“I see,” she said. “And have you worked with Mr. Scott before?”
“No, this was the first time,” Rowe replied. “My background is in stage production, but I have directed TV series and films for the BBC. This was actually my first big picture, even though the budget is relatively small.”
“How so?” she asked, curious. Fisher loved movies, but she had never met a director before.
“It’s only ten million dollars. And the only reason we were able to get that was because of Dillon. We were certain with his name attached to the film, we could sell it to a distributor.”
“How was it working with Mr. Scott?” she asked.
“I only spent a few days with him, but I could tell he was excited about the role. He had so many ideas he wanted to explore, and we discussed all the different directions we could take the part in.”
“It’s my understanding he was at a script reading with you yesterday,” she said.
“Yes, he and our lead actress, Leslie.”
“Leslie?”
“Leslie Tillman.”
“Okay.”
“With a tight budget, you don’t get many days of rehearsal, so I wanted to squeeze in as much time with Dillon and Leslie as possible. Both of them have to carry the movie.”
“And how was Ms. Tillman and Mr. Scott’s relationship? I mean, did they get along?” Fisher asked.
“They got along fabulously. Dillon immediately took her under his wing. Her role is more intense than his, so he wanted her to feel comfortable around him.”
“Intense?” she asked.
Rowe paused, looking unsure.
“Don’t worry,” Fisher said. “Whatever you tell me won’t leave this room.”
He nodded and said, “Leslie plays a victim who survives a brutal attack in the film.”
Fisher squinted. “And why does she have to be comfortable around Mr. Scott?”
“He plays the attacker.”
She blinked. “He does what?”
Rowe smiled with glee. “That was the twist of the entire movie. Dillon’s character is an investigator who is harboring a secret. He is the killer who suffers from episodic amnesia.”
Fisher’s mouth dropped. “So the killer he is searching for is in fact him?”
“Yes, but he doesn’t remember committing the crimes, which makes the movie all the more intriguing.”
Fisher wished Scott was still alive. She would have loved to see his performance in such a complex part.
“How did you get Mr. Scott to take the role?” she wondered aloud. “I mean, the money was a pittance compared to what he got in previous roles.”
“Dillon waived his usual fees,” Rowe said. “It was a challenging role, and one against his type.”
“His type?”
“He was known for playing the clean-cut guys, the guys who may have made mistakes in their lives but who upheld good values. In this film, no one would have suspected him as the serial killer, you know?”
I wouldn’t have, Fisher thought. That’s for sure.
“Can you tell me where I can find Ms. Tillman?” she asked. “I need to speak to her.”
NINETEEN
Callaway drove to the address his client had provided him. Betty Henderson had become his client, even though he was hesitant to take her on as one. The money was nowhere near enough to compensate him for the job she wanted him to do.
How can I convince a guy to stop cheating on his wife? he thought.
Callaway had been with many women, but he was never unfaithful while he was married. He had, however, been intimate with women who were married. It was not something he was proud of, it was just something that happened.
The women were mostly clients whose husbands were cheating on them. While Callaway was trying to catch the husbands in the act, he was also comforting their wives. The wives saw their flings with Callaway as an act of revenge on their cheating husbands, and Callaway was more than happy to oblige their requests.
As he stared at the department store’s warehouse, he could not help but wonder how he was supposed to accomplish the task before him.
He sighed. I should have driven off the moment I saw the house, he thought. But the woman caught me before I could do that.
He did feel bad for her, though. She came across as a housewife whose entire world revolved around her husband and her children. The prospect of losing someone who was such an integral part of her life was devastating to her.
Callaway was once central in his wife and daughter’s lives, but he much preferred the freedom to disappear whenever and wherever he wanted. His restlessness had spelled the end of his marriage.
He still harbored feelings for his ex-wife, even if he refused to admit it, and he was forever feeling guilty about not spending quality time with his little girl. He vowed to get his act together one day and make more of an impact in his daughter’s life, but somehow he always managed to mess that up.
Is Frank Henderson like me? he thought. He seems like he has a wife who loves him, and from what his wife says, his children adore him too. Is that why he is willing to throw it all away? Because he is not content with what he has?
Callaway was not content.
He wanted more out of life. The problem was that he just wasn’t sure what he wanted. If it was money, then being a private eye was the wrong profession. If it was fame, then so far he had not made enough of a name for himself so that people were knocking on his door to hire him.
Then what was it?
He knew the answer: He wanted excitement. He could not see himself spending the rest of his life in a small town like Spokem, where there was nothing to do but sit on the front porch with a cold beer in his hand and stare at the neighbor’s dog as it chased its tail around the front yard.
