The Lee Callaway Boxed Set

by Thomas Fincham

  Kirkman’s spacious and tidy office was on the fourteenth floor of a glass tower. His mahogany desk was near windows that took up an entire wall. Behind him, Fisher could see an aerial view of Bayview. All along the other walls were posters of movies Kirkman and Scott’s company had produced. On the left was a shelf full of awards the production company had won. On the right were framed photos of film crews on movie sets.

  “At the beginning of each production,” Kirkman said, catching her gaze, “we get everyone who is involved in the movie and we take a group photo. At the end of the shoot, we ask all the stars of the film to sign copies for the crew members. This way the crew can show their family and friends that they got to hang around with movie stars.”

  Fisher smiled at the nice gesture.

  “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee or tea?” Kirkman asked.

  “No, thank you. I’m good.”

  “May I ask if you’ve made any progress on Dillon’s murder?”

  “We have some leads, which is why I have driven all the way here to speak to you.”

  Kirkman’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, really? Maybe I could use a drink then.” He walked over to a small cart and filled his glass with water. He took a sip and sat behind his desk. “You can ask me whatever you like. I have nothing to hide.”

  Fisher dove right in. “Were you aware that someone was blackmailing Mr. Scott?” “I was.”

  Fisher was surprised by the quick reply. “And you didn’t think to mention this to anyone?”

  “What good would it have done? Dillon is dead, and the blackmailer can’t squeeze another penny out of him.”

  “But this person could be responsible for what happened to Mr. Scott. Isn’t that important?”

  “I understand your concern, and I see where you’re coming from.”

  Fisher got the impression that Kirkman was used to putting out fires on a movie set. If it wasn’t the stars fighting with the director, then it was the director fighting with the producers, who in turn were fighting with the studios or independent investors.

  “But you have to realize,” he said, “that Dillon was not just an actor, he was a movie star. He could get a movie greenlit with just his name on it, so the reason I didn’t come forward with this information was because Dillon’s last movie was scheduled to be released in two months, and he was also a producer on an upcoming TV series.”

  “The blackmail would have been bad publicity,” Fisher said.

  Kirkman nodded. “Dillon is gone, and there is nothing I can do to bring him back, but I still have a production company to think about. We have a lot of employees, and they have worked tirelessly on projects for us. I didn’t want Dillon’s death to mar their good work.”

  “But it wouldn’t have impacted your company,” Fisher said. “It was Mr. Scott who was being blackmailed, not the other way around. In fact, people would have sympathized with his plight.”

  “Would they?” Kirkman asked. “Do you know why Dillon was being blackmailed?”

  “Do you?” she asked in return.

  “No, but I wish I did. What I can say, though, is there must have been a reason why Dillon was paying off this person. I don’t know what it is, but I can only imagine it must not be good. Why else would he go through all this trouble to keep silent?”

  He has a point, she thought.

  “Can I ask you about Gail Roberts?” Fisher said.

  SIXTY-THREE

  Kirkman’s shoulders sank. “That was a big loss for all of us. I know Dillon was haunted by Gail’s death. I was even more so.”

  “You?” Fisher asked.

  He looked at her with a pained expression. “I was the one who hired Gail. She was smart, hardworking, and above all, honest. She had what you would call a moral compass. It’s something you don’t see much in Hollywood. I’ve seen people do just about anything to get ahead in this business. There is big money to be made, and morality plays a very little role in it. You wouldn’t believe how many girls show up each day wanting to be big stars, and some of the things they are forced to do in order to get a role…”

  Fisher knew he was referring to the infamous “casting couch.”

  “Our office used to be in Los Angeles, but then Dillon wanted to get out of the limelight, so he decided to move his family to Bayview, and we figured it might be better if we set up an office here as well.” He lowered his voice and said, “I still can’t believe how she died.”

  “The police dubbed it a suicide, but her family thinks otherwise.”

  “I am aware of that,” he said. “Her family even hired a private investigator to look into her death.”

  “Jimmy Keith,” Fisher said.

  His eyebrows shot up. “You’ve spoken to him?”

  “I have.”

  “Then he must have told you Dillon had nothing to do with her death. He was shooting a movie in Vermont.”

  “I am aware of that,” Fisher replied. “And what about you?”

  Kirkman opened a desk drawer and pulled out a boarding pass. He placed the pass on the table before her. “On the night in question, I was on a flight out of Bayview. I was scouting a location for another project.”

  Fisher picked up the pass and scanned it. Kirkman was telling the truth. “You keep it conveniently nearby?”

  “I do, especially when the police show up, and a private investigator, all asking questions about my whereabouts. Listen, I don’t know why Gail fell from her apartment. I don’t believe it was a suicide either.”

  “Then what was it?” Fisher asked.

  “Likely an accident. How else do you explain it?” Kirkman replied.

  Fisher waited a moment before she said, “When Mr. Scott arrived in Milton, he brought a backpack which I now believe contained a large sum of money. I have traced his movements in Milton and never once did he withdraw any money from any bank or ATM. This was further confirmed when I accessed his bank statements. Mr. Scott then took this backpack to a busy intersection in Milton, where he left it for the blackmailer. Were you aware of what Mr. Scott was up to?”

