“Likely not. She starred in a few movies.”
“What’s her name?”
She hesitated.
“I need to know all the parties involved,” Callaway said.
“Jackie Wolfe.”
He frowned. “Jackie Wolfe?”
“It might be her stage name, I’m not sure. But that’s what I’ve heard my husband call her.”
“Okay. Where can I find your husband?”
Mrs. Gilford smiled. She handed him the money. “The address is on the envelope.”
THIRTY-SIX
Chad Fenwick was a large man with a heavy beard and long hair that fell down the back of his neck. He was wearing a dark-colored sweatshirt, jeans, and army-style boots. He looked every bit like a private security specialist.
He stood next to his black Hummer with his arms crossed over his wide chest. He had still not taken off his sunglasses, which annoyed Holt, but not Fisher.
She knew people like Chad tried to exude authority by looking intimidating. This was something they were taught in some class run by an ex-Navy SEAL or ex-Marine. They had already found out Chad was neither a former SEAL nor Marine. In his previous life, he was a door-to-door insurance salesman. But then one day he had an epiphany that the world was a dangerous place and that he—Chad Fenwick—had to do something to protect its citizens. And so Chadcore Security Specialists was born.
Fisher was not sure why Big Bob had hired someone like Chad to protect his home. Maybe Big Bob liked Chad’s salesmanship—something he had picked up selling insurance, or maybe he liked Chad and saw something of himself in him. Regardless, when Holt and Fisher contacted the security company listed on the sign on the property, Chad showed up at the Milton PD in his Hummer.
“When did Mr. Burley hire your company?” Holt asked.
“Right after he was robbed,” Chad replied. “I heard about it on the radio when it happened. I knew I could help protect Big Bob.”
“What kind of a client was he?” Fisher asked.
Chad looked confused.
Fisher said, “Was he careless or reckless when it came to security?”
“At first he was careful. He was pretty shaken up about what happened. It’s not every day normal folks have a gun pulled on them.”
“Have you?” Holt asked.
“Have I what?” Chad asked back.
“Had a gun pulled on you?”
Chad straightened up. “Yeah, of course I’ve had a gun pulled on me.”
“In training or in real life?”
Fisher could tell Holt was waiting for the chance to test Chad.
“In training, but if it happened in real life, I know how to handle myself,” Chad said.
“Right,” Holt said, not believing him. Chad was a wannabe tough-guy, whereas Holt was tougher-than-nails.
Fisher decided to jump in. She did not want this to turn into a pissing contest. “You said at first Big Bob took security seriously, but then what happened?”
“After a year or two, he became relaxed. There were many times I could see that he was not at home and the security system had not been activated.”
“What would you do during those times?”
“I would contact Big Bob, and if I couldn’t get him, I would drive by the house to make sure everything was okay.”
Fisher was surprised. “You do that for all your clients?”
“Most of my clients live in—let’s say—more affluent neighborhoods. So, once a day I drive through the neighborhood to make sure the clients are following security protocols.”
Fisher raised an eyebrow. “Security protocols?”
Chad nodded. “Locking all doors and gates. Keeping the shades down on all the windows when they are not home. Making sure someone is picking up their mail while they are on vacation. Stuff like that.”
“Doesn’t your security stop criminals?” Holt asked.
Chad shrugged. “It’s more of a deterrent. For instance, if a burglar knows exactly what they are looking for in the house, then it becomes sort of like a smash and grab. By the time the police arrive, they are already gone.”
“So, you also drive by Big Bob’s property?”
“I do. But unfortunately, he built his house in a neighborhood I would have advised against.”
She understood what he was saying. The neighborhood had a higher crime rate.
Chad said, “But there is no way for someone to break into a property and disable the system from the inside. It’s not possible.”
Fisher mulled this over. “The alarm system was off at the time of Big Bob’s attack, is that correct?” she asked.
“Yes. He turned it off once he returned home.”
“So, if the alarm was off and he was home, do you think Big Bob let his attacker inside the house?”
“I would have to say, yes,” Chad replied.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Callaway returned to his office feeling like he was on some psychedelic drug. Everything looked vivid, almost colorful. His senses were heightened. He could almost smell and taste the air.
He knew why he was feeling this way. He was a private investigator again.
He had not broken the news to Nina and Patti yet. He would do so the moment he got the chance. They were taken aback when he had first told them about the security guard position. Patti was skeptical at first, but she quickly came around to his new job when she saw how serious he was. Nina was elated that she would get to see him more often. Now she and her mom would be disappointed he had quit. Patti would even say, “I knew it wouldn’t last long.” But the moment he would tell them about the twenty-five thousand dollars, everything would be okay—at least he hoped it would.
He shut the office door and locked it. He moved the laptop off his desk and pulled out the envelope from his pocket. He then proceeded to slowly and carefully count the cash. When he was done, there were two hundred and fifty $100 bills
He suddenly felt light-headed. He could not believe this was happening to him. One moment he was arguing with shoppers for minimum wage and the next moment he had on him as much as a year’s worth of salary for the average person.
