She was here for Warren.
At least, she hoped things turned out that way.
There was no telling where he was.
But Fisher had made some calculated deductions. For one thing, Warren would not want his father involved in his mess. Leo McGinty would protect his son, just as long as it did not come back to bite him. Leo was someone who looked out for himself. His relaxed attitude toward his son not returning home was indicative of that. He also looked like someone who was less forgiving if the heat was put on him, especially by his son.
This left Sid Gorman.
Sid and Warren were bandmates, so it made sense for Warren to seek refuge with him.
Ten minutes later, the house’s front door opened.
She sat up straight.
A man came out of the house. He was wearing a hoodie, and he was too far away for Fisher to get a clear view of his face.
The man lit a cigarette and blew a plume of thick smoke into the air.
Instead of walking in her direction, the man turned and headed the other way.
Where are you going? Fisher thought.
As far as she could tell, the street ended by the house.
She got out and hurried after him.
When she reached the house, the man was nowhere to be seen.
She looked around and noticed a trail around the bend. She walked through it and was confronted by a concrete wall. She saw a path going left and one going right.
Which way could he have gone?
She bit her lip and turned left. If she did not see him up ahead, she would double back and go the other way.
But she did not have to. In the distance, she could see the cloud of smoke.
The man had one hand in his pocket and the other held a cigarette.
She heard a loud rumble that nearly made her jump. She quickly realized what it was as a train roared past her. The concrete wall was a barrier between the residential neighborhood and the train tracks.
She watched as the man flicked the cigarette in the air and continued walking. When she passed the cigarette, she stubbed the butt with her boot. She had a fear that something as small as a lit cigarette could start a devastating fire.
The man turned right and disappeared. She hurried up and saw a tunnel that went underneath the tracks.
The man was nowhere to be seen.
He had to have gone through the tunnel, she thought. There is no other way.
She jogged through the tunnel, and when she was on the other side of the tracks, she saw the man up ahead.
He went around a gray building.
She reached the building and was about to turn the corner when the man cut her off.
The man was Warren, and he was holding a knife in his right hand. “What do you want?” he demanded.
“You shouldn’t threaten a police officer,” she said, revealing her badge.
The color drained from his face. He lowered the knife. “Hey, listen, I didn’t know who you were. I was just trying to defend myself.”
“I’m not here to arrest you,” she said.
“Then why are you following me?”
“I need to ask you some questions.”
“About what?”
“Miranda.”
At the sound of her name, his eyes turned moist.
“Is there someplace we can go sit and talk?” she asked.
He stared at her and then nodded. “I know a place.”
SEVENTY-FIVE
Callaway walked out of the building with a scowl on his face. He had gone to Governor James Bartlett’s office. He wanted to speak to him, but his chief-of-staff turned him away.
Callaway even produced a fake business card. He told her he was a reporter from Above the Fold, the very paper Echo Rose worked for in Fairview.
The chief-of-staff told him the Governor did not take walk-ins. If Callaway wanted an interview, he should send a list of questions to the Governor’s office. Once the questions were pre-approved, and a time and date could be squeezed into his tight schedule, only then would Callaway be permitted to speak to him.
Callaway was tempted to blurt out the real reason he was there. Surely, when the news reached the Governor, he would be far more accommodating.
But Callaway held his tongue.
There was still so much he did not understand.
What was Lana Anderson doing with the Governor late that night? Was she his friend? An employee? Or perhaps, his mistress?
Callaway was leaning toward the last possibility, but he could not accuse Bartlett of impropriety without knowing all the facts. In his line of work, Callaway had learned to be discreet. Even a hint of any wrongdoing could destroy marriages, careers, and even lives. Callaway did not take this lightly.
He would not accuse Bartlett without speaking to him first. And in order to do that he wanted to meet him face-to-face.
Callaway had left his business card with a note that it was a matter of life and death, but he doubted his chief-of-staff would pass it on to Bartlett. Her job was to make sure the Governor was re-elected. And for that to happen, she was careful to screen all the media outlets he spoke to. Anything he said in print could come back to bite him.
This is not about a story, he thought as he walked back to his car. This is about a missing woman.
He got behind the wheel of the Charger and started the engine. He was about to drive off when something occurred to him.
He quickly pulled out a small pocketbook from inside his coat pocket. As he got older, he found he was becoming forgetful. He had worried he was showing signs of early stages of Alzheimer’s. The disease ran in his family. Thankfully, he soon realized all the drinking he was doing was what was fogging his brain. Still, keeping notes was a big help.
He flipped the pages and found what he was looking for.
From the footage of Lana Anderson and Governor Bartlett, Callaway had managed to get a partial license plate number.
He knew Bartlett drove an Escalade. At least that was what he had pulled up in front of Lana’s apartment building in.
Callaway left the Charger and began walking around Bartlett’s office building. He scanned each car in the parking lot. He spotted two Escalades, but their license plate numbers did not even remotely match what he had.
