Callaway pulled up a stool and sat at the counter.
Joely Patterson filled the customer’s cup with steaming coffee and then came over to him. She had blonde hair that she kept pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a white apron over her tight-fitting T-shirt. The necklace she wore had a pendant that read Joshua.
Joely was a single mother who had aspirations of becoming a singer. She thought she had finally caught her break when a music producer asked to hear her work. She soon realized the producer was interested in her body, not her voice.
“Nice to see you this morning, Lee,” she said with a smile.
Callaway smiled back. “I figured I’d come and see you. How’s Joshua, by the way?” he asked.
Joely beamed with motherly pride. “He’s growing up fast. I signed him up in a pee-wee baseball league, and I tell you, Joshua is a natural. He can hit the ball farther than the older kids. When he makes it to the pros, I’ll quit this job and never set foot in a diner again.”
Joshua was only six years old, and the odds of making it to the major leagues were no better than winning the lottery.
“You can’t give up on your dreams,” Callaway said. “Sooner or later, someone will see your talent and offer you a big contract. Then you can quit this job and never set foot in another diner again.”
Her ex-husband, Joshua’s father, was an equipment manager for a rock band. While touring on the road with the band, he called Joely and told her he wanted a divorce. He last saw Joshua when he was two.
Joely’s smile widened. “Thanks Lee, but flattery won’t get you a free meal.”
“I meant every word of it,” he said, sticking his hand in his back pocket. He pulled out the ten-dollar tip the minivan’s owner had given him and dropped it on the counter. “I’ll have whatever that’ll cover,” he said.
Callaway had stopped asking Joely for favors. Bill, the restaurant owner, had warned her not to serve him if he did not bring cash. She was raising a child with her waitressing job, and Callaway was not about to jeopardize that.
She grabbed the bill. “Have you ever thought about getting a steady job? One that will leave you with money in your pocket?” She thought it was cool that he was a private investigator, but she knew the work was sporadic and the pay was negligible.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” he confessed. He was getting tired of being broke. If he didn’t get a case soon, he would have to face the hard truth that his chosen profession was nothing more than a fanciful hobby.
She leaned closer. “One of our cooks quit two days ago. Bill is looking to hire someone to replace him. I know Bill doesn’t like you very much, but I could maybe try to convince him to take you on, you know.”
“Thanks, I appreciate the gesture, but I’m not much of a cook.” Callaway suddenly realized he did not have many skills to offer potential employers. He was not good with numbers, so a desk job was out of the question. Plus, sitting in a cubicle like a caged animal would make him gouge his eyes out with his fingers. He was not good with his hands, so a job in the trades was out of the question. Julio could not offer him a position in his garage because Callaway knew next to nothing about what was under a car’s hood. Also, Callaway did not trust himself with someone else’s vehicle. He would easily botch any repair job.
“I can serve customers,” he said.
“That’s my job,” she said with a mock scowl. “And with your demeanor, you’ll only drive customers away.”
She was right, he knew. He could be salty and a jerk when he was having a bad day. Joely, on the other hand, had a gift for making customers feel special.
She held up the ten-dollar bill. “Let me get you the biggest meal we’ve got on the menu,” she said with a smile.
TWELVE
The news of Dillon Scott’s death had spread like wildfire. Someone had tipped off the press, and Fisher believed the limo driver, Mr. Gill, was doing so when she first arrived.
The press was the least of her worries. They understood the rules of an active crime scene. If they broke them, their access to future police briefings would be restricted. The police department rarely took such drastic actions—they did not want to appear to influence public opinion—but sometimes such actions were necessary.
Fisher was far more concerned about Scott’s fans. Their love and devotion was so blind that it made them act irrationally. It was not uncommon to have someone get past the yellow police tape just to get close to their idols.
To prevent something like that from happening, the Milton PD had stationed additional officers at the scene. Police cruisers blocked off the entrance on the main road.
Fisher stood in front of the house, watching the chaos from a distance. She could see a row of vans lining the side of the main road. All major news outlets were there, but also amongst them were vans for tabloid magazines, entertainment channels, and even talk shows. The media circus was in full swing.
She felt immense weight on her chest. The world’s eyes were on her as she searched for Scott’s killer. She wished Holt was next to her. He would take some of the pressure off her. She knew he would gladly end his forced retreat and be on the next flight to Milton if she made the call.
She would not.
Holt was long overdue for a break.
She had already conducted a walk around the property. There were four security cameras—two in front, and two in back of the house. She noted the security company’s information. She would pay them a visit later in the day. She hoped the cameras had caught what had happened the night before.
She still had no motive and no murder weapon.
Officers had searched the grounds for anything that could have been used as a weapon. They came up empty. She was not surprised, and the zero results further confirmed her belief that the attacker had taken the weapon with them after sanitizing the crime scene.
