Vincent shook his head. “That’s why Miranda came up with the plan to get Mr. Fisher to the motel.”
She understood. “You used his past to lure him to the motel.”
“Miranda told him she had proof and that she would show it to him in private.”
“But she had no proof.”
“No, she didn’t.”
Fisher pondered her next question. “How did you and Miranda become friends?”
“We’re not really friends. Like I said, I’m good at computers. Miranda was in my class. She was struggling. She asked if I could help her pass the finals. I told her I could get her the actual test exams.”
“You can?” Fisher asked, surprised.
He gave her a small smile. “I hacked into the school’s networks and got a copy for her.”
“Is that why she got you to dig up dirt on Mr. Fisher?”
Vincent nodded. Then he shuddered. “I can’t believe Mr. Fisher would do something like that.”
“He didn’t do anything,” Fisher corrected him. “He hasn’t been charged with any crime.”
Vincent looked at her like he did not believe her.
Fisher did not care.
Casey knew he was wrong for not taking responsibility for what had happened to Jacob. He carried that guilt with him wherever he went, and Miranda used it to try to manipulate him. She took him to the motel to blackmail him.
Miranda was not the sweet girl everyone made her out to be.
And Casey was not the innocent younger brother she always made him out to be.
They were both guilty of something. Fisher now had to find out who was guilty of Miranda’s murder.
EIGHTY-TWO
Callaway was back in his office.
His conversation with the Governor had confirmed his hunch.
Bartlett was having an affair with Lana Anderson. She was his mistress.
Callaway had also confirmed that Parish was behind the affair. He had setup Bartlett with Lana Anderson so that he could squeeze him for his personal gain. The contracts for the repair and maintenance of the state freeways were worth tons of money. The stakes were high, and Parish was not going to take any chances. He wanted those government contracts at any cost, even if it meant blackmailing a sitting governor.
Callaway also had an idea about how David Becker was linked to Parish. David had worked for Parish, and Parish had sued David for embezzlement and fraud. Callaway still was not sure if that was the reason David had killed himself, but it would make absolute sense if it was. David’s reputation was in shreds. No one would hire his firm to represent him. Worst of all, if he lost the trial, he might be looking at a dozen years behind bars.
What Callaway still could not figure out was how Lana was linked to David, and why David went to her apartment the day she disappeared. But more importantly, where was she?
Callaway rubbed his temples. He had already taken two painkillers, but the headache was still there.
What if Lana Anderson is dead?
That thought reverberated in his mind nonstop, causing the headache he was suffering right now.
Callaway now believed R.J. Parish was a dangerous man. Would he resort to something as deranged as murder?
Callaway did not know, and he hoped it had not come down to that.
David wanted Lana Anderson found. She knew something that was important to him. With him gone, and possibly Lana, whatever they both knew would be buried forever.
He sighed.
He heard a noise from outside.
Someone was making their way up the metal stairs to his office.
Callaway’s back tensed. He reached for the weapon that he kept in his desk drawer.
Before he could pull it out, he heard a familiar voice.
“Callaway, open the door.”
He got up and did so.
Standing on the landing was Holt. He had a scowl on his face.
“If that’s your happy face,” Callaway said, “I don’t want to see your angry face.”
“You were at Trevor Donley’s apartment building, weren’t you?” Holt growled.
“Technically, I was at Lana Anderson’s apartment building. Trevor only worked there.”
“Who?” Holt asked, puzzled.
“She’s the woman David Becker hired me to find.”
“Why?”
“No idea.”
“That doesn’t concern me,” Holt said, with a wave of his hand. “What concerns me is that you were at the apartment building with Donley.”
“How do you know?”
“Someone saw you speaking to Donley earlier. They described a man…”
“Rakishly good looking and charming?” Callaway quipped.
“Sad and down on his luck,” Holt shot back. “What were you doing there?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“Donley is dead. Someone shot him at close range.”
“I saw it on the news.”
“Did you kill Donley?” Holt asked.
Callaway blinked. “What? Of course not. Why would I kill him?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
Callaway crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve already been charged for murder once, and I don’t intend to put myself through something like that again.”
Holt paused. He then gave Callaway a stern look and asked, “Did you take the security footage from that apartment building?”
“What makes you say that?”
“The footage is gone, and I believe you have it.”
“I do.”
Holt’s eyes were slits. “That’s theft for one thing, and for another, you are tampering with evidence. I can charge you on both accounts.”
“You can,” Callaway replied calmly. “But you won’t know who murdered Trevor Donley and why David Becker killed himself.”
“And you know who did?”
“No, but I know something is going on, and I believe it all links to Parish Holdings Inc.”
Holt snorted.
Callaway leaned closer and said, “It involves the governor.”
“Governor Bartlett?” Holt asked, surprised.
