A thought occurred to Holt.
Right before Becker had jumped to his death, he had said, “I’m doing this for my family.”
Was he sacrificing himself to save them?
If so, then it would mean there was a direct threat made at his family.
Whoever was behind the threat did not physically push him off the overpass, but they gave Becker no other option but to take his own life.
Did that constitute a crime?
In Holt’s eyes, it did.
Did his pending litigation with Parish Holdings have something to do with his death?
It was an angle he had been thinking about.
But so far, though, Holt could not make the connection. It was not Becker who had filed the suit against Parish Holdings, it was the other way around. If Becker had taken Parish Holdings to court and was later found dead, then Holt could see a motive. They wanted to stop the legal proceedings. But Parish Holdings wanted Becker to repay the money he had misappropriated for his personal use. What good would it do for them to want him dead?
Holt shut his eyes and took a deep breath.
There had to be something he was missing. A key piece that would solve the puzzle that was occupying his brain.
Again, that nagging voice emerged in his mind.
You are wasting your time, it reminded him. You have no case. Becker committed suicide. End of story.
During moments like these, he wished Fisher was there with him. She would tell him if he was fishing for something or if he really had a case.
But what case would that be? And how would he go about proving it?
He had no idea.
His cell phone buzzed.
He answered, listened, then said, “I’m on my way.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
Fisher had tried to scrub the red paint off with soap and water. When that did not work, she drove to the nearest hardware store and bought gray paint. The door was initially white. She knew it would take several coats of white paint to cover the red. Instead, it was better to use a dark color. She figured two coats would be more than enough.
Casey was quiet throughout the process. Fisher did not try to cheer him up. He had, after all, just been fired from a job he thought would turn into a career.
Fisher’s heart went out for him.
She could not imagine what he and Nunes would do, going forward. They were both in a difficult position. He was a person of interest in a death, and she might very well end up arresting him for it.
If things turned out for the better—meaning, Casey was not charged or convicted— Fisher doubted Casey and Nunes would even get to stay in Lockport. The public’s perception would stay with them for a long time. They would have to move and start their life as a couple somewhere else.
Speak of the Devil, Fisher thought.
An unmarked vehicle pulled into the driveway. Fisher recognized the car as Nunes’s. Nunes got out and walked over to them.
“It looks nice,” Nunes said, referring to the fresh coat of paint on the door.
“Thanks, I guess,” Fisher said.
Nunes did not acknowledge Casey, who was standing further away on the porch. And he did not look in her direction either. They were trying to keep their relationship private.
So, why’s she here? Fisher thought.
As if reading her thoughts, Nunes said, “I’ve found the person who vandalized Casey’s door.”
This caught Casey’s attention. He came over.
“Who did it?” Fisher asked.
Nunes pointed at her car. Fisher saw someone was in the backseat.
“That’s Troy, Miranda’s brother,” Nunes explained.
Fisher could not see him clearly behind the tinted windows, but she could tell he had his head bowed.
“One of Casey’s neighbors saw him in the area shortly before Casey reported it to the police,” Nunes explained. “When I went to speak to him, I saw red paint underneath his fingernails. Apparently, it doesn’t wash off easily with soap and water.”
“Tell me about it,” Fisher said. “We had been scrubbing for over an hour before we decided to paint over it.”
Nunes nodded. “I also found canisters of spray paint in the Temple’s garbage bin. Troy never thought we’d catch up to him this fast, so he figured it was the best way to dispose of them.”
“Why did you bring him here?” Fisher asked.
“I have to ask if Casey wants to lay charges against Troy for what he did.”
Casey stared at the backseat of the car. Fisher knew he was staring at Troy, who still had his head bowed. “No,” Casey said, and walked inside the house.
There was a moment of silence before Nunes asked Fisher, “Did you find Warren?”
Fisher shook her head. “His father doesn’t know where he is, nor does he sound too concerned about when he’ll return.”
“Leo McGinty is as hard as they come. I’ve never seen him worried about anything.”
“You know him?”
“Let’s say, he’s been in a few bar fights and the person he was fighting always got the worst end of it.”
“Do you think Warren might have run away?”
Nunes shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“He’s run away before?”
“Several times. Especially when Old Leo has had a few too many to drink. He can be loud and belligerent.”
“Well, I’ll keep looking.”
Nunes nodded. “Let me know what you find.”
Fisher nodded in Troy’s direction. “What’re you going to do with him?”
“Drive him back to his house, what else?”
“How are his parents doing?”
“They’re devastated. They only had Miranda and Troy. And with Miranda gone, they are lost.”
Fisher felt a sharp stab in her heart. No parent should have to bury a child.
Once more, the thought that her brother was accused of murder weighed on her soul.
Nunes said, “They weren’t home when I took Troy away. I better take him back before I have to explain myself to a grieving parent.”
“Thanks for dropping by,” Fisher said.
