The Missing Mistress

by Thomas Fincham

  “Okay, but then what happened at Pine Trail?”

  “We were driving back when she started crying and acting hysterical. She said I had made unwanted advances at her and that I had behaved inappropriately. I got angry and told her to get out of the car. When I left her by the side of the road, she was still alive.”

  Fisher’s brow furrowed. “Were there other people at the park?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “They saw you with Miranda Temple?”

  “Probably.”

  “Is that why the police are linking you to her death?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  There was a heavy silence between them.

  Casey looked her straight in the eye. “I don’t want anyone in the family to know what’s going on. Mom and Dad would be upset, and you know how Mike is.”

  Mike was the oldest, and he would tear into Casey for allowing a sixteen-year-old girl to get in his car.

  “That’s why I called you, Dana,” Casey said. “You’d understand how difficult this situation is for me.”

  She nodded. She then asked, “Who’s the detective in charge of the investigation?”

  “Helen Nunes.”

  “Okay,” Fisher said.

  “There is something else you should know,” Casey said.

  Fisher sighed. “What?”

  “Helen and I are in a relationship.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  It was not difficult for Holt to convince the property manager to let him into David Becker’s condo. Like many in Milton, the property manager had seen the morning news.

  Becker’s sister-in-law had stated the condo was a rental. It was a one-bedroom and close to six hundred square feet.

  There were minimal furnishings, likely provided by the landlord, and Holt did not see anything that would indicate who lived here. No family photos. No mementoes.

  Becker and his wife had separated, which would have made him take all his personal belongings with him. So why did he not?

  Becker had planned to use the condo for a short stay, Holt concluded. In fact, he and his wife were in the process of reconciling.

  The living room was clean and there were a couple of banker’s boxes. Were they for a case Becker was working on? Holt did not bother to check. Instead, he moved to the kitchen. There was a coffee maker in the corner. The pot was half-full. He opened the fridge and saw a loaf of bread, a jar of jam, and a block of butter. There was also milk and a Styrofoam box with food from a day before. The sink was filled with plates, cups, and utensils.

  He moved to the bathroom. On the sink counter was a container of shaving cream, and next to it was a razor. There was also a bottle of hair gel, moisturizing cream, and a toothbrush and toothpaste.

  In the bedroom, there was an ironing board next to the bed. The closet was filled with expensive suits and shirts. On the side table, there was a bottle of cologne and a jar of aftershave lotion.

  Holt spent the next half hour going through every inch of the condo. When he was done, he sat down on the sofa with a frown on his face. The absence of a suicide note, coupled with everything he saw in the condo, puzzled him.

  Becker did not look like a man who had woken up that morning with the intention of killing himself.

  He had showered, shaved, and even gone as far as ironing his shirt before getting dressed in one of his tailored suits.

  He had then prepared breakfast, and, judging by the bread crumbs on the table, he had even taken the time to eat it.

  Why would someone, who knows today is his last day, make the effort to get ready, have a meal, and then drive to the freeway and jump to his death? Holt thought.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Callaway pulled up to the entrance of the Milton City Zoo. What he saw before him made him frown. There was a long line to get in. He counted over three dozen cars and several school buses.

  All the schools in Nina’s district had a day off, which explained the number of cars. Like him, other parents were bringing their kids to the zoo. But for other school districts, it was business as usual, which explained the school buses.

  They’re likely bringing their students on a field trip, he thought.

  The way the line was inching forward told him it would be a while before their turn came.

  “Honey,” he said to Nina.

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Why don’t we come back when it’s less busy?”

  She made a face. “But I want to see the pandas.”

  “They are probably sleeping right now.”

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  “Um… I think they sleep like twenty hours a day,” he claimed.

  “No, they don’t,” she said. “They only sleep like three hours at a time.”

  “Really?” he asked, surprised by this fact. “Why so little?”

  She sighed like he was dumb. “Because they spend the next three hours looking for food and eating it.”

  His brow furrowed. “They only eat bamboo, right?”

  “Yes.”

  A smile crossed his face. “The pandas in this zoo sleep longer than three hours at a time.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because they’re lazy pandas. They don’t have to look for food. The zoo cuts and delivers bamboo directly to them so they don’t have to go up and down trees. All they have to do is sit, eat, and sleep.” His story was an outright fib, but he hoped she would not challenge him on it.

  “I dunno…” she said, not sounding convinced.

  “How about this,” he said. “Let’s go get something to eat. By the time we’re done, the rush will be over, and you’ll get to see the pandas.”

  She stared at him. She then let out an audible sigh. “All right.”

  They drove across the city to a restaurant Callaway was known to frequent on a regular basis, though his patronage had nothing to do with the restaurant’s décor or menu. It was one of the staff that made him a regular.

  Joely Paterson was behind the counter, pouring a customer a cup of steaming coffee when Callaway and Nina walked into the establishment.

