The Invisible Wife

by Thomas Fincham

  To confirm this, Callaway would have to go back to his office and run the address through the government’s property tax records. As a license private investigator, Callaway had access to dozens of databases. A necessity in his line of work. If the results came back as he hoped, he would drive straight to his client and deliver the news to her. This might even satisfy her, and he could be done with the case.

  Afterwards, he could finally decide what to do with the remaining money from the twenty-five thousand she had given him.

  SIXTY-NINE

  Callaway was about to leave the condo complex when something caught his attention. A car was coming down the road toward him. He squinted and realized it was Gilford’s Audi.

  Jackpot! he thought.

  Gilford drove past him and entered the complex. He pulled up to the security guard’s booth, the barrier came up, and he drove in.

  Callaway smiled. This keeps getting better and better.

  The Charger was on the other side of the road, across from the condo buildings. Callaway scanned his surroundings. He saw a coffee shop one traffic light away from the complex.

  He drove to the coffee shop and parked in the visitor’s lot. He removed a bag from the trunk and then jogged back to the complex.

  Gilford was there to see his assistant, which meant this was his chance to get the photos his client so desperately coveted. He was not sure how he would accomplish this task, but he had a plan.

  There was no security if someone walked into the complex. Callaway had seen residents of the three buildings do just that without anyone questioning them. The security guard was more preoccupied with parking. Most buildings had limited space, and as such, building management did not want residents parking in visitor spots or vice versa.

  Callaway walked down a concrete sidewalk and then cut through the children’s playground. He spotted a few parents with little ones in the area. They did not pay any attention to him. They were too busy watching their kids run around the slides, play in the dirt, or ride the swings.

  Condo building number one was adjacent to number two. Condo building number two was adjacent to number three. Building one was across from building three, with the children’s park in between them.

  Brooke O’Shea was in number three. If Callaway wanted a view of her unit, he would have to go to number one.

  He made a beeline for number one’s entrance.

  As he approached the main doors, he saw a couple exiting. The man smiled and held the door for him out of courtesy.

  He thinks I live in the building, Callaway thought.

  Callaway thanked him and went inside. He took the elevator all the way to the top. He got off, went down a hall and entered the roof of the building. The developers had converted that space into an outdoor patio. Lounge chairs, benches, and barbecues were laid out for residents to use. Fortunately, the patio was empty at the moment.

  He raced to the other side of the roof and looked over. He could see building number three across from him. He counted the floors from bottom to top. He stopped at eighteen. He then counted across and stopped at eight.

  1808. Brooke O’Shea’s unit number.

  He looked around to see if the coast was clear.

  He pulled out his digital camera from the backpack, attached an external lens, and then zoomed in on 1808.

  Luckily, the drapes in the condo were not drawn. He moved the camera from one room window to another.

  He stopped at the living room.

  Bingo.

  O’Shea and Gilford were seated on the sofa with a glass of wine in their hands. He focused the camera. He could see that Gilford was talking and O’Shea was smiling. Callaway snapped a few photos of them together.

  He hoped after the wine they would move to the bedroom. He did not like this part of his job—he felt like a voyeur—but over the years he had learned how to capture shots that were not fully explicit. No matter how much a client wanted to confirm the affair with their own eyes, they were never prepared to see someone they loved in compromising positions. Callaway’s technique cushioned the blow.

  O’Shea leaned closer to kiss Gilford. Suddenly, she stopped, stood up, and said something to him in anger, her arms flailing as she did so. Gilford stood up and pointed a finger at her. He too was now angry.

  They exchanged a few more words.

  Gilford hit her across the face.

  Callaway blinked. He was not expecting this.

  O’Shea retaliated by balling her fists and swinging at him. Gilford was bigger, and he quickly restrained her by grabbing her wrists. She pulled away and then ran into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

  Gilford went after her. He yelled something at the closed door. He then grabbed his suit jacket and left the apartment.

  Callaway had captured the entire incident on his camera.

  SEVENTY

  Callaway walked back to his car. He was disturbed by what he saw. Gilford had not only been violent toward his wife but also his mistress.

  What kind of a man would do that? he thought.

  A monster. And one who deserves what will happen next.

  Callaway drove straight to his office. He raced up the metal stairs, and once he was inside, he turned on his laptop. While the computer booted up, he scrolled through the photos he had taken.

  They showed Gilford with his mistress. They also showed him striking her across the face. Callaway would love to forward these to the authorities, but then they would ask how he had gotten them. He could not tell them he had gone on private property and then intruded on a personal situation from a distance. The courts would deem the photos inadmissible and therefore the authorities would not even bother looking at them.

  He could mail them to the authorities anonymously. This would force them to at least look into the matter. But then Gilford would know someone was watching him.

