They sense something bad is about to go down, Fisher thought. I hope not.
Instead of taking the elevator, which could box them in and allow their target to escape, they took the stairs. It was only four flights up, and Fisher was grateful for that. Her feet were now beginning to feel less sore, and she did not want to make them ache again.
Holt took the front, Fisher was in the middle, and Wilcox was behind her. Wilcox looked like he could handle himself in a shoot-out. The hard look on his face showed he meant business. Fisher tightened her grip on her weapon. She was a good shot. She could hit a target a hundred feet away.
They reached the fourth floor. Holt stuck his head out into the hallway. He looked around and said, “It’s clear.”
They entered the dingy hallway.
A strong odor hit their nostrils, a combination of spices, marijuana, and body odor.
They gathered around the door to apartment 407. Fisher placed her ear to the door and listened. Loud rap music was playing inside.
She looked at Holt and Wilcox and nodded, silently telling them Smith was home.
She banged on the door and yelled, “Bo Smith! It’s the police! Open the door!”
She moved to the side in case Smith decided to fire through the door.
There was no response.
She repeated the command again.
When there was still no response, she gave Holt the signal. Holt faced the door, took one step back, and then kicked the door with his right foot. The side panel cracked and snapped as the door swung in.
They moved inside. There was a narrow hall in front, a kitchen on the right, a door leading into the bathroom, and a living room straight ahead.
Holt continued down the hall. Fisher turned into the kitchen. It was empty. There were dirty dishes in the sink. Flies were swirling over a half-eaten piece of meat pie.
She spotted a bedroom door across from the kitchen and moved ahead.
She reached for the handle and threw the bedroom door open. There was a mattress on the floor, and clothes were strewn around the bed.
After checking the closet, she went back out. She found Holt and Wilcox staring at something on the sofa.
When she got closer, she realized they were standing before a man. Smith’s eyes were closed, and his head was tilted back. His mouth was open, and there was drool flowing down his chin.
A black belt was strapped around his arm, and a syringe was stuck in his skin beneath the belt.
On the table before him was a backpack. Is it the same one we’d seen him wearing in the security camera footage? Fisher thought. Next to the table was a BMX bicycle, which further confirmed they were at the right apartment.
The TV was playing a loud rap video.
“Is he dead?” Wilcox asked.
“Let’s find out,” Fisher replied. She leaned in, yelled his name, and shook his shoulder. Smith was unresponsive.
She leaned closer and saw there was a bluish tint to his lips. She placed two fingers on the side of his neck.
“There’s a pulse,” she said.
Smith had the telltale signs of an overdose. If he did not get immediate medical attention, he would soon be dead.
FORTY-EIGHT
The ride was quiet as they drove to Mayview. After Callaway broke the news to Elle that her sister was living a different life in Milton, she had gotten eerily silent.
She had sat on his office sofa staring ahead while gripping her cane. She hardly spoke two sentences to Callaway, and this concerned him.
He did not know her that well, apart from the fact that she was blind, had phobias, and was peculiar at times. He had once caught her smiling about something. When he checked, it was a group of children laughing and giggling while playing at the playground in the distance. He was certain she was focused on them. Maybe her hearing had become more acute, like that blind superhero from the comic books he used to read as a kid.
He did not ask her why she was smiling. A part of him was happy for her. She had been robbed of sight and was now compensating with other senses. Callaway could not imagine what he would do if that were to ever happen to him. He would likely spend the remainder of his life drinking it away thinking, What’s the point when I can’t have any fun?
Sure, people with disabilities lived a full life, but Callaway functioned on stimulation. He rarely contemplated his actions. If he did, he would still be a deputy sheriff, married, and seeing his little girl grow up. Maybe a sudden illness might curb his reckless behavior? Maybe then he would focus on what was more important: his daughter and her happiness.
When Elle finally stood up to leave his office, he offered to drive her wherever she wanted to go. She was so shocked by her sister’s betrayal, he felt an obligation not to leave her alone.
She told him she wanted to go home, and he was grateful that she agreed to let him drive her.
They drove for another ten minutes in silence before Elle finally spoke. “It’s my fault.”
He gave no reply. He did not want to interrupt her.
“I’ve always been hard on my sister. I’ve wanted the best for her. Katie could do whatever she wanted in her life. She had nothing that would hold her back. She was free to follow her dreams, something I could never do. I loved her dearly, but maybe I was too harsh with her at times. It felt like if she did not do everything, she was wasting the gifts she had been given. In a way, if she made something of herself, then I made something of myself too. She was going to succeed for the both of us. Now I realize I was pinning my dreams on her.”
Makes sense, Callaway thought. Her sister did not want Elle to know what she was up to because she worried she might disappoint her. Then this led to a bigger question: What was Katie Pearson up to that she had to change her name to Linda Eustace?
Callaway said, “If you don’t mind me asking, what was your dream in life?”
She blushed. “You don’t want to know.”
“I do.”
After a pause, she said, “I wanted to be a professional skater.”