“I just spoke to him.”
Holt stared at him. Callaway could see the wheels turning in his head.
“Why don’t I buy you coffee?” Callaway suggested. “I know a great place around the corner.”
EIGHTY-THREE
Fisher found Casey sitting in the living room with the drapes down and the lights turned off. The room was pitch-dark.
Fisher pulled the drapes open, illuminating the space.
Casey squinted. “Ouch,” he said, shielding his eyes from the light.
“It’s a beautiful day outside and you’re holed up in here like a vampire,” she said.
She saw cigarette butts in the ashtray.
“When did you start smoking?” she asked.
“Whenever I’m stressed,” he replied, still squinting.
She took the packet of cigarettes next to the ashtray. “Smoking will kill you. You should know that by now.”
“I tell that to my students all the time,” he said. “When I used to have students, that is.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she said, sitting across from him. “Your life’s not over just because you were fired.”
“My life’s over when the police decide to charge me for Miranda’s death,” he said.
“They haven’t yet, which means they don’t have enough evidence to do it.”
“That’s thanks to Helen. Sooner or later, she will have to pass the case on to someone else, and even you know, Detective Dana Fisher, that when the police have someone in sight, they won’t stop until they get their man.”
Silence hung in the air between them for a long minute.
“I need to confirm a few things with you,” she said.
Casey did not look like he was in the mood, but he still said, “Fine. What would you like to know?”
“I know that
you went to a motel with Miranda.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You do?”
“I also know that Miranda was trying to set you up.”
“You know that too?” he asked, still surprised.
“What I want to confirm is why did you go with her?”
He stared at her for a moment and then sighed. “She said she had proof that I was the driver on the night Jacob died.”
“What kind of proof?”
“She never told me. I was hoping to find out at the motel.”
“What happened at the motel?”
He shrugged. “The moment we got in the room, I knew something was not right. The room looked like someone had been there earlier.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, the bedsheets were messed up. The pillows were across the bed. There were even clothes on the floor.”
“Whose clothes?”
“I don’t know. I asked her what was going on, but she wouldn’t say.”
She was trying to make it look like she and Casey had been intimate, Fisher thought.
Casey said, “I demanded to see the proof. She said she didn’t have it, but she knew someone else who did.”
“Who?”
“Another student.”
“Did she give a name?”
“No.”
Fisher knew the student was Vincent Lum, but he did not have any proof either. He was only there to record Casey going into a motel with Miranda.
“Okay,” Fisher said. “So then how did you end up at Leaside Forest Park?”
“She said she would take me to meet this student at Leaside Forest Park.”
Fisher was incredulous. “And you believed her after she tried to set you up at the motel?”
“I wasn’t thinking straight, all right?” he said, raising his voice. “I was desperate. I never imagined what I did years ago would be found out by one of my students. What if everyone found out the truth? Not only would I lose my job—which, in hindsight, I ended up losing anyway—I would also have to answer for Jacob’s death.”
“You now have to answer for Miranda’s death instead,” Fisher said.
Casey stared at her.
He got up, stormed over to his room, and slammed the door.
Fisher was furious. This was the second time he had walked out on her.
If Casey was not her brother, she would drop this investigation and return to Milton.
Why is it so hard when it comes to dealing with my family? she thought.
EIGHTY-FOUR
R.J. Parish was not happy with how things had suddenly spiraled out of control. First, it was David Becker jumping to his death, then, it was Lana Anderson disappearing into what seemed like thin air, and now, the security guard at her apartment building was dead.
Parish thought it unwise for Viggo to get rid of the guard, and Parish made his feelings known to him. But Viggo’s silence spoke volumes. Parish knew Viggo thought him to be weak. Viggo’s previous employer was ruthless and bloodthirsty.
Where did that get him? Parish thought. The man would spend the rest of his life staring at the inside of a prison cell.
Parish was shrewder than that. He knew when to act and when to hold back.
Killing the security guard served no purpose. In fact, doing that might bring down more heat on them. Viggo was hired to get rid of Parish’s problems, not create more.
Parish looked out the window at the city below.
Becker’s death made sense. Becker knew he was cornered, and he took the easiest route out. It was an outcome Parish had not expected, but it was an outcome he was most pleased with.
Parish had set up Becker to take the fall. He had requested Becker to transfer the money from the trust account to a numbered company in the Isle of Man. What Becker was not aware of, which he should have been as a lawyer, was that Becker’s name was on the record as the director of operations. Parish had created that company the moment he had hired Becker. He had done so in case Becker became too clever for his own good.
Becker was an honest and hardworking family man. In short, he was a perfect patsy. He did not ask too many questions and he did what was demanded of him. But Becker could tell when something was not right. Particularly why money was deposited into an account and then that same amount was withdrawn that very day.
