Fisher’s hair was still wet from the cold shower as she drove twenty-five minutes to her destination. She was wearing a white top, blue jeans, brown boots, and a black jacket. She did not even have time to put on makeup. She was not big on cosmetics, but a simple eyeliner and lipstick would have been nice. She might have to make a statement to the press.
She took a sip from the thermos. The coffee was piping hot.
She had her entire day planned out. After her morning run, she was going to have a long bubble bath. She would then make herself pancakes for breakfast. Not a healthy choice, but after a good workout, she needed to reward herself.
There was a book on her coffee table that she was looking forward to reading. The novel was a Harlequin romance. She would never let anyone at work know this. The teasing would never stop. The book was one of her guilty pleasures. The premise was straight out of dozens of romance novels: a working-class girl somehow meets and falls in love with a real-life prince. The twist was that the girl was also a princess, but she wanted to see if the prince would marry a commoner.
Afterwards she was going to go out for lunch with a friend. She had been postponing the meeting for months, and she hated having to cancel at the last minute. She would find a way to make it up to her friend later.
Her night was supposed to have been spent watching a light romantic comedy. She needed some lightness in her otherwise dark life. Detectives were faced with gruesome deaths, destroyed families, and other unimaginable horrors. The last thing she wanted was to end her day by watching a gut-wrenching drama, a tense thriller, or a murder mystery.
She spotted a police cruiser parked by the side of the road. She slowed down when the officer waved her through. A yellow strand of police tape had been arranged to secure the area. The officer held the tape up to allow her to drive underneath.
She was in the parking lot of a retail store whose sign read Elegant Furniture. A car was parked in one of the empty spots. Fisher did not park next to that vehicle. Instead, she found a spot further in the corner.
She got out when the officer approached her. “Detective Fisher?” he said.
“You’re the officer who asked for me specifically?” she asked.
“I did.”
She was annoyed. “I was scheduled to be off today, you know. I booked vacation weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I figured you’d want to be here.”
“And why is that?” she replied. She was still thinking about the pancakes she was supposed to have for breakfast.
“You should take a look.”
They walked to the parked car. The sun had begun to rise, illuminating the car. She could tell the vehicle was a Chrysler sedan just by looking at it. The paint was silver with alloy rims. As she got close, she saw broken glass scattered on the asphalt next to the driver’s side door.
She also saw blood.
A man was slumped in the seat, his head bowed with his chin resting on his chest. The strap of the seatbelt was preventing him from falling on the steering wheel.
Fisher put her hand over her mouth when she saw who the victim was.
FOUR
He pinched his nostrils and tilted his head back. He grimaced as pain shot up through his nose and into his brain. His fingers were covered in blood, but when he checked his hands, he saw the blood had dried.
Great, he thought. I managed to stop the bleeding.
Lee Callaway was tall and in relatively good shape. He was tan, and he had strands of silver around his temples that made him look far more mature than he was.
Callaway was seated on a park bench. He was wearing a t-shirt that was stained red. Fortunately, the t-shirt was black, so his blood was not easily visible. His jeans were tattered, and his boots were scuffed. His leather coat was the only thing that did not look like it had been purchased from a used clothing store, even though Callaway had purchased the coat from just such a place. He was proud of the low price he had paid for the coat.
His eyes watered when he touched the bridge of his nose. He had already snapped the bone back in place, but he knew it could take days for the swelling to come down.
He could not believe he had put himself in this situation.
His reckless behavior had once again gotten him in trouble.
A client had hired him to follow his wife. He believed she was cheating on him. The case was straightforward, one Callaway had tackled dozens of times. Callaway did not expect he would get intimately involved with the wife. She was beautiful, lonely, and vulnerable. She was much younger than her husband, by almost twenty years. She was a mail-order bride. The client was a brute of a man, twice Callaway’s size. During a stakeout, Callaway caught the wife weeping in her bedroom. In a moment of sympathy, which he now regretted, he knocked on the front door. They talked. She told him how much she missed her family back in Russia. He felt sorry for her. And then one thing led to another, and he found himself at the end of the husband’s fist.
He had to return the fee he had charged the husband for his services. He also had to pay extra to stop the husband from hurting him more.
Callaway did not think this was fair. Did the wife’s involvement with him not prove she was cheating on her husband? He should have gotten a bonus instead of being subjected to a beating.
The sun was up, and he squinted as the light hit his eyes. The night had been a total failure. After extricating himself from the situation, the only thing Callaway had in his mind was to get as far away from the husband as possible. In his haste, he forgot his car was still parked across from the client’s house.
He was walking for a couple of hours when his feet started to hurt. He spotted a park bench and decided to take a rest.
He pulled off his shoes and rubbed his toes and heel. He was certain he had blisters.
A man approached him. His hair was gray, his skin was wrinkled, and he sported a heavy mustache. “Do you mind if I sit here?” he asked.
“Help yourself,” Callaway said, giving him space on the bench.
