The Lee Callaway Boxed Set

by Thomas Fincham

  “Okay, fine. Let’s see what Mason thinks when he finds out I came to talk money and you didn’t let me in.”

  Baxter huffed and unlocked the door. I feel like I’m in a bad B movie whenever I come here, Callaway thought.

  He stormed up the steps, but then he waited for Baxter to hold the door open. Mason was on the phone, and his face lit up when he saw Callaway.

  “Monday morning at nine, okay?” Mason bellowed into the receiver. “If you are late even one minute, I’ll send Baxter to look for you.” He slammed the phone down and turned to Callaway with a smile. “How’s my favorite PI?”

  Callaway raised an eyebrow. “I’m your favorite now?”

  “You were always my favorite. So? Where’s my money? Where’s Mike?”

  “I don’t have your money, and I still haven’t found Mike.”

  Mason turned to Baxter. “Did he just say he doesn’t have my money, or am I going deaf?”

  Baxter smiled as if this was his cue to inflict some punishment. “He said he doesn’t have your money.”

  Down boy, Callaway dryly thought.

  Mason said, “If you don’t have my money and you don’t have Mike, then what are you doing here?”

  “I came to ask for a loan,” Callaway said calmly.

  Mason was taken aback. “You want to borrow money from me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Mason’s smile widened to the point where Callaway could see his tiny teeth. “You know if you don’t end up paying me…”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Callaway said, sounding bored. “You’ll send your guard dog after me.”

  “Oh yes, I will. And you know how much Baxter likes you.”

  Baxter was almost salivating at the opportunity to take a bite out of Callaway. If he ever tried that, I would not mind plugging him full of lead, Callaway thought. I could always claim self-defense.

  “How much?” Mason asked.

  “Three thousand.”

  “Three grand, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “What do you need it for?”

  “Do I ever ask how you got your money?” Callaway asked.

  “Hey, relax. It was just a question.”

  Mason punched in a code on the safe that was concealed underneath his desk. He pulled out stacks of hundred-dollar bills and placed them on the table.

  “And how are you going to pay the interest?” Mason asked. “My rates are very high when compared to what the banks offer.”

  “I’ll waive my fee for finding Mike.”

  Mason’s eyes narrowed. “Why do I get the feeling I’m being played.”

  “How? You get your ten grand that Mike owes you, you get back your three grand I just borrowed from you, and you save over a grand from my finder’s fee. The way I see it, it’s a win-win for you.”

  Mason thought a moment. “It’s now eleven thousand.”

  “What is?” Callaway asked.

  “What Mike owes me,” Mason replied.

  “It was ten grand just a moment ago.”

  “I have to apply penalty and interest for late collection.”

  “That’s pretty steep, even for you.”

  “It’s called smart business.”

  Callaway shook his head. “Good luck finding Mike. I’m sure you can send Baxter to sniff him out.”

  “Okay, okay,” Mason said, putting his hand up. “I was just teasing you. We got a deal.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  The yoga studio was located atop a clothing store. The walls were bare, the floor was polished hardwood, and the windows were without drapes, allowing ample natural light to flow in. The entire atmosphere exuded peace and tranquility. Mats were placed on the floor where students followed the yoga teacher’s instructions.

  Kenny Goldman wore a skin-tight black t-shirt and black pants. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he sported a goatee, but he had no moustache.

  Holt and Fisher stood outside the yoga studio’s doors, watching. They did not want to interrupt the class, so they waited patiently. Goldman was not a suspect, so they had no reason to barge in.

  Holt noticed the entire class was made up of women. Some were older, but most were not. They were all in relatively good shape, and they followed Goldman like he was a guru. When he gave them a reassuring smile, they brightened up. His approval meant a great deal to them.

  When the class ended, Holt and Fisher entered the studio. The women gathered around Kenny quickly dispersed when they saw Holt and Fisher approach. They probably sensed negative vibes from the two detectives.

  “Kenny Goldman?” Holt asked, even though he knew who he was.

  “Yes.”

  Holt flashed his badge. “Do you mind if we asked you a few questions?”

  “Do I have a choice?” Goldman replied.

  “Sure you do. You say no, and we leave. But then we ask you to come down to the station and provide a formal statement.”

  Goldman waited to speak until the studio was empty. “It’s about Sharon, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  He shook his head. “What happened to her daughter is truly tragic.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “It’s all over the news. Plus… Sharon told me.”

  “You spoke to her after the incident?”

  “Yeah, I wanted to know how she was doing. She’s devastated. She blames herself for what happened.”

  “Blames herself? For what?” Fisher asked.

  “She feels that maybe if she was home that night, her daughter might still be alive.”

  “Did you and Mrs. Gardener meet in one of your classes?” Fisher asked.

  He nodded. “She was one of my students. She used to come once a week, but then she started coming more regularly. I try to get to know my students on a personal level.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Holt shot back.

  Goldman was offended. “Sharon’s the only student I ever got involved with. I’ve been married for over ten years. I have a son who means everything to me.”

  “Then why did you do it?” Holt asked.

  Goldman looked down. “Sometimes you do things you know are wrong, but you still do them because you are too tempted to, and you don’t think anyone will find out.”