Contrary to what most people thought, the movies got it right when they portrayed private eyes as down-on-their-luck shmucks. The work was unglamorous and often dull. The pay was peanuts when compared to the hours spent on a case. And sometimes being a PI was even dangerous.
What the movies got wrong was that every client was a femme fatale who needed a knight in shining armor to get her out of her predicament.
Callaway had bedded a dozen clients, but most of them were older and in control, not the damsels in distress the movies made them out to be.
He heard a noise that sounded like feet hitting metal.
He jumped out of his chair.
Someone’s coming up the stairs!
He looked at the stack of bills on the desk.
Did someone see me with the money? That’s not possible. I kept it in my coat pocket the entire time.
He pulled the desk drawer open and removed his gun. He had a licence for concealed weapons, but he preferred not to carry the gun with him. He did not often need the weapon for protection.
Right now, was a different case.
He heard a key being inserted into the lock and then the door handle being turned. He jumped up and grabbed the handle. When the door opened, he was right there to block anyone from entering.
“Ms. Chen,” he said, relieved. “What are you doing here?”
Ms. Chen was his landlady. She was short, slim, and Asian. She wore a pastel-colored dress, flat shoes, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Where would I be? I’m in my office.”
“I thought you got another job,” she said. “Don’t you work during the day?”
“I do.”
Her eyes widened. “Why do you have a gun?”
He realized he was aiming the pistol at her.
He quickly hid the firearm behind his back.
He then noticed an Indian man standing next to her.
“Who’s he?” he asked.
“This is Mr. Sharma,” Ms. Chen replied with a smile. “He wants to open a bookkeeping and accounting office.”
Callaway remembered. He had already given notice to his landlady. He remembered her being elated at the prospect of him leaving. He could not blame her. He was never a good tenant to begin with.
“I’m not leaving,” he said.
The smile fell from her face. Her voice became hard. “Why? What happened?”
He shrugged. “Nothing happened. I’m back in business.”
She was clearly disappointed. Mr. Sharma looked like a nice, hardworking man who would not only use her property for what it was intended for—as an office—he would also pay his rent on time.
Whenever Callaway was kicked out of his home for one reason or another, he would always crash at the office. The place did not have a shower, which meant after a few days of him living there, the place would reek of body odors. He always used the toilet at the 24-hour gas station across the street when the need occurred, though.
Whenever he was short on money, he would make himself scarce, which annoyed his landlady when she came to pick up rent.
“Mr. Sharma wants to move in next month,” Ms. Chen said.
“I haven’t decided,” Mr. Sharma quickly said. “I haven’t even seen it.”
Ms. Chen turned to him. “Can we come inside?”
He thought about the stack of money on the desk. “Give me one minute.”
He shut the door and put the gun back in the drawer. He then counted a few hundred-dollar bills and returned to the door. He held the money out to her.
“What’s this?” she asked, staring at the money.
“It’s next month’s rent, and for the month after as well.”
Her jaw nearly hit the floor. She quickly recovered and then snatched the money from his hand. She then turned to Mr. Sharma. “I’m sorry, but the office is no longer available for rent.”
Mr. Sharma did not look too heartbroken. He probably figured if the old tenant carried a gun, this place must not be safe.
Callaway shut the door, locked it, and then sat back at his desk. He then smiled and began counting the money once again.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Holt and Fisher were on their way to the station when they received the call. Fisher turned the SUV around and drove in the opposite direction.
The house was made of brown stone. The home had a courtyard in front, a white picket fence, and a triangular roof. Holt and Fisher parked next to a Porsche Cayenne and approached the front door. Before they could even ring the doorbell, the door swung open.
Suzanne Burley was wearing a white gown. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a bun and she had on little or no makeup.
“Please, come in,” she said.
They followed her down the hall and to the living room. Like her previous house, the décor was all over the place. The furniture did not match the paint on the wall, and the artwork on the wall did not match the theme of the room.
“What’s the emergency?” Fisher asked. On the phone Suzanne sounded exasperated and angry. She wanted Fisher and Holt to come over right away.
Suzanne took a deep breath to compose herself. “I had my lawyer look into the pre-nup again. I wanted to make sure we didn’t miss anything in it.”
“Like what?”
“Prior to signing the pre-nup, I had Big Bob put in clauses that if the marriage lasted ten years, I would get something additional, fifteen years, then something more, and so on. It was a way to protect me further. I mean, I was not going to invest so much into this marriage and after twenty years not have enough to last me into my old age, you know.”
“And?” Holt impatiently asked.
“There was also a clause that if Big Bob was the one to end the marriage, then I would receive a bigger share of his assets. With Big Bob dead, he ended the marriage, you see.”
“But he was murdered,” Fisher said.
“I know, but like I said, I now have to look out for myself,” Suzanne said.