A man appeared through a set of doors at the store’s shipping center. Callaway recognized him from the photos he had seen at the Henderson residence.
Frank Henderson was a large man. He had big arms, a big belly, and even a big head. His beard was an unruly bush, covering his entire chin.
He kind of looks like Grizzly Adams, Callaway thought.
Callaway broke into a cold sweat at the mere thought of trying to convince a man Frank’s size to stop what he was doing.
I am a dead man, Callaway thought. This guy can have me for lunch.
Frank got behind the wheel of an eighteen-wheeler truck and drove away.
Callaway swallowed, put the Impala in gear, and followed Frank.
TWENTY
Leslie Tillman was hysterical when Fisher met her at her hotel room not far from the movie studio. Tillman was originally from Texas. She moved to Los Angeles when she turned eighteen. She landed a few commercials and then found her way into minor parts on television.
The lead in Memories of a Killer was her big role. She was twenty-two with flawless skin—which made Fisher a little envious—perfect teeth, and eyes that could emote a variety of feelings. In short, she was made for the big screen.
She sat on a chair with her legs crossed. She wiped her eyes and said, “I’m sorry, but this came as a shock.”
“I understand,” Fisher said.
“I mean, he was alive yesterday, and today…” She covered her face with her hands and began to cry even more.
Fisher gave Tillman a moment to grieve.
“Were you a fan of Mr. Scott?” Fisher asked, hoping the question might distract her.
Tillman nodded. “I saw all his movies.”
“And what did you think of his take on Romeo and Juliet?”
She shrugged. “It was okay, I guess. I mean, he was still learning his craft, you know?”
Sure, Fisher thought. You’re too young to appreciate a classic like that.
“I understand you got to spend a couple of days with him?” Fisher asked.
“I did,” Tillman replied, “and even in that short time, I learned a lot from him.”
“Like what?”
“How to deli
ver your lines the right way. How to move around a camera. How to interact in a scene. I mean, I’ve taken acting classes, but when you get a chance to work with someone like Dillon, you don’t want to mess it up.”
“I heard from your director that he took you under his wing.”
“He was so gentle with me. He knew this was my first lead, and he told me he would not let me fail. I can’t believe I won’t get to work with him.”
Before Tillman could break down in tears, Fisher said, “What was it like working with him yesterday?”
“You mean during the rehearsals?”
“Yes.”
Tillman thought for a moment. “He was full of ideas and bursting with energy. He even asked me if I wanted to join him at his home later that night to go over the script.”
“And did you?” Fisher asked almost too quickly.
Tillman’s eyes moistened. “I was so excited and overwhelmed by the role that at the end of the day, I had a severe migraine, which I occasionally get, and so I had to say no to him.” She shook her head. “I now have to live with the knowledge that I turned down Dillon Scott. How stupid could I be?”
Fisher knew she was being overly dramatic, but she was an actress, so it was understandable. “Is it normal for an actor to ask another actor to come to their home late at night, especially one who is married?” Fisher asked.
“Sure, I guess,” Tillman replied. “I mean, it’s a big part, and I also play his love interest, so our chemistry has to be just right for it to be believable on the screen.”
“I thought he played a serial killer who attacks you in the film?” Fisher asked.
“You know about that?” Tillman asked, surprised.
“The director told me.”
“Okay, yes, he does, but I don’t fall in love with him as a killer, I fall in love with him as the investigator.”
Now I really wish this movie had been made, Fisher thought.
There was a pause before Fisher said, “Is there anything you can tell me that might help me find out what happened to Mr. Scott?”
Tillman thought for a moment. “Dillon kept looking at his cell phone all day. He would even stop in the middle of a scene to check it.”
That’s what the limo driver said too, Fisher thought. But that is nothing significant. Scott was famous. He must have had people reach out to him all the time.
Fisher stood up to leave, but a thought occurred to her. “What time did Mr. Scott ask you to meet him at his home?”
“What time?” Tillman asked, confused.
“You said he asked you to meet him later that night.”
“Oh, yes, he asked me what I was doing around nine.”
“And your rehearsal ended at six, is that correct?”
“It did.”
Fisher’s eyes narrowed. If the rehearsals ended at six, and Scott asked Tillman to meet at nine, there was still a gap of three hours that was unaccounted for.
TWENTY-ONE
Callaway tailed Frank Henderson as he made deliveries to the company’s retail stores in the city. Frank would pull up to the back of the stores, wait for the store’s employees to unload the goods, then head to the next location.
Once he was done, Frank returned to the company’s distribution center, and after parking the eighteen-wheeler, he got in his pickup truck. He then sat there for twenty minutes.
Callaway was across the street, watching Frank.