  Joely had blonde hair which was always kept in a ponytail. She wore a body-hugging T-shirt with an apron over it. Joely had dreams of becoming a singer, but after a failed marriage and the birth of a child, she pushed that dream to the side. Callaway still believed in her. He always pushed her to follow her true calling. But her attention had turned to her son, Joshua, who was six years old and the apple of her eye.

  Josh, as she liked to call him, had shown an uncanny ability to play baseball. In the city’s Little League tournament, his team competed against twelve other teams, but due to some costly mistakes by his teammates, they lost 7-6 in the finals. Even with that loss, he was unanimously named the tournament’s MVP.

  Joely now pinned all her hopes on her son getting into the pros one day and becoming a star. She knew the odds were against him, but she also knew if she nurtured his talent and encouraged him, who knew how far he could go? At least, he would not end up like her, standing on her feet eight hours a day making minimum wage.

  Her smile widened when she saw them.

  “Well, look who’s here,” she said, leaning over the counter.

  Callaway said, “Nina, this is Joely. Joely is a good friend of mine and someone I trust.” Joely had been there for him during times when he was at his lowest. He would find himself without enough money to purchase a meal, and Joely would give him something on the house. Her boss, Bill, had come to despise Callaway for his freeloading ways, and he had even gone so far as to order Joely not to serve him, but she still did. For that, he was forever indebted to her.

  “I’ve heard wonderful things about you, Nina,” Joely said.

  Nina smiled back.

  Callaway turned to Nina, “Let me take you to my favorite table.” He led her to a table in the corner of the restaurant, near the windows. It was at that very table while enjoying his breakfast that he was arrested for murder. But he was
not a superstitious man, so he kept sitting there.

  Once Nina was seated, Joely came over. “What can I get you guys?” she asked.

  “Get her whatever she wants,” he replied.

  “And what about you?” Joely asked.

  He leaned over and whispered, “I need you to watch Nina.”

  Joely made a face. “Where are you going?”

  “I can’t say, but I’ll be back soon.”

  He then turned to Nina. “Honey, Joely will take care of you.”

  “You’re leaving me again?” Nina asked with a scowl.

  “Again?” Joely’s eyes widened. “He tried to abandon you?”

  “Twice.”

  “It was only once,” he corrected her. “At the freeway.”

  “You left me behind in your office,” Nina added.

  “I only stepped away for a minute.”

  Joely’s eyes were slits. “You are a horrible father, Lee Callaway.”

  He put his hands up in defense. “Slow down. It’s not what it looks or sounds like. Nothing happened to Nina. As you can see, she is fine.”

  “Does your mom know what he tried to do?” Joely asked her.

  Callaway jumped in. “No, she doesn’t, and it’s best she never finds out.” Before the conversation veered in another direction, he said, “Joely will get you whatever your heart desires.” He pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to her. He turned to Nina. “I’ll be back before you finish your meal. I promise.”

  THIRTY

  Detective Helen Nunes had short brown hair, an olive complexion, and smooth skin. Her eyes were hazel, and they sparkled in natural light.

  Fisher sat across from her on a patio outside a coffee shop. When she called and introduced herself, Nunes suggested they meet in a more pleasant location than the Lockport police station.

  Fisher took a sip of her black coffee and said, “Thank you for meeting me on such short notice, Detective Nunes.”

  “Call me Helen. And anything for Casey’s sister,” Nunes said, sipping her espresso.

  “You know why I wanted to speak to you, don’t you?” Fisher asked.

  Nunes nodded. She then looked over at a couple sitting at a table further away. Fisher sensed Nunes did not want anyone to hear their conversation. The couple was too busy charming each other to care about what was happening around them.

  Nunes said, “It’s a difficult time for Casey and me. It’s put me in a difficult position.”

  “I’m surprised the Lockport P.D. would let you investigate a crime involving someone you are dating.”

  “They don’t know.”

  Fisher blinked. “Your superiors aren’t aware of your relationship with Casey?”

  She shook her head. “We had decided that until it became serious, we would not tell anybody.”

  “But you surely can’t hide this forever. It’s bound to get out eventually.”

  Nunes sighed. “I know. But the department has gone through a string of cutbacks. We used to have over a dozen detectives, but now we are left with only a handful. A lot of detectives were transferred to departments in other cities and those who retired were never replaced with new ones.”

  “So, what are you trying to say?”

  “If I didn’t agree to take on the case, and with the workload already on our desks, the case would have gone to someone outside the department.”

  Fisher understood. Miranda Temple’s murder would be investigated by a detective who wasn’t from Lockport, which would mean Nunes would have no control.

  “Do you think Casey is guilty?” Fisher asked. “If he is, I think you should excuse yourself.”

  Fisher loved her brother dearly and would do just about anything for him. But it would be wrong, and a stain on her badge, if she helped him get away with murder.

  Nunes sighed. “I don’t know if he is guilty or not, but at the moment, the facts against him don’t look good.”

  Fisher sipped her coffee in silence.

