“I think we may have found something,” she said.
When Holt saw what she was pointing at, a smile crossed his face.
They hurried into the building and took the elevator up to the third floor. Fisher had counted the windows from outside, and if her math was correct, the apartment with the camera was three units down from the end of the building.
They located the apartment. Fisher knocked. When they did not get a response, Holt banged on the door with his fist.
“I’m coming! I’m coming! Hold your horses!” an old man shouted.
They saw a shadow through the peep hole. Holt and Fisher held up their badges.
The door opened slightly. A small man wearing a purple robe stuck his head out. He had silver hair, wrinkled skin, and tiny eyes.
“Can I help you?” he asked hesitantly.
Fisher spoke before Holt did. She worried he was too pumped up and might scare the man. “Is that your camera pointed down to the street?”
“Yes, it is. But I’m not a voyeur,” he said, suddenly defensive.
“We’re not concerned about that,” Fisher said. “Can we take a look at your footage?”
“Um…”
The old man hesitated. “Do you have a warrant…?”
Holt said, “It’s very important, sir. A young man was shot two blocks from here, and we want to make sure your camera didn’t catch anything vital to our investigation.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Is it the basketball player they are talking about on the news?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Oh, ok.” The old man held the door open for them. They entered and found the apartment crammed with every knickknack imaginable. The man did not look like a hoarder, but he was getting close to becoming one.
He took them to a corner where a laptop was placed on a table.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Fisher said, “why do you have a camera rigged up?”
“This building is old and falling apart, but for the past couple of months, management has started fixing it up. The basement garage is under construction, which means I have to park on the street in the meantime.” He pointed at a row of cars parked next to the sidewalk. “That blue Mustang over there, that’s mine. I’ve had it for over thirty years. It’s my constant companion. I won’t let anything happen to it. But ever since I had to move it outside, I’ve had kids scratch it with keys, leave garbage on it. I’ve even had someone spray-paint male genitals across the side door. So to stop these kids from messing with my Mustang, I installed the camera, and I put up a sign on the windshield stating that if anyone tries anything, the camera will record them, and I will report them to the police.”
“Has it worked?” Fisher asked.
The old man sighed and shook his head. “Not really. These kids cover their faces when they vandalize my car, but I figure I gotta try something to deter them, you know?”
Holt was getting impatient. “Can we see the footage from yesterday?”
“Do you have the exact time you want to look at? Or else you’ll be sitting here all day.”
Holt turned to Fisher. “When did the 9-1-1 call come, do you remember?”
Fisher did.
The man sat down behind the laptop and quickly began to tap the keys. He then hit the last key a little too dramatically. “Voila!” he said, leaning back in his chair.
Holt and Fisher strained their eyes to get a better look. The image was of the street next to the building. They could see the row of cars.
Fisher found herself shifting her feet in anticipation. She was not sure if they would see anything, but they desperately needed some sort of miracle.
A man appeared down the street. He had on a hoodie, and he was riding a bicycle. He had a backpack slung over his right shoulder.
He suddenly stopped. He was two cars away from the Mustang. The man pulled out what looked like a cell phone. He looked around and dialed a number.
“It’s the exact time the 9-1-1 call was made,” Fisher said, pointing to the time at the bottom of the screen.
Holt grunted.
When the man ended the call, Fisher said, “Pause it.”
The old man did.
Fisher said, “The call to the 9-1-1 command center was less than a minute.” She then pointed to the time again. “The call he just made was also less than a minute.”
Holt’s face was dark.
Fisher knew exactly what was going through his mind.
The man on the bicycle knows what happened to Isaiah.
THIRTY-NINE
Callaway took a bite of the egg sandwich, chewed it, and swallowed it down with hot coffee. Joely had topped his cup with a fresh brew. Callaway now had enough money to pay for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Elle’s five-thousand-dollar retainer had come at the most opportune time. He could now even pay Julio for the repairs on the Charger, but he would have to catch him later on those oil changes. He was refreshing the loose change in Julio’s Impala, though.
Callaway casually glanced at the newspaper on the table. The front page was all about the Isaiah Whitcomb murder. Callaway knew Whitcomb was related to Holt. He had had a few run-ins with Holt, and he could not say they were pleasant. The man was a good detective, he had to give him that. But according to Callaway, Holt sometimes did not see the forest for the trees. His strong desire to apprehend the perpetrator could almost blind him from looking at other scenarios or suspects.
The door chimed, and Elle walked in. Callaway waved at her, but then he turned beet red when he realized his gesture was useless.
He got up and escorted her to his table.
Once seated, Joely came over with a coffee pot in her hand. “What can I get you guys?” she asked.
“I’m good,” Callaway said, putting his hand over his cup. He already had two cups, and he worried he would have to run to the bathroom again if he had any more.
“What about the lady?” Joely asked with a smile. Callaway could tell there was something behind her smile.
