By all accounts, Dean was a player.
The photos were taken in different locations—Ibiza, Barbados, Spain, and many tropical islands.
Callaway fumed. While Joely was struggling to provide for her son, Josh, Dean was traveling the world and having a good time.
Isn’t that what you did, too? he thought to himself.
Callaway walked away from his marriage when his daughter was still an infant. He could not see himself as a husband and father. He wanted to experience life. He wanted to have an adventure. He moved from one short-lived relationship to another, and he did some traveling in between. He mostly stuck to cities in North America, like Las Vegas, Cancun, and Vancouver.
In short, he really could not judge Dean because that would make him a hypocrite.
Callaway then spent twenty minutes digging through everything he could find on Dean. Dean had worked as an equipment manager for several music bands, ranging from hard rock to heavy metal to grunge. The last band, Angels of Addicts, was alternative rock. They were from Velmont, which was a couple of hours from Milton.
He searched and found the name and address of the band’s manager.
Callaway decided that’s where he would start his investigation on Dean Paterson.
TWENTY-TWO
Holt and Fisher found Steve Hughley at the house he shared with Melody Ferguson. Hughley had freckled skin, curly hair, and wide eyes. He had a slight pouch where his belly hung over his belt buckle.
Hughley had no idea what had transpired at Emily’s Place until Holt and Fisher broke the news. His reaction was one they had seen before in their line of work. Hughley was at first confused, like they had made some mistake. He told them Melody was at work and that he and she had planned to take the kids to an indoor playground later in the day. When they told him what had happened, he dropped to the floor, covered his face with his hands and began to sob uncontrollably.
He cried on the floor for several minutes until Holt helped him get back on his feet and assisted him to a chair.
Melody and Hughley were not married, but they had two children together. Their family photos decorated the walls of the house.
Fisher was normally composed in situations like this. She had seen death so many times, it had become part of her daily life.
Today, however, a pang of sadness mixed with anger swept over her. Someone had brutally taken three lives. Two of those—Emily and Melody—were mothers. Fisher felt for the children. They were now denied their mother’s love. It would be a hurt they would have to carry for the rest of their lives.
“What do you do, Mr. Hughley?” Holt asked. Fisher was glad he spoke up. She was not sure if she could ask Hughley difficult questions in his current condition.
Hughley looked up. “I work as a real estate agent.”
“You didn’t go to work today?” Holt asked. It’s mid-morning, he thought.
“I don’t have to show a house to a client until later in the afternoon.”
“Where were you this morning?”
“I was at home.”
“Was anyone else with you?”
“Of course. My children. I had to get them ready for school.”
“How old are they?” Holt asked.
“Grace is seven, and Jack is five.”
In Fisher’s experience, children of that age were still too young to be witnesses. Their memories could change depending on the person questioning them.
“Can anyone else confirm your whereabouts this morning?” Holt asked.
“Sure. When I took the children to school, I spoke to Grace’s teacher, Mrs. Terry. Grace’s class is going on a field trip next week, and she wanted me to sign a form and pay for the trip, which I did.”
“Okay,” Holt said.
Holt and Fisher were quiet, pondering their next questions.
Fisher worried she might have to break the silence.
Instead, Holt said, “How did Melody get to work? We only saw two vehicles parked at Emily’s Place, one belonging to Emily Riley, and the other to Paige Giles.”
“I usually drive Melody to work, right after I drop the kids off at school. Melody had an accident several years back, so she avoids driving whenever possible. But today, Paige came and picked her up.”
“Is that normal? I mean, for Paige to pick her up?”
Hughley’s brow furrowed. “When I think about it, today was the first time Paige came to our house.”
“So, why did she? Do you know?”
“They got a message from Emily to come into work early.”
“From Emily?” Holt glanced at Fisher.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“That’s what Melody told me,” Hughley replied. “We enjoy having breakfast and dinners as a family. But today I made breakfast for the kids.”
Holt was quiet.
Fisher knew what he was thinking. Why did Emily call Melody and Paige to come to work early on the very day all three were brutally murdered?
TWENTY-THREE
Callaway met Brian Dunbar on the top floor of a loft building. The space was open and wide, but it looked smaller because of all the musical instruments, production equipment, and props scattered all around.
Dunbar was short and stocky. He had a bulbous nose, beady eyes, and thin lips. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and loafers. He had gold rings on his fingers, which he intermittently rubbed.
Dunbar was the manager of Angels of Addicts.
“Why are you interested in Dean?” he asked.
Callaway sat across from him and said, “I’m thinking of hiring him.”
“For your band?” he asked, curious.
“Yes.”
“What’re they called?”
“House of Jam.”
“Never heard of them.”
“They are new, very new.”
“What kind of music they play?”
“They are a fusion of pop-rock, electric, and rap.”
Dunbar’s right eyebrow shot up. “Really? I would love to hear them.”
