The woman wore a bandana over her head, a ring around her left nostril, and tattoos on both arms. She said, “This is about being treated with respect.”
“Okay,” Fisher said, “but why are you holding this rally now? We’re conducting an investigation.”
“We know what happened in there,” she pointed at Emily’s Place. “And we know why it happened.”
Fisher was almost taken aback. “You do?”
“This is about Senate Bill 125.”
Fisher was familiar with that bill. A sitting senator had proposed to make abortion illegal during a pregnancy if the woman in question did not get approval from the baby’s father, the only exceptions being rape and incest. Women throughout the state had protested in full force. The pushback was so powerful that the bill did not pass.
The woman said, “When we won, men protested outside Emily’s Place. Did you know that?”
“I wasn’t aware of this,” Fisher replied. She did not pay attention to the news. She was too preoccupied with her work.
The woman scoffed. “The men said they too had a right to their baby.”
“It takes two to create one,” Fisher countered.
“Yes, but it takes one to deliver it.”
Holt came over to them. The woman looked at him with contempt. Fisher did not appreciate her reaction. Holt was one of the most forward-thinking people she had ever met. He went out of his way to help women, minorities, and people with disabilities move up in the force.
Fisher said to the woman, “And you think someone was upset with Senate Bill 125, so they did this?”
“Yes, how else can you explain what happened in there?” the woman spat.
“It could be domestic-related,” Holt interjected.
“What?” The woman glared at him.
“Over half of female murders are at the hands of an intimate partner—husbands, boyfriends, or whatever other label you would like to give the relationship.”
The woman pointed a finger at him. “This is a hate crime, and if you do your job properly, you’ll see that we are right.” With that, she turned to the group that had gathered behind her and yelled into the bullhorn. “We live in a patriarchal society where men make decisions that affect women. It’s because of these decisions that women are second-class citizens. When women stand up for their rights, men resort to violence to silence us. We will not be silenced! We will not be silenced!”
Fisher turned to Holt. “You don’t believe it could be a hate crime?”
“I don’t know what to believe at the moment,” he replied. “All I know is that we should go speak to the next of kin.”
Someone called to him, and he walked away.
Fisher turned back to the rally, and she could not help but shake the feeling that perhaps there could be other motivations behind this terrible crime. How else do you explain the execution of three women who had devoted their lives to helping other women? she thought.
Fisher shoved her hand in her pocket and pulled out the pamphlet she had found on Emily Riley’s desk.
The Men’s Support Alliance.
She stared at the pamphlet for a moment and then shoved it back in her pocket and walked back to the scene.
EIGHTEEN
The moment Fisher entered the premises, she heard a cry outside. She thought it was one of the protestors, but the cries only got louder and more desperate. She went out to check and saw McConnell restraining a man from entering the scene.
The man was James Riley, Emily’s husband.
It took Fisher, Holt, and McConnell several minutes to calm him down. He was now seated in the back of Holt’s Volvo.
James Riley was dressed in a business suit. He had bushy hair with streaks of grey. His eyes were raw from crying. His hands shook, and he rubbed them together to control the shaking.
“I heard on the radio,” he said, not looking at her. “Is it true? Is… Emily gone?”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Fisher replied, seated next to him.
He shut his eyes. Tears streamed down his face.
Fisher had a million questions for him, but she gave him a moment to grieve.
“Can I see her?” he asked.
“Not right now. Once her body is removed from the scene, as the next of kin, you will have to identify her at the city morgue. It’s just standard procedure.”
He fell silent, but then he nodded.
Holt, who was sitting in the Volvo’s driver seat, said, “What do you do, Mr. Riley?”
He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I have my own investment firm.”
“And where is your office?”
“About ten miles from here.”
“You said you heard the news on the radio. Were you on your way to your office?”
“I was actually on my way to Tulsan City,” Riley replied.
Fisher knew that was thirty miles west of Milton.
“What was your business in Tulsan?” Holt asked.
“I was to meet a group of potential investors.”
“What time was your meeting?”
“Ten a.m.”
“What time did you leave your home?”
“Around six.”
Holt looked puzzled. “Why so early?”
“I wanted to drop by the office and pick up some materials.”
“And did you?”
“I did.”
“How long did that take you?”
Riley stared at him. “I ended up staying at the office longer than I intended. I had emails and telephone calls to reply to.”
“Can someone confirm you were at your office?”
“I’m afraid not. It was early, and my secretary doesn’t get in until late.” The grief in Riley’s eyes gave way to irritability. “But I do have a meeting scheduled with a group of investors. I can provide you their names if you think I’m lying.”
Fisher jumped in. “We are not accusing you of anything, Mr. Riley.”
Riley glared at Holt. “That’s not what it looks like.”
Holt was a great detective, but he was prone to tunnel vision. If something did not make sense, he would dig and dig until it did. Now was not the time. According to Fisher, James Riley had no reason to murder his wife or the people at the center. He was a distraught widower rather than a cold-blooded killer.