What are you waiting for? Callaway thought.
A woman emerged from one of the doors in the back of the building. Her blonde hair was tied in a bun. She had on a jacket, a skirt that went down to her knees, and ankle-high boots with heels. She shoved her hand in her purse and pulled out a cigarette and lighter. She lit the cigarette and took a long drag. She blew thick smoke and then walked across the back lot to the pickup truck. The woman didn’t look like she was in any hurry.
She got in the pickup’s passenger seat.
Without saying a word, Frank started the pickup and eased out of the parking lot. After they drove past the Impala, Callaway put the car in gear and followed them.
The pickup turned left, then right, and then it got onto the main highway. The truck roared down the lane at speeds well above the limit. Callaway pressed down hard on the accelerator. The Impala jerked once as it fought to go faster. Julio had assured Callaway the Impala had been serviced and that the engine was in good condition. So far, the Impala had not disappointed him. The car gradually began to gain speed, to the point where Callaway could keep pace with the pickup.
After a couple of miles, the pickup got off at the next exit. Callaway quickly did the same.
Henderson and the woman drove for another ten minutes, weaving through smaller streets until they pulled into the driveway of a two-story house and stopped behind a station wagon.
Frank and the woman got out. Callaway pulled out his camera and snapped photos of them as they walked up to the house and disappeared through the front door.
Cindy Henderson was right, Callaway thought. Her husband was spending time with another woman.
Almost an hour later, Frank came out of the house. His face was drawn as he made his way to the pickup. He got behind the wheel and pulled out of the driveway.
The drive back to his house was close to thirty-five minutes. Callaway did not let him out of his sight once. Only when Frank was inside his home did Callaway decide to discontinue the tail. There was nothing more to be gained. He had concrete proof Frank was cheating on his wife.
Now came the hard part. He had to somehow convince Frank to give up his affair.
TWENTY-TWO
Becky was curled up on the sofa. A movie was playing on the TV. She had spent the day avoiding reading, watching, or listening to the news. She didn’t want to know what was happening in the city.
Her mom was still at work. She used to work as a payroll administrator for a large packaging company, but after the company was bought by a rival, she was let go. The rival company already had an in-house payroll administrator.
She was now a full-time receptionist for a food processing company, and on the weekends, she worked as a cashier at a grocery store. Becky knew how hard her mom was working just to put a roof over their heads.
Things were not always like this. When her father was still alive, they were a happy family. Her father worked for a small construction company, and one day he was drilling a hole next to a concrete wall when the wall collapsed on him. He died on the spot.
The construction company refused to pay compensation. Her father was taking medical marijuana for an old back injury, and he had neglected to inform his employer. They took this as an opportunity not to pay his family. They argued the marijuana had impaired his judgment.
Her mom thought about hiring a lawyer, but no one wanted to take the case. They knew even if they won, the possibility of actually recouping the money would be very low. The construction company owners would declare bankruptcy or shut down the business just to avoid paying. Then they would reopen under another name and continue operation.
The lawyers could file a personal lawsuit against the individual owners, but the owners were clever not to keep any assets under their name. The chance of getting money out of them would turn into a long, drawn-out process.
There was also the option of a settlement, but that only worked if the construction company agreed they had done something wrong, which they had refused to do. They stuck to their conclusion that it was human error that caused the death.
What weakened their case even more was that OSHA, or the Occupational Safety and Health Administration, could not find anything to indicate the company was at fault.
Becky knew her dad would have never put his safety at risk if he believed the medication was affecting his ability to work. There were many days he would not go into work if he was not a hundred percent well.
Right after her dad died, her mom lost her payroll job. Her mom’s positivity and resilience was what kept them from
falling apart.
Then there was someone who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. He had become her guardian angel. He had assured Becky that he would take care of her, and she believed him.
Everything was getting better, but then it abruptly fell apart.
Becky wanted to cry again, but she had no more tears left. Her eyes were dry and itchy. She had already gone through a full box of tissues.
She checked her cell phone for the umpteenth time. There were messages from her friends. They asked how she was feeling. She finally told them she was sick. One friend offered to come to her house to give her company. Becky refused, claiming she wasn’t sure what she had and that it could be contagious.
Becky was not suffering from anything except the fear that at any moment, someone would knock at the door and take her away.
TWENTY-THREE
The morgue was in an old government building that had not been renovated in years. The building’s exterior façade was cold and ominous. The interior was no better. The walls were painted in dark colors, and the floor tiles had turned an ugly shade of yellow. Fluorescent light bulbs flickered in the hallways, sending a threatening vibe to anyone who passed under them.
Fisher stood next to Rachel Scott. She had flown from