The commotion on the main road suddenly got louder. There was a large crowd around the entrance. She could see people holding their cell phones as they took photos and videos.
They are taking photos of me, she thought.
The media was waiting for a statement, but she was in no mood to get in front of the cameras. She knew very little about what happened, and as such, she had little to tell them. Scott’s fans were anxious for word, but there was nothing she could do about that. The investigation was still in its infancy.
She turned back to the house and stopped. There were two marble lion statues on either side of the stairs leading up to the front door. The lions were seated with their heads held high, as if on high alert. What caught her attention was not the animals but how identical each statue was to the other.
Her eyes narrowed as something flashed in the back of her head.
She raced into the house. She found Wakefield was still with Scott’s body, which was now in a black body bag.
“Are you okay?” Wakefield asked when she saw the look on Fisher’s face.
Without responding, Fisher moved past her and headed for the bookshelf behind the sofa. She leaned over and picked up an object. The ivory bookend was carved in the shape of a Roman column.
Fisher turned to Wakefield. “Could this be used to harm someone?”
Wakefield came over and held the bookend in her hands. “It is sturdy and heavy. Yes, I do believe it could.”
“When I was examining the living room, I noticed one bookend, but I paid no attention to it. It was when I saw the identical lion statues outside that I realized there had to have been another identical bookend.”
Fisher pointed to an empty space on the shelf. She then took the bookend from Wakefield and placed it in the space. The bookend fit perfectly.
“The missing bookend is our murder weapon,” Fisher said.
THIRTEEN
Becky Miller lay in bed with a blanket over her head. A chill went through her body, and she quickly hugged herself tight. Her eyes were red and puffy. She had been crying for hours. She was scared.
She was sixteen y
ears old. She was five-foot-three, weighed less than a hundred pounds, and had curly brown hair that reached to her shoulders.
She should have been in school, but she was at home, hiding in her bedroom. Her friends had called her, texted her, and some had sent her messages on her social media page.
She thought about telling them she was sick, but what if they started asking her more questions? Like what was wrong with her? Did she have a virus? She was not ready to face the queries just yet.
Her cell phone was next to her, and she could see it blinking, but she didn’t have the courage to check her messages. She was afraid of what she would see.
The last message she had read told her everything was fine and that she had nothing to worry about. The message made her feel good, but that lasted only a short moment. The reality was that everything was not fine—and might never be.
There was a knock at the door. Becky was so startled she almost jumped off the bed.
“Becky, are you okay, dear?” her mom asked.
“I’m fine, Mom,” she replied, her voice cracking.
“You don’t sound good.”
“I am, honest.”
“Can I come in?”
Becky knew if she protested, her mom would be even more concerned. She didn’t want her mom to worry because of her.
“Okay,” Becky finally said.
Sara Miller entered the room. She had curly brown hair, similar to her daughter’s. Wrinkles had begun to appear on her face, making her look older than she was. The past year had been tough on her, and it had been even tougher for Becky. But things had started to look up. Becky had found someone who was suffering as much as her, maybe even worse. She needed someone to share her pain, and he was just the person.
She was hoping to introduce him to her mom, but then the world came crashing down on her.
Her mom came over and sat on the edge of the bed. “Baby, why are you crying?” she softly asked.
“I feel cold.”
Her mom put her hand on her forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”
“I just don’t feel good.”
“Do you want me to take you to the doctor?”
“No. I just want to stay in bed today. Is that okay?”
“Of course it is. Do you want me to turn on the TV?”
“No!” Becky shouted.
Her mom was taken aback, but she said nothing.
“I just want to sleep,” Becky said.
Her mom smiled. “I have to go to work, but there’s meatloaf in the fridge. If you get hungry, you can microwave some for yourself.”
“Okay, I will.”
Her mom leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “I love you, baby.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
When her mom closed the door, Becky pulled the blanket over her head.
She began to cry again.
FOURTEEN
The meal consisted of homemade pancakes covered in maple syrup, fried eggs, buttered toast, a side of oven-roasted potatoes, and a steaming cup of coffee. Way more food than the ten dollars Callaway had given Joely could cover, but she had gone out of her way to stuff his plate with just about everything.
Callaway enjoyed every bite.
He was bursting at the seams as he climbed a flight of narrow metal stairs. The Callaway Private Investigation Office was on the second floor of a building located above a soup and noodle restaurant. The office had no sign indicating its location, but it did have a telephone number taped to the black metal door.
Potential clients could either call him or get in touch via his website.
The lack of a sign was more of a safety precaution than anything else. His job required him to follow cheating spouses and catch them in compromising positions. Naturally, the spouses did not take too kindly once they found out. They threatened him with legal action, and some even threatened him with physical harm.
