all,” Mason said, spreading his arms out.

  “What’s his name?” Callaway finally asked.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Paul Gardener shook his head. “I’m not pleading guilty. I did not kill my daughter.”

  Roth was back at the Milton PD. After his meeting with Barrows, it was his duty to inform his client of all his options. Roth did not have to agree with them, and in some instances, he would wholly advise against them, but he still had to convey them.

  “These aren’t options you are bringing me,” Gardener said. “They all lead me to spending time in prison.”

  “Yes, but at a reduced sentence.”

  Gardener shook his head and pointed a finger at Roth. “I’m not going to prison for something I did not do. I had no reason to hurt my daughter.”

  “Are you sure?” Roth asked.

  Gardener blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “The prosecution believes that you were drunk and you had a fight with your daughter. In a fit of anger, you strangled her and then stabbed her.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. If I strangled her, then why would I stab her?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I can’t. I don’t remember anything.”

  “How can you remember nothing when all signs point to you as the killer?”

  Gardener opened his mouth but then shut it. He lowered his head and stared at his hands. Roth was not trying to get a confession out of him. Far from it. What he wanted to see was how he handled himself under questioning. If Roth put him on the stand, and he would only do that if there was no other choice, Barrows would come at him from all sides. He better have his story straight, or else Barrows would expose him in front of the jury.

  Gardener stood up and walked over to the wall. “What about my bail?” he asked.

  “Prosecution will try to get the judge to deny it.”

  Gardener turned to him, his eyes full of terror. Roth did not blame him for wanting to avoid another day being locked up. “Why?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Last year, you took three trips abroad. They will argue that makes you a flight risk.”

  “But I’m not.”

  “What were you doing in South Africa?” Roth asked.

  Gardener searched his memory. “My wife and I went on a safari for our twentieth wedding anniversary.”

  “The Cayman Islands?”

  “Her family is wealthy. They have money stowed away in numbered accounts all over the world. I went there with my brother-in-law to check up on one of those accounts.” Gardener did not sound like he wanted to hide this information. He had bigger things to worry about than tax evasion. His freedom was far more important. “We were only there for three days.”

  “Do you have an account there?” Roth asked.

  He shook his head. “I don’t make enough to warrant one.”

  Roth nodded. “And what about Switzerland?”

  “I was there on a business trip to raise capital for my firm.”

  “And did you raise the money?”

  Gardener shook his head again. “Not everyone is willing to invest in technology, specifically tech geared toward the app market.”

  This is good, Roth thought. They could argue he did not have the means to become an international fugitive.

  “One last thing,” Roth said. “They know you bought a boat recently.”

  “I did, but why is that a problem?”

  “You never owned one before. In fact, you don’t even have a fishing license. So why did you buy one now?”

  Gardener stared at him. His shoulders slumped. “I’ve been under a lot of stress. My business is not doing as well as I had hoped. I knew my marriage was coming to an end. I just wanted to get away from everything. The thought of being out in the ocean with not a care in world, with no place to be and no place to go, was alluring, and that’s why I purchased the boat. I know it was more of a dream than reality, but it gave me some hope for the future.”

  “This doesn’t help us. In fact, it gives the prosecution more ammo. They will argue that you had planned it all, and that after you had murdered your daughter, you were going to sail away on your boat.”

  “I’m not a murderer,” Gardener said. “I don’t belong here. You have to get me out.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  The bungalow was at the end of a quiet street. It had a two-car garage with a white picket fence. The lawn had recently been mowed, and grass still littered the edges of the driveway. Children’s toys were scattered on the front porch. Callaway tiptoed over them as he made his way to the front door.

  He rang the doorbell and waited. A minute later, the door slid open a notch. He could see a women behind it.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Is Mike Grabonsky home?”

  “No, Mike’s not here.”

  She was about to shut the door when he stuck his hand in to stop her. “Wait,” he said.

  “Leave me alone,” she said. “Or else I’ll call the police.”

  “Give me a minute to explain, please,” he said. He stuck his other hand inside his pocket and pulled out a card. It was the one with his pseudonym. Now’s not the time to be deceitful, he thought. He stuck his hand back inside, pulled out the card with his real name, and held it out for her to take. She snatched the card. A moment later, she opened the door.

  “You’re a private investigator?” she asked.

  “I am.”

  “Sorry, I thought you were with the people who came by earlier.”

  “What people?”

  “There were two of them. One was short, but he had a lot of tattoos, and the other was big, and he looked mean.”

  So, Mason and Baxter were already here, Callaway thought. Figures.

  “What did they want?” he asked.

  “They wanted to know where Mike was. I told them I didn’t know. Then they did this.” She held the door so he could see.

  The interior of the house looked like a tornado had hit. The furniture was smashed or tossed aside. The walls had holes the size o
f fists, likely from Baxter’s hand. The TV was broken and lying on the floor.

  Callaway’s face was hard. It was one thing to rough up a guy for not paying up; it was another to go to his house and threaten his family. “Did you file a police report?” he asked.

  “They told me if I called the police, they would come back and burn the house down.”

  He doubted very much they would go that far, but Baxter did have a few screws loose in his head. There was no telling how literal he would take any of Mason’s instructions. One time, a guy was not being forthcoming with information, and Mason told Baxter to make him spill his guts. Baxter took out a knife and split the guy’s stomach open.

  “We’ve got two kids,” she said. “They are staying with my sister right now. Fortunately, they were at school when those guys came to the house. I’m worried for their safety.”

  “Nothing will happen to them. Those people just want the money Mike borrowed from them.”

  “But why would he go to them? We have our savings, and we also have a home line of credit.”

  In Callaway’s experience, most husbands never told their wives the entire truth. Mike must have already gone through the savings, and he must have tapped the line of credit dry.

  No one with a good credit score would go to a loan shark. They were the last resort when all other options were closed. Mason and people like him in his profession preyed on the desperate. They were a modern version of the feudal lords who lent money to farmers at exorbitant interest rates, knowing full well the farmers could never pay them back. When they could not, the lords seized the farms and made the farmers work for them.

  Mason must have known Mike could never pay him back, which was why he had made him sign the Road Runner as collateral. He knew he could double his investment if he got his hands on the classic car.

  “Do you know where Mike is?” Callaway asked.

  “If I knew, I would have told those guys when they were destroying my house,” she replied. “I’ve called his cell phone. I’ve called his work. I’ve even called all his friends. No one has any idea where he is.”