The Falling Girl

by Thomas Fincham

  He would tread carefully.

  Frank appeared from behind the building. He got in the eighteen-wheeler and pulled out of the lot.

  Callaway followed behind.

  The first two deliveries were routine stops from the day before, but the third stop was new.

  The truck entered a vacant parking lot and came to a stop. Callaway parked on a side street with a clear view of the lot.

  A white cargo van drove up and parked next to the truck. Two men got out of the van just as Frank emerged from the eighteen-wheeler. Frank unhinged the trailer’s rear door and slid it up. The two men hurried inside and began moving goods from the trailer to the van. When they were done, one of them handed Frank an envelope. Frank put the envelope in his pocket without looking inside.

  Callaway had photographed everything.

  The men got back inside the van and drove away. Frank stood there for a moment before he got back in the eighteen-wheeler and pulled away.

  Callaway wasn’t sure what had just happened, but something did not feel right about what he saw.

  He put the Impala in gear and continued following Frank.

  Frank made two more drops before Callaway finally decided to make his move. There was no point in delaying it. He either completed what he was hired to do, or he did not. If he quit, he would have to face Betty Henderson again and return the five hundred dollars, along with an apology.

  Frank had just unloaded goods and was making his way back to the eighteen-wheeler when Callaway approached. “Frank Henderson?” Callaway asked.

  Frank turned to him.

  “My name is Lee Callaway. I’m a private investigator.”

  Callaway held up his business card.

  Frank paused and then looked at it. “What do you want with me?” Frank asked, concerned.

  Up close, Frank was an imposing man. He could snap Callaway in half with his two fingers. Callaway’s weapon was tucked behind his back in case things got out of hand.

  “Your wife hired me to follow you.”

  Frank’s face turned red. “She did what?”

  “She knows you’re cheating on her.”

  Frank grunted.

  “She doesn’t care if you are,” Callaway quickly said, wanting to keep their conversation from escalating. “All she cares about is you.”

  Frank stood still.

  “She hired me not to spy on you, but to convince you that she loves you, and that your children need you.”

  Frank grimaced. “I love my wife, and I adore my children,” he said.

  “I’m sure you do, but I have photos of you and another woman going into a house together.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think, it’s what your wife thinks.”

  Frank’s eyes moistened. This was not the reaction Callaway was expecting. He figured Frank would threaten him, or lunge at him, but he looked like a wounded animal.

  “Betty’s been through a lot,” Frank said. “If you show her those photos, you’ll be killing her.”

  He got in his eighteen-wheeler and drove away.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Fisher noticed that an even larger crowd had gathered outside the residence from the last time she was here. The press had not left the property, for obvious reasons. The house was still an active crime scene, and if there were any major discoveries, it would happen here.

  The press, however, was now outnumbered by the fans who were arriving by the dozens. The outpouring of grief was palpable. They wept openly, held movie posters, lit candles, and offered prayers for the deceased movie star. There was even a bus with tourists who had likely taken a detour just to be here to pay their respects.

  As Fisher got closer, she noticed a memorial had been set up for Scott. A large photo of his smiling face was stuck on a two-by-four, which was planted next to the entrance. Flowers piled two feet up were placed all around the photo.

  Fisher had called in advance. The officers at the scene had already cleared a path for her as she drove through the crowd. Even then, the press snapped photos of her SUV. The cameras recorded her every move. Some fans even reached over and touched her vehicle as if they were trying to connect with their fallen idol. They didn’t realize she was not related to Scott.

  She moved past the yellow police tape and drove up the gravel road. A uniformed officer was standing by the front door. To her dismay, it was not Officer McConnell.

  Why am I thinking about him now? she wondered.

  The officer unlocked the front door and held it for her.

  She entered and shut the door behind her.

  Back at the station, when the male detective had regaled the female detective about the birth of his son, something had flashed in Fisher’s mind.

  She pulled out a photo that showed the house’s hallway. With a magnifying glass, she had narrowed her focus on a pair of boots. They were black, and one of the pair had fallen on its side, exposing the soles. Fisher had spotted mud on the soles.

  She walked down the hall. The boots were in the exact same position as in the photo. They were a size nine, and they had belonged to Scott. She leaned down and took a closer look. Mud and dirt had dried under the boots. With a gloved hand, she scraped some of the dirt away to make sure.

  When she was walking up to the house, she noticed the area around the front steps was covered in dirt. The mud could have come from there.

  She already confirmed that on the night Scott was murdered, it had rained between nine and eleven o’clock. When the limo driver had dropped Scott off, the dirt was still dry.

  So how did Scott’s boots get mud on them? He was not a smoker, so he wouldn’t have gone out to light a cigarette. He could have gone for a walk, but Fisher doubted he would have done so in the rain. Plus, the next neighbor was a mile away, so there was nowhere else to go.