SIXTY-EIGHT
The white Ford Taurus was parked in a parking lot. The driver was slumped over the steering wheel with the side window rolled up. Blood was splattered across the glass.
Holt felt a chill go up his spine. The scene was reminiscent of how he had found his nephew, Isaiah.
Isaiah had been shot in the head while he sat waiting in his car. He had been executed at point blank range. The shooter had approached from the passenger side window and shot into the vehicle. Isaiah had died immediately.
“Are you all right, sir?” a voice asked, jolting Holt back to reality.
Officer McConnell was the first officer at the scene. He was the one who had led Holt to where the Ford was parked.
“I’m fine,” Holt replied, taking a deep breath.
They were quiet a moment before McConnell asked, “Do you know when Detective Fisher will be returning to Milton?”
“She didn’t tell you?” Holt asked, surprised. Since McConnell and Fisher were in a relationship, Holt was certain she would be more forthcoming with him.
“Not really. I was hoping she’d said something to you,” McConnell replied.
Holt could tell McConnell wanted to give Fisher enough space to deal with her personal matters. But at the same time, he wanted to be with her. Yet he did not have the courage to tell her.
In a way, Holt admired that about him. On the one hand, he was secure about their relationship, but on the other, he missed her.
“The next time I speak to her,” Holt said, “I’ll ask her when she’s coming back.”
“Thanks,” McConnell said, clearly relieved he did not have to push her for information.
Holt stared at the blood splattered window. “Who found him?”
McConnell pointed to a Lexus parked next to the Ford. “There’s a train s
tation a couple of blocks away. A lot of people park in this lot because the rates are lower than parking at the station.” He then pointed to a man in a business suit. He was standing next to McConnell’s cruiser, and he was talking on a cell phone. “He took the train back from work, and when he came to pick up his vehicle, he found the guy in the Ford. He then called nine-one-one.”
Holt looked in the distance. He could see other people returning from work. They too wanted to pick up their vehicles and head home. But the yellow police tape prevented them.
“Is the entire area secured?” Holt asked.
“I’ve circled the tape around the entire parking lot. Even if someone ducks underneath it and gets into the lot, they will not be able to pull their cars out without breaking the tape.”
“Okay, good, but call for an additional cruiser. I want an officer stationed at the exit just in case.”
“Got it.”
As McConnell radioed for backup, Holt pulled on latex gloves and opened the driver’s side door.
The victim was male, around twenty to twenty-five years of age, and he was wearing a security guard uniform. Holt sniffed. There was a strong odor in the vehicle, and he knew what it was. The victim had smoked marijuana inside his car recently.
Holt checked for a pulse. He was not expecting one, but it was a necessary procedure. He once had a victim who was stabbed, shot, and bludgeoned but somehow managed to survive.
If the victim showed any signs of life, Holt would immediately request an ambulance. The scene would then go from being a homicide investigation to one of rescue and survival.
Holt reached down and pulled out a wallet from the victim’s pants pocket.
He flipped the wallet open and saw the name on the driver’s license.
Trevor Donley.
Donley’s eyes were closed, but there was a hole in the side of his temple. Red blood covered half his head and face.
Holt had no idea how long Donley had been in this position, but he knew one thing for certain. Had Donley not been wearing a seatbelt, he surely would have fallen on the horn and activated it, alerting other people in the parking lot.
Could the paramedics have saved him if they’d arrived in time?
Holt was not sure. But right now, he had more important things to be concerned about.
Who killed this security guard, and what was the motive behind it?
SIXTY-NINE
After Patti and Nina had left, Callaway grabbed a bottle of iced tea from the fridge and walked to the balcony. The air was cool and fresh.
He felt great about tonight. Nina and Patti had a good time. They decided to have another family dinner together, but this time at Patti’s house. Callaway did not realize how much he had missed these moments.
He had left Patti when Nina was a baby, so they had not spent much time as a family.
He smiled as he took a sip from the bottle.
You’re becoming domesticated, Lee Callaway, he thought. Next thing you know, you’re changing diapers and burping babies.
The smile quickly faded.
He was not sure if Patti wanted another child. He most certainly did not. Or did he?
Another child would give him the opportunity to do things he never got to do with Nina.
What if it’s a boy? I’d name him Lee Callaway Jr.
The smile popped back on his face.
He knew he was getting ahead of himself. Anything could go wrong in his relationship with Patti.
Patti was taking things one step at a time. She did not want her heart broken for the second time.
He shook the thought away. I won’t let that happen this time, he vowed.
He went back inside and turned on the TV, which was always set on twenty-four-hour news. He walked back to the kitchen and heard there had been another homicide in the city.
The news was always bad, so he was not surprised. Murder. Robbery. Hit and Run. Those were daily occurrences in most cities.
Callaway was moving past the TV when he stopped in his tracks. On the screen, the reporter was in front of a strand of yellow police tape. The reporter mentioned that a man was found shot inside a parked white Ford Taurus.