He slapped his forehead.
Bartlett would not park in front of the building, in plain view of the public. He would park in the underground parking lot.
Callaway went back inside the building and took the elevator down to the basement. He began to search the lot for the Escalade. People who saw him looking around asked if he was lost. He told them he had forgotten where he had parked. They laughed and said it happened to them as well.
Just when he was about to give up his search, he spotted an Escalade squeezed between a Chevy Colorado and a Toyota Highlander.
No wonder I couldn’t spot it easily, he thought.
He double-checked the license plate.
The numbers matched the partial numbers he had.
He smiled.
Bartlett is still in his office!
SEVENTY-SIX
Holt was still inside the collector booth. His eyes were strained, and they were beginning to blur. Brian Isley was still seated at the computer, playing the security footage on the tiny monitor.
Holt had no idea when the Ford Taurus had entered the lot. Right now, they were working within the parameters of when the 9-1-1 call came.
What if the victim arrived earlier than I initially assumed? he thought. If so, we’d need to go further back in the footage. But how far?
Suddenly, something occurred to him.
“Excuse me for a minute,” he said to Isley.
He left the booth and walked over to the Ford Taurus.
Andrea Wakefield was leaning over the victim’s body.
“Find anything useful?” he asked her.
Wakefield replied, “Victim died of a single gunshot to the head. The impact was from close range.
The shooter was likely seated in the passenger seat.”
“You got all that from just looking at the body?” he asked, surprised.
She nodded. “When the bullet made contact, blood spurted in the shooter’s direction. You can see blood stains on the headrest but not on the seat itself.”
“So, are you saying evidence may have gotten on the killer?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Holt rubbed his chin. This is interesting, he thought.
“We are examining the security footage,” he said. “Maybe we can spot someone trying to wipe themselves clean as they left the parking lot.”
“I doubt you’ll see something of that nature,” Wakefield said.
Holt frowned. “Why do you say that?”
She pointed to the glove compartment. Holt leaned in and opened the compartment. Inside was an empty box of tissues.
After shooting Donley, the killer had used the tissues to remove the evidence and then taken the tissues with them.
Wakefield said, “I noticed a pungent odor in the vehicle.”
“I did too. My guess would be it’s marijuana.”
“It is,” she said. “You can see by his fingernails that he’s a regular smoker and that he smoked it recently.”
“How can you tell?”
“The smell lingers inside the mouth, especially underneath the tongue.”
“Oh right.”
Holt paused and then asked, “Do you mind if I take a look at the body?”
Wakefield took a step back.
He began examining Donley’s uniform.
“What are you looking for?” Wakefield asked.
“The name of his employers.”
He spotted the logo on the shirt sleeve.
“Why is that relevant?” she asked.
“So far we have no idea when the victim drove his car here, but I think I may have an idea.”
“How so?”
“He’s still wearing his uniform. I can see food stains and sweat marks on the shirt. This tells me he was returning from work. If I can find out when he left his shift, it might give me a time frame to work with.”
Wakefield’s face brightened in admiration. “Well done, detective.”
“Don’t congratulate me just yet,” Holt said with a shrug. “It’s just a theory, and the only one I’ve got right now.”
SEVENTY-SEVEN
They found a park not far from the train tracks. Warren sat on one side of a picnic table. Fisher sat on the other.
Warren covered his face with his hands. “I can’t believe Miranda is gone,” he said as he wiped away tears.
Fisher felt for him. He looked distraught. But she needed answers. At the same time, she could not make it look like she was interrogating him. Warren had not committed any crime, and she was not on duty. He had agreed to speak to her voluntarily.
“Did you meet her in class?” she asked, easing into the questioning.
He shook his head. “No. She was a year younger, but I’d seen her in the school halls. She was always with her friend.”
“Wendy Benton?” Fisher asked.
“Yeah, Wendy,” he replied. “I first approached her. I asked her a lot of questions about Miranda. Did she have a boyfriend? What does she like to do? Stuff like that.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What did she like to do?”
“Wendy said Miranda loved to sing. She would always be singing at home, in the car, even while they studied. So, I got an idea. I asked Wendy to bring Miranda to this karaoke bar. I had worked one summer there, so I knew the owner. When Miranda and Wendy came, I got up on stage and I started singing some pop song.”
“You can sing?” Fisher asked, impressed.
Warren chuckled. “That’s the thing. I can’t hold a tune. I’m terrible. People in the audience started booing. Just then the owner asked the audience if anyone could sing, and Wendy raised her hand and pointed to Miranda. She was reluctant, but the owner encouraged her to come up. She got behind the mic and she was pretty good. After my singing, she sounded ten times better. People cheered her. She was so excited. When she found out I’d set it up, she went out with me.”
