“So what was?”
“At the moment, I’m not sure. By all observations, Mr. Scott looks healthy and in good shape. But I will conduct further testing before I can give you a definitive answer as to the cause of death.”
Fisher could tell Wakefield was perplexed by her findings. Determining how someone died without all the necessary information was like solving a puzzle without all the pieces. Wakefield would not stop until she satisfied both her curiosity and her duty as a medical examiner.
Fisher thought of something. “When I asked if we should be looking for a man over six feet in height, you looked uncertain.”
“A man of that size would have caused more damage,” Wakefield replied.
Fisher’s brow furrowed. “So, should we be looking for a woman instead?”
“I’m not certain of that either, but if you were looking for a woman, it would surely narrow your search.”
She’s right, Fisher thought. There aren’t a large number of women in Milton who are six feet tall.
But until Wakefield gave her more to work with, Fisher was no closer to finding who had killed Dillon Scott.
FORTY-TWO
Callaway was already on his second drink. He was at a bar not far from his office. Next to him was an empty stool and a glass of whiskey for Jimmy on the counter. They were supposed to celebrate the conclusion of a case.
Callaway was confident that Sandra and Carl Wolkoff would honor their agreement. They would stop selling stolen goods, and they would forgive all of Frank’s debts. If they didn’t, Callaway would make a phone call to the police department in Michigan, and another phone call to the department store’s main office. Not only would Sandra and Carl be charged for crimes in their home state, there would be additional charges in Milton as well.
While he was waiting for Jimmy, he had called Betty Henderson. He omitted certain details, like how Frank was selling stolen property. He would leave it to Frank to break that to her. He did tell her Frank was involved in a complicated situation, but that it was all behind him now. He would be back to being a devoted husband and a wonderful father.
The excitement in her voice made all the hard work worth it for him. In his line of work, he mostly chased adulterers, and when he completed the job, the clients were too heartbroken to be grateful for his findings. But every once in a while, he would get a case that had a happy ending.
Betty and Frank seemed like good people. The end of their marriage would have been a tragedy. For the kids, it would have been worse. Callaway was glad he was able to help.
He finished his glass and frowned. He had a feeling Jimmy was not going to show up. The man was known to disappear for days, weeks, months, or years.
He wasn’t even sure what Jimmy was doing in Milton. He had a feeling Jimmy needed money, but so far, he had not asked him for anything. Maybe after he saw his office and the Impala, he realized Callaway was in a worse financial situation than him. On top of that, the job for Betty Henderson only paid five hundred dollars, and most of it was already spent.
Callaway sighed. He was looking forward to spending time with the man who had taught him so much about the profession.
As he ordered another drink, the door opened and Jimmy sauntered in. He had a wide smile on his face. He came over and took a seat next to him.
“Is that for me?” he said, grabbing the glass of whiskey.
“I’ve been waiting for almost an hour,” Callaway said, sounding like a kid whose parent had forgotten to pick him up from school.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Jimmy said. “I had a good reason, okay?”
He pulled out an envelope and dropped it on the counter.
“What’s that?” Callaway asked.
“Take a look.”
Callaway held the envelope. It was thick and heavy. When he looked inside, his eyes widened.
“How much is it?” he asked.
Jimmy grinned. “Three grand.”
“Where did it come from?”
“It’s courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. Wolkoff.”
Callaway blinked.
“After you dropped me off at the corner, I went back to the house, and with my badge in hand, I told them someone had reported them to the authorities. They probably figured it was you. They were sweating bullets. They begged me to take it easy, that it was a mistake and they would never do it again. I then offered them a solution.”
Callaway looked at the envelope. “You took a bribe?” he asked, disgusted at the thought.
Jimmy grimaced. “Bribe is too harsh a word,” he replied. “Let’s call it restitution for their crimes.”
Callaway shook his head. “I don’t know, Jimmy. This is not right.”
“What’s not right is that they committed a crime and you let them off the hook.”
“They forgave Frank’s debt,” Callaway corrected Jimmy.
“Sure, but how many times have you seen someone rob a bank, and when the police catch them, they just hand the money back and nothing happens to them? Never. The police retrieve the stolen cash, and they charge the robber with the crime.”
“You’re not even a real cop!” Callaway said.
“They don’t know that.”
Callaway knew arguing with Jimmy would do no good. He looked away.
“Okay,” Jimmy said. “If you don’t want the money, I’ll take it.”
“I never said that,” Callaway replied, still gripping the envelope. He knew the Wolkoffs were felons and they deserved more than a slap on the wrist. He could also use the money. The five hundred was nowhere near enough for the work he had done for the Hendersons.
Callaway exhaled. “So we split it fifty-fifty like the old times?”
“Why don’t you keep the whole thing?” Jimmy said.
Callaway’s jaw nearly hit the counter. When it came to money, Jimmy was not very charitable. There were even instances where they had split the money fifty-fifty, only for Callaway to later find out that Jimmy had taken his cut prior to the split. “What’s the catch?” he asked.
