Holt always hoped that as she got older, they would find something they were both passionate about.
Brit said, “Mom and Dad are really messed up after what happened. I’m worried about them.”
“They’re grieving, so things won’t be normal for some time.”
Brit pondered her uncle’s words and then nodded. “I can’t believe he’s gone,” she said.
“I know,” Holt said.
She turned and faced the open window. The cool air blew into the car. He thought about rolling up the window, but he did not. He was not sure if she was cold or hot.
“Was Isaiah seeing anyone?” he asked. He wondered if Brit might be able to confirm Byron Fox’s claim that Isaiah was talking to a woman the night he died.
“I don’t know,” Brit replied. “I’ve been busy with my studies, and ever since Isaiah went to college, I barely got to see him.”
Brit was only at the Cougars’ season-opening game. She was not a sports fan.
They were silent for a moment before Brit turned to Holt and said, “Uncle Greg, why would someone hurt Isaiah?”
Her eyes were brimming with tears.
Holt had been thinking the same thing. Isaiah was the type of person who would never hurt a fly. What had he done to deserve this fate? he thought.
“I promise, I will find who took Isaiah from us,” he said.
Brit leaned over and hugged him. A strong emotion rose inside him, and he put his arms around her. He wanted to tell her everything would be all right and everything would go back to normal. But he knew they would never be the same and that they would never fully recover from the loss of Isaiah.
FORTY-FIVE
Elle and Callaway were back at his office. Elle was seated on the sofa bed, and Callaway was seated at his small desk. He had to escort Elle up the narrow stairs. He stayed behind her in case she missed a step and tumbled backward. She was much shorter than him. Even in her oversized sweater, he could tell she did not weigh much. He would have no problem catching her if she fell.
The office was crammed, and now that he paid attention, he realized the office also reeked of stale body odors and rotted food. Callaway had slept in the office whenever he was evicted from his apartment, which resulted in him not showering for days or weeks. He did not cook, so takeout was his form of getting a meal. There were empty Styrofoam boxes piled up in the corner.
He should have cleaned out the office, but he never expected to bring a client here. He normally met them at their place of residence, at a coffee shop or bar, or sometimes in a park where the client did not want anyone finding out he or she had hired a private investigator. It was mostly paranoia, Callaway believed. He was not some spy who had information that could threaten national security. He was a PI who caught people who were a threat to their marriages and nothing more.
On his laptop, he typed the name given to them by the student at the fashion academy. To his surprise, the search resulted in a dozen hits. Linda Eustace was active on several social networking sites. He clicked on them. There were photos of her lounging on a beach, drinking colorful umbrella drinks, and posing in front of well-known monuments around the world.
He figured the student might have been mistaken, but as he stared at the montage of photos, he could not help but see that Linda Eustace was indeed Katie Pearson.
“What did you find?” Elle asked.
He was not sure how to break his discovery to her.
“Unfortunately,” Callaway replied gently, “Linda Eustace is your sister. There are dozens of photos of her on the internet.”
He was met with silence. “Are you sure?” she finally said.
“The resemblance is uncanny, I’m afraid.”
Callaway thought of something. “The Polaroid you gave me, are you sure it’s Katie’s.”
Elle scowled. “Are you asking me this because I’m blind?”
Callaway winced, but he had to ask. What if the photo was of someone else? “You said you had lost your eyesight when you were fourteen,” Callaway said. “The Polaroid looks like it was taken when your sister was in her early twenties, so how would you know it’s her?”
“She gave it to me only a year ago.”
“Why?”
“I asked her for it.”
He frowned. Something doesn’t add up, he thought.
Elle said, “She was leaving for Milton, and it was the first time she would be away from me. I wasn’t emotionally ready to let go. I actually tried to talk her out of going, but I knew I could only keep her with me for so long. Eventually, she would have to find her way into the world. She gave me the Polaroid so that I would always have a piece of her with me.” She laughed. “It sounds so absurd now that I think about it. People normally keep a memento like a necklace, or a ring, maybe even a scarf with their loved one’s perfume on it. I chose to keep a photo that I can’t even tell is hers.”
Callaway was silent again. What she was saying made sense, but he had a nagging feeling he could not push away.
Elle said, “When I’d not had any contact with Katie, I would take out the photo and hold it. It felt like she was right there with me. Once, though, I spilled coffee over the photo, and I thought I’d ruined it completely. I asked a neighbor if it was destroyed. He told me the photo was not damaged, but there was a brown stain on the back. Is there?”
Callaway flipped the Polaroid over. There was indeed a dark smudge on the back. “Yes.”
She smiled. “Then that is Katie’s photo you are holding.” Her smile faded when she said,
“This Linda Eustace… how can you be sure it’s Katie? What if it’s someone who looks like her?”
Callaway again wanted to tell her they were the same person. He scrolled through the social networking site and said, “The last photo was posted exactly three months ago. It was around the time your sister disappeared.”
