The Gone Sister

by Thomas Fincham

  THOMAS FINCHAM

  THE GONE SISTER

  A LEE CALLAWAY MYSTERY

  The Gone Sister © Thomas Fincham 2018

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, including the right to reproduce this work or portions thereof, in any form.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Read Thomas Fincham’s Starter Library for FREE when you sign up to my Reader’s Group.

  GET MY FREE E-BOOK

  Visit the author’s website:

  www.finchambooks.com

  Contact:

  contact@finchambooks.com

  HYDER ALI

  The Silent Reporter (Hyder Ali #1)

  The Rogue Reporter (Hyder Ali #2)

  The Runaway Reporter (Hyder Ali #3)

  The Serial Reporter (Hyder Ali #4)

  The Street Reporter (Hyder Ali #5)

  The Student Reporter (Hyder Ali #0)

  MARTIN RHODES

  Close Your Eyes (Martin Rhodes #1)

  Cross Your Heart (Martin Rhodes #2)

  Say Your Prayers (Martin Rhodes #3)

  Fear Your Enemy (Martin Rhodes #0)

  ECHO ROSE

  The Rose Garden (Echo Rose #1)

  The Rose Tattoo (Echo Rose #2)

  The Rose Thorn (Echo Rose #3)

  The Rose Water (Echo Rose #4)

  STANDALONE

  The Blue Hornet

  The October Five

  The Paperboys Club

  Killing Them Gently

  The Solaire Trilogy

  FOREWORD

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for checking out my work. The Gone Sister is book #2 in the Lee Callaway series. Although this book can be read as a standalone, there are minor references to the first book. If you haven’t had the chance, please check out The Dead Daughter as well.

  Also, if you want more of Lee Callaway you can read his introduction in The Rose Water (Echo Rose #4).

  Thank you again for your support. Without you, I wouldn’t get to do what I do.

  Thomas Fincham

  ONE

  Several Years Earlier

  Anthony “Fatboy” Carvalho lit up a cigarette and took a long drag. He had earned his nickname back when he used to weigh almost three hundred pounds. After a heart attack at the age of thirty-five, however, he changed his diet and started exercising. He lost close to a hundred pounds in two years, and he planned to lose another twenty by the end of this year.

  He had also stopped drinking, but he could not kick smoking. Cigarettes were his constant companion during his weight loss. He would light up a cigarette whenever he had a craving for food. His smoking was probably worse than his excess weight, but he would take things one step at a time. First he would finish losing weight, and then he would quit smoking.

  Fatboy was sitting at a table on a restaurant’s outdoor patio. He could feel the sun beating down on him, making his neck burn, but he did not mind it. The vitamin D was good for him. His shirt and jacket hung loosely over his slimmer frame. His belt was on its last notch to keep his pants from falling off. He had still not upgraded his attire. He wanted to hit his target weight and then do a complete overhaul of his wardrobe. Why waste money on clothes before that? he figured.

  The waitress brought over his espresso. She was young and blonde. He felt an impulse to get her number, but he quickly decided not to. He was not presentable yet. He still had more work to do on his body.

  There was, however, another reason for hesitation.

  He was a marked man.

  Fatboy worked as the right-hand man for Paolo Beniti. Beniti imported heroin from the Balkans and Eastern Europe, and then he sold the drug through a network of dealers in the city. He also wholesaled heroin, which enabled him to keep the peace with other distributors. If they ran short, he was more than willing to sell the drug to them. He was also involved in selling counterfeit brand-name goods, and he owned retail properties and small businesses throughout the city.

  Beniti valued obedience above everything else, and if one of his subordinates deviated from his instructions, Beniti’s reprisals were ruthless.

  Several months earlier, Fatboy had gotten into an altercation with the son of a casino owner. The altercation had left Fatboy with a black eye, a swollen cheek, and a bruised ego. If Fatboy was not in the process of losing weight, he would have used his bulk to win the fight. Beniti had ordered Fatboy not to retaliate, as Beniti was friends with the casino owner.

  Fatboy did not listen.

  When he saw his opportunity, he attacked the casino owner’s son with a baseball bat. He broke several of the boy’s bones and walked away feeling satisfied.

  The boy had to spend a month in the hospital.

  Naturally, Beniti was not pleased. Fatboy apologized and swore he would never disobey his commands again, but he knew he had crossed the line.

  Fatboy was notorious for his temper. His bad attitude made him feared in the organization, but his anger had put him in the position he was in now. Had he let bygones be bygones, he would not be sitting here drinking espresso, wondering if this would be the last drink he ever tasted. But what was done was done. Sooner or later, someone would come for him.

  But Fatboy would not go down without a fight.

  He always kept a watchful eye on his surroundings, making sure nothing caught him by surprise. This survival tactic had kept him alive before, so why not now?

  He was also proactive.

  Fatboy had done what his dead associates never did. He had gone to the feds. He promised the FBI valuable information on Beniti and his associates in return for immunity and protection.