  But then again, the photos were not his property. They were his client’s. He had taken them for her, and as such it was not up to him what happened to them. His client could choose not to take them to the police. Perhaps that might even work more to her advantage. Gilford’s reputation and career would be in tatters if the photos ever got out to the public. He would do anything for that not to happen, even if that meant handing over his namesake firm to his soon to be ex-wife.

  Callaway felt giddy at that last thought. He never imagined his visit to the condo complex would turn out to be so fruitful.

  He turned his attention to the laptop. He punched in Brooke O’Shea’s address in one of the online databases. To his dismay, the property was registered under her name. Gilford was not paying for it, at least on record, so that could not be used against him.

  No worries, he thought. I still have damning evidence to destroy both Gilford and his mistress.

  His cell phone rang. He answered.

  He raced out of the office.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was ringing Patti’s doorbell.

  Patti answered. Before he could utter a word, she asked, “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” he replied. “At least, I don’t remember doing anything.”

  “Nina’s been crying for twenty minutes.”

  His heart sank. “Why?”

  “She said you said something to her friend.”

  “What friend?”

  “Jamie.”

  Callaway opened his mouth but then shut it.

  Patti glared at him. “Did you ask him if he wanted to marry Nina?”

  “Um… I just wanted to know his intentions toward my daughter.”

  “Marriage? Really? They’re both only nine years old.”

  “In some countries…”

  She put her hand up to stop him. “Don’t even go there.”

  Nina stuck her head out. Her eyes were red and filled with anger.

  He broke into a smile. “Hey, baby.”

  “I hate you, Daddy!” she shouted.

  Nina stormed upstairs to her room.


  Callaway felt like someone had seared his heart with a hot poker.

  “She doesn’t mean it,” Patti said in a calm voice. “Kids can get overly dramatic.”

  “Are they always like this?” he asked.

  “Oh yeah, for sure. If you were more involved, you’d know.”

  He suddenly felt physically ill.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  Callaway took a sip from his glass. His head was bowed as he stared at the bar’s countertop. He could not believe he had screwed things up even when he was not trying to. Nina was mad at him. She had been cross before, but never to the extent she was now.

  I hate you, Daddy.

  Those words stung worse than anything he had felt before, and Callaway had been through his share of pain. Mostly physical, though. When he failed to return payment to a loan shark, they would send someone to recover their money. Callaway had found himself at the other end of a fist, foot, and elbow. He had his nose broken twice, had been left with several black eyes and even a missing tooth. This was on top of the bruised ribs and ego.

  But all that did not compare to the pain he was feeling right now. Nina was his life. He never realized it when she was younger, but things were different now. He wanted to be there for her when she needed him.

  He sighed. He was only trying to protect her. He did not want to see her get hurt. Instead, he had somehow hurt her.

  He felt movement beside him.

  “You okay, Lee?” a voice asked.

  He turned and saw it was Fisher.

  “Dana,” he said. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” she replied.

  He took another sip. “Trying to clear my head.”

  “What did you do now?”

  “How do you know I did anything?”

  “It’s written all over your face.” She pulled up a stool next to his. “I heard you had quit PI work. Is that right?”

  “I did for a short while, but then I got a new case.”

  “Let me guess,” she said. “Your client wants you to follow her cheating husband.”

  His jaw dropped. “How’d you know?”

  She laughed, knowing he was joking. “Let’s just say, I’m psychic,”

  “It pays well,” he said. “So, drinks on me.”

  Fisher gave him a look. “You know I can’t drink while on duty.”

  “Then I go back to my initial question: what are you doing here?”

  She sighed. “Trying to clear my head.”

  “Hey, don’t steal my lines.”

  The bartender came over. Fisher ordered a soda.

  “Put it on my tab,” Callaway said.

  The bartender nodded and then returned with her drink.

  She took a sip and said, “So what’s really bothering you?”

  “You really wanna know?”

  “I do.”

  He told her.

  When he was done, she said, “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Kids can be overly dramatic.”

  “Those were the exact words Patti used,” he said, genuinely surprised. “You are psychic.”

  Fisher laughed again. “I have four nieces and nephews, so I’m familiar with how kids think at that age.”

  Callaway turned back to his drink.

  Fisher said, “I’m proud that you are making an effort. The old Lee Callaway wouldn’t have even known his daughter had a friend named Jamie.”

  “True,” he said. After a brief pause, he asked, “So, what’re you working on right now?”

  “You know I can’t discuss cases with you.”

  Callaway smirked. “Did it have something to do with the dead lottery winner?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I’m also psychic.”

  Fisher sighed and rolled her eyes. “Okay, enough with the psychic jokes.”

  “I heard he left behind a ton of money.”

  “And a ton of problems.”

  “Are you saying money doesn’t solve all your problems? Money sure solves my problems.”’

  “Most of your problems revolve around money, or lack of it.” Her cell phone buzzed. She answered and then hung up. “I have to go,” she said.