As if sensing their skepticism, Riley pulled out his cell phone and held it out for Fisher.
“What is this?” she asked.
“These are all the calls I made when I was in my office,” he said. “You can call those people to confirm if I’d spoken to them earlier. You can also check my emails, if you like, to see what I was doing this morning.”
Fisher looked over at Holt to see if he had any questions. She was already satisfied with Riley’s explanation.
He shook his head.
“Did your wife ever talk to you about Emily’s Center?” Fisher asked next.
“What do you mean?”
“Anything that happened there.”
“Sure. Over dinner we would talk about her day and mine. She never told me names or specifics, but yes, she talked about Emily’s Center quite a bit. She was devoted to helping others. She was kind, generous, and a wonderful…” He choked up, and his eyes welled. He covered his face with his hands.
Fisher’s heart went out to him.
She hated to ask him more questions, but it was her job to gather as much information as possible.
“In the last few weeks or even days, was your wife worried or concerned about anything?” she asked.
Riley pondered the question. “She did mention something.”
“Like what?”
“There were threats made against the center.”
Fisher’s back stiffened. “What kind of threats?”
“Threats of violence.”
“Do you know by whom?”
“A men’s rights group.”
Fisher’s eyes narrowed. “Was it the Men’s Support Allia
nce?”
“I don’t know. She never mentioned any names to me.”
Fisher pondered this.
James Riley said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this right now. I’ve just lost my wife, and my children have lost their mother. I would like go home and be with them.”
She looked over at Holt. He shook his head. He had no more questions for him.
Fisher looked back at Riley. “We’re so sorry for your loss.”
NINETEEN
The Callaway Private Investigations office was above a soup and noodle restaurant. In order to get to it, you had to walk to the back of the restaurant and go up a flight of metal stairs. The stairs could be treacherous after heavy rain or snow. Each step had to be taken carefully. There were numerous times when Callaway would slip on a step and go tumbling down to the bottom. It did not help that on those occasions, Callaway was inebriated. Even sober, the stairs were a safety hazard.
Callaway could complain to his landlady to do something about the steps, or he could just move to another location. Both of those options were out of the question. His rent was the lowest in the entire city. After paying for heat, water, electricity, taxes, and property insurance, he was sure she was losing money with him as a tenant. She had mentioned raising his rent a few times, but she quickly gave up on the idea. Callaway barely paid his rent on time. With an increase, he would only show up at his office during hours when the restaurant was closed and the landlady was away. She could try to evict him, but the process was lengthy and costly. She would have to send him a notice of eviction through a lawyer, take him to court and win, and then have a sheriff remove him and his belongings from the property.
He knew it would never come to that. Before the case went in front of a judge, he would pay all his rent in arrears. Plus, he had grown on her. She had stopped frowning whenever she saw him, which might have something to do with the fact that he had paid his next month’s rent in advance. He knew he was lousy with money, and to avoid defaulting on rent whenever he got a new case, he would pay his landlady first and then keep the remainder for himself.
There was morning dew on the metal steps, so he carefully made his way up.
When he reached a landing, he was faced with a black metal door. There was no sign anywhere announcing the office’s existence. There was a telephone number taped to the door, however. Callaway did not like drop-ins. His confrontation with the husband was a prime example of that. Callaway had caught people in compromising positions, and as such, they would want to find him and teach him a lesson. For that reason, it was better that no one knew where his office was.
Still, it was not uncommon for people to show up unannounced, and each time, Callaway was left flummoxed as to how they knew where his office was.
Maybe I’m not as clever as I think I am, he thought.
He unlocked the door and entered. The space was small, and there were no windows, making it even more confined. It had no air conditioning, which during the hot summer days could turn the room into a sauna. To avoid getting broiled, Callaway would leave the door open and place a fan running at high speed in front of it. It was no substitute for air conditioning, but it helped circulate air into the space.
The heating was touch and go. Some winter days he would be sweating in the room. Other days he would be freezing. When the heat was high, he would leave the door slightly ajar. When the heat was barely working, he would turn on an electric heater which he hid under his desk. The heater ate up a ton of electricity, so he did not want his landlady knowing about it.
There was a sofa in the corner, and across from the sofa was a flat-screen TV, which was given to him by a client as a gift.
Once when he returned to his office, he heard voices coming from inside. He quickly left and waited for the culprit to come out. Three hours later, when no one did, he hesitantly went back in. To his surprise, the voices were coming from the TV. He had forgotten to turn it off when he had left earlier.
As was his ritual, whenever he entered his office, the first thing he did was turn on the TV. It was tuned to a 24-hour news channel. This allowed him to know what was going on in the city and also seek out new clients.
He had sat down behind his desk when the news alert flashed on the screen.