  “I was, and I approved it,” Kirkman replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I gave him that money.”

  Fisher’s mouth nearly dropped. No wonder I couldn’t find the money’s origin, she thought. “How much was it?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Why did you give it to him?”

  “He asked me to.”

  “And you thought it was better to pay such a large amount than go to the police?”

  Kirkman smiled. “Detective Fisher, for Dillon, it was a drop in the bucket.”

  “His finances would say otherwise.”

  Kirkman frowned. “I had no idea he was underwater until after his death.”

  “But even so, didn’t you think the blackmailer would have continued to demand money after you’d paid him or her?”

  “Of course it crossed our minds,” Kirkman said. “Dillon and I had long discussions about it, but Dillon was going to start shooting a new movie in Milton in a few days. There was also the matter of his previous movie that was soon to be released. Dillon had not had a hit in some time, and we figured we would agree to the blackmailer’s terms until we could get Dillon’s career back on track. Later, we would get the FBI involved and let them handle this mess. Also, you have to understand that people in Dillon’s position would rather pay up than deal with the public fallout. It’s quite common in the business.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Haven’t you heard of settlements?” Kirkman asked.

  “Are you saying Mr. Scott paid other people to stay silent?” Fisher replied.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I am not at liberty to say. Both parties sign confidentiality agreements, which are sealed by the courts. You will have to speak to a judge to break the agreement.”

  Fisher knew that was never going to happen. No court would permit it.
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  “Plus, Dillon is dead, and it’s better that the public remember him as an all-American hero who upheld the value of truth, justice, and the American way of life.”

  The phone on the desk rang. Kirkman looked at the number and sighed. “I have to take this. A lot of projects are now in limbo after Dillon’s untimely death.”

  Fisher stood up to leave. “One last thing. Did you give the money to Mr. Scott from your personal bank account?”

  “No. It was from the production company’s business account.”

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Callaway walked back to the Charger and pulled a camera from the trunk.

  “What’re you doing?” Jimmy asked.

  “We know where Scott dropped off the money,” Callaway replied. “I want to make sure I get evidence for Fisher to build her case.”

  Jimmy nodded. “If the blackmailer killed Scott, then you want to be able to recreate Scott’s movements on that night.”

  “Exactly.”

  Callaway put a wide zoom lens on the camera. He was checking the focus when a man approached them. He was dressed in a long-sleeve shirt, and he had earrings in both ears and a stud on his tongue.

  “You guys tourists?” he asked.

  Callaway shook his head. “No.”

  Jimmy said, “We got no money.”

  Street kids loved to panhandle on Yonge Avenue.

  The man laughed. “I’m not begging, man. I got a job.”

  “Then what do you want?” Jimmy asked, annoyed.

  “I work at the ice cream shop.” He pointed to a store behind them. “On my break, I usually cut through the park and go to the vape store on the other side.”

  “Vape store?” Jimmy asked.

  “You never heard of e-cigarettes?” the man replied, surprised. “You gotta try it. It’s better than actual cigarettes that have nicotine and carcinogens and—”

  “We know what it is,” Callaway said. He didn’t want to get into a long discussion about why vaping is better than smoking.

  “Okay, sure,” the man said. “So, when I was crossing the park, I saw you guys walking around checking every inch of it. If you’re not tourists, then are you guys like reporters?”

  “Not quite,” Callaway said.

  “We’re actually private investigators,” Jimmy said with pride.

  “You guys are real?” the man excitedly asked.

  Jimmy frowned. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

  “I thought you guys were only in the movies.”

  Callaway and Jimmy rolled their eyes.

  “Nice talking to you,” Callaway said as he moved away from the man.

  “You guys investigating Dillon Scott’s murder?” the man asked.

  Callaway’s ears perked up. “Do you know him?”

  The man scoffed. “Who doesn’t? I’m a huge fan. I’ve seen all his movies. My favorite is the one where he plays a father who goes after a gang who killed his daughter. That scene where he beats up six people all by himself… I mean the way he punches, kicks, and…” The man began to reenact Scott’s moves.

  “Get to the point,” Callaway said.

  “Oh, right.” The man straightened up. He pointed at the bar where Scott had spoken to a reporter. “At first I didn’t recognize him when I saw him come out. He was wearing these dark shades, but when I looked carefully, I knew it was him. I had heard he was in town shooting a movie. Like I said, I am a huge fan, and I knew it was my only chance to meet him. I ran back inside the ice cream shop to get my cell phone. I had put it on to charge. The battery drains so fast, you know. I’m thinking of getting a new one, but I’m waiting for my contract to expire so—”

  “Dillon Scott,” Callaway said, trying to bring the man back on topic.

  “Right, right,” the man said. “When I came out of the shop with my phone, he was gone. I had seen him go in the other direction, so I rushed over. I went down the block and turned the corner, and I saw him. He was talking to a girl.”

  “A girl?” Callaway asked.

