Fisher watched the CCTV footage from the taxi again. Scott was clutching the backpack like it contained something precious to him. She believed it was a large sum of money—something Scott’s bank statements indicated he had very little of.
So where did he get the money? She had made a call to David Gill, the limo driver, and was waiting to hear back.
In the meantime, the taxi footage answered a lingering question: Why didn’t Scott just have Gill take him to Yonge Avenue instead of taking a taxi?
The answer was simple: Scott did not want his actions leaking to the press. He was likely aware of what had happened during the last movie shoot, where the driver was suspicious of him leaving a duffel bag under a park bench. Scott figured by taking the taxi, he would leave no traces of where he was going and why.
The blackmail may be the motive she was searching for. What if Scott was not able to meet all the blackmailer’s demands? What if the blackmailer later decided to teach Scott a lesson?
There were so many what-ifs, but they were all she had to go on at the moment.
Her cell phone buzzed. It was David Gill.
“Mr. Gill, I know you’re busy, but I have a few questions to ask you,” she said.
“Um… okay, sure,” Gill replied.
“You said you had picked up Mr. Scott from the airport.”
“I did.”
“And when you did, do you remember what luggage he brought with him?”
Gill paused for a moment. “He had two large pieces of luggage.”
Fisher remembered seeing them in the bedroom.
“He was holding a hand-carry and…”
Fisher’s back arched.
“I think he also had a backpack with him.”
“A backpack?” she repeated in case she didn’t hear correctly.
“Yes. It was blue. I put the two pieces of luggage and the hand-carry in the trunk, but Mr. Scott wanted to keep the backpack with him.”
“Was he holding it tightly?”
Gill paused again. “I’m not sure, but I can tell you that he did not let me touch it once, even when I unloaded the rest of the luggage and carried it into the house.”
Fisher mulled this over. “Okay, one more question.”
“Sure.”
“Mr. Scott arrived in Milton two days ago. During this time, did he ask you to take him to a bank or an ATM machine?”
“No, never,” Gill quickly replied. “For the past two days, I’ve taken Mr. Scott straight to the studio from his home, and then back. He never asked me to take him anywhere else.”
“Thank you.”
Fisher hung up and leaned back in her chair. She now had a better idea of why Scott was at Yonge Avenue, but she still didn’t know who he was meeting.
FIFTY-EIGHT
“Tell me more about Gail Roberts,” Callaway said. They were still at the restaurant. Callaway was done with breakfast. Jimmy had ordered a boiled egg and more coffee.
“What would you like to know?” Jimmy asked.
“How did she get involved with Dillon Scott?”
“His previous assistant had abruptly quit, and Scott’s agent had hired Gail to replace her.”
“Why did the previous assistant quit?”
“I spoke to her on the phone, and she said she wanted to go back to school and finish her degree in communications.”
“What did she have to say about Scott? I mean, what kind of a boss was he?”
“She found him pleasant, albeit a little demanding. But he was a big star when she worked for him, so he was under a lot of stress.”
Callaway mulled this over. “What was Gail like?”
“I spoke to her friends and family, and they all said she was caring, pleasant, and outgoing.”
“Was she suicidal?” Callaway asked.
“Absolutely not,” Jimmy replied. “On the day she died, she had gone out with her friends, and not one of them is convinced she committed suicide. She was stressed about something, but she was not depressed.”
“What was she stressed about?”
“They don’t know, but they said she was thinking about doing something else with her life. She had aspirations to be a writer.”
Callaway raised his eyebrows. “Writer?”
Jimmy nodded. “She had started work on a novel when she was in college, but she didn’t finish it. She figured she needed more life experience before she could write the great American novel. After leaving her job, she was hoping to pick up the novel from where she had left off.”
Callaway looked down at the table. He then looked up. “The authorities believe her death could also have been an accident. Why are you so sure it was not?”
“I checked her apartment.”
“You broke in?” Callaway asked. Jimmy was never good with rules, but being a private investigator, he did not have to follow procedures like he had to as a cop—or so his superiors kept telling him.
Jimmy smiled. “I gained access to it, okay? The balcony railing in the apartment building is at least four feet in height. Gail was five-two, and she was a little on the heavier side. It just doesn’t seem logical for someone like her to—" Jimmy made air quotations with his fingers, “—accidentally slip or fall over.”
“Was she drinking?”
Jimmy shook his head. “I checked the police report, and the police found no open bottles of alcohol in her apartment. I went further and queried her friends, and they said she did not have a single drink while she was with them that night.”
“Out of curiosity, how did you manage to get your hands on the police report?” Callaway asked.
“You have Detective Fisher at the Milton PD, I have someone at the Bayview PD.”
“Fair enough.”
“I also read the autopsy report—again, courtesy of my connection at the police department—and according to it, Gail had very low traces of alcohol in her blood stream. She must have likely had wine or some other alcoholic beverage the day before.”
“What about drugs, prescription or otherwise?”
“She was clean. She didn’t even smoke.”