  The only logical conclusion was that Scott had left the house right after the limo driver had dropped him off. And when he returned, it was raining, and that’s how he got mud on his boots.

  Her theory was supported by the fact that Scott had asked Leslie Tillman to meet him at nine, not before. Also, Scott had been checking his phone constantly. This could only mean that Scott was scheduled to be someplace.

  Who were you meeting? Fisher thought. And did they have something to do with what happened to you?

  THIRTY

  Becky grabbed a slice of pizza, a cup of mixed fruit, and a carton of chocolate milk. She moved down the line, paid for her lunch, and took the tray to the corner of the school cafeteria.

  A girl was already seated at the table when Becky sat next to her. Becky had known Ester Chow since they were in sixth grade. Ester had long, smooth hair, a few acne blemishes on her cheeks, and she wore braces. Her lunch was nachos with cheese, chicken nuggets, corn, and a bottle of water.

  “How are you feeling now?” Ester asked, concerned.

  “Better,” Becky replied.

  “I messaged you like forty times yesterday.”

  “Sorry about that. My mom gave me medication and I passed out all day.” Becky hated lying to her best friend, but she couldn’t tell her the truth. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her to not tell anyone, it was just that she wasn’t sure how she would react. Would she stop talking to her? Would she judge her? Would she be repulsed by her?

  Becky couldn’t imagine not being friends with Ester. Ester had been with her through thick and thin. She was there when Becky had her heart broken for the first time. She was there when Becky lost out on becoming class president. She was even there when Becky’s dad passed away.

  Becky hoped their friendship would last forever, but this could only happen if Becky never told her secret to anyone—not even Ester.

  “It’s okay,” Ester said. “I forgive you.”

  Becky smiled. “So what happened while I was away?”

  “You know Amber, right?”

  “The girl with the freckles?”

  “Yeah, her
. She was bawling her eyes out yesterday.”

  “Why?”

  Ester rolled her eyes. “She was sad because Dillon Scott died.”

  Becky froze. “Who?” she asked a second later.

  “He’s some actor. Apparently, Amber’s mom had a crush on him when she was younger, and when she found out he was dead, she broke down. So, when Amber saw her mom crying, she got all emotional too.”

  “That’s so sad,” Becky said, unsure of what else to say.

  Ester shrugged. “I guess so, but you know what I really think? Amber is a drama queen. She just needs an excuse to get attention. Last year she told everyone she had throat cancer. Everyone felt sorry for her. It was really a swollen lymph node. The doctor didn’t even prescribe her anything for it. It went away on its own. The worst part was that she complained about it after the doctor had already told her it was nothing to worry about.”

  “Really?” Becky asked, surprised. “How come I don’t remember this?”

  “I think it was during the time you were away because of your dad.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “How’s your mom doing, by the way?”

  “She says she’s okay, but I know she’s not. Sometimes I can hear her crying in bed. I want to go into her room and hug her, but I don’t want to embarrass her. She feels that as a parent, she has to be strong for the both of us. I want to tell her it’s okay if she’s not, but I’m not sure how to do it.”

  They ate in silence.

  Ester smiled and said, “Guess who’s been asking about you?”

  “Who?”

  “Daniel Bailey.” Daniel was in all of Becky’s classes. He was tall, dark, and handsome. Becky had caught him staring at her.

  She blushed. “Get out.”

  “Really. He asked me twice if you were coming to school today.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I’m not telling.”

  “Come on,” Becky squealed.

  They both laughed.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Callaway was back at his office. He could not get Frank’s words out of his mind.

  It’s not what you think.

  What did he mean by that? Callaway had caught him red-handed with another woman. He had seen this woman get in his pickup truck and go with him to her house. How else could Callaway interpret this?

  In his years as a private eye, he had captured on camera hundreds of people doing the exact same thing, and they were all cheating on their spouses.

  He pulled the digital camera from his pocket. He preferred using film because negatives could not be easily altered, but with fewer and fewer photo locations developing film these days, switching to digital was done out of necessity.

  He clicked on the images of Frank and the woman. He noticed the woman was smiling throughout their walk up to the house, but there was a hint of sadness on Frank’s face. Maybe Frank knew that what he was doing was wrong. During their brief conversation, Callaway had sensed remorse from him.

  If that was true, then why not stop doing what he was doing?

  Callaway stopped at a photo. It was a full shot of the woman’s house. There was a station wagon parked in the driveway, and the lights inside the house were on.

  Did the woman live with a roommate or a friend? If so, was the location even practical for a rendezvous?

  Something did not add up.

  He clicked through the photos and stopped at the one where the men from the cargo van were unloading goods from Frank’s truck.

  Callaway zoomed in on Frank as he watched the men drive away. Callaway could clearly see distain on his face.

  What is going on? he thought.

  He went back to the earlier photos, where the woman had first appeared, smoking a cigarette. Something caught his attention that time. When the woman had gotten in Frank’s pickup, they did not embrace. He thought it was odd, but he rationalized this by thinking they did not want their co-workers to find out about their relationship.