Elle’s face darkened. She reached for her walking cane and stood up. He feared she would leave the office.
“Why would she lie to me?” Elle said. “Why would she not tell me about this other life she was living as Linda Eustace?”
“Maybe she thought you’d be hurt if you knew she was having a great time traveling around the world without you.”
“I would never be jealous of my little sister. Her happiness means everything to me.”
Callaway suddenly understood what was nagging him. Maybe Elle’s sister was living a double life that she did not want her to find out about.
“When we first spoke, you said this was your first time visiting Milton,” he said. “I never asked you then, but why had you not visited before?”
“I offered to come,” Elle said. “Each time I did, Katie would make some excuse. She’d say she was too busy with work or school. One time I told her I had packed my bags and I wanted her to pick me up from the bus stop. I was hoping she would take me to where she was staying, but she said she’d caught a viral infection and was bedridden. She did not want me to catch it.” Elle frowned. “She knew of my phobia about germs, so it was convenient for her to use it to talk me out of coming to Milton.” She shook her head. “How stupid I was not to realize she was keeping me at a distance.”
FORTY-SIX
They parked next to a police cruiser and got out. Holt and Fisher approached the uniformed officer. He was tall and slim with long sideburns and a heavy mustache. He looked like he had stepped out of a 1980s cop show.
“Erik Wilcox,” he said.
“Officer Wilcox, what have you got for us?” Holt asked.
“I’ve patrolled this neighborhood for a couple of years now, and I’ve come to know some of the residents pretty well. One of them said they recognized him.” Wilcox held up the photo of the bicyclist. “His name is Bo Smith. He is a small-time drug dealer. They say he’s been in and out of prison for fraud and theft.” Wilcox pointed at a nearby apartment building. The exterior was painted gray, and the building had rail balconies and large windows. Most were either shaded or
were too high to see inside. “The resident said he’s seen Smith riding his bike up and down the neighborhood, and that he lives in one of the units in that building.”
“Is he armed and dangerous?” Holt asked.
“I don’t know.”
Fisher said, “Should we call for backup?”
She could tell Holt was itching to go in and get Bo Smith. If he could do it himself, he would. But he turned to her and said, “What do you think?”
Fisher ran the scenarios through her mind.
Holt was not known for his tact. If there was crucial information he needed, he would use his size and his position on the force to intimidate the witness. Fisher did not agree with him, but she understood why he did that. The bad guys did not play by the rules, so why should they not be allowed to bend them once in a while? Unfortunately, the defense team would have a field day in court should their client lodge a complaint about Holt’s behavior.
Technically, they did not have an arrest warrant for Smith. He was not a suspect in Isaiah’s death. He was a person of interest. They only wanted to know what he knew. The defense would ask, Was a SWAT team necessary when you merely wanted to speak to Smith? Was a group of armed officers required to gather such information? Worst of all, the defense would argue that their client only provided the information out of fear for his safety. He was outnumbered and outgunned. He had no choice but to cooperate with the police. The defense would then ask the judge to rule Smith’s information as inadmissible.
They were not going to go in heavy, not when Smith had given no indication he was a threat. He had made the 9-1-1 call, after all. If he was responsible for Isaiah’s death, he surely would not have done so.
Then there was the matter of their security. What if Smith was dangerous? What if he had a cache of weapons on his premises? This was something she could not take lightly. She would never forgive herself if anything happened to those under her command.
“It’s your call, Detective Fisher,” Holt said, knowing full well she was mulling over all her options. “Whatever you decide, we’ll go with that.” He wanted her to know he was not going to hold her decision against her.
Fisher turned to Wilcox. “Which floor is Smith on?”
“Fourth. Apartment 407.”
“We go in right now in case someone alerts Smith that we are looking for him,” Fisher said.
Holt smiled. She was basically saying, We don’t have time to wait for backup because Smith could disappear.
She unlocked her trunk and pulled out two Kevlar vests. “But we go in with protection.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Holt said, grabbing a vest from her. He was grinning from ear to ear.
She just hoped they would not need them.
FORTY-SEVEN
After checking their weapons, they moved toward the front of the building. An older man with grocery bags had just scanned his key fob when they caught up to him. They held the door for him, but the look on his face said he would rather not go inside.
“I think I forgot something in my car,” he said as he hurried away.
They moved into the lobby and saw a group of people waiting by the elevators. The moment they saw them, they scattered.
They sense something bad is about to go down, Fisher thought. I hope not.
Instead of taking the elevator, which could box them in and allow their target to escape, they took the stairs. It was only four flights up, and Fisher was grateful for that. Her feet were now beginning to feel less sore, and she did not want to make them ache again.
Holt took the front, Fisher was in the middle, and Wilcox was behind her. Wilcox looked like he could handle himself in a shoot-out. The hard look on his face showed he meant business. Fisher tightened her grip on her weapon. She was a good shot. She could hit a target a hundred feet away.