The man gingerly sat down. He pulled off his wool cap and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Nice morning for a walk,” he said.
That’s all I’ve been doing, Callaway thought.
The man squinted. “You okay, son?”
“I am,” Callaway replied, not making eye contact with him.
“You don’t look so good. You need help?”
“I’ll be fine. Thanks.”
“Woman trouble?” the man asked with a grin.
Callaway finally looked at him. “How’d you know?”
The man tapped the end of his nose. “It’s been broken eight times. Twice during a bar fight. Once during a car accident. And the rest by boyfriends and husbands.” The man smiled wistfully. “I gotta say, those were the happiest times of my life.”
Callaway did not know how to respond.
“Was it worth it?” the man asked.
Callaway thought for a moment. “I guess it was.”
“The pain will go away, but the memories will last forever.”
The last thing Callaway wanted was to remember what happened the night before. He got up. “Nice talking to you.”
“Your nose looks pretty bad, son. You should get it checked out by a medical professional,” the man suggested.
I should get my head checked instead, Callaway thought, and walked away.
FIVE
Fisher debated whether to make the call. She knew she had to. If she did not, she would never be forgiven.
After she hung up, she shut her eyes. She wanted to be anywhere but here. She almost wished she had taken a cruise to the Caribbean like she had wanted to. Had she done so, she would not have to endure what she was about to go through.
She could not believe she was being selfish at a time when she was needed more than ever. Tragedy had struck, and as a friend and colleague, she would be relied upon to hold everything together. She could not imagine what she would do if somethi
ng terrible happened to those she loved.
She opened her eyes and found the officer staring at her.
“Are you okay?” he asked, concerned.
“I’m fine, thanks,” she said, composing herself. “Did you touch anything?”
The officer shook his head. “No, ma’am. After arriving at the scene, I called dispatch and told them to contact you.”
“You did the right thing,” she replied. She suddenly felt guilty for being annoyed at the officer. His request for her was out of courtesy. His duty was to secure the area and wait for the investigator to take charge of the scene, which he did.
Fisher glanced at the officer’s name tag. It read McConnell. The name rang a faint bell in her memory.
She smiled. “Have we met before?”
McConnell nodded. “Yes, we have. I’m Officer Lance McConnell. We met at the annual police challenge.”
Each year, the department held an event that tested officers in a variety of exercises that ranged from disarming an assailant, to running obstacles, to accuracy with a handgun. Fisher was not sure which event he competed in.
As if reading her mind, McConnell said, “I won the hundred-meter track.”
Right, she thought. That’s why he looked familiar.
His flowing blonde hair was covered by his police cap. He had deep blue eyes and a prominent chin. He was tall, and his uniform clung tight to his body.
He smiled.
She blushed, but she did not know why.
“How’d you know who the victim was?” Fisher asked, getting back to the case. “You didn’t check his ID, did you?”
“I didn’t have to. I’d seen him in the papers, and it’s no secret who he’s related to. That’s why I thought you’d want to be here first.”
“I appreciate what you did.”
“No problem.”
A car pulled up to the curb. Officer McConnell rushed over and held the police tape so the car could pass through.
Fisher took a deep breath to steady her nerves.
Detective Gregory Holt stepped out of the car. He was six-four and weighed close to two hundred and fifty pounds. He had thick arms, thick hands, and a thick neck that was too large for his shirt collar. The skin on his shaved head was wrinkled. His small black eyes darted from one spot to another as if sizing everything up around him.
Holt walked toward Fisher as if he was in no hurry, like he usually did. His belief was not to rush unless he had to, and if things could wait, they did.
“I was surprised when you called me,” he said. “I thought you were looking forward to your day off.”
“I was, but this is important.”
Holt stared at her. “Okay, so where’s the victim?”
“Greg…” she started to say, but she stopped. Her eyes welled up.
“What’s going on?” he asked, alarmed.
“I’m so sorry…”
Holt’s face darkened. He tried to move past her, but she put her arm out to block him. Even though he could have pushed her aside with one finger, he held up.
“I need to tell you something,” she said.
“What?” Holt asked.
Tears flowed down Fisher’s cheeks.
“It’s Isaiah.”
SIX
Isaiah Whitcomb was six-foot-eight, weighed over two hundred and ten pounds, and he was a rising college basketball star.
He was also Holt’s nephew.
The Milton Cougars had made it to the NCAA tournament twice, and it was all due to Isaiah. He was not a good shooter, but he was a great passer and a demon on defense. There was a belief amongst coaches and scouts that if Isaiah continued playing the way he did, he could make it to the NBA.
Over the years, the professional game had changed, going from an inside game to an outside game. Seven-footers who played with their backs to the baskets were no longer as coveted as before. Players who could play along the perimeter were more sought after. The ones who could shoot three-pointers and also defend against the opponent’s three-point shooters were the new stars.