  He took a sip of his espresso and checked his watch. His FBI contact would be here any minute.

  He heard a commotion. A male customer two tables down was arguing with the pretty blonde waitress. The man was loud and rude. Fatboy felt an urge to get up, go give the man a hard slap, and say, That’s no way to speak to a lady.

  He got ready to rise to his feet when he heard a rumble. Fatboy turned to see what it was.

  A motorcyclist pulled up next to the patio, stopping five feet from Fatboy. The rider—a man—was dressed in black. Black leather jacket, black pants and boots, and a black helmet. He looked like the Grim Reaper.

  Fatboy knew what this was. My time is up, he thought.

  Fatboy and the hit man went for their guns.

  The hit man whipped out a 9mm and fired first.

  A bullet ripped through Fatboy’s shoulder, spinning him in his chair. Fatboy fell to the deck and pulled his table in front of him as a shield.

  The hit man blazed away at Fatboy, but his bullets smacked into the metal table instead.

  Pandemonium broke loose as café customers and employees fled the patio, screaming and ducking as they fled.

  Fatboy finally drew his gun—a revolver—and fired back.

  He caught the shooter off guard. He turned to flee, but he slipped and fell.

  Fatboy felt a surge of rage. He got up from behind the table and fired again. His bullet struck the shooter in the back, but the shooter was able to turn and fire off one more burst.

  One of his shots hit Fatboy squarely in the chest.

  He dropped to the deck.

  The shooter hopped on his motorcycle and rode away.

  Fatboy clutched at his chest as blood covered his shirt. His ears rang, and he felt disoriented.

  He glanced off to his right and saw people huddled around someone on the deck. He could not tell who.

  Why aren’t they checking on me? he wondered. I’m also hurt.

 
He realized he was still gripping his revolver. He let the gun slip from his fingers. His eyelids suddenly felt heavy, and his entire body was on fire with pain.

  His breathing became labored as he shut his eyes and fell into a sea of darkness.

  TWO

  Present Day

  Her legs ached as she made her way up the narrow street. The predawn glow filled the eastern horizon, but the streetlights were still lit.

  The woman wore a light-colored hoodie and track pants. Rock music blared through her earbuds, giving her the energy to keep pushing even when she was on the brink of exhaustion.

  Dana Fisher loved to go for a run early in the morning when everyone was still asleep. There were no people, cars, or pets to contend with. She felt like she was on a solitary journey. Her destination was not important, nor was finishing her run by a certain time. The only thing that mattered to Fisher was getting in a good workout.

  She checked her athletic watch. She had a good heartbeat, a high burned-calorie count, and the miles run were more than on her last sprint.

  She smiled and resumed her run, pushing herself even harder. She raced down the street, cut through a park, went over a railway line, and then made her way back to her apartment building.

  As Fisher entered the lobby, she pulled off her soaking wet hoodie, revealing her dark shoulder-length hair. She was five-five and weighed close to a hundred and ten pounds. Her nose was thin and pointed upwards, and it moved whenever she opened her mouth. Her green eyes were large and expressive, and they were staring at her reflection in the lobby’s mirrored wall.

  She was a member of the Milton Police Department. She had ambitions to become a captain one day. So far, she was enjoying her time as a detective. Being a peace officer was gritty and gruesome work, but it gave her invaluable experience. She had learned to be better focused, patient, and compartmentalize her tasks: all skills she would need when the time came for her to run her own police precinct.

  She had no doubt she would one day.

  While she waited in the lobby, she saw that one of the three elevators was not working. There was always something wrong in her building. If it was not the elevators, it was the hot water shutting off in the middle of a shower, or the heating system not producing enough air to warm a room. Or worse, the fire alarms malfunctioned when there could be a potential emergency.

  She had thought about moving out, but with the rent so high in the city, it was almost impossible to find something affordable. With rent control, she was secure in not having to worry about her rent increasing exorbitantly. If she went to another location, the landlords could charge her whatever they wanted, as the rent control laws did not apply to new tenants. On top of that, there were the moving costs.

  Until she could save enough money or get a promotion, she was staying put.

  The other two working elevators were at the top floors. She decided to take the stairs instead. Unfortunately, she lived on the sixth floor.

  Her apartment was brightly colored. She could not stand looking at the beige walls that had turned yellowish after years of dirt and grime, so she had given her place a new coat of paint right after she moved in.

  The bedroom was on the right, the living room and kitchen on the left. At the far end was her favorite spot. The balcony had been enclosed by the previous tenants, giving her an extra room. She had converted the space into her meditation room.

  The apartment walls were covered in family photos. In each picture, she was the one girl with three brothers. Maybe that explained why she was comfortable with butting heads with her male colleagues. Her parents were both professionals, and they had hoped their daughter would get a nine-to-five job behind a desk. She knew she was not ready for that at this stage of her life. She wanted to see the city, and as a detective, she saw more than what most people did.

