The Dead Daughter

by Thomas Fincham

  Fisher frowned. “I’m not.”

  “You are,” he insisted. “I can see where she’s coming from, but not you.”

  Fisher’s face hardened. “Please do explain?”

  “All she cares about is winning the case, but I’m not sure what your angle is here.”

  “I care about putting a guilty man away,” Fisher said. “Not an innocent man.”

  Holt scowled. “Paul Gardener is not innocent.”

  “How do you know that with certainty?”

  Holt stomped over to his car and removed a folder from the backseat. “I had someone at the department dig up Gardener’s financial records. The house that he and his wife bought with his father-in-law’s gift was recently re-mortgaged. His business is bleeding cash, and he has tried to sell it, with no takers. The bills are piling up, and he is drowning in debt. I believe he saw his daughter as the only way out.”

  “How?” Fisher asked, confused.

  “The text messages,” Hold replied. “The victim was going to inherit a million dollars when she turned twenty-one, which was only a few months away. That would have been enough to get Gardener out of the mess he was in.”

  “Okay, but the victim did say she would help her father out, so why kill her?”

  “Maybe at the time they texted, she agreed to do it. What if she changed her mind, and Gardener was so overcome with rage, he attacked her?”

  Fisher did not look convinced.

  “Remember,” Holt said, “the victim was also considering getting married. Who do you think would lose out if she did? Paul Gardener.”

  FORTY-THREE

  Callaway came to the end of his emails and frowned. There were none that stuck out to him. Most were from people who had a story to tell, but they were not sure if they needed a private investigator. If Callaway had to convince someone they needed his services, then he did not want them as a client. They would always question his fees, the duties performed, and the end result of the work. The situation reminded him of people who always griped about the fees accountants charged for preparing their tax returns. They considered filing returns a simple job, one that should not cost much. It was only when the IRS came knocking on their doors that they were willing to pay just about anything to make the problem go away.

  People did not value what private investigators did for them. They took for granted all the grunt work that was needed to perhaps get photos of a cheating husband, or get information on someone who had disappeared, or get names of people who had caused them harm. People who genuinely needed him made the best clients. They knew they had nowhere else to turn to, and so they were willing to open their checkbooks with little hesitation.

  Callaway logged out of his email account. He would have to go door to door and drop off his business cards to drum up more business. He did not have the money to pay for newspaper or television ads. The website was built for him courtesy of a client, but he still had to promote the site. Maybe I should invest some time in this AdWords I keep hearing about, Callaway thought.

  He heard a noise outside. He stopped and listened. It sounded like someone was walking up the metal steps.

  He was not expecting anyone. He reached for his belt to draw his gun before he realized it was still locked up at the beach house.

  Damn. Must be Baxter. I guess Mason figured it out.

  He was cornered.

  He saw a shadow in the doorway.

  He held his breath.

  The stranger knocked on the door.

  Callaway slowly got up to check.

  A man stood at the entrance. He had coiffed hair, smooth skin, and perfect teeth. He wore a white suit with a pink shirt and black dress shoes. Everything about him said expensive, which made him stick out in this neighborhood.

  The man also had a bandage on one hand.

  No, it’s not Baxter, Callaway thought. Maybe he’s one of those cheating husbands I busted? He doesn’t look familiar, though.

  Callaway opened the door.

  “Lee Callaway?” the man asked.

  “Can I help you?” Callaway replied, hesitantly.

  “My name is Dr. Richard Lester.”

  Callaway just looked at him.

  “I am Sharon Gardener’s brother,” Dr. Lester said.

  “Oh,” Callaway said. “So that would make Kyla Gardener your niece?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Lester replied.

  Callaway wanted to invite him inside for a seat, but his office did not give off the best impression. “What can I do for you?” he asked as he stepped out and closed the door behind him.

  “I know you’re a busy man, so I won’t take too much of your time.”

  “Okay,” Callaway said. Nice he thinks I’m busy as a bee, Callaway thought, but I’ve got all the time in the world.

  Dr. Lester cleared his throat. “I’m here about the photos you took for my brother-in-law, Paul.”

  Callaway squinted. “What about them?”

  “I’m interested to know what’s in those photos.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s privileged information. I cannot tell you what’s in those photos without Mr. Gardener’s okay.”

  Dr. Lester did not seem offended by Callaway’s direct response. “My sister was very upset that her activities on that particular night were made public,” he said. “We don’t want the actual photos to get out either.”

  “I understand your concern, but my client hired me to take them. Whatever he does with them is his choice. If I were you, I’d speak to him,” Callaway said.

  “I would, but right now, due to tragic circumstances, we are not on speaking terms.”

  “So I heard,” Callaway said. Nice family, abandoning an in-law to sink or swim, he thought.

  “I would be willing to buy them off you. Name your price, Mr. Callaway,” Dr. Lester said.