“No catch whatsoever,” Jimmy replied. “It was your case, and you did most of the heavy lifting. I just piggybacked on your hard work.”
Callaway nodded. He quickly put the money in his pocket before Jimmy changed his mind.
Jimmy raised his glass and said, “So, is this my drink, or were you waiting for someone else?”
FORTY-THREE
Fisher walked into the restaurant and looked around. She spotted the woman at one of the tables in the back. She walked up to her and they embraced.
Laura Meskin was tall, slender, and she had golden hair that reached down to her waist. Laura was Fisher’s best friend, and she had seen men swoon over her like she was the only woman on earth. They had met in high school when they both tried out for the volleyball team. Fisher was shorter than the other players, and she was a little heavier as well, so she played the back middle. She was the team’s middle blocker. Laura was always tall and lanky, so she played the outside hitter. She could spike the ball with so much ferocity that the opposing team’s players were afraid of getting hit by one of her spiked balls.
After high school, Laura went to Columbia and then wrote her bar exam. She now practiced civil law for one of the oldest law firms in Milton. She even managed to settle down and marry a trial lawyer, and together they had two boys, aged four and six.
Whenever Fisher compared her life to Laura’s, she couldn’t help but feel like she had fallen behind. She was not the least bit jealous of Laura’s success. She was happy for her. Laura was not the type of person to flaunt her accomplishments to anyone. She was well grounded, and she deeply cared about her family and friends.
“Sorry I’m late,” Fisher said, taking a seat across from her.
“It’s okay,” Laura said. “While I was waiting for you, I could have been working for my clients and billing them for the hours.”
Fisher stared at her.
Laura broke into a smile. “I’m jus
t kidding, Dana. I’m so happy I finally got to have lunch with you.”
“I really feel bad about the last time,” Fisher said. A few months back, she had taken the day off. She had hoped to catch up on some reading, and she was also scheduled to meet Laura for lunch. When Holt’s nephew was found brutally murdered, Fisher had to cancel all her plans and focus on the investigation.
“Don’t worry about it,” Laura said, waving off her apology. “I can’t imagine doing what you do. The pressure must be intense.”
Laura was the one person Fisher could be truly honest with. She never judged her, and she always had something encouraging to say about a situation. Laura became the sort of sister Fisher never had.
Fisher exhaled. “There are days when I don’t know why I’m doing it.”
Laura reached over and put her hand over hers. “You are doing it because it makes a difference. We all have a role to play in life, and yours is to find out who committed these horrible crimes.”
“You should be a life coach, you know that?” Fisher said.
Laura smiled. “Sometimes I feel I am doing exactly that at my job.”
“What do you mean?”
“I got tired of doing employment law, so now I focus on immigration law. It breaks my heart to see people living in this country who have not seen their wives, husbands, or children in years because they can’t get US residency or they keep getting rejected when they try to sponsor them from their country of origin.”
“You’re one of the hardest working lawyers I know,” Fisher said. “You will do everything to help your clients.”
Laura laughed. “Okay, let’s stop complimenting each other like we’re strangers.” She waved the waiter over and they ordered their meals. When the waiter was gone, Laura asked, “How’s the Dillon Scott murder investigation going?”
Fisher’s shoulders slumped. “I’m not making much progress, I’m afraid.”
“Your partner is still on vacation?”
“He’s back in a few days, and he can’t wait to start working on the case.”
“I know you were a big fan of Scott when we were younger,” Laura said. “You had one of his movie posters on your bedroom wall.”
“I did,” Fisher said. “But if I remember correctly, you hated him.”
Laura frowned. “Hate is such a strong word, but yeah, I didn’t like him.”
“Why not?”
“There was something in his eyes that I couldn’t put my finger on,” Laura replied. “It was like he was hiding a deep, dark secret.”
Fisher giggled. “Of course he was hiding something. He’s an actor. It’s his job to become a different person for each role.”
Their meals arrived and they dug in.
“So, tell me more about this Officer Lance McConnell,” Laura said.
FORTY-FOUR
Becky had a textbook open on her bed. Next to the book was her binder and calculator. Becky hated doing accounting. She could not wrap her head around income statements, balance sheets, journal entries, trial balances—they all looked the same to her.
Her mom wanted her to do something practical. Her mom’s sociology diploma had not gotten her anywhere in life. Her dad was not educated, so he had spent his entire life performing manual labor.
Whenever Becky complained about school, her mom scolded her. She would remind her that had her father gone further in school, he would probably be sitting behind a desk.
Becky knew what she was trying to say. The wall would not have collapsed on him, and he would still be alive.
Becky had thought the same thing a million times, but that still did not make learning how to adjust entries easy.
She heard the front door open and close. Her mom was home. She heard footsteps race up the stairs, followed by a knock at the door.
“Becky?” her mom said.
“Yes?”