Callaway was quiet. He had thrown every imaginable question at Jimmy, trying to see if there were any holes in the police’s theory.
By all accounts, Gail was a fully functioning person who was not inebriated, depressed, or under the influence of narcotics.
Then how did she fall fourteen floors to her death? he wondered.
FIFTY-NINE
At the veterinary clinic, Becky’s duties were to feed the animals, assist the veterinarian during clinical and medical procedures, restrain the animals when needed, and also keep the clinic clean by vacuuming and mopping the floor, sterilizing the lab, and doing laundry.
The clinic had a full-time receptionist, but when she was off or away from her desk, Becky would answer phone calls, schedule appointments, bill clients, and sell products. This was on top of restocking animal food, which required her to lift heavy boxes.
It was a lot of work, but Becky loved every minute of it. She couldn’t wait to come to work, and if need be, she would stay late, even though she was not getting paid for the overtime. Whenever she did that, the veterinarian would thank her in other ways. She would give Becky gift cards, movie passes, and dinner vouchers to various restaurants. She didn’t have to, but Becky was appreciative.
Becky fed a labradoodle who had been abandoned by its owner. She was thinking of adopting the dog. She used to have a Jack Russell terrier, but it had so many health issues that Becky and her parents were always bringing it to the vet. Perhaps that was why she wanted to be a vet. The terrier died several years earlier, and Becky didn’t have the heart to get another dog.
Maybe now’s the time, she thought as she scratched the labradoodle behind the ears. A new dog would fill the empty space in the house left by her dad’s death. A dog would also give her mom company when Becky was at school or at the clinic.
“Do you want to come home with me?” Becky said t
o the labradoodle. She had named the terrier Calvin, and she was thinking of naming the labradoodle Hobbes. Her dad loved reading Calvin and Hobbes, so it would be a nice way to remember him.
The vet came over. She was short, slim, and she wore thick prescription glasses. “I just received a call from animal services. The police raided a house and they found a dozen cats inside. They’re asking if we can take some in. I said yes.”
“Oh,” Becky said. “Is anything wrong with them?”
“There is a chance they are malnourished and unhygienic. We’ll need to wash them and have a place for them to sleep.”
“How many are we getting?” Becky asked, excited to help.
“Let’s prepare for half a dozen. It could be less or it could be more. I’ll find out once I visit the house. Can you work late tonight if we need extra help?”
“Of course,” Becky said. It broke her heart whenever she heard of animals being abused. These creatures hurt like us, but they can’t complain like us, so why torture them? she always thought.
“Make sure you let your mom know,” the vet said.
“I’ll do that right now,” Becky said as she pulled out her cell phone and dialed her mom’s number.
SIXTY
Fisher was at her desk when an officer came over and informed her that someone was looking for her in the police station’s main lobby.
Fisher took the elevator down and found Rachel Scott seated in the waiting area. She was wearing a long brown dress that went down to her ankles, a light jacket, and she had on overly large sunglasses. She also had on a lot of makeup, just like last time.
“Mrs. Scott,” Fisher said.
Rachel did not remove her shades. She said, “I apologize for dropping in unannounced.”
It was not uncommon for the grieving to show up unexpectedly at the police department. They were anxious for answers as to who could have harmed their loved one. Fisher was always courteous to them. She couldn’t imagine what they were going through.
“It’s absolutely fine,” Fisher said. “Why don’t we sit down?”
They sat on hard plastic chairs. Rachel finally removed the sunglasses. Fisher could see stress on her face. There were heavy bags under her eyes. Even with the foundation, it was easy to see her skin had started to break out. Her lipstick was caked on her dry lips.
Rachel said, “I wanted to know when I can take Dillon’s body back to Bayview. His family wants to see him, and we still haven’t decided if it’ll be a private or public funeral.”
“I’m sorry, but we need to conduct more tests.” Fisher couldn’t tell her the medical examiner no longer believed the cause of death was blunt force trauma.
“What kind of tests?” Rachel asked.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
Rachel nodded in understanding.
“Mrs. Scott, can I ask you a few questions?” Fisher said.
“Okay.”
“Does your husband have any foreign bank accounts?”
Rachel frowned. “I’m not sure. If he did, he never mentioned them to me.”
“Do you have a separate bank account?”
“Of course I do. It was Dillon’s idea. After we got married, he wanted me to have financial independence. I think it had more to do with the fact that he didn’t want me knowing how much money he was spending on a regular basis.”
“So you are aware of his financial situation?”
“He didn’t tell me much, but I could sense that we were living beyond our means.”
“The reason I ask is… did your husband ask you to withdraw a large sum from your bank account?”
She shook her head. “No, he did not.”
“Nothing in the last couple of days?”
“No. If he did, I would have asked him why.”
Fisher nodded. “Do you and your husband have a prenuptial agreement?” she asked.
“No, we don’t,” Rachel replied, surprised. “However, I can tell you that Dillon has more debts than assets. His lawyer is currently looking into it and will let me know how bad it is.”
“But he must have life insurance,” Fisher said.
“He does.”