“So would the rest of the world,” Callaway said with a smile.
Dunbar paused and then nodded. “I don’t like people poaching talent from me—and believe me, Dean is the best equipment manager I ever had—but Dean no longer works for me, so I can’t stop you from hiring him.”
“Why doesn’t he work for you anymore?”
“The band didn’t take off as I had hoped, unfortunately. They had one song hit the top one hundred on the charts, but that success was short-lived. We were booked to play in two dozen US cities and even a couple in Europe and Scandinavia, but their latest record dropped out of the charts on the same weekend it was released. Promoters started calling and asking us to guarantee a certain number of ticket sales or else they’d pull out. We tried selling the tickets at the lowest price possible—by that I mean the band would not make any money for playing in those venues, but I hoped it would drum up interest in their music, which would boost online downloads or even streaming revenue. Even that did not work. Eventually, I had to scrap the tour and cut my losses. That’s why I have all this stuff sitting around collecting dust.” He moved his hand around the room. “Are you interested in buying or even renting equipment by any chance?”
“No thanks, we have everything we need,” Callaway claimed.
Dunbar shrugged.
“What can you tell me about Dean?” Callaway asked.
“Like I said, he’s the best equipment manager I’ve ever had. He knows his stuff. I’ve had him on other tours with other bands, and never once did I have a show go wrong because some equipment failed to work properly or had instruments go missing. Believe me, you would not believe how much stress I’ve had to go through when band members forget their favorite guitar at some motel or restaurant. They refuse to go on stage without them, and guess who has to go find the guitar? Me. But I never had that problem with Dean. He was always on top of things.”
Callaway’s eyes narrowed
. Like me, Dean was good at his job, he thought. But also like me, he was a lousy husband and father.
“How long ago did you cancel the tour?”
Dunbar thought for a moment. “I’d have to say six months at least.”
Callaway blinked. Is that how long Dean has been unemployed?
“Do you know what Dean did after you let him go?” he asked.
“No idea. I saw him a couple of times at a bar around the corner. I always told him that the moment I had another gig lined up, he’d be the first person I’d hire.”
They were silent for a moment.
“I’m curious,” Callaway said. “What’s behind the name Angels of Addicts?”
A smile crossed Dunbar’s face. “The lead singer is a recovering addict. He almost died of a heroin overdose. While he was unconscious, he says he saw angels with wings playing music. He took it as a sign and decided to devote his time and energy to making music.”
Callaway got up to leave. “Thanks for your time.”
“Before you go—” Dunbar leaned down and opened a drawer in his desk. He pulled out a CD and placed it before Callaway. “Listen to it when you have time. If you like it, maybe you could put a good word out for us. The guys in the band worked really hard on it. That’s why I put up a lot of my own money to fund their music. I really believe in their talent.”
Callaway wished he did not have to lie to Dunbar, but he could not tell him he was a private investigator. Dunbar might have not been as forthcoming if he did.
He grabbed the CD and placed it in his pocket. “I’ll listen to it on my drive back,” he said, and he meant it.
TWENTY-FOUR
Holt and Fisher decided to go meet Nikki Jones. Apparently, she was scheduled to be at the center that day.
They pulled up in front of a red brick bungalow. There was no car parked in the driveway, but they still wanted to see if anyone was home.
They rang the doorbell and waited. Fisher leaned closer and peeked through the blinds. She saw some light, but mostly darkness.
“Maybe we should have come here sooner,” Fisher said.
Holt nodded.
Of the four people who worked at Emily’s Place, Nikki was the only one alive. At least that was what they hoped.
There was a reason they had not come looking for her sooner. They found nothing to indicate that she was in danger. Also, after speaking with James Riley, they wanted to speak with Rob Giles and Steven Hughley. They had to cross them off their list of suspects. All three had alibis.
Fisher pulled out her cell phone and dialed the number she’d found for Nikki Jones in the online phone directory. It went straight to voicemail.
“Hi, you’ve reached Nikki,” said a chirpy female voice. “I’m not available to take your call. Please leave me your name and number and I’ll make sure to get back to you. Byeeee.”
Fisher hung up right after the beep.
She looked at Holt and shook her head.
“Should we come back?” Holt asked.
Fisher could see he did not want to. The drive was at least forty-five minutes.
“Could she have been taken by the shooter?” she wondered out loud.
“That’s a possibility, but we can’t put out an APB until we are certain of her whereabouts.”
Fisher gave Holt a look. “But what if she was harmed?” she asked him.
Holt saw where Fisher was going with this.
As law enforcement officers, they could not enter a property without a warrant, but if they feared the occupant was in any danger, they could do so.
Holt looked around and said, “Let’s do it.”
They got out and drew their weapons. Fisher moved aside. Holt was the bigger of the two of them, so it was better that he took the lead.
He took a step back to ready himself, then with the heel of his boot, he kicked the door in.