“Ice skater?”
She smiled. “Yes. I loved the way they glided on the ice like they were flying. They looked like they were free with not a care in the world.”
“Did you skate before?”
“I did until I lost my sight.”
“When did you start skating?”
“When I was five.”
“You can still skate. You know how to do it. There is nothing stopping you from getting back on the ice.”
She turned back to the window and said nothing for the remainder of the ride.
FORTY-NINE
Once they arrived in Mayview, Callaway pulled in front of an apartment building built of brown stone. Elle got out, turned around, and said, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Callaway replied.
She moved toward the entrance but then turned back. “Do you want to come upstairs for a cup of tea?” she said.
Callaway considered her offer. He had an hour’s drive back to Milton, and he could use some caffeine in his system.
“Sure, that’ll be nice,” he said.
He parked the Impala in the visitors’ parking lot and found her waiting by the front door. She removed a string from around her neck that had a key fob attached.
“I tend to lose things easily,” she said with a smile.
“I’m sure,” he said.
She scanned the fob and the door opened. She tapped her cane and moved to the elevator. She felt along the walls, found the button, and pressed Up.
Callaway thought of offering to help Elle, but he did not want to offend her. This was her home, after all, and she knew it better than he did.
The elevator doors opened, and they entered. The buttons had braille next to the numbers. She quickly found the floor she was looking for.
They got off on the seventh floor. Elle tapped her cane along the edges of the hallway to guide her. She stopped at a door and moved her fingers over the apartment nu
mber.
“This is my place,” she said, unlocking the door with her key. “Please come in.”
The apartment was pitch-dark when he entered. She came in behind him and closed the door. She moved past him and said, “Have a seat.”
Callaway could not tell where the chair was. All he saw was black. “Um… do you know where the light switch is?”
“Oh dear,” she said. “I can function without lights, but I forgot you can’t. It’s on the right.”
He pressed the switch, and the apartment lights came on. Elle’s home was small, but it looked spacious. There were minimal furnishings, and the walls were bare, with no photos or paintings.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have a TV,” Elle said. “Alfred, please turn on the radio!”
Classical music filled the room.
“How’d you do that?” he asked, startled.
Elle smiled. “I have a smart device.”
Callaway saw a black cylindrical device next to the sofa.
“It operates on voice command,” Elle explained. “It tells me the news, plays music, plays audio books, and even orders pizza. When I bought it, the people at the store were kind enough to set it up for me.”
“Cool,” he said, clearly amazed. “But who’s Alfred?”
“It’s from my favorite comic book,” she replied. “I configured the device to answer to that name. It makes me feel rich and important. Why don’t you sit down while I make tea?”
Callaway took a seat. Elle disappeared into the kitchen. He scanned the interior and realized everything was carefully placed so Elle was safe from bumping into things and could easily find anything she misplaced.
She returned with a tray that held two steaming cups of tea and a plate of cookies. “I hope chocolate chip is okay with you,” she said.
“My favorite,” Callaway said with a smile.
She placed the tray before him, grabbed a cup, and gently sat on a chair across from him. He noticed she was not wearing her gloves. He also noticed a band on her ring finger.
“You’re married?” he asked, feeling surprised.
“Oh, this,” she said, holding up her ring. “It’s a friendship ring. Katie and I used to give each other bracelets with our names on them. But as we got older, we gave each other rings with our names engraved in them. We vowed that until we found that special someone, we would always wear these rings as a sign of devotion to each other.”
Callaway took a big bite of his cookie, and a sip from his cup. The cookie was soft and chewy, just perfect with the hot tea. “I was thinking,” he said, “if you get yourself a guide dog, it’d be much easier for you to get around, you know.”
“I used to have one. After he died, I didn’t have the heart to replace him.”
“Oh, sorry to hear that.” Callaway stifled a grimace. He was trying to make small talk, but he was horrible at it.
“Do you have family, Lee?” Elle asked.
He thought about telling her that his personal life was perfect, but he had a feeling she would somehow catch him lying.
“I used to be married,” he replied.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be. It was my fault.”
“Children?”
“A little girl.”
Callaway suddenly realized he had been so busy helping Elle look for her sister that he had forgotten to make time to see a special person he had not seen in a while.
FIFTY
Bo Smith was cuffed to the hospital bed. He was confused and disoriented, but sedated. A blood sample had been taken, and Fisher was certain the toxicology report would show heroin in his system.
The black backpack contained a bag of heroin. Smith had injected way more heroin than his body could handle. Even drug dealers get a little too greedy sometimes, Fisher thought.
Holt had called 9-1-1 the moment Fisher found Smith still had a pulse, but his skin had turned cold to the touch. Emergency responders would need time to arrive on the scene and give him medical attention.
He was not going to make it until the EMT showed up.
With the opioid crisis raging through the city, each law enforcement officer was given training and equipment to treat an overdose. Fisher had rushed down to her car and retrieved a small medical kit from the trunk. Inside was an injection with the drug naloxone. Naloxone had the same receptors as heroin. Once administered, the drug could displace the heroin in a person’s brain, stopping an overdose. But naloxone’s effect was shorter than heroin, serving as a stopgap until medical attention could be given.