Callaway used to carry a registered firearm with him at all times, but during a heated dispute, he had pulled his gun and brandished it. He had scared away the guy who was giving him a hard time, but at the same time, he realized the ramifications of what he almost did. He could have pulled the trigger and ended the man’s life. The responsibility was too much for him, so he started keeping the weapon locked up in his office. He only took his gun with him when he went into a dangerous situation. He would rather err on the side of caution in those circumstances.
So far, he had been lucky that no one had pulled a gun on him. He did, however, have an irate client break his nose and bruise his ego. Callaway deserved what he got. He had slept with his client’s wife, whom he was supposed to have been following to gather evidence of her infidelities.
There was a more pressing reason for not having a sign out by the front door. Callaway was never good when it came to money. The moment he had some in his hand, he would gamble it away on one thing or another. There was always a sure bet out there that would make him instantly rich. All he had to do was be there at the right time. More often than not, it was not an opportunity but a scheme to sucker people out of their hard-earned dollars, and with a near-zero bank balance, Callaway would foolishly go to unsavory people to borrow the money for these get-rich-quick ventures. When it would all blow up in his face, he would spend the next couple of days or weeks hiding from these people until he could find a way to pay them back.
I should just play the lottery like most sensible people, he thought. The odds may be stacked against me, but at least I would only be out a couple dollars, not my entire investment.
He reached the top of the stairs and unbuckled his belt. The meal, albeit delicious, was now coming back up his throat. He should not have gorged himself as if he had been starving for days.
FIFTEEN
Callaway opened the door and entered the small, windowless space. There was no air conditioning, and the heating barely worked during the winter months, but the rent was the cheapest in the city.
He had considered closing down the office, but he liked the idea of having a place to go other than his home. Speaking of his home, with his finances in shambles, he was constantly moving. Sometimes he would sleep in his office until he found a place to stay.
He was lucky to crash at a beach house for months. His client was away traveling Europe, and she had let him use the property as a reward for catching her husband in the act. The divorce settlement was so substantial that she would never have to work another day in her life.
I need to get me a nice rich old lady, he thought. She would surely rid me of my money problems.
But he knew he would never go after someone because of their wealth. He had spent his professional life helping his clients get money out of their spouses, and he saw the damage first-hand. The clients would say and do anything to squeeze even an extra penny out of the other spouse. They would even involve their children in the divorce proceedings. Those children never asked for that. They only wanted a stable and loving home. They didn’t want to have to choose between their parents.
He shut the door and sat at his desk. There was a sofa in the corner, and across from it was a flat-screen TV a client had bequeathed him. He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, which was tuned to a twenty-four-hour news channel. He liked the sound of the TV running in the back. The sound made him feel like he was surrounded by people, not stuck in a confined space. The news also let him know what was happening in the city. This gave him a chance to search out potential clients.
He sat upright when he saw the headline at the bottom of the screen: MOVIE STAR DILLON SCOTT FOUND DEAD. CAUSE OF DEATH SUSPICIOUS. POLICE HAVE NO SUSPECTS OR MOTIVE YET.
Callaway had heard of Scott. Who hadn’t? Unless you lived in a cave and didn’t have access to a TV or internet. He had even watched some of his movies, and he found them entertaining. The characters Scott played were average Joes down on their luck who overcame all obstacles to defeat the bad guys and win the day.
If they made a movie about his own life, Calla
way would have chosen Scott to play him. That dream had now faded like a movie’s end credits.
Dana must be overwhelmed, he thought. He knew with Holt away, Fisher was likely running the show solo.
He turned on the laptop on his desk. He prayed someone had contacted him via his website. He desperately needed some work.
He once had a stable job and a steady source of income. Prior to becoming a private eye, he was a deputy sheriff for a small town. The job was uneventful, mind-numbing, and utterly dull. The most exciting thing that ever happened in Spokem County was when someone lit a firecracker and shot it in their neighbor’s shed. The shed went up in flames, but the loss was a few gardening tools and a lawn mower. Callaway was so bored he could have slit his wrists.
The laptop took a good fifteen minutes to boot up. The computer was an older model he had bought secondhand. The laptop had an outdated operating system and an old processor, but it was good for checking emails and surfing the internet. Sometimes, though, he would turn the laptop on, leave the office to buy coffee, and when he returned, the computer would still be loading.
He decided to check his voicemail.
As he listened to his messages, a smile crossed his face.
SIXTEEN
The Roman-column-shaped bookend had been tagged and photographed. Even though it was not the murder weapon, they at least had an idea of what the weapon might look like.
Fisher watched as Scott’s body was loaded into an ambulance. She heard a commotion in the distance, coming from the main road. A man was talking loudly to one of the officers. The officer was trying to calm the man down.
The officer turned toward her, and she realized it was McConnell. He waved to her and she made her way to them. Instantly, cameras were aimed in her direction and began to flash. The press thought she was about to make a statement. She was not. The communications officer would do so once Fisher had briefed her. She was planning to do that as soon as she had finished examining the crime scene.
The Lee Callaway Boxed Set Page 49