  Her cell phone buzzed. She thought about not answering.

  Her phone continued to buzz.

  She gritted her teeth, put her phone to her ear, and said, “Fisher.” She listened. “It’s my day off. Call Detective Holt.” She listened some more. She sighed. “Okay, fine. I’ll be right there.”

  THREE

  Fisher’s hair was still wet from the cold shower as she drove twenty-five minutes to her destination. She was wearing a white top, blue jeans, brown boots, and a black jacket. She did not even have time to put on makeup. She was not big on cosmetics, but a simple eyeliner and lipstick would have been nice. She might have to make a statement to the press.

  She took a sip from the thermos. The coffee was piping hot.

  She had her entire day planned out. After her morning run, she was going to have a long bubble bath. She would then make herself pancakes for breakfast. Not a healthy choice, but after a good workout, she needed to reward herself.

  There was a book on her coffee table that she was looking forward to reading. The novel was a Harlequin romance. She would never let anyone at work know this. The teasing would never stop. The book was one of her guilty pleasures. The premise was straight out of dozens of romance novels: a working-class girl somehow meets and falls in love with a real-life prince. The twist was that the girl was also a princess, but she wanted to see if the prince would marry a commoner.

  Afterwards she was going to go out for lunch with a friend. She had been postponing the meeting for months, and she hated having to cancel at the last minute. She would find a way to make it up to her friend later.

  Her night was supposed to have been spent watching a light romantic comedy. She needed some lightness in her otherwise dark life. Detectives were faced with gruesome deaths, destroyed families, and other unimaginable horrors. The last thing she wanted was to end her day by watching a gut-wrenching drama, a tense thriller, or a murder mystery.

  She spotted a police cruiser parked by the side of the road. She slowed down when the officer waved her through. A yellow strand of police tape had been arranged to secure the area. The officer held the tape up to allow her to drive underneath.

  She was in the parking lot of a retail store whose sign read Elegant Furniture. A car was parked in one of the empty spots. Fisher did not park next to that vehicle. Instead, she found a spot further in the corner.

  She got out when the officer approached her. “Detective Fisher?” he said.

  “You’re the officer who asked for me specifically?” she asked.

  “I did.”

  She was annoyed. “I was scheduled to be off today, you know. I booked vacation weeks ago.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I figured you’d want to be here.”

  “And why is that?” she replied. She was still thinking about the pancakes she was supposed to have for breakfast.

  “You should take a look.”

  They walked to the parked car. The sun had begun to rise, illuminating the car. She could tell the vehicle was a Chrysler sedan just by looking at it. The paint was silver with alloy rims. As she got close, she saw broken glass scattered on the asphalt next to the driver’s side door.

  She also saw blood.

  A man was slumped in the seat, his head bowed with his chin resting on his chest. The strap of the seatbelt was preventing him from falling on the steering wheel.

  Fisher put her hand over her mouth when she saw who the victim was.

  FOUR

  He pinched his nostrils and tilted his head back. He grimaced as pain shot up through his nose and into his brain. His fingers were covered in blood, but when he checked his hands, he saw the blood had dried.

  Great, he thought. I managed to stop the bleeding.

  Lee Callaway was tall and in relatively good shape. He was tan, and he had strands of silver around his temples that made him look far more mature than he was.

  Callaway was seated on a park bench. He was wearing a t-shirt that was stained red. Fortunately, the t-shirt was black, so his blood was not easily visible. His jeans were tattered, and his boots were scuffed. His leather coat was the only thing that did not look like it
had been purchased from a used clothing store, even though Callaway had purchased the coat from just such a place. He was proud of the low price he had paid for the coat.

  His eyes watered when he touched the bridge of his nose. He had already snapped the bone back in place, but he knew it could take days for the swelling to come down.

  He could not believe he had put himself in this situation.

  His reckless behavior had once again gotten him in trouble.

  A client had hired him to follow his wife. He believed she was cheating on him. The case was straightforward, one Callaway had tackled dozens of times. Callaway did not expect he would get intimately involved with the wife. She was beautiful, lonely, and vulnerable. She was much younger than her husband, by almost twenty years. She was a mail-order bride. The client was a brute of a man, twice Callaway’s size. During a stakeout, Callaway caught the wife weeping in her bedroom. In a moment of sympathy, which he now regretted, he knocked on the front door. They talked. She told him how much she missed her family back in Russia. He felt sorry for her. And then one thing led to another, and he found himself at the end of the husband’s fist.

  He had to return the fee he had charged the husband for his services. He also had to pay extra to stop the husband from hurting him more.

  Callaway did not think this was fair. Did the wife’s involvement with him not prove she was cheating on her husband? He should have gotten a bonus instead of being subjected to a beating.

  The sun was up, and he squinted as the light hit his eyes. The night had been a total failure. After extricating himself from the situation, the only thing Callaway had in his mind was to get as far away from the husband as possible. In his haste, he forgot his car was still parked across from the client’s house.