The man stared at the piece of paper Callaway had given him. He squinted and said, “You want all the telephone records for this number?”
“Whatever you can pull out,” Callaway replied.
“You’re lucky. We keep records going back almost ten years. In fact, if you know the month and year, I can pull out the exact statement you are looking for.”
Callaway told him the month and year.
“I have to print it out from our main system,” the man said. “Only one computer is linked to it, and it’s in the back. Give me a minute.”
The man gingerly got up and left the room.
Callaway stared at the space around him. He spotted black and white photos on the wall. The old man may have had a depressing job, but it looked like he had lived his life to the fullest. There were photos of him standing in front of the pyramids in Egypt, posing outside the Taj Mahal, and smiling while standing on the Great Wall of China.
“I didn’t always work here, you know,” the man said, reappearing from behind the door. “I used to be a reporter for a respectable news magazine. I retired with a nice pension, but then I made some terrible business decisions. I cashed out my pension and bought rental properties in Florida. I wanted to rent the properties out to tourists. But then the Great Recession happened. Not only could I not find regular renters, one of my properties was taken over by a squatter. It took months and a lot of money to kick him out. And when he left, the place was no longer rentable. He had put a sledgehammer to the entire house. My insurance didn’t cover all the repairs, and by then I was bleeding money. I had to walk away from everything and leave the properties to the bank. Fortunately, I got a job here. Retirement is no longer an option. I’ll probably die while still working.”
Callaway did not know what to say.
The man smiled. “Sorry, I get wistful when I think about my life from before. Anyway, here is what you asked for.”
He placed several pieces of paper on the desk. Callaway reached over and grabbed them. He scanned through the telephone statement for the month and stopped on the exact date Hope had gone to Erie Lake.
He knew from Hammel’s notes that the 9-1-1 call had come at 5:33 PM. So, if he worked backwards, then the last call at the Parsons’s residence before 5:33 PM had come at 5:11 PM. Twenty-two minutes before the 9-1-1 call, he thought.
That would have given Hope enough time to answer the telephone and go out searching for Noah. It still did not mean she could not have drowned her son. It only explained that she was at home twenty-plus minutes prior to Donny Brewer stumbling upon her at Erie Lake.
“Can you tell me whose telephone number that is?” Callaway asked, pointing to the one at 5:11 PM.
The man pulled on his bifocals and then turned to the desktop computer on his desk. He typed in the number and said, “It belongs to a Herman Griswald.”’
Callaway frowned. He was not sure who that was.
“Are you sure?” Callaway asked.
“That’s the name that pops up on the computer screen,” the man replied.
Callaway rubbed his chin in deep thought. “How long has this Herman Griswald had this number?”
“I can check that,” the man said, clicking his mouse. “He got it around eight years ago.”
That’s how long Noah has been dead, Callaway thought.
“Do you know who had this number prior to Herman Griswald?”
The man slowly worked the system. “That telephone number used to belong to… Joyce Newman.”
Callaway’s eye widened.
Hope’s neighbor, he thought.
NINETY-SIX
“We’ve got nothing,” Fisher said as they drove back from Earl Munchin’s apartment. “We have no fingerprints linking James Riley to the crime scene. We have no witnesses who saw him at the time of the murders. And we don’t even have a murder weapon.”
“We have Earl Munchin, who says he was at the rally when his weapon was stolen,” Holt said.
“But Earl isn’t sure if Riley followed him to the fast food restaurant.”
“What if he did? I mean, we know he did. We just have to prove it.”
“How do we do that?” Fisher asked. “Earl doesn’t remember which restaurant he’d gone to. We can’t start knocking on random doors. In fact, we don’t even know where to begin the search in the first place.”
Holt fell silent. He then pulled out his cell phone. “Why didn’t I think of this before?” he said.
He dialed a number and spoke into the phone. “Mr. Munchin, this is Detective Holt. At the end of the rally, when you went to the fast food restaurant to use their bathroom, did you happen to purchase anything from the restaurant? You did.” Holt turned to Fisher and smiled. “What was it? A lunch combo. Okay. Do you remember if you paid by cash or credit card?” Holt listened. “Credit card. Good. Can you pull up your credit card statement online and tell me which restaurant you used your card at? Yes, right now, Mr. Munchin.” Holt’s voice was stern. “It’s very important. You don’t want us driving back to your apartment, do you? Yes, I can hold.” Holt was silent as he waited for Munchin to pull up the information. “Yes, I’m here. The Burger Jones. And where was the rally again? Got it. Thank you, Mr. Munchin.” He ended the call and said to Fisher, “The rally was outside the state legislature, and if we search for the nearest Burger Jones, I’m sure we’ll find the one we’re looking for.”
Fisher was beaming. “Let’s do it,” she said.
Twenty minutes later, they were inside the restaurant speaking to a manager. The manager led them to a room in the back. They provided him with a time and date. It was not difficult. Munchin’s credit card had the exact information.