“And are you the beneficiary?”
“As his wife, I am.” Her lips suddenly quivered. “Are you saying I had something to do with what happened to Dillon?”
“I didn’t mean it like that…”
“I was in Bayview when he… he…” Rachel suddenly choked up. “I flew in the moment I found out what had happened.”
“I know,” Fisher said. “I just wanted to make sure I’ve covered all bases.”
Rachel stood up. “Call me when I can bring my husband home.”
“I will.”
When Rachel Scott turned to leave, Fisher thought of something. “One more question. Do you know anyone who could have lent your husband money?”
Rachel pondered the question. “You can talk to Brad Kirkman. He and Dillon were business partners. They owned a production company together.”
SIXTY-ONE
Callaway hung up the phone and turned to Jimmy. “Fisher is on her way to Bayview.”
“Bayview, why?” Jimmy asked, surprised.
“She is going to speak to Dillon Scott’s business partner. She will let us know if she finds anything on Gail’s death.”
“I already spoke to him, and he has an alibi at the time of her death.”
“Okay, but someone was blackmailing Scott, and Fisher wants to know where he got the money to pay his blackmailer. We should go to Yonge Avenue and check it out.”
“Wasn’t Fisher already there?”
“She was, and she found out that Scott had met a reporter at a bar. This reporter confirmed that Scott was not carrying a backpack, which Fisher believes contained money for the blackmailer.”
“He may have dropped off the backpack before going to the bar.”
“Exactly, and we need to see the drop-off for ourselves.”
Jimmy made a face. “How do we even know where it is?”
“Fisher thinks it’s at a park next to Yonge Avenue. Scott’s previous drop was at a park as well.”
Jimmy shook his head. “I don’t know. The blackmailer is long gone. What will we learn by going there?”
“Right now we have nothing that helps us find out what happened to Gail. You’ve looked into her case and gotten nowhere. Isn’t that why you’re in Milton? You think Dillon Scott had something to do—”
“Yes, but he’s dead as well,” Jimmy interrupted. “I was hoping to find out who killed him, but so far, Detective Fisher has made no progress on her case.”
“That’s why we should go to Yonge Avenue and see if we can dig up something.”
Jimmy did not look convinced.
“Why are you so against going there, anyway?” Callaway asked.
“I’m not,” Jimmy replied. “I just think we could be wasting time.”
“Listen, I asked Fisher to trust us. She is keeping us updated on her investigation, which is against all procedures. The least we can do is knock on some doors, ask a few questions, and maybe, if we’re lucky, catch a break.”
Jimmy stared at him and then smiled. “Hey man, this is your city, and she’s your friend. We’ll do whatever you want.”
It was a twenty-minute drive during rush hour, and they even managed to find a parking spot without any trouble.
There was a narrow path that led them from Yonge Avenue to a small park adjacent to a condo building.
Three park benches were on one side, and a tiny children’s playground was across from them. Callaway spotted a garbage bin next to one of the benches.
“He must have dropped off the backpack next to the garbage can,” Callaway said.
“What makes you so sure?” Jimmy asked.
“It’s more obscured than the other benches.”
“What if he dumped the backpack in the garbage can instead?”
This was something Callaway had been thinking too. T
he benches were exposed. A person at the playground could easily spot the backpack.
“It’s a perfect drop-off location, though,” Callaway said, looking around. “There are no cameras, and look over there.” He pointed to a stairwell in the distance with a sign above it. “That’s an entrance to the subway. The blackmailer was likely standing there, watching Scott as he made the drop. The moment Scott left, the blackmailer raced over, grabbed the backpack, and disappeared underground.”
“The subway must have cameras,” Jimmy said.
“Sure, but Yonge Avenue is a busy street. It would be impossible to spot someone even if they are carrying a backpack. And what if the blackmailer was wearing a disguise? Fisher wouldn’t even know who she was looking for.”
“I told you it was a waste of time coming down here,” Jimmy said.
“Fisher thinks the blackmailer could have killed Scott because he may not have met all the demands,” Callaway said.
“Oh, that’s interesting,” Jimmy said. “But how does this link up to Gail?”
Callaway thought for a moment.
His eyes widened. “Didn’t you say that a few days before her death, Gail had told her father that something was bothering her and it had to do with Scott?”
“She did.”
“What if she was thinking of going to the authorities and telling them about the blackmail?”
Jimmy’s mouth dropped. “And to silence her, the blackmailer killed her.”
“It makes sense,” Callaway said. “Scott was famous. He would rather pay than let bad publicity ruin his career, and the blackmailer knew this. He had already extracted money from Scott before, and here comes Scott’s assistant who could end this perfect scheme, so she had to go.”
They mulled this over.
Callaway said, “We now have to find out what the blackmailer had on Scott that made him come down here to pay him off.”
SIXTY-TWO
Brad Kirkman was tall with broad shoulders and dark, curly hair. His grip was strong, which told Fisher he worked out. He had emerald green eyes and an easy smile.
The Lee Callaway Boxed Set Page 59