  Callaway grimaced. Sure I need the bucks, he thought, but client confidentiality is set in stone for me. “I’m sorry you wasted your time coming here,” he said, “but those photos are not for sale.”

  Dr. Lester was unfazed. He put his hand inside his pants pocket and pulled out a business card. “Well, if you change your mind, I’ll make it worth your while.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  Roth was once again seated across from Paul in his mother’s house. Roth was preparing for another case when Paul called him. He sounded hysterical and upset, constantly wailing “I want this nightmare to end!” Roth worried his client was going to do something stupid, so he rushed over.

  Fortunately, Paul was composed when he arrived at the door. His mother had given him one of her anxiety medications to calm him down.

  As he stared at him, Roth could not help but see a man who looked more like a scared boy. Paul wore a t-shirt, and his track pants were white, but Roth could see coffee stains on them. He had stubble on his cheeks, and his hair was sprouting in all directions. Roth would have to clean him up before he presented him to the jury. There was no way he would let anyone see him like this.

  Paul rubbed his hands together. He avoided making eye contact, but Roth could see his pupils were dilated. Maybe it was the effects of the medication, or maybe it was the medication combined with the alcohol that was causing his eyes to look that way.

  Paul reeked of booze. There was no telling how many bottles he had consumed. Roth would have to ask his mother.

  “I’m sorry that you had to drive over here because of me,” Paul said.

  “I’m here whenever you need me,” Roth replied. It’s all billable hours, he thought.

  Paul nodded.

  Roth said, “You told me on the phone that you wanted this nightmare to end. What did you mean by that?”

  “My daughter is dead. My wife has abandoned me. My reputation is in tatters. My life is destroyed.”

  “It can all be redeemed once you are found not guilty.”

  “How long will that take?” Paul asked, finally looking at him. “I can’t go back to my own house because of all the attention. I ca
n’t even leave my mom’s house without reporters following me. Even my mom is constantly being harassed by them.”

  “I can ask the Milton PD to make them stop bothering her.”

  “Why can’t you make them leave me alone too?”

  “The media wants a story, and you are a person of interest in a horrible crime. Your mom, on the other hand, has nothing to do with what happened. They can’t force her to talk to them.”

  They were quiet a moment.

  Paul said, “When can I see my daughter’s body?”

  “I put in a request, but your wife, as the next of kin, won’t allow it.”

  “I’m her father. I’m also her next of kin.”

  “Yes, but you are charged with murdering her.”

  Paul shook his head. “This is not right. I may be charged, but I haven’t been found guilty. Can’t we get a judge to grant me access to see my daughter?”

  “We can try, but in my opinion, it would be a waste of time. Even if we went ahead with it, I can almost guarantee a judge will side with your wife. She’s also a victim in all of this.”

  Paul blinked. “A victim?”

  “Let me rephrase that. She is the victim’s mother. I can bet the prosecution will use her against you, to show that you were a horrible father, that you never got along with your daughter, and that you had a motive to kill her.”

  “I didn’t,” Paul said.

  “Regardless, when a jury sees a grieving mother on the stand, weeping about the loss of her child—an only child, I might add—they will sympathize with her pain. And to make matters worse, you and she were on the verge of a separation, so I highly doubt she’d hold back any vitriol against you.”

  Paul’s head fell to his chest.

  “My advice to you is to stop watching the news, to stay indoors as much as possible, and to keep your mind occupied with things other than what happened. It’s going to be some time before we go to trial, and I can’t have you falling apart. And trust me, the media will be bored of you the moment something else catches their attention.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  After the visit from Dr. Lester, Callaway decided to leave his office and walk down to the bar around the corner. He was still thinking about the offer Lester had made him. The doctor would have paid far more than what Paul had given him, but it came down to principle. Paul was his client and his loyalty was to him and no one else.

  There were many times when cheating spouses of his clients had tried to buy him out. They would make personal visits or go through their lawyers. Their main objective was to make sure the information did not become public, or that the information did not make it into the hands of their spouses. Their offer would be double or even triple what he received from his clients. The more damning the evidence, the more money they were willing to throw at him.

  Callaway was not a blackmailer. He despised even being referred to as one. Right after he was hired for a job, he usually had no idea what he would dig up. And when he did, he forwarded that information to his client. If that client used it to blackmail their husband or wife, that was up to them. It did not change the price Callaway charged for his services. Now, if the client was gracious to give him a bonus or let him stay at her beach house rent-free, that was something extra. He never demanded free perks.

  There were a couple of times where Callaway had to return the money because he did not feel compelled to finish the job. Once, a woman came to him and said she was certain her husband had another family she was not aware of. Callaway took on the case and followed the husband. He discovered the husband was indeed meeting another woman, but she turned out to be his half-sister. They had found each other through social media. The husband was embarrassed that his deceased father had a child out of wedlock, so he hid his half-sister’s existence from his wife. He also feared that if his wife found out, she would tell his mother, whom she did not get along with. His mother, a cancer survivor, would be devastated that his father had been unfaithful in their marriage. The husband was waiting for the right time to break the news to his mother. Callaway decided to keep the information to himself and refunded the wife.