On a set of monitors, the manager pulled up the footage they had requested.
The image was black and white, and it showed the front counter.
“Do you have a camera pointed at the bathrooms?” Holt asked.
The manager shook his head. “We don’t. Our customers don’t appreciate being recorded going in and out of bathrooms.”
“What about the front door?” Fisher asked.
“Sure,” he replied, and he clicked a button.
They watched the clock at the bottom. They knew if Munchin was telling the truth, he should be coming into the restaurant any moment now.
A few seconds later, he appeared on the screen. He was wearing a plaid shirt, cargo pants, and sneakers.
He walked further into the restaurant and disappeared from view.
They waited until they saw another man enter the restaurant. The man was wearing a baseball cap, a jacket with a hood, and dark pants. The baseball cap was pulled low and the man kept his head down.
They believed it was James Riley, but he never once looked up, so they could not be sure. The man had his hands in his pockets as he strolled out of view.
“Go back to the front counter,” Holt said.
The image switched. On the screen, they could see a line of customers waiting to go up to the counter and place their orders.
They saw Munchin get in line.
“Go back to the front door,” Holt said.
The camera switched again. They saw people enter and leave the restaurant. It did not take long for them to spot the man in the baseball cap. His strides were long. He was in a hurry. Within seconds, he was at the door and then gone.
A moment later, Munchin left too. He was carrying a takeout bag, which he had paid for with his credit card.
Fisher groaned. “No luck.”
“I think I may have another idea,” Holt said.
“I hope it’s better than your last idea,” Fisher replied, her voice bitter with disappointment.
“It might be a bit farfetched, but it just might work,” Holt said.
NINETY-SEVEN
Callaway parked across from the Newmans’ residence. The lights inside the house were on, and there was a car parked in the driveway.
Joyce Newman was home. Callaway hoped Milo Newman was too
.
He now believed that Joyce Newman knew more than she was letting on. She never once mentioned that a call had been made from her house to the Parsons’s right before Hope went out searching for Noah. Callaway also believed the angelic voice Hope always spoke of could not have been anyone else’s but Joyce Newman’s.
Then there was George Kamen. He was docking his boat when he heard the whistle for help. Kaman had mentioned that on his way out to catch fish, he had seen two boys near the edge of the water. One of them was on a bicycle, the other was on foot.
Callaway now suspected the boy on the bike was not Donny Brewer but Milo Newman. The other boy could only have been Noah Parsons.
The scenario made sense. Noah and Milo were best friends, and Milo was never the same after Noah’s death.
What did he know about the events at Erie Lake? And why was Joyce Newman not letting Callaway speak to her son?
Callaway was determined to find out.
He was just not sure how.
As he was considering his next move, he saw the front door open wide. Milo appeared in the light and then hurried down the front steps. He had a backpack swung around his shoulder. Joyce Newman came up behind him and followed after him.
She was yelling something at him, but he ignored her as he walked down the driveway.
Callaway was too far to hear what was being said, but he could tell she was not pleased with her son.
She stared in his direction until he disappeared from her view. She shook her head and stormed back inside.
Callaway put the Charger in gear and began to pursue Milo Newman.
Milo removed a pair of headphones from his backpack and stuck them over his head. Milo turned the corner, walked half a block, and then came to a halt at a bus stop.
Callaway parked behind a row of parked cars on the other side of the street. He watched as Milo listened to music while glued to his cell phone.
Typical teenager, he thought.
Milo was oblivious to his surroundings. People his age were too focused on what was happening to them instead of what was happening around them.
Will Nina go through teen angst and rebel like Milo Newman?
He knew she would, and the fact sent a shiver up his spine.
The bus pulled up to the stop, and Milo got in.
Callaway followed the bus as it made its designated stops. Each time the bus stopped, Callaway kept an eye on the bus’s doors. He did not want to miss Milo getting off.
On the fifteenth stop—maybe more, Callaway was not counting—Milo got off.
They were in a risky neighborhood. The graffiti on the walls and plywood sheets covering store fronts told him the area was known for crime.
Milo walked down the street and entered a run-down building.
Callaway parked the Charger and turned the engine off.
What are you doing in a place like this, Milo? he thought.
He looked around, and suddenly he wished he had brought his weapon.
Callaway lowered himself in his seat and waited for Milo to show up again.
An hour later, Milo emerged from the door. Next to him was another guy. He looked older, but he dressed like Milo—in a hoodie, baggy jeans, and a baseball cap that was pulled backwards.
Milo gave the guy a fist-bump, adjusted the backpack on his shoulders, and proceeded down the street.
When the guy had disappeared back into the building, Callaway began to follow Milo again.
Several blocks down, Milo stopped at the corner of a busy intersection. He looked around him and then found a building wall he casually leaned on.