That money was used to line people’s pockets, enabling Parish to secure major projects throughout the city. It was how Parish Holding Inc. became one of the biggest construction companies in the entire state.
When Becker brought his concerns to Parish, Parish told him he would investigate it. That’s when he decided it was time to get rid of Becker.
Parish was certain he would get back the millions Becker had supposedly transferred to the account in the Isle of Man. No judge would let Becker keep what looked like ill-gotten gains. But now that Becker was dead, the money was stuck in international legal tape. The authorities in the Isle of Man would not release the money because, according to them, Becker was and still is the director of the numbered company. The money would go to his estate instead.
Parish would have to resign himself to the fact that the money was gone. It was another way David had screwed him.
But Parish would not let his plan for Bartlett go down the drain. Bartlett was a tough man to break. Parish had made many overtures to get him on his side. He discreetly offered money, gifts, and even the prospect of votes, but to no avail. Bartlett was no fool. He was savvy enough to know that if he gave a project such as the construction of the freeway to Parish Holdings, the focus would be on him. The media would scrutinize the deal from every angle.
It did not help that Parish had supported Bartlett’s opponent in the last election. That candidate was someone Parish could easily manipulate to do his bidding. But Bartlett was not without his warts. There were rumors he had done deals with people who had criminal backgrounds. Parish had tried to discover those deals in the hope of using it as leverage against Bartlett, but Bartlett was good at covering his tracks.
Enter Lana Anderson.
She would be Bartlett’s Achilles Heel.
And she was.
He fell for her like a schoolboy falling for his hot teacher.
Parish had Bartlett right where he wanted him. He had evidence that could destroy him.
But Bartlett had exposed himself by meeting Lana Anderson outside her apartment building. If the media got a whiff of what he was doing, they would expose the affair. And then Parish would have no leverage on him.
And now Lana Anderson was missing. Until she was found, Parish could not rest easy.
He pressed a button on his desk phone and waited.
When he received no reply, he pressed the button again.
He got up and stormed out to his secretary’s desk.
She was not there.
Beth had been with him for decades. She was good at her job and she minded her own business. Lately, though, she had been preoccupied with other things. She was hardly at her desk, and he had caught her speaking on her cell phone several times.
He knew very little about her personal life. Was she married? Did she have any kids? When it came to his employees, he never bothered with such things because it made it easier for him to fire people.
He should replace her with someone younger.
He smiled at the sound of that.
But he knew he would do no such thing.
He was already putting out fires on all sides. He also had investors breathing down his neck. They wanted results, and he hoped the moment Bartlett voted in his favor, he would have something to show them at the next shareholder meeting.
He would cut Beth some slack. That was the smart thing to do right now. But if her behavior did not change, he would have to have a word with her.
He turned and went back into his office.
EIGHTY-FIVE
Holt sat down across from Callaway. “Isn’t this the same restaurant you were in when you were arrested f
or murder?” Holt asked.
Callaway was having breakfast at Joely’s restaurant when Fisher led him away in handcuffs. Fortunately for him, he was able to convince a judge to stay the charges.
“It was,” Callaway replied with a smile.
“And you still come here?” Holt asked.
“Why not? I’m innocent.”
Joely came over. “What can I get you guys?” she asked with a smile.
“Nothing for me,” Holt replied.
“Come on, I’m buying,” Callaway said. “You must be hungry after running around all day.”
Holt eyed him. Then he sighed. “I’ll have your special.”
“I’ll have that too,” Callaway added.
When Joely left, Callaway said, “Why don’t I tell you what I’ve found in my search for Lana Anderson, and you tell me what you’ve found in your investigation of David Becker’s death?”
“I don’t know,” Holt said. “You’re not privy to information in an ongoing investigation.”
“Well, if you don’t tell me what you know, then how can we work together?”
Holt’s brow furrowed. “Who said I want to work with you?”
“Listen, you and I are on the same path.”
“What path is that?”
“You are trying to find out if Becker’s death was a suicide or someone made him jump. Isn’t that why you still haven’t closed the case?”
Holt said nothing.
“Becker asked me to find this woman named Lana Anderson. For all I know, she could be dead, but until I know that for certain, I must keep looking. Becker is the integral figure in both our cases.”
Joely returned with their orders. They consisted of a grilled cheeseburger with homemade fries, egg salad, and a piece of apple pie on the side.
“Now that’s a meal,” Callaway said.
“Thank you,” Holt said.
“Enjoy, fellas,” Joely said before she left.
Callaway grabbed a fork and said, “So, what do you say? We got a deal?”
Holt stared at him. “Fine. But it is my discretion if I choose to omit certain information to preserve the sanctity of the investigation.”
“You be as holy as you want. I have no problem,” Callaway said as he dug into his salad.
The Missing Mistress Page 19