  He then skipped to the photos of them getting out of the pickup and making their way up to her house. They were still not holding hands or even talking to each other. The woman was in front. Frank trailed behind her. He didn’t look like a man who was looking forward to spending time with his mistress. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there.

  Did Frank get himself into something he should not have?

  He did say he loved his wife and his children, and from his tone of voice, Callaway knew he was telling the truth. Callaway thought it was odd that he would throw it all away for another woman.

  He turned his laptop on. While it loaded, he left the office and went down to the variety store around the block. He bought a granola bar from the vending machine—the only thing he could afford with the loose change in his pocket.

  He returned to his office and sat down behind the laptop. He punched the woman’s address into the online phone directory. The name that came back was Sandra Wolkoff. There was a second name under the same address: Carl Wolkoff.

  What the hell? Callaway thought. Is this woman married?

  That explained the sedan parked in the driveway.

  He conducted an online search and discovered that three years back, someone named Sandra Wolkoff and her husband, Carl, had been indicted for fraud and theft in the state of Michigan. They were both given a suspended sentence.

  Callaway pulled up the department store’s website. There was a Search button in the top corner. He decided to try his luck. He punched in Sandra Wolkoff. There were no hits. He then punched in Sandra.

  Several names popped up. There was a Sandra Baker, a Sandra Levin, a Sandra Hoffman—and then there was a Sandra Ledford.

  Why does that name sound familiar?

  He went back to the articles from Michigan, and after searching for a moment, he found what he was looking for.

  Sandra Wolkoff’s maiden name was Ledford.

  He clicked back to the department store’s website. Sandra Ledford was the account manager at the shipping department.

  Isn’t that the department Frank works in?

  Callaway suddenly had a feeling this was not about a man cheating on his wife. This was something far worse.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The boots were tagged and ready to be sent to the lab for further testing. Fisher was certain the mud on the soles could have only come from the dirt outside the house. She couldn’t see any matching boot prints in the dirt, however. After Scott’s body was discovered, over a dozen people had searched the area.

  She spent an hour scouring the house again. She hoped she might find something that would explain why Scott had left on that fateful night. If she had Scott’s cell phone, things would be easier. She wasn’t worried, though. She had contacted Scott’s cell phone provider, and they were going to courier her the call logs within a day.

  When she was satisfied that she had checked every nook and cranny, she stopped by the front door and stared at the crowd by the entrance.

  The press was waiting on her to give them an update. The fans were waiting on her to make sense of why their idol was gone.

  She sighed. She was as much in the dark as them. She had no idea why someone would hurt a beloved movie star. She had no motive and no suspects.

  She was turning to shut the door when her eyes caught something. There was a large potted plant next to the door. Inside the clay planter was a white piece of paper. She reached down and picked it up.

  It was a taxi receipt. The amount was forty dollars, but with a tip, the total came to fifty. Her eyes widened when she saw the date and time at the top. The date was two days earlier, and the time was seven twenty PM.

  The receipt had to have belonged to Scott. He must have taken a taxi from the house, and when he was dropped off, the driver must have given him a receipt.

  But how did it end up in the planter? she wondered. The only explanation she could think of was that Scott had the house keys and the taxi receipt in the same pocket. When he re
ached to pull out the keys, the receipt must have fallen into the planter.

  The receipt was a customer copy, and it showed that it was paid with cash. The receipt did not have the name of the taxi company, but it did have the medallion number and the driver number. It wouldn’t be hard to find out who had picked up Scott and where he had been taken.

  She realized it was her first big break in the case.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Callaway considered everything he had just discovered. The woman with Frank Henderson was Sandra Wolkoff. Sandra was going by her maiden name of Ledford. This explained why the department store had not picked up on her past when they had conducted a background check.

  Now that he knew who she was, he couldn’t understand how Frank was involved with her.

  He could tell Frank was not happy with the arrangement. Whenever he was around her, his posture was that of a defeated man. He was being forced to do something he was not proud of. Callaway had a feeling it involved the men in the cargo van.

  His ears perked up when he heard a noise coming from outside. Someone was making their way up the stairs.

  I’m not expecting company, he thought.

  He opened the desk drawer and removed his gun. As a responsible gun owner, he always locked up his weapon upon returning to the office. He was fortunate he didn’t need it when he had met Frank, but now his weapon could be very useful.

  He got up and slowly made his way to the closed door. There was no window for him to know who could be outside.

  He cocked the hammer.

  “You’re not going to shoot me, are you, kid?” a man on the other side of the door said.

  Callaway’s mouth dropped. He blinked. He had not heard that voice in years. “Jimmy? Is that you?”

  “Of course it’s me. Who else would it be?”

  Callaway returned the gun to the drawer. He tucked his shirt in his pants. He patted his hair down and then opened the door.