Within minutes, a car pulled up to the traffic lights, and Milo immediately rushed over and spoke to the driver inside. Without being too obvious, Milo handed something to the driver, and the driver handed something to Milo in return. Milo placed the item in his pocket and walked back to his spot next to the wall.
Callaway did not need to be a genius to know what was going on.
Milo was back to selling drugs again.
No wonder your mother was upset with you, Callaway thought. She knew where you were going when you left the house.
Callaway suddenly had an idea. He pulled out his cell phone and made a call.
NINETY-EIGHT
The curtains were down, and the lights were off. If it was not for the television running in the background, the entire house would be in complete darkness.
James Riley was glued to the news ever since it happened.
His entire body shook at what he had done.
Oh, dear God, he thought. Please forgive me.
He knew there would be no salvation for his actions.
He covered his face with his hands and wept for the umpteenth time.
He was glad his kids were not home to see him like this. They would ask him why he was crying so much. He could tell them it was because their mother was gone, but the true reason was that he was responsible for taking their mother away from them. He had denied her the opportunity to see her children grow up. He had denied his children the opportunity to have a person in their life who would love them unquestionably.
He sobbed into his hands. His face was wet with tears.
He missed Emily, he truly did. She was his life partner. She was his best friend. He had vowed to protect her. Instead, he had hurt her.
He could not believe his life had turned upside down. One minute he was the luckiest person in the world. He had a beautiful wife he loved and two children he adored. But the next minute, it was all gone.
And he had no one to blame but himself.
He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. He leaned back and stared up at the ceiling.
When he was accused of stealing from his investors, the pressure began to mount on him. His world suddenly started to collapse around him. Emily started asking him questions. She wanted to know why people were calling her to ask about their money. He told her the same thing he told everyone who spoke to him—that it was a mistake, and that he would sort it all out. He promised everyone would get their money back.
He tried to find new investors to pay his current investors. He was pushing himself into a Ponzi scheme, but he was desperate. He wanted to buy enough time to get himself out of this mess. But the news of the litigation reached his new investors, and they all backed out of investing with him.
He found himself in a corner. He feared if he went to jail, Emily would not stand by him. She would leave him and take the kids with her.
Upon his release from prison, he would be without a family, without any money, and without a reputation to start his career again.
It was then that he began to formulate a plan.
The phone buzzed next to him. He let the phone ring. He would not dare answer.
The calls had stopped coming when the news of Emily’s death had spread. Investors were sensitive to his loss. Many had come to the vigil to offer their condolences. But many had families and responsibilities. They had invested a lot of money with him, even their entire life savings. They wanted their money back, and he did not have it.
Not yet, at least.
Once the life insurance policy cashed out, he would pay them all back.
His punishment would be a life without Emily. It would be a burden he would have to carry with him for the rest of his life.
Something on the TV screen caught his attention.
It was breaking news.
He turned the volume up.
A reporter was speaking into a microphone. “The Milton Police Department has just issued a statement that they have found the gun used in the shooting deaths of Emily Riley, Melody Ferguson, and Paige Giles. Further information will be provided in the coming days.”
James Riley’s eyes widened in disbelief.
NINETY-NINE
Callaway stood next to a tree and felt a cool breeze on his face. On any other day, he would have loved to take a stroll and enjoy the scenery.
Today was not that day. Today he h
ad something else in mind.
He was checking his watch again when a police cruiser pulled up next to his Dodge Charger, which was parked a short distance away.
Officer Lance McConnell got out.
Callaway had called Fisher to ask for her help. She was in the middle of an investigation, so she asked McConnell for assistance.
McConnell looked in Callaway’s direction and then touched his cap, as if to say, I am here.
Callaway waved back.
McConnell walked over and opened the back door of the cruiser.
He reached down and pulled out a cuffed Milo Newman.
“Why did you drive me all the way here?” Milo roared. “When my mom finds out, she’ll file a complaint against you and your department.”
“I would keep my mouth shut if I were you,” McConnell said. “You were caught selling drugs on the street.”
“It wasn’t mine.”
“Then whose was it?”
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Milo said, puffing his chest.
“Okay, then we’ll ask the guy who gave them to you.” Callaway had filled McConnell in on the run-down building where Milo had picked up the stash of drugs. McConnell said, “I’m sure he’ll be happy to know you gave him up easily. What’s that phrase? Snitches get stitches. Is that right?”
Milo turned pale.
McConnell grabbed him by his elbow and led him to Callaway.
“Thanks for your help, Officer McConnell,” Callaway said.
McConnell smiled. “No trouble at all. Anything for Dana’s friend.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Callaway said, pointing to the handcuffs.
McConnell quickly removed them.
Milo rubbed his wrists but kept his head down. He knew he was already in too much trouble, and he did not want to get on the wrong side of the officer.
“Do you want me to stick around?” McConnell asked.
“No, I think I’ll be fine.”
“Have yourself a good day, gentlemen,” McConnell said with a grin as he walked away.
The Broken Mother Page 23