  “Does your wife know of the affair?” Fisher asked.

  “I told her before she heard it on the news. I was worried that once the story broke, a reporter would show up at our door asking questions. My wife wants a divorce, of course. I’ll give it to her and whatever else she wants. No point in fighting for stuff when I messed up. I just hope she lets me see my son.”

  “Do your students know?”

  “I believe in openness and owning up to your mistakes. I teach this to my students, so I have to adhere to this as well. I told them what happened. A lot of them left. I don’t blame them. I used to have three classes a day, sometimes even more. Now I’m not sure I can fill an entire week.”

  “Your class was full today,” Fisher said.

  “I asked for forgiveness and some of my loyal students have forgiven me. Many are still on the fence. I broke the cardinal rule of not getting involved with a student. The teacher-student relationship is a delicate one. I know it’s going to take a long time before I’ve earned everyone’s trust again.”

  Holt realized the interview was going off-topic. “So, what happened that night?” he asked.

  “I was at home when Sharon called me. She said she needed to see me urgently.”

  “Why?”

  “She was feeling depressed, and she needed company.”

  “And so you left to meet her?”

  “I know I shouldn’t have—I kick myself over it every day—but I did. I told my wife there was a problem at the studio, and I left. I was hoping to be back quickly, but when I met Sharon, things got more intimate.”

  Holt was not interested in the sordid details. “Did Mrs. Garden
er ever talk about her husband?”

  “Not that much. She was unhappy in the marriage, and she never wanted to marry him to begin with.”

  “Then why did she?”

  “I never asked—I figured she would tell me when she was ready—but I could sense that she felt trapped.”

  “Did she talk about her daughter?” Holt asked.

  “Oh yes. She adored her. I think her daughter was the reason the marriage lasted this long.”

  “Did she ever mention her husband and her daughter getting into any fights?”

  Goldman shrugged. “She never went into too much detail, but what I gathered from talking to Sharon was that Paul Gardener was a good and loving father.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  When Callaway returned to the beach house, he was utterly spent. After borrowing the money from Mason, he drove Mike straight to the repo center. If Mason had any idea Mike was actually waiting outside his office the entire time, he would have gone ballistic.

  At the repo center, Mike paid the amount he owed on the Plymouth Road Runner.

  To Callaway’s surprise, the Road Runner was actually in far better condition than he had expected. It needed a little cleaning, but they did not have time. Every hour Mason did not receive his money, he would add extra dollars to Mike’s loan. He could raise interest rates based on his whims. He could also forgive a loan if he chose to, but Callaway seriously doubted he ever did that. Mason did not strike him as someone who cared for other people’s plights.

  With the Road Runner firmly in Mike’s possession, he and Callaway took it to a buyer Mike had already lined up. The buyer examined the car with much interest. He found imperfections where there were none. Callaway wanted twenty thousand, and the flaws the buyer claimed he saw were a tactic to lower the price. The buyer countered with sixteen thousand dollars. Callaway held firm, to the point he was ready to walk away. The buyer finally raised the price to eighteen thousand, and Callaway, knowing time was of the essence, agreed.

  He returned to Mason and handed over the ten thousand Mike owed him, plus the three thousand he had borrowed. Mason asked about what had happened to the Road Runner, which was really what he was after all along. Callaway told him a variation of the truth. Mike had sold the car, and he had ponied up the money he owed as soon as Callaway found him. “But why did you need three grand?” Mason asked. Callaway gave him no answer to that. He wanted Mason to rack his brains on this for a long time.

  Mason was certain Callaway had pulled a fast one on him, but there was nothing he could do about it. Callaway had completed the job he had been hired to do.

  Once all the obligations were paid out, Callaway was left with almost five thousand dollars. Mike figured he should get a piece of the leftover money, seeing as how it was his precious Road Runner that had saved his neck. Callaway reminded him that if he had told Mason and Baxter where he was hiding, which is what he was hired to do in the first place, they would have not only taken the Road Runner but also made sure Mike never walked again.

  Mike could now safely return to his family and try to sell the investment property so he could become debt-free.

  The beach house had a wet bar fully stocked with an assortment of spirits and beverages. Callaway poured himself a glass of brandy and walked out to the beach. He did not stop until he got close to the water.

  He shut his eyes and let his senses take over. He could hear the gentle waves washing ashore. The air was cool and refreshing on his skin. The sand was warm from the sun. For a moment, he was in complete bliss.

  He had money in his pocket, and there was no one chasing him for it.

  His eyes snapped open.

  There was someone who deserved the money more than he did.

  He rushed back inside the house.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Holt ended his phone call and leaned on the hood of his car. He had missed another dinner with Nancy, and she was not happy. Even after all these years, she still did not understand his obsession with work. Maybe she did but did not want to admit it. Whenever he was on a new case, he became so consumed that he felt like a marathon runner who could not wait to cross the finish line. When he did finish a case, he vowed he would take it easy, maybe even quit the force entirely, but then he would long to start another investigation. Nancy knew before she married Holt that he was miserable when he was not working.