“I’ve already had breakfast,” Elle replied politely. “Thank you.”
“No problem. I’ll be over there if you need anything.”
Joely winked at Callaway and walked away.
He rolled his eyes and turned to Elle. “How are you feeling?” Their visit to the morgue had shaken her up badly.
“I’m doing much better,” she said.
He leaned closer and said, “I can look for your sister on my own. I do it all the time. It’s my job, you know.”
“No, I want to go with you,” she said.
Callaway stared at her. “The morgue was just the beginning,” he said. “We might have to go places a lady shouldn’t go.”
“It if leads me to finding my sister, then I want to be there,” Elle said with the same conviction Callaway had heard before.
“There is something that’s been nagging me all morning,” Callaway said a moment later.
“Okay.”
“I hope you don’t take it the wrong way.”
She smiled. “You can ask me whatever you like, Mr. Callaway.”
“Call me Lee.”
“Okay, Lee.”
He leaned in close again. “I’m curious… how did you know about your sister’s birth mark? Also, that story about your sister getting lost in the woods… how is that possible when you are…”
He let his words trail off.
“You mean blind?”
He swallowed. “Yes.”
“I wasn’t always blind. I had some sight when I was younger. I could make out shapes and color and even people. I could read a book in large print. I also did math in bold fonts. I watched TV and did things most children my age could do. I had to be extra careful, though, as I was prone to tripping, falling, and running into things. I didn’t mind it. In fact, I accepted it as a part of my life, because I guess I really didn’t know any different. But when I was fourteen, I contracted chicken pox, and after that, I lost all
my sight. Since then, I’ve had to get by with what I have.”
They were silent for a moment.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked,” Callaway said.
“Don’t be. I’m not sorry. What I lack in vision, I make up in other ways.”
“Like what?”
“I’ve learned to listen more carefully. I can sense just by hearing someone’s voice what they are feeling.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You can do that?”
“Yes. I know when you said you are sorry, you truly meant it.”
“I did,” he said.
Elle’s smile widened. Then her face turned serious. “Lee, how do we find my sister?”
FORTY
Holt and Fisher stood at the front of the room while the twenty or so uniformed officers spread themselves out in the open space.
Projected on the wall behind Holt and Fisher was an enlarged photo of a man on a bicycle. Even with the extrapolated pixels, it was easy to make out the man’s features. He had dark skin, short hair—which was shaved at the sides—and a thick bush of hair under his chin.
Fisher was grateful the apartment owner had invested in a high-resolution camera, or else they would be looking at a blurred image.
Fisher said, “This man on the screen is a person of interest in Isaiah Whitcomb’s murder. He was seen in the area where the victim’s body was discovered. We also believe he was the one who made the 9-1-1 call. At the moment, he is not a suspect, but he may know something that could shed light on our investigation.” She looked over at Holt, who promptly handed out to each of the officers a 6x9 photo of the man. “It is imperative we speak to this man,” Fisher added. “Canvas the neighborhoods and find out if anyone recognizes him.”
A hand shot up. “If we see him, do we apprehend?”
Fisher shook her head. “No. Right now we have no probable cause to arrest him. He hasn’t done anything wrong. If you find his whereabouts, you call us immediately.”
Another hand shot up. “Is he armed?”
“We don’t know, and for that reason, take every precaution necessary.”
When there were no more questions, Fisher dismissed the officers. She watched as they quickly left the room. She had wanted to run the photo through the department’s facial recognition software, but getting any matches could take time. Holt was already eager to get back on the streets. He was ready to knock on a thousand doors if it came down to it. Fisher’s feet were not looking forward to that. She had done enough canvasing, so she thought of getting some patrol officers involved.
With the room almost empty, an officer came over. He had silver in his hair, a slight pouch of a belly, and big meaty hands.
He shook Holt’s hand and offered his condolences.
“Thank you,” Holt said. The officer shared a story of a loss he once had suffered. Holt just nodded. Fisher could tell Holt was not comfortable discussing grief with a fellow officer. He was a private person, but Isaiah’s death had put a spotlight on him.
“My son plays football for Milton College,” the officer said.
Holt’s eyes focused. “Did he know Isaiah?”
“I asked him when I heard the news, and he didn’t. They were in different sport programs, and with classes, practice, and games, they barely got any time to fraternize. But my son did speak highly of your nephew’s athletic abilities. He said he was going to be a big star one day.”
Holt sighed, feeling a fresh wave of grief. “Yes, he would have.”
The officer nodded. “Although, my son did mention their recruiting tactics were quite unconventional.” Before Holt could ask further, the officer’s partner appeared in the door. They were running late for their shift. The officer shook Holt’s hand again, said a few words of encouragement, and left the room.
FORTY-ONE
The Supreme Fashion Academy was located on the top floor of a structure that had five floors, and was supported by a series of colored pillars that were at different angles.