Fisher had administered the drug, and Smith had held on.
When the emergency responders arrived, they induced Smith to vomit in order to extract as much of the drug as possible. Then they placed him on IV fluids to stabilize him, monitoring his breathing all the while. Then they had taken Smith to the hospital.
Fisher and Holt watched Smith from a window outside his room. Smith’s heart rate and breathing were normal, and the bluish tint on his lips had faded.
Holt fidgeted next to her. He was eager to go inside and grill Smith about what he knew of Isaiah’s death. But Fisher held him back. Smith had come close to death, and if they pushed him too soon, he might not be as responsive as they would like.
The doctors were not appreciative of the detectives’ presence either. Their main concern was their patient’s well-being, while Holt and Fisher’s main concern was the information he had.
Fisher knew Smith could not be questioned under the influence of medication. At the moment, he was not a suspect in Isaiah’s death, but that could quickly change during their interview with him. If that happened, they had to be certain he was aware of the questions and his answers. A judge could throw out his statement if there was any indication Smith was not of sound mind. Fisher could not allow that to happen, not when Smith’s recollections were vital in finding out what happened to Isaiah.
FIFTY-ONE
Almost an hour later, Holt and Fisher were allowed into the room. Bo Smith’s eyes were watery, but while he had been confused upon first awakening, he was lucid by now.
They flashed their badges when he said, “Hey, why did you put me in cuffs?” He moved his wrist, rattling the metal rail on the side of the bed.
Fisher said, “Mr. Smith, you were found unconscious in your apartment from an overdose. We also found a small bag of heroin, which we believe you had injected.”
“I’m not a junkie, okay?” he said, pointing his finger at her. “That was the first time I tried it. I swear.”
They did not believe him, but they also knew he was not being entirely untruthful. Unlike most addicts, there were no additional puncture marks on his arms or legs.
Holt spoke. “We don’t care about the drugs. You made the 9-1-1 call regarding Isaiah Whitcomb’s body. Isn’t that right?”
Fisher could see Holt was trying hard to be calm, but he looked like he was ready to explode.
Smith blinked. “Yeah, I called 9-1-1. Why? Did I do something wrong?”
Before Holt could grill Smith, Fisher quickly asked, “Please explain how you found Mr. Whitcomb.”
“I was riding my bike when I spotted the car. It looked like someone had gone crazy on the car. There was glass everywhere, and I even saw blood. I mean, I’ve seen people get shot before, but this brother’s car was covered in blood, you know.”
Holt clenched his jaw.
“And what did you do?” Fisher asked.
“I went to check who it was—I thought it could be someone I rolled with, you know—but when I looked, I knew it was Isaiah Whitcomb.”
“How did you know him?” Fisher asked.
He looked at her like she was dumb. “The brother was gonna make it to the pros. He was a stud, man. When I saw him like that, all bloody and dead, I had to call 9-1-1.”
Fisher could see the veins throbbing in Holt’s neck.
“After you called it in, why didn’t you stay at the scene?” Fisher asked.
&
nbsp; “I didn’t want the police to start asking me questions, you know what I’m saying? I’ve got a bit of a reputation,” Smith replied.
“We know. You’re a drug dealer and user.”
“I’m not a drug dealer or user,” he said, feeling offended. “I hustle sometimes to earn some extra cash, but I don’t do drugs.”
“We found a bag of heroin in your apartment.”
“I found it that morning.”
“Where did you find it?”
Smith looked away.
“Bo,” Fisher said, “you better start being honest with us or else we won’t be able to help you.” She was using a tactic used by every officer during an interview or interrogation: make the interviewee feel like the authorities are on their side and get them to confess.
“I found it in the car,” Smith said.
Fisher blinked. “What car?”
“The car Isaiah Whitcomb was in. Aren’t you listening?”
“That’s a lie!” Holt yelled.
Smith almost jumped off the bed. The cuffs held him in place. “I’m not lying. I found the bag in the glove box.”
“Isaiah did not do drugs!” Holt growled.
He moved toward Smith.
Fortunately, an officer at the door heard the commotion. He was bigger than Holt. He came in and helped Fisher restrain her partner. Then they escorted him to the hall.
Fisher returned to the room and said, “Bo, if you don’t come clean with me, I will make your life a living hell.”
“Listen lady, I swear to you. I took the bag of heroin from the car. I also took his wallet.”
“Whose wallet?”
“Isaiah Whitcomb’s.”
Fisher paused. They had searched Isaiah at the scene and found his wallet was missing. This had troubled her. Why would Isaiah leave the campus without his wallet? The only reasonable answer was that someone had taken it from him after he died.
Bo Smith took the wallet.
“What did you do with it?” Fisher asked.
“There was some cash in it. I took it and then dumped the wallet.”
The Lee Callaway Boxed Set Page 33