There had been a mass shooting at Emily’s Place. Callaway was familiar with the center. One of his clients had an abusive boyfriend. Callaway remembered searching online when he found Emily’s Place. He referred her to them. He never followed up to see whether she went or not.
As the images flashed on the screen, he suddenly felt like maybe he should have followed up to see how the client was doing.
TWENTY
Rob Giles blew thick smoke into the air and then took another drag of the cigarette. He was over six feet tall. He had big arms and a wide chest. His eyes were deep set, and his hair had started thinning from the top.
Giles was Paige Giles’s ex-husband. Fisher and Holt wanted to speak to him next. Giles worked as a bus driver for the Milton Transportation Commission. He was wearing a blue uniform with the MTC logo on the front pocket.
All three stood in the corner of the bus terminal.
“Listen,” he said. “Last time I saw Paige was when we signed the divorce papers at her lawyer’s office.”
Fisher said, “From what we’ve gathered, the divorce wasn’t amicable. In fact, she had a restraining order against you, didn’t she?”
He was not fazed by that question. “She had every right to be afraid of me. While we were married, I was not in a healthy place. I was drinking too much, and I was even dabbling in recreational drugs. I wasn’t a good husband.”
“We found reports of domestic violence,” Holt said sternly.
He looked at him. “Like I said, Paige had every right to be afraid of me.”
Fisher said, “What did you think when Paige started working at Emily’s Place?”
This time his eyes betrayed him. “What do you mean?”
“It was right before your divorce that she started working there. I’m sure you must blame them for the divorce.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“The people at Emily’s Place must have encouraged her to leave you. During one violent altercation, she went to the center for refuge. The next day she decided to file for separation. You must hate them for brainwashing her, isn’t that right?” Fisher was trying to push his buttons, to see if he would snap.
Instead, he smiled. “If those people told her to leave me, then good for them. If I was in their place, I would have told her the same thing.”
“So, you hold no ill will toward them for the way your marriage ended?” Fisher said.
“Of course not. I was on a path of destruction. If Paige had not left me, I would have done something worse to her.”
“Like murder?”
He paused. His eyes narrowed. “I would have hurt her, yes. And I would have ended up in prison. The moment she was gone, I realized she was the best thing that ever happened to me. You have to know, I grew up without knowing my real father. My stepfather was a prick. He would beat me for no reason. I ran away from home when I was fifteen. I met Paige at a music festival. I was working at one of the stalls selling T-shirts and memorabilia. She was there with her friends. Her friends thought I was trouble—they were right, but she fell for me. And I didn’t take care of her or protect her like I should have. She needed protection from me.” His jaw tightened. “I’ve cleaned up my act since my divorce. I started going to church. That’s where I met Kate.”
“Kate?” Fisher asked.
“She’s my girlfriend. I plan to marry her once I pass my probation at MTC.”
Holt said, “What were you doing this morning?”
“I was driving my bus.”
“You have any witnesses to confirm this?” Fisher asked but then regretted her question immediately.
Giles smiled. “Yeah, I do. You can ask all the passengers I picked up and dropped off on
my route. In fact, you can call my supervisor. He’d tell you I was on my shift all morning until you guys called and pulled me off it.” He dropped the cigarette on the ground and stubbed it with the heel of his boot. “Listen, I loved Paige. She was a great person. I didn’t deserve her. I hope you guys find who did this to her, and I hope you make them pay.”
“We will,” Fisher said with conviction.
TWENTY-ONE
Callaway lowered the volume on the TV and turned his attention to the laptop on his desk. The laptop was ten years old and took close to twenty minutes to start up. Other than that, it was in fine working condition. When loaded, the laptop hardly ever crashed.
Callaway could afford to get a new laptop with all the bells and whistles, but he preferred not to incur the additional expense. He did not need a faster operating system anyway. He rarely watched videos on the laptop, nor did he play any games on it. He used it primarily to check emails and search the internet. He debated getting a tablet instead. They were compact, and he could carry one with him wherever he went.
Maybe that’s what I’ll do, he thought.
While the laptop booted up, he decided to run across the block to a convenience store. He bought coffee from the vending machine and grabbed a granola bar. As usual, the coffee tasted bitter. The beans were not finely ground, which made it feel like he was drinking sawdust. The granola bar, on the other hand, was soft and chewy.
When he returned to the office, the laptop was fully functional. He sat down and typed in
Dean Paterson. He never bothered to ask Joely for Dean’s full name, but as Paterson was her last name, he assumed she was still using her marital name.
There were several Dean Patersons, but only one who worked in music. Callaway clicked on the images in the search engine.
Dean had long, smooth hair that fell to his shoulders. He had stubble on his cheeks and the bluest eyes Callaway had ever seen. In all the photos, he was grinning at the camera. Callaway could see why Joely had fallen head over heels for him.
Callaway also noticed that in many of the photos, Dean was posing next to attractive women.
The Broken Mother Page 5