They reached the fourth floor. Holt stuck his head out into the hallway. He looked around and said, “It’s clear.”
They entered the dingy hallway.
A strong odor hit their nostrils, a combination of spices, marijuana, and body odor.
They gathered around the door to apartment 407. Fisher placed her ear to the door and listened. Loud rap music was playing inside.
She looked at Holt and Wilcox and nodded, silently telling them Smith was home.
She banged on the door and yelled, “Bo Smith! It’s the police! Open the door!”
She moved to the side in case Smith decided to fire through the door.
There was no response.
She repeated the command again.
When there was still no response, she gave Holt the signal. Holt faced the door, took one step back, and then kicked the door with his right foot. The side panel cracked and snapped as the door swung in.
They moved inside. There was a narrow hall in front, a kitchen on the right, a door leading into the bathroom, and a living room straight ahead.
Holt continued down the hall. Fisher turned into the kitchen. It was empty. There were dirty dishes in the sink. Flies were swirling over a half-eaten piece of meat pie.
She spotted a bedroom door across from the kitchen and moved ahead.
She reached for the handle and threw the bedroom door open. There was a mattress on the floor, and clothes were strewn around the bed.
After checking the closet, she went back out. She found Holt and Wilcox staring at something on the sofa.
When she got closer, she realized they were standing before a man. Smith’s eyes were closed, and his head was tilted back. His mouth was open, and there was drool flowing down his chin.
A black belt was strapped around his arm, and a syringe was stuck in his skin beneath the belt.
On the table before him was a backpack. Is it the same one we’d seen him wearing in the security camera footage? Fisher thought. Next to the table was a BMX bicycle, which further confirmed they were at the right apartment.
The TV was playing a loud rap video.
“Is he dead?” Wilcox asked.
“Let’s find out,” Fisher replied. She leaned in, yelled his name, and shook his shoulder. Smith was unresponsive.
She leaned closer and saw there was a bluish tint to his lips. She placed two fingers on the side of his neck.
“There’s a pulse,” she said.
Smith had the telltale signs of an overdose. If he did not get immediate medical attention, he would soon be dead.
FORTY-EIGHT
The ride was quiet as they drove to Mayview. After Callaway broke the news to Elle that her sister was living a different life in Milton, she had gotten eerily silent.
She had sat on his office sofa staring ahead while gripping her cane. She hardly spoke two sentences to Callaway, and this concerned him.
He did not know her that well, apart from the fact that she was blind, had phobias, and was peculiar at times. He had once caught her smiling about something. When he checked, it was a group of children laughing and giggling while playing at the playground in the distance. He was certain she was focused on them. Maybe her hearing had become more acute, like that blind superhero from the comic books he used to read as a kid.
He did not ask her why she was smiling. A part of him was happy for her. She had been robbed of sight and was now compensating with other senses. Callaway could not imagine what he would do if that were to ever happen to him. He would likely spend the remainder of his life drinking it away thinking, What’s the point when I can’t have any fun?
Sure, people with disabilities lived a full life, but Callaway functioned on stimulation. He rarely contemplated his actions. If he did, he would still be a deputy sheriff, married, and seeing his little girl grow up. Maybe a sudden illness might curb his reckless behavior? Maybe then he would focus on what was more important: his daughter and her happiness.
When Elle finally stood up to leave his office, he offered to drive her wherever she wanted to go. She was so shocked by her sister’s betrayal, he felt an obligation not to leave her alone.
She told him she wanted to go home, and he was grateful that she agreed to let him drive her.
They drove for another ten minutes in silence before Elle finally spoke. “It’s my fault.”
He gave no reply. He did not want to interrupt her.
“I’ve always been hard on my sister. I’ve wanted the best for her. Katie could do whatever she wanted in her life. She had nothing that would hold her back. She was free to follow her dreams, something I could never do. I loved her dearly, but maybe I was too harsh with her at times. It felt like if she did not do everything, she was wasting the gifts she had been given. In a way, if she made something of herself, then I made something of myself too. She was going to succeed for the both of us. Now I realize I was pinning my dreams on her.”
Makes sense, Callaway thought. Her sister did not want Elle to know what she was up to because she worried she might disappoint her. Then this led to a bigger question: What was Katie Pearson up to that she had to change her name to Linda Eustace?
Callaway said, “If you don’t mind me asking, what was your dream in life?”
She blushed. “You don’t want to know.”
“I do.”
After a pause, she said, “I wanted to be a professional skater.”
“Ice skater?”
She smiled. “Yes. I loved the way they glided on the ice like they were flying. They looked like they were free with not a care in the world.”
“Did you skate before?”
“I did until I lost my sight.”
“When did you start skating?”
“When I was five.”
“You can still skate. You know how to do it. There is nothing stopping you from getting back on the ice.”
She turned back to the window and said nothing for the remainder of the ride.
The Gone Sister Page 10