  He sighed. Once the Gardener case was complete, he would take Nancy out to a fancy restaurant. He would even splurge on a show or even on a two-day retreat somewhere. She was the love of his life, and if she ever made him choose between her or his work, he would choose her. So far, she had not done that, which made him love her even more.

  Fisher approached the car. She was holding a manila envelope. They had a warrant from the judge for Kyla Gardener’s telephone records, and Fisher had gone inside the telephone company’s headquarters to get them.

  “They give you any trouble?” Holt asked.

  “They weren’t happy about it, but they had no choice.”

  No company wanted to disclose personal information on a client, even if that client was brutally murdered. Privacy advocates contended that the law should apply to everyone, even after death. Holt disagreed, especially if reviewing records of murder victims allowed them to catch the killer.

  “Anything interesting?” Holt asked.

  “I took a look on my way out. On the day Kyla was murdered, she only made a couple of calls.”

  She handed him a piece of paper that had the call logs.

  “Only a couple?”

  “I guess young people don’t make calls anymore. They would rather text or send photos.”

  Holt examined the log. “Do we know who these numbers belong to?”

  “We can check.”

  Fisher pulled out her cell phone and punched in the first number. “Pedro Catano?”

  Holt made a face. “How did you find that out?”

  “It’s called a phone directory.”

  “I’m surprised you know it. I thought only old folks like me remembered it.”

  “I’m not that young, you know. My parents would get a phone directory in the mail once a year. I remember my dad going through it to see how many Fishers lived in our neighborhood.”

  “How many?”

  “Quite a lot, actually. It’s a very common name. What’s the next number?”

  Holt read the number out loud. Fisher punched it in. “No hits. Probably disconnected.”

  Holt read the third number.

  “It’s for Paul Gardener,” she said.

  “So, on the day she died, she called her father.”

  “Looks like it. What’s the last number?”

  Holt scanned it and frowned. “It says Unknown.”

  “Oh yeah, I asked the telephone company about that. They said if someone chose to block their number, it won’t show up on the phone log.”

  “That doesn’t help us much, does it?” he said, scratching his cheek.

  “I asked the telephone company to also provide text messages from the day Kyla was murdered. I haven’t had a chance to look at those.”

  She pulled out another sheet of paper and handed it to him.

  Holt scanned the message, feeling utterly confused. “How can anyone understand this? It’s all gibberish.”

  “Let me see,” Fisher said, grabbing the list from him. “It’s text shorthand. CT means ‘can’t talk.’ TTYL means ‘talk to you later.’ LU means ‘love you.’ CUL8R means ‘see you later.’”

  “That’s why I hate texting. Whatever happened to full comprehensive sentences?” Holt griped.

  Fisher smirked. “I thought you hated texting because your pudgy fingers couldn’t type on the keypad.”

  “The keys are so tiny, and to make matters worse, autocorrect kept changing what I wanted to say. I almost got in trouble a couple of times for that.”

  “You did?”

  “I once had a sore throat, and it hurt when I talked, so I messag
ed the sergeant that I couldn’t come to work because of germs. What I ended up sending was that I couldn’t come to work because of Germans.”

  Fisher laughed.

  “That’s not the worst of it. One time, Nancy and I got into a big fight, and she refused to pick up the phone. I got mad, and I texted her that she was being a hypocrite. What she saw was that I called her a hippo.”

  Fisher almost keeled over from laughter.

  Holt frowned. “You think it’s funny now, but it took a lot of begging and explaining to sort that flub out.”

  “I should teach you how to turn off autocorrect,” Fisher said, wiping her eyes.

  Holt’s brow furrowed. “You can do that? I thought that stupid thing couldn’t be turned off.”

  Fisher laughed again. “Yes, you can turn that stupid thing off. Some detective you are.”

  Holt sighed.

  Fisher resumed reading Kyla’s texts. Her face suddenly turned serious. “You won’t believe this.”

  “What?”

  “Kyla also had a text conversation with her father. And this one is in plain English.”

  “Let me see,” Holt said.

  A smile crossed his face as he read the exchange. “I think we may have found our motive.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  The house was a two-story, single-family detached home located in an old neighborhood. The residence was a far cry from where Paul lived with his wife and daughter. The home was half the size of his current house. His mother’s home had solid foundation but could use an upgrade. The house had only one functioning bathroom, which he and his brother used to fight over when they were young. And during the winter months, he had to wear a sweater when he was inside due to the home lacking insulation. But even with all its faults, Paul had nothing but fond memories of growing up in this house. When the judge asked him to choose a relative to stay with, he chose his mother. She was a retired teacher who kept making the mortgage payments even after their father passed away in middle-age. He was hauling groceries from the car to the house when he collapsed from a heart attack. No one was home at the time. He died in the hallway leading to the kitchen. Had he suffered the attack in the driveway, perhaps a neighbor might have seen him and called for help. But that was all in the past. At the moment, Paul had more important things to contend with. Seated across from him on his parents’ old sofa was his lawyer. Roth had called and said he needed to speak to him urgently, and that he already was on his way. Paul agreed, of course, but now he wished the meeting was held in Roth’s office.