“Can I come in, dear?”
“Sure, Mom.”
Her mom rushed in. She still had her coat on, and her purse was still slung on her shoulder.
Becky’s back arched. She sat up straight. “Is everything okay, Mom?” she asked, concerned.
Her mom sat at the foot of the bed. “Something strange happened today.”
Becky felt a sharp pain in the pit of her stomach. “What?”
“I had some bills to pay, so I logged on to my bank account, and I saw that someone had deposited close to eighty thousand dollars into our account. After work, I went to our local branch and I told them they had made a mistake. They checked, and they said it wasn’t a mistake.”
“It’s not, Mom,” Becky said.
“What do you mean?” her mom asked, confused.
“After the insurance company and the construction company refused to take responsibility for Dad’s death, I set up an online fundraising campaign.”
“You did what?” her mom asked.
“I told people how they had screwed us and how tough it is for us. People started sharing their own stories of how their employers or their insurance companies screwed them. They then started donating to help us out. It was small at first, but then it started to grow, and at the end, it was a lot of money.”
Her mom took this in. “Why didn’t you tell me, baby?” she asked.
“I thought you would be mad.”
“Why would I be?”
Becky shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Her mom leaned over and hugged her. “I can never be mad at you,” she said.
Becky shut her eyes and thought, I wish I could tell you the truth about the money and about everything else that is going on with me, but you would hate me if I did.
“So, the money is ours?” her mom asked.
“Yes.”
“We can keep it?” Her mom was still unsure.
“Yes, we can do whatever we want with it,” Becky replied.
“I think we should buy a nice headstone for your dad’s grave.”
“That’s a great idea!” Becky said. “I know exactly what to put on it.”
FORTY-FIVE
Osman stood in an alley across from the crack house. He had been there for almost an hour. He was anxious and jittery. He had a joint in his hand. He never liked putting drugs into his body, but he needed something to calm him down. He took a slow toke and let the drug work its magic. He could feel the hit course through him, almost giving him renewed energy.
After his visit inside the house, he was left considering all his options. Tamara Davis was a loose end that needed to be closed. She knew too much, and she could expose him at the drop of a hat.
No matter what he did for her, she could not clean herself up. He rented her a nice place. He bought her nice clothes. He paid for her groceries. Still, the woman could not stay away from drugs.
Once a crackhead, always a crackhead, he thought.
There was a reason for taking care of her. She was the golden ticket to make all his problems go away.
She was not lying when she said she was his ATM. He was going to use her to squeeze as much money out of his target as possible. But that was before two days ago. Now everything had changed, and Tamara was of no use to him.
She was a time bomb waiting to explode. She would blurt out their secret just to get her next hit. And if she spoke to the wrong people, Osman and his partner were looking at spending the rest of their lives in prison.
You should have never trusted an addict, he thought.
But he had no choice. He needed her in case his target got any wild ideas or decided to go to the police, which Osman was certain he would never do. The blowback would be devastating for him.
With him out of the picture, it was time to make Tamara disappear.
He took a final toke, dropped the joint, and stubbed it out with the sole of his boot. He placed a ski mask over his face. He pulled on latex gloves and then raced through the side of the tattoo parlor and up the narrow stairs. He didn’t even bother knocking. He could tell from his last visit that the locks on
the door were weak. He put his weight into his shoulder and rammed it into the door. The wooden panel next to the door snapped into pieces.
He entered.
The same young man who had answered the door previously rushed at him. Osman hit him with his fist and knocked him out. The other addicts were too high to react. One or two glanced his way, but they said nothing.
He moved through the apartment and found Tamara where he had left her. She was slumped on the floor next to the bathtub. Her eyes were glazed, and there was drool coming out from the side of her mouth.
A syringe was stuck in her arm. Osman saw blood in it.
He knelt down beside her and waved his hand over her face. Her eyes did not react, but from the movement of her chest, he knew she was still alive.
He composed himself and then placed a gloved hand over her mouth and pinched her nose with the other. He was going to constrict airflow to her body. She didn’t put up a fight. She was too high to know what was happening.
Suddenly her body began to spasm as it fought for air. She moaned, but he kept both his hands firmly in place.
He was not sure how much time passed, but eventually her chest stopped moving and her body went limp.
He removed his hands and waited. When he was certain she was dead, he got up and left the bathroom. On his way out, he saw the young man he had punched. He was still on the floor, unconscious.
Whenever the authorities arrived, they would think the young man was attacked by another addict, and when they checked up on Tamara, they would think she had died from an overdose.
She would become another homeless person who had died from her addiction.
FORTY-SIX
After celebrating with a couple of drinks for helping Frank Henderson, and also for earning three thousand as a bonus, Jimmy told Callaway the reason he was in Milton.
After making the call, they drove to the restaurant where Joely worked and waited for Fisher at a table in the far corner.
Jimmy rubbed his hands nervously as he stared out the window.
The Falling Girl Page 10