  “Work?”

  “It always is.”

  “Take it easy,” he said with a wave.

  She moved away, but then she stopped and turned to him. “You managed to mess things up with Nina, but that doesn’t mean you can’t fix them. Kids can be very forgiving. Trust me.”

  He smiled. “Thanks, Dana.”

  SEVENTY-TWO

  Debra Coleheim lay in the back of a Chevy Tahoe which was registered to Chase Burley.

  Her face was purple and bruised, her eyes were swollen and shut, and her lips were cut and puffy.

  I was only half correct, Fisher thought as she stared at the lifeless body. Debra had left the trailer park in Chase’s vehicle, but she had not driven it. Someone else had.

  Holt stood next to her. He had called her the moment he had arrived on the scene.

  There were marks across Coleheim’s neck which indicated she had been strangled. Fisher could not tell if it was with a rope or by bare hands. An autopsy would confirm the exact cause of death.

  The Tahoe was parked in a ditch next to a rural road. The ditch was so deep that it was near impossible to see the Tahoe from the road.

  As if reading her mind, Holt pointed to a sedan parked on the side of the road, “The guy had a flat tire, so he pulled over. When he got out to change it, he saw the back of the Tahoe. He went to check to see if someone might have had an accident and saw her body in the back.”

  “Did you notify the ME?” Fisher asked.

  “She’s on her way.”

  Fisher felt a headache coming on. She kind of wished she had sipped a real drink at the bar when Callaway had offered one to her. Now they were up to three murders.

  A thought occurred to her. “Why not kill her back at the trailer park?”

  Holt frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Whoever killed Chase Burley also killed Debra Coleheim.”

  “That would be my conclusion as well.”

  “So why leave Chase’s body in the trailer home and hers all the way out here?”

  Holt’s brow furrowed. “Maybe the killer wanted something from her.”

  “Yes, and I think I know what.”

  Holt looked confused.

  She leaned down into the trunk and lifted up the side of Debra Coleheim’s dress.

  The dress was torn.

  “You think she was… raped?” Holt asked.

  “Yes, or she let her killer do whatever he wanted with her in the hope that he would let her go. She was a prostitute, after all.”

  Holt’s face darkened. He took sexual assault very seriously. Such crimes had everything to do with power, specifically male over female. In some countries, sexual assault was used as a weapon against the female population in order to keep them subdued. Even the threat of such violence would silence a woman against her oppressors, which in most cases were their husbands or relatives.

  Fisher said, “It would explain why we didn’t find Chase’s vehicle at the trailer park. The killer had taken it. It also explains why we didn’t find Debra Coleheim at the trailer park either. The killer had taken her too.”

  Holt looked away, clearly troubled.

  Fisher suddenly felt bad for Bull, Debra’s neighbor. He was worried for her and rightly so. He would be crushed to know what had happened to her.

  Holt looked back at Fisher. “I don’t think this has anything to do with Chase’s drug problem.”

  Fisher saw what he was getting at. They had formulated a theory that the people who had shot up Chase’s house in Westport had traced him to his father’s house, killed his father for the money in the safe, and then, to tie up loose ends, they found Chase in the trailer home and killed him. But there were not too many cases of drug dealers murdering a rival dealer and raping their wives or girlfriends f
or revenge. Fisher had heard of such stories in Mexico or Colombia, but not in the United States. And even in those instances, the murder and rape by gang members was only done to send a message so that no one messed with them.

  Debra Coleheim was neither Chase’s wife nor girlfriend. She was someone he hired for the night whenever he was in Milton.

  Maybe the killer or killers did not know that. Chase was found hiding in her home, so she could have been collateral damage, or someone who was at the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Regardless, Fisher knew they were no closer to solving who had murdered Big Bob, Chase Burley, and now Debra Coleheim.

  She shook her head and walked over to the motorist who had spotted the Tahoe. She hoped he had seen something that might help in their investigation. But she could not help shake off the feeling it would be another dead end.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  When Callaway called Isabel Gilford, he was surprised by her response. He expected her to tell him to wait by the side of the road for her. Instead, she gave him an address and told him she would be waiting for him there.

  The house was located thirty miles outside of Milton. A winding road led to the property’s entrance, and Callaway had to drive another quarter of a mile on a gravel path until he was in front of a house which had a white exterior and a black roof. There were flower pots in the front, and clay statues of various animals were scattered about the property.

  He parked next to a bird feeder and got out. He looked around. He did not see another vehicle. He was certain the black limousine would be here. Isabel Gilford never went anywhere without it.

  Maybe I’m early, he thought.

  Prior to driving over, he did a quick search on the address and found that the house was listed under Isabel Gilford.

  He walked up to the front door and knocked. While he waited, he looked around again. There was not another house as far as his eyes could see. The property was next to a lake and it was surrounded by a lush forest.