  “Listen,” Nunes said. “Casey spoke a lot about you. I know he trusts you, and I’m glad you are here to support him, but I will do my job, regardless of the consequences. I hope you understand this.”

  “I do,” Fisher said. After a brief pause, she asked, “What can you share with me about your investigation?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid.”

  Fisher expected Nunes’s answer. By opening her investigation to Fisher, she would be showing her hand, which all detectives hated to do, especially to someone who was related to a suspect. But Fisher had to ask.

  Nunes asked, “Should I be worried about you, Detective Fisher?”

  “Call me Dana, and I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I mean, are you going to conduct a parallel investigation that might end up impeding my investigation?”

  “As a fellow officer, I would never do that…”

  “Not even for your brother?” she interjected.

  Fisher paused and then said, “I’m here to help my brother. Out of courtesy, I wanted you to know I will leave no stones unturned until I get to the bottom of what happened at Pine Trail.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  The glass and steel building rose up into the sky, looking as if it could touch the clouds. Light reflected off the windows, almost making the tower look like a diamond from afar.

  Callaway stood at the main entrance of Parish Holdings Inc.’s headquarters. He knew from his search online that the office was located on the top floor.

  He knew he could not go up there unannounced.

  What would I say if I did? he thought. “Hi, I’m Lee Callaway, and I’ve been hired by David Becker to search for a woman named Lana Anderson. Can you help me out?”

  He shook his head.

  That would sound so obtuse. But what other choice do I have?

  Callaway followed a set of codes. One was that he would never renege on a contract. There were too many instances where a cheating spouse would offer him a bribe to silence him. Callaway’s word meant something to him, no matter how much money was thrown his way.

  The second was that he would always complete the task given to him. Prior to his death, David had left him with a responsibility, and Callaway was not about to shirk from it.

  As he stared at the magnificent building, he pondered his next move.

  Callaway figured there might be some link between Anderson and Parish Holdings, or at the very least, it would give him a place to start his investigation.

  He went through a set of glass doors and entered the lobby. A security guard was seated behind a metal desk. He decided to walk up to the guard.

  “I would like to speak to someone at Parish Holdings Incorporated,” Callaway said. “It’s regarding a project, and I don’t want to call their 1-800 number, you know.”

  The guard smiled. “If you go to that booth over there,” he said, pointing, “and dial 7228, it will connect you directly to their main office.”’

  Callaway grinned. “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  He walked to the booth and picked up the phone. He punched in the number and listened as the phone rang.

  “R.J. Parish’s office, how can I help you?” an older woman asked.

  Callaway froze. The R.J. Parish? The man had singlehandedly changed the city’s architectural landscape. His name was synonymous with construction and philanthropy.

  “Um… I’m not sure if this is the right place,” he stammered. “But I’m looking for Lana Anderson?”

  There was silence on the other end. “Who are you?” the woman asked.

  “I’m… a friend of Lana’s.”

  Another pause, this one longer. “I’m sorry, but no one by that name works here.”

  Before he could ask another question, the line went dead.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The law office of Becker & Becker LLP was on the main floor of a three-story brick and concrete building. Holt had easily found the office, but he was surprise
d by the throng of reporters gathered outside.

  He froze in his tracks.

  Holt was the lead investigator, and as such he would be asked to provide updates on the case.

  He was in no mood to answer questions, so he doubled back and returned to his vehicle.

  He was about to drive off when a man approached the driver’s side window and tapped it with his knuckles. The man had wavy hair, long sideburns, and a heavy moustache that covered his upper lip. He looked like a character from the 1970s.

  Holt grunted and rolled down his window. “I have no comments,” he growled.

  “I’m not with them,” he said, nodding in the direction of the media. “I was smoking outside when I recognized you. You’re a detective with the Milton P.D., right?”

  Holt paused before he replied, “I am.”

  “And you are here about David—I mean, David Becker, right?”

  Holt paused again, but then he said, “I am.”

  “David’s office was across from mine.”

  Holt glanced over at the reporters. A couple of them were looking in their direction. He said, “Do you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you mind answering them in my car?”

  The man understood. He walked around and got in the passenger seat. He smelled of cigarettes. He extended his hand. “Emmanuel Fenton.”

  “Greg Holt,” Holt said, shaking hands. “Mr. Fenton, what can you tell me about David Becker?”

  Fenton pursed his lips. “While David was into real estate law, I am a personal injury lawyer.”

  I wouldn’t have guessed it, Holt wanted to say, but he kept quiet.

  “I wouldn’t call us friends. We were more like neighbors,” Fenton said. “We saw each other on a regular basis and we would chat briefly about the cases we were working on.”

  “Was Mr. Becker suicidal?” Holt asked.

  Fenton laughed, exposing his yellow-stained teeth. “Let me tell you this for a fact: David was the last person who’d kill himself.”

  “Then why do you think he’d jump in front of a moving car?” Holt asked.