When it came to money, love or death was no longer a priority. The only thing that mattered was: “I get what’s mine.” Even though Suzanne Burley and Big Bob were separated at the time of his demise, it was not legally formalized, which meant she was looking at all angles to see if she could get an even bigger payout than what she already got being married to a millionaire lottery winner.
“I don’t know how this helps our investigation,” Holt said with a scowl.
“Oh, right,” she said, suddenly realizing her error. “While my lawyer was going through the legal documents, he discovered that Big Bob had amended his personal will.”
Now, this is interesting, Fisher thought. “And why did he do that?” she asked.
“His original will named his law firm as the executors of his estate with the beneficiaries being his son and daughter.”
Fisher glanced over at Holt. We still have to speak to his son, she thought. Holt caught her drift.
“I knew I was not named in it,” Suzanne continued. “I was hoping I was, but neither was Big Bob’s first wife, Joan. So, I didn’t feel too bad, but then in the amended will I found another name added.”
“Who is it?” Holt asked.
“I don’t recognize the name, but I think I have an idea. I had caught Big Bob cozying up to a waitress who worked at a restaurant he went to regularly. I even spotted her in his car one time, and when I confronted him about it, he said he was giving her a ride to her house.”
Fisher’s brow furrowed. “You think your husband was having an affair with this waitress?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Was this the reason for your separation?”
She shrugged. “There were other issues too.”
“Do you know the waitress’s name?” Holt asked.
She shook her head.
“Then give us the name on the amended will.”
THIRTY-NINE
Gilford Investments was located on the twenty-first floor of a glass and steel tower. Callaway was parked across the street with an unobstructed view of the building. He had located the place via a quick internet search. The photo of Cary Gilford showed him wearing a light blue blazer, white shirt, and no tie. A handkerchief neatly folded in his front jacket pocket completed the ensemble. His hair was slicked back, he was clean shaven, and his smile revealed pearly white teeth.
Gilford exuded the aura of a confidant and trustworthy investor, but Callaway had no faith when it came to bank managers, investment advisors, stockbrokers, or even insurance salespeople. They were all out to get his money, plain and simple. He barely had any savings, so he had no money to invest, but he knew people who lost everything from bad advice, high commissions, and unnecessary fees.
The financial market was a complex beast, one he was not qualified to put his foot in. Unfortunately, people who professed to know what they were doing were not qualified either. If they did, then every investment would be a home run. Some stocks went up from little market pressures, while other stocks went down for no apparent reason.
If you asked Callaway, investing was a crapshoot. That was why he preferred to keep his money in cash. True, he risked losing his money via robbery or disaster, and his funds never grew while they sat in his coat pocket, but he did not care. He liked to keep his money close to him. Plus, there was the matter of taxes. Callaway had not filed a tax return in years. If the IRS ever audited him, they would find no bank accounts and thus no deposits. If they chose to seek him out, he had moved so many times that it would be a difficult task. And even if they did end up finding him, once they saw the condition of his office and his rental accommodations, they would surely close his file without an assessment.
Callaway lived on the fringes of society. He was a man with no fixed address and no social ties. But he did have family.
What if the feds came knocking on Patti’s door? he thought. What if they go after Patti for my unpaid taxes?
He shook his head. He was being paranoid. He and Patti had been divorced for many years now and his problems were his only. She was constantly getting him out all sorts of predicaments, however. The very first time he was evicted from his home, she let him store all his belongings in her garage. When he owed money to a nasty loan shark (not named Mason), she let him hide at her house. But in hindsight, hiding at her place was a dumb and dangerous move. There was no telling what the loan shark would have done had he tracked Callaway down at her house.
He checked his watch. So far, Gilford had not come out of the building. Fortunately, the employee parking was next to the steel tower, clearly visible from his vantage point.
Callaway hoped to catch a glimpse of Gilford soon.
FORTY
The restaurant was on the corner of a busy intersection. It had a large glowing sign on the roof with the word DINER on it.
Fisher had been to quite a few diners in her life, and according to her they all looked the same. It was as if the same designer designed all of them. They had the red leather seats, narrow tables and booths, red stools and counters, and black-and-white checkered floors.
Some diners had swapped the red for pastel blue, but even then, the interior did not deviate too far from other diners.
Holt and Fisher spoke to the owner, a wrinkled man who looked to be in his sixties and were informed that Sasha Turbin had not come into work.
Sasha Turbin was the new name in Big Bob’s will. Suzanne Burley was correct when she said she believed Sasha Turbin was the same woman she had seen Big Bob cozying up to.
The owner then gave them Turbin’s address. A twenty-five-minute drive led them to a tan brick apartment building. They took the elevator to the eighth floor. They knocked on a door to an apartment and waited.
A few minutes later, a woman answered. She had a light brown complexion, curly jet-black hair, and full lips. Her emerald green eyes were raw, and her eyelids were puffy.
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