  “Yeah, they looked like they were having a conversation. They were both smiling. I think she might have been a fan too. They were standing next to a taxi. By the time I got to them, they were inside the taxi as it pulled away.” The man shook his head. “I missed my chance to meet my hero. And then I heard he was dead. I cried all night, and I—”

  “Did the girl go with him?” Callaway asked.

  “I thought I said they both got in the taxi, didn’t I?”

  “What did this girl look like?”

  He shrugged. “She was short, kind of skinny, I guess, and her hair was maybe brownish.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “I dunno… clothes.”

  “What kind of clothes?” Callaway said, feeling exasperated.

  “I dunno… girl clothes.”

  Callaway exhaled. “Did you get the taxi’s license plate number?”

  The man smiled. “That I got.”

  “You did?” Callaway was shocked and relieved.

  “Yeah, man. I was like five feet away when the taxi drove off.”

  “Give me the license plate number.”

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Detective Armen Woodley was five-ten with a medium build, and his head was shaved clean. His eyes were black and haunting, as if he could see into people’s souls.

  Before returning to Milton, Fisher decided to visit the Bayview Police Department. She was now seated before Woodley’s desk as he went over Gail Roberts’s case with her. Woodley was the lead detective on her death.

  Woodley had a wedding ring on his left hand, and there were photos of young children on his desk. These eased her comfort as his eyes bore into her.

  “It’s not a murder, I’m afraid,” he said. “I’ve looked into it from all angles.”

  “Gail’s family thinks otherwise.”

  “They do, of course,” he agreed with a nod. “They want to make sense of what happened. They just don’t want to face the truth that her death was perhaps an accident, or even worse, a suicide.”

  “Do you believe it was a suicide?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think she was depressed. I think she was of clear mind on the night she died.”

  “Then what happened?” Fisher asked.

  “It’s something that still baffles me,” Woodley replied. “I’ve spoken to her neighbors, and they don’t remember seeing anyone in her apartment. They are certain they heard no voices from inside. If there was an argument, then we would know she was not alone, and that someone may have pushed her over the balcony. But again, we have nothing.”

  “What about security cameras in the apartment?”

  “They are located in the main lobby of the building, right by the elevators. I checked them myself, and there was no one suspicious entering or exiting the building at the time of her death. In fact, the cameras caught Gail Roberts taking the elevator up to her apartment, but no one racing out after she had fallen, which would be the normal course of action for someone fleeing the scene.”

  Fisher absorbed this information.

  Woodley said, “We do have a witness who was walking his dog at the time of the incident. He remembered hearing a scream, followed by a noise. When he went to check, he saw Gail Roberts’s body on the ground. He then saw a woman run out the back of the building.”

  Fisher sat up straight. “Did you speak to this woman?”

  “We tried to locate her, but it was not possible. The residents of the building told me they had seen her sleeping in the stairwell on a number of occasions. She was homeless, and an addict. On a number of occasions, police were called to remove her from the property. She was harmless from what I’ve been told.”

  “Why was she running away when Gail died?” Fisher asked.

  “I don’t know. Like I said, I never interviewed her, but if I can take a guess, I’ll say that she must have heard the commotion outside and thought it might be the police looking for her, so she ran.”

&nbs
p; “Why couldn’t you find her?”

  “I looked everywhere. It was like she just disappeared. I even had a name.”

  “What was it?”

  “Tamara Davis.”

  Fisher quickly pulled out her pocket-size notepad to jot the name down.

  “It won’t do you any good now,” Woodley said.

  “Why not?”

  “Tamara Davis was found dead in a crack house from an overdose.”

  “Oh.”

  Woodley put his hands together. “Why are you so interested in Gail Roberts? I know you are investigating Dillon Scott’s murder, but I don’t see how it is linked to hers.”

  “Gail’s family hired someone to look into her—”

  “Jimmy Keith,” Woodley said with a smile.

  “You know him?” she asked.

  “I do, and I’ve worked with him.” He paused and said, “I know this may come as a surprise to you, but a police detective normally doesn’t share information with a private investigator.”

  “I’m not surprised, I assure you,” she said, thinking of Callaway.

  “Jimmy is a good PI,” Woodley said. “I’ve had to seek his help on a number of cases. He doesn’t care for the recognition, he just cares about doing his job and getting paid. This suits me nicely because I don’t have to explain to my superiors how I came to know certain information.”

  “Were you aware that someone was blackmailing Dillon Scott?” Fisher asked. Woodley shook his head. “That’s the first time I’ve heard of this.”

  Fisher thanked him and left.

  SIXTY-SIX

  Callaway was excited. He and Jimmy were driving back from Yonge Avenue when he said, “This could be the break we’ve been looking for.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Jimmy asked.

  “Come on, you don’t see it?”

  Jimmy shrugged.

  Callaway continued. “We have a witness who saw Dillon Scott leave in a taxi with a girl. This means there was someone else other than the reporter who saw Scott before his death.”

  “You’re forgetting the blackmailer. He may have also seen Scott. In fact, there is a possibility Scott could have died at the hands of this person. What if the blackmailer picked up the backpack from the park, realized Scott did not bring all the money that he demanded—we know Scott was having financial troubles—and then went to his house to get the rest of the money?”