  He walked into the restaurant and headed straight to the bar. He ordered a drink, and he spotted someone familiar in a booth by the window.

  He grabbed his glass and went over. “Mind if I join you?” he asked.

  Fisher looked at him. “What if I said no?”

  “I would still sit down, but then it would be very awkward.”

  She smiled and took a sip from her drink.

  “Aren’t you still on duty?” he asked.

  “It’s cranberry juice,” she replied.

  “Mine is four percent alcohol,” he said, holding up his glass.

  “Glad to know,” she said.

  He looked around. “What brings you all the way here? I’m sure there are nicer places to get a drink near the Milton PD.”

  “I just wanted to get away.”

  “From Holt?” he said. “I don’t blame you. The man is anal as they come.”

  “He’s not so bad,” she said. “He’s actually a very good detective. I’ve learned a lot from him.”

  Callaway grinned. “And what have you learned from me?”

  “To stay away from guys like you.”

  “And what’s wrong with guys like me?”

  “They think they can do whatever they want in life and that it doesn’t have any repercussions.”

  “What have I done?” he asked, feigning surprise.

  She shook her head and took another sip from her glass.

  “Is this about Patti?” he asked.

  Fisher had a theory that Callaway was still in love with his ex-wife. She believed he did not feel worthy of a woman like her and that was why he was jumping from one relationship to another. “How’s Nina?” Fisher asked instead of replying to Callaway’s question. “Have you gone to see her yet?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did, and we had ice cream.”

  “How is she?”

  “Growing up fast.”

  “They do when you don’t pay too much attention.”

  “Okay, I got your point.”

  They were quiet a moment.

  “How’s the investigation going?” he asked.

  “Which one?”

  “The Gardener case?”

  “It’s coming along.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “I heard you guys don’t have enough evidence to send him to prison for a very long time.”

  “And where did you hear that?”

  “I read it online.”

  “Don’t believe everything you read, especially online,” she said.

  “Is it true or not?”

  She stared at him and decided to come clean. “We don’t have enough yet, but we’ll find it. Holt won’t stop until he does.”

  “He is convinced Paul Gardener is guilty?” Callaway asked.

  She nodded.

  “And what about you?” he asked. “Do you think he’s guilty?”

  She shrugged. “So far, all signs point to him, and until I see something otherwise, I’m inclined to think so too.”

  “Do you mind letting me see what you got on him?” he asked.

  She laughed. “You know I can’t do that. We are only supposed to let Gardener’s defense see what we have against him. If you are so inclined, you can ask his lawyer. By the way, why are you suddenly so interested? I thought you completed the job he hired you for?”

  “I did. It’s just that he doesn’t come across as a killer to me.”

  “They never do until they end up committing the crime.”

  Callaway could not argue with that.

  FORTY-SIX

  Fisher returned to the Milton PD. She found Holt waiting at her desk. He had a smile on his face.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “Where have you been? I called you several times.”

  S
he checked her phone and saw she had many missed calls. “I had to meet a friend.”

  “Was it Lee Callaway?” he asked.

  “How’d you know?”

  “Call it a wild guess. I thought you were done with him?”

  “I am, but still, how did you know I met him?”

  “When you said you were driving to Chinatown, I know his office is around there. I figured you’d run into him.”

  “I did.”

  “You should be careful with him,” Holt warned her. “He screwed us when he took those photos of Sharon Gardener.”

  “No. He just gave us proof that she was lying to us.”

  Holt scowled. “Because of those photos, Gardener got bail.”

  “He would have gotten bail regardless. His lawyer would have seen to it,” Fisher shot back.

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Roth gets big bucks for keeping his client out of jail. He would have pulled a lot of strings to make sure Gardener didn’t spend another minute in a cell.”

  Holt pondered her words. “All I’m saying is that Callaway was instrumental in the outcome. He works for our suspect, so that makes him our enemy.”

  Fisher laughed. “No, it doesn’t. Gardener hired him for a job, and he did it. He doesn’t work for him anymore.”

  “Okay, sure,” he said, not believing her.

  “Why were you smiling when I came in?” she asked.

  The smile reappeared on his face. He held out an envelope for her. “The fingerprint analysis came back from the lab.”

  Fisher grabbed it, pulled out a sheet of paper, and read the report. Her eyes suddenly widened in astonishment.

  Holt was now grinning from ear to ear. “Gardener’s prints are on the knife that was found in his Audi. On top of that…”

  “The blood on the knife matched the victim’s,” Fisher said, completing his sentence.

  “Bingo.”

  Fisher stared at the report.

  “You look disappointed,” Holt said.

  “I’m not,” she replied. “I just figured Gardener would be smarter than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We found no blood anywhere in the house except for Kyla’s bedroom. It’s reasonable to assume that he may have wiped the house clean of any evidence.”