They went inside. The interior was dark. They did not turn on the lights in case anyone was waiting for them. The last thing they wanted was to give a perpetrator a clear shot at them.
They methodically moved through the house. The kitchen sink was filled with dirty dishes. The bed in the main bedroom had not been made. The bathroom cabinet was full of toiletries.
Someone still lived in the house. It was not vacant.
They found no dead body. No signs of a struggle. Nothing to indicate a crime had been committed.
They did find photos all over the house. They were of a young woman with short dark hair, a pleasant smile, and focused eyes.
At least now they knew what Nikki Jones looked like.
TWENTY-FIVE
Callaway returned to his office. Dunbar was right—Angels of Addicts were talented. But sometimes talent did not equate to success. Callaway had heard of a ton of musicians, artists, or writers who were gifted but never made a mark in their respective fields.
He shook his head. I didn’t go to Velmont to help some band catch a break, he thought. I went there to help Joely.
She wanted him to find out what Dean was doing in Milton. He had never bothered to come see his son before, so why now?
Perhaps because he was out of work and had more time.
Callaway had to make sure.
He sat down at his desk and began working on his laptop.
When he became a private investigator, Callaway had honed his skills in digging up dirt. He had access to certain police databases. He knew where to look for records that were available to the public. He had also learned how to navigate the various social media platforms.
However, if it came down to it, he was not above bending the law. If he felt the information could save a life, he would do whatever was necessary to stop tragedy from occurring.
He believed that was what made him different from the police. They followed rules and regulations. He did not. They had to answer for their actions during a trial. He never appeared before a judge for any of his cases. In fact, he always told his clients at the beginning that whatever he discovered during his investigation may not hold up in court. His methods were unusual, and so were his results.
The clients agreed to his terms, of course. They had chosen to come to him, not vice versa. They also had their reasons for seeking a private investigator over anyone else. They did not trust the police to solve their problems. What they were requesting might not be entirely legal, and they wanted to be assured that their matters would stay private.
The latter was something Callaway followed with conviction. If his client could not trust him, what was the point in being called a private investigator?
He spent the next half hour looking at everything he could find on Dean Paterson. What he discovered did not surprise him in the least.
Dean was in financial trouble. His house had been repossessed by the bank. His credit cards were maxed out, and so was his personal line of credit. There was also a lien on his car, and Callaway even found a website where Dean had posted for-sale ads. He was selling his furniture, his electronics, even his prized possessions, which included several instruments signed by famous musicians.
Dean was in a desperate situation, and Callaway doubted it had all to do with him being unemployed for six months. That was too short a time for someone to fall behind on their mortgage payments, wipe out their credit cards, savings, lines of credit, and be left with no other choice but to sell everything they owned.
Callaway knew a thing or two about being broke. He hardly ever had any money. When he used to get paid for a case, he would flush the cash away in get-rich-quick schemes, at the casinos, or on nights out drinking. Even then, Callaway retained certain things that were invaluable to him.
Callaway would never part with his Dodge Charger. The car had been with him through all his trials and tribulations. For Dean to sell everything valuable to him made Callaway pause.
If Dean needs money, what is he doing in Milton? he thought.
Joely was a single mother who relied on her tips at the restaurant to get by. There
was no way she could help Dean financially.
What if Dean wanted to get back with Joely?
The idea was not farfetched. Callaway had gotten back with Patti. She had forgiven him for his mistakes. Would Joely be as forgiving as Patti?
And what about Josh?
Joely wanted a father figure in her son’s life, and who better to guide him than Josh’s actual dad?
Callaway was a lot of things, but he was devoted to Nina. He would do anything for her—anything. Maybe Dean was having regrets and wanted to play a bigger role in Josh’s life.
Is that not why Callaway was keeping himself on the straight and narrow? He wanted to be more involved in Nina’s upbringing.
Speaking of Nina…
He suddenly remembered he had to be somewhere.
He grabbed his coat and rushed out of his office.
TWENTY-SIX
Holt and Fisher were at the station. There was something James Riley had said that they wanted to look into further.
Threats had been made against Emily’s Place. Holt and Fisher wanted to find out who had made those threats.
To their surprise, there were over a dozen police reports filed by Emily Riley.
There were reports of hate mail, messages left on their voicemail filled with vitriol, explicit graffiti spray-painted across the exterior façade of the property. Someone even left human feces on the center’s steps.
In each case, police looked into the complaints, but no one was ever charged or convicted.
Fisher could not believe people would resort to such actions just because they disagreed with someone. She was not ready to say that it was men who were behind these acts. There was no proof.
However, the center was a safe haven for women who were battered and abused by the men in their lives. The men, perhaps, saw the center as a threat to their dominance because it helped women regain control over their lives. And some men might not be willing to accept this.
The center had become a symbol of what was wrong with society. Why even have a place where one half of the human race had to seek refuge from the other half? Why could everyone not just get along?
The Broken Mother Page 6