Warren broke down. “I loved Miranda so much,” he said between sobs. “I don’t know if I’ll ever love someone as much as I loved her.”
Fisher knew people his age overexaggerated their emotions. They thought it was the end of the world if a relationship ended.
Fisher leaned closer and asked, “Did Miranda love you?”
Warren looked up at her. His eyes were raw. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, wasn’t she the one who told you she didn’t want to see you anymore?”
“Yeah, but…”
“She knew you were spying on her. Isn’t that right?”
He opened his mouth but then shut it.
“You put spyware on her phone to keep track of her. You were jealous that she might be interested in other guys.”
Warren stared at her.
“When she broke up with you, you were angry, weren’t you? In fact, you were furious. You got into several altercations at school.”
“How did you know…?”
“I’m a detective. I asked around,” Fisher replied. “And then, when you found out she was into her English teacher, you lost your mind.”
His face was ashen.
“You wanted her back, didn’t you?”
“I loved her…” Warren mumbled.
“Is that why you killed her?!” Fisher asked, raising her voice.
His eyes widened, and he stood up from the table. Fisher feared she had pushed too hard. Warren could walk away, and she could do nothing about it. She was in no position to compel him to answer any of her questions.
He looked away, staring into the distance, but Fisher could tell from Warren’s eyes that he was somewhere far away. He stood still for a few minutes, and then put his hand in his hoodie pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
“Do you smoke?” Warren asked, his voice calm.
Fisher shook her head.
He lit one up and blew out thick smoke. He then sat back down. He looked her straight in the eye. “I did not kill Miranda.”
“Okay,” she said, relieved that he was still talking to her. “If you had nothing to do with what happened to her, then why are you hiding?”
“I was scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of everything. Of everyone.”
It was Fisher’s turn to be silent.
Warren puffed on his cigarette some more and moved his hand through his hair. “Listen, I don’t know if you know this, but Miranda had a restraining order against me.”
“I didn’t know this,” Fisher said, genuinely taken aback.
“Yeah. After we broke up, I started following her. It wasn’t stalking or anything, but Miranda caught me outside her house and she called the police. I was to stay a hundred feet away from her at all times.”
“Why only a hundred feet?” Fisher asked.
“I didn’t want to change schools,” Warren replied. “The one I’m in is closer to my dad’s place. So, the judge let me keep going there, but I had to make sure I didn’t go near Miranda. If I was going to class and I saw her in the halls, I had to take another route. It sucked because I was never going to hurt her. Like I said, I loved her. I was hoping to convince her to take me back.”
Fisher could hear the pain in his voice.
“Tell me what happened on the day you found out Miranda was meeting Mr. Fisher at Leaside Forest Park.”
Warren took a deep breath and exhaled. “After Wendy told me, I rushed over to the mall.”
“Mall?” Fisher asked, confused.
“Yeah, Mr. Fisher was supposed to pick up Miranda at the mall not far from her house.”
She remembered Casey mentioning this to her.
“Right,” she said.
“I don’t know how, but when I
was entering the mall’s parking lot, I saw Mr. Fisher’s car leaving.”
“Was Miranda with him?”
“She was,” Warren replied, looking disappointed. “I couldn’t believe it. I thought Wendy was making it up, but Miranda was with Mr. Fisher.”
“Then what happened?”
“I thought about turning back, but then I…”
“You what?”
“I followed them.”
“To Leaside Forest Park?”
He shook his head. “That’s the thing. I never got to Leaside Forest Park.”
“What?” she asked, surprised.
“I followed them from the mall to a motel.”
She sat up straight. “Mr. Fisher and Miranda went to a motel?”
“Yes.”
“Lying to an officer is an offense,” she said, seething at even the assertion Casey would do something like that.
“I’m not lying,”’ Warren said. “It’s the Motel 6 on Craven Boulevard. You can go there and ask them yourself.”
“I will,” she shot back.
“I was heartbroken. I couldn’t believe Miranda would do something like that with a teacher.”
“You don’t know what happened in there,” Fisher said.
He made a face that said, I know exactly what happened. “I was so angry,” he continued. “I wanted to go in there and catch them in the act. But then I saw him.”
“Saw who?”
“Vincent Lum.”
Fisher was confused.
He saw the look on her face and said, “He’s in one of my classes. I saw him talking to Miranda a couple of times at school.”
“He’s friends with Miranda?”
“I’ve heard her mention his name before.”
“What was he doing at the motel?”
“I don’t know, but he was holding his cell phone like he was recording something. I was ready to confront him and find out what was going on, but then I got a call from my dad.”
“Okay.”
“He wanted me to bring his car back. I told him I was far away, but…” Warren sighed. “My dad has a bit of a temper and he wasn’t happy that I took his car without his permission. So, I went straight home.”
Fisher pondered everything Warren had just told her.
“Where do I find Vincent Lum?” she asked.
The Missing Mistress Page 17