Isaiah was quick on his feet. It had something to do with his desire to be a soccer player as a kid. But then, at age sixteen, when he shot up six inches in height, basketball became the next option. He would hound every player on the opposing team, even the point guards. He had an abundance of energy. He never wanted to be taken out of a game even for a minute’s rest.
He was also very competitive. Whenever his team lost a game, he would lock himself in a room and watch footage of the game. He always strived to get better, and he wanted his teammates to succeed too. He was very vocal when they made a mistake. He was also supportive when they needed a boost. He was his team’s biggest cheerleader.
Holt stood frozen as he stared at the young man who held so much promise for himself and his family. The bright future that was before him was now gone.
Isaiah is no more.
Holt shut his eyes, hoping that when he opened them, he would not see Isaiah but someone else. He was used to seeing dead bodies of strangers. He never expected that one day a victim would be someone close to him.
Not Isaiah, he thought. Not the little boy that used to call me “Uncle G” because he couldn’t say my name.
He opened his eyes and saw the dead body of his nephew. His eyes welled up, and he almost wished no one saw him.
Holt wanted to reach through the window and hug Isaiah. He wanted to tell him everything would be okay. But he knew things would never be okay. Not for him, not for his family, and not for everyone who loved and adored him.
He felt Fisher next to him. She placed her hand over his and gripped tightly. Her eyes were moist as she stared into his eyes. “Why don’t you go home to your family and I’ll take care of this?” she said.
How do I go to my family? he thought. What do I say to them?
His chest tightened, and he felt like he could not breathe.
He clenched his jaw and inhaled deeply through his nostrils. This is no time to fall apart, he thought.
“Isaiah’s family,” he slowly said. “And I want to stay here with him.”
“Okay,” Fisher said.
SEVEN
Callaway stood before his beloved Dodge Charger with a tear in his eye. The black car’s side doors had key marks, the windshield had cracks, and the taillights had to be replaced.
He sighed, and his shoulders sank. What did he expect the husband would do the moment he saw Callaway’s car sitting across from his house?
Before returning, Callaway made sure the husband had left the house. Callaway hid behind a tree and watched until the husband and his soon-to-be ex-wife had driven away in their Hummer. There was no telling what the husband would do if he saw Callaway near his house again.
Callaway felt for the wife. She must have borne the brunt of his wrath. He doubted the husband had gotten physical with her. During Callaway’s long talk with the wife, she admitted the husband had never hit her once. If he did, she would return to Russia on the next available flight. Callaway had a feeling that was exactly what she would now do. She missed her family, and the only reason she was in the U.S. was to start a new life with her husband. The marriage was now over—Callaway was partly to blame for that—but she was not happy here anyway.
He put his hands over his face and quickly regretted it. His nose was still tender and would be so for a couple of days. I should avoid touching it, he thought.
He suddenly felt like sneezing, but he quickly put his finger near his nose to prevent it from happening. One sneeze and his nose would flare with pain, and blood would flow anew.
Callaway pulled out his car keys and unlocked the door. He grabbed the handle and suddenly sneezed violently. A sharp, stabbing pain shot up into his brain. He covered his nose and felt hot liquid on his fingers.
Damn, he thought.
He tilted his head back to stop the blood. He shut his eyes and pinched his nostrils again. He waited until the bleeding stopped.
He
opened the car door and got behind the wheel. From the glove compartment, he pulled out a box of tissue and stuffed a bunch into his nostrils.
He saw his reflection in the rearview mirror and wondered why he kept putting himself in positions like this.
He used to be a deputy sheriff in a small town. He was married, he had a daughter, and he had a house to call his own. He still had his daughter, although he hardly saw her. But he was divorced, and he was relying on other people’s kindness for lodging.
A very wealthy client had let him stay at her beach house until she returned from her trip to Switzerland. She was back, and she had brought with her a much younger man. Callaway had to quickly make himself scarce.
Fortunately for him, he did not have much to move. Most of his belongings were in his ex-wife’s garage. After his last big case, he and his ex-wife were on much better terms. The payout was more than Callaway had expected. Instead of holding on to the money, which he would burn through in no time flat, he gave it to his ex. He was already way behind on his child support, and she could do more good with the money than him, although he could use the money about now. The Charger would need a new paint job, a new windshield, and new taillights. It would cost a pretty penny, but Callaway saw no other option. He could not see his prized possession in this condition.
He placed his hand on the dashboard. “I’m sorry, darling,” he whispered. “It’s my fault you had to suffer. I promise I’ll get the money somehow to make you good as new.”
He placed the key in the ignition and turned it. The Charger roared to life. The damage was cosmetic. The car was still in running condition. The cracks in the windshield were not so bad, and he could still make out what was in front of him. The taillights would be a problem. Not for him, but for the drivers behind him. A minor inconvenience, he thought.
He grinned. No matter what life threw at him, he would find a way to get through it with a smile on his face and his middle finger raised high.
He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.
The Lee Callaway Boxed Set Page 24