To Callaway, the building looked like a tabletop on tilted legs. He never understood architecture or art. Both were subjective and required an appreciative eye. Look at all that wasted space, he thought while looking at the area underneath the structure. The area’s sole use was as a walking path.
Real estate prices had skyrocketed in the city the last couple of years, and rent had risen with them. No wonder so many kids in their twenties are still living with their parents, Callaway thought.
The day Callaway turned eighteen, he was out of his parents’ house as if it was on fire. He could not wait to get a place of his own and be his own boss. But in hindsight, that might have been a rash decision. At the time, he had no money and no job. Even now, there were times he had not a single penny to his name, and no cases. In desperate times, he would take on part-time work. Fortunately, he had been spared the likes of having to wear a giant mattress and wave to passing cars for some time.
Elle walked next to him as they made their way underneath the building. The fancy structure was attached to an older building, which if his memory was correct, was built in the 1920s.
“Is it magnificent up close?” Elle asked.
He glanced at her. “Sorry?”
“The building. Is it wonderful to look at?”
“I’m not sure what you mean?”
“Katie used to say it was like a piece of art.”
Elle’s sister had come to Milton to enroll in the Supreme Fashion Academy. Callaway had glanced at their website and found out the academy provided programs in fashion modeling, fashion styling, fashion photography, fashion design, and fashion makeup. Katie was specializing in makeup. She had hoped to work as a makeup artist for all the top models in the world.
“I wouldn’t call the building a piece of art,” he said. It looks more like a piece of furniture, he thought. “But it does leave a strong impression on you.”
They spoke to the admissions officer. “No one by that name was ever enrolled here,” she politely told them.
Callaway showed her the Polaroid. “This is Katie Pearson, ma’am. Are you sure she was not here?”
The woman shook her head.
“You liar,” Elle said angrily.
Shocked, Callaway glanced at Elle.
She proceeded to describe the program down to the last detail.
The admissions officer looked perplexed.
“Are you absolutely positive my sister was never here?” Elle asked.
The woman showed Callaway an alphabetical list of students who had attended
the academy. Callaway scanned the list carefully, but he failed to find Katie’s name.
Damn odd, he thought.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Elle said as they left the admissions office. “My sister is real. She is not a figment of my imagination.”
“I never said she was,” Callaway said. “It’s just that…”
“No one’s heard of her,” she said, finishing his sentence.
“Yes.”
She abruptly stopped. Her grip tightened on her cane. She lowered her head and said, “I spent most of last night thinking the same thing. How is it possible that no one has seen or met my sister? You’ve probably noticed by now that I’m not very talkative, but my sister was the opposite. When she got excited about something, she would talk nonstop. And because I couldn’t see, she would describe things in detail for me so I could visualize them in my mind.”
Callaway realized that as a sighted person, he took many things for granted. They said a picture was worth a thousand words, and that number was probably required to create a mental image for someone like Elle.
“I wanted to ask you something,” he said.
“Go ahead,” she said.
“I noticed that you wear gloves all the time. Why is that?”
“I take them off when I need to touch or feel something. It helps to form an image in my mind.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier not to wear them?”
Elle blushed. “I should have mentioned this earlier, but I’m also a germophobe. Maybe that’s why I’m still single.”
Callaway felt guilty for asking her personal questions. What she did or how she dressed was none of his business.
“Let’s go back to the office,” he said. “Hopefully we’ll catch a break soon.”
FORTY-TWO
They were headed for the Impala when a woman’s voice called out from behind them.
“Wait!”
Callaway turned and saw a young woman running toward them. She was dressed in a light red sweater, black pants, and high heels. Her hair was pulled back in a bun. Her skin was smooth with not a blemish in sight. Her lips were painted a dark color, and her eyes were covered in black mascara.
“Can I help you?” Callaway asked, staring at her.
She paused to catch her breath. “You’re looking for Linda Eustace, right?”
Callaway blinked. “Who?”
“Linda Eustace,” she repeated.
“I’m not sure who that is.”
“I’m a student at the academy,” the woman said.
I could tell that from a mile away, Callaway thought.
“I work part-time at the admissions office. I was there when you came in to speak to the admissions officer,” she explained.
“Okay,” Callaway said. He was not sure where this was going, but he was willing to indulge her. She’s attractive, so that helps, he admitted to himself.
“I saw you show that photo to her,” the student said.
Callaway pulled out the Polaroid. “You mean this one?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I know her.”
Callaway turned to Elle. She looked as surprised as him.
“You know Katie Pearson?” Callaway asked the student.
“I don’t know that name, but I do know the woman in the photo, and her name is Linda Eustace.”
Callaway turned to Elle again. Now she looked utterly confused.
“Are you sure?” Callaway asked the student, holding the photo closer for her.
The Lee Callaway Boxed Set Page 31