Callaway blinked.
Ford Taurus?
The man was believed to have worked as a security guard.
Security Guard?
The police had not released the man’s name to the public.
My God…it’s Trevor Donley.
Callaway grabbed his coat and rushed out of his apartment. Instead of driving to the crime scene, he decided to return to Lana Anderson’s apartment building.
He parked across from the building and hurried to the front entrance. He spotted another security guard behind the desk. The guard was much older, almost in his sixties. He had silver hair, saggy skin, and small beady eyes. He was busy reading a newspaper.
He looked like he had no idea what had happened to the other guard.
Good, Callaway thought. I better do this before the media and the police converge on the building.
He waited by the front door. A man carrying a gym bag came out. The man had large headphones over his ears and he was staring at his cell phone.
The man did not notice Callaway as he walked away. The door was about to shut behind him when Callaway stuck his hand in and went inside.
The guard did not look up once. He was still glued to his paper. Nothing exciting ever happened at the building, so the guard was not overly concerned.
Callaway walked past him, headed straight for the elevators. He glanced back at the guard when he quickly turned right and headed for the office in the back.
The last time he was here, he had seen Trevor punch in a code on the door. Callaway tried entering the code from memory.
To his relief, the door unlocked.
He entered and shut the door behind him.
On the screen, he could see the guard was still seated behind his desk.
Hot air blew from the computer equipment, warming up the room. He could not very well grab the base of the computer and carry it out. Someone would see him. He checked the wires behind the base and followed them to an external storage device. The device was no bigger than the size of his palm.
He removed the wires and stuck the device inside his coat pocket.
He left, hurried down the hall, and left the building from the back exit.
When he reached his Charger, he realized he was soaked in sweat.
I hope this was all worth it, he thought as he started the engine and drove off.
SEVENTY
Fisher knew the key to the case was finding Warren. He might know something that would help clear Casey’s name.
However, finding him had become more difficult than she initially thought.
Fisher had questioned Warren’s neighbors in the hope that someone had seen him return to his house. Leo McGinty may act tough and all, but he was still a father. And no father, no matter how disinterested they were in their children’s lives, would want their child to go to prison.
Fisher had seen parental behaviors in all their variations. She had seen parents lie about the whereabouts of their children under oath. She had seen parents become accomplices in a crime. She had also seen parents take the blame just to protect their children.
Leo McGinty could be shielding his son from the authorities.
Did that mean Warren was guilty of Miranda’s murder?
Fisher did not know this for a fact. But according to the neighbors, no one had seen Warren since Miranda’s death.
Casey was not at home. The news of his firing had reached some of his colleagues at school. They decided to invite Casey over for drinks at a local bar.
Fisher was relieved that Casey had people to console him. So far, with her, he had been reserved. Getting him to open up was like pulling teeth. She had to constantly barrage him with questions, almost interrogate him.
She walked around the empty house, feeling anxious. Her detective instincts told he
r to do something. Sitting at home would not help her find Warren.
But how do I find him when Nunes hasn’t been able to? she thought.
She did not know Lockport as well as Milton. She did not have any jurisdiction here either. She could not very well roll up to people, flash her badge, and demand answers.
She sighed and rubbed her temples. There had to be a way. There always was.
She thought of something. When she had first arrived at Casey’s house, he had given her a tour.
She went downstairs to the basement. In the corner, Casey had also set up a makeshift office with a desk, chair, a filing cabinet, and a wooden bookshelf.
She was moving her index finger over the books when she stopped on one and pulled it out. It was a yearbook from Casey’s school.
She sat at the desk and turned on the lamp. She flipped the yearbook open. There were photos of students doing various school activities. One page showed students acting on stage in the school’s last production. It was apparently Beauty and the Beast. The lead actress was dressed in an elegant gown, while the lead actor wore a mask that resembled a bison’s head.
The production was lavish, and it looked like the entire school was there to see it.
Fisher could see why Miranda would covet the lead role in this year’s production of Sleeping Beauty.
Fisher flipped to the student photos in the back of the yearbook. She found Miranda’s photo. She looked like an All-American girl, with a sparkle in her eyes and a wide smile. Fisher then found Warren’s photo. He had hair parted from the middle, deep-set eyes, and dimples on his cheeks. But he had a hint of danger about him.
It made sense why a sweet-looking girl like Miranda would find a bad boy like Warren attractive.
Girls at that age made mistakes by going after guys who were nothing but trouble. Fisher was no different. She fell for all the wrong guys in school.
She went through the yearbook page by page, scanning each photo.
She stopped at one.
The photo showed Warren leaning next to the lockers with his arms crossed over his chest. Beside him was another boy. He was shorter than Warren, and he had a buzz cut. He too had his arms crossed over his chest. They were both posing for the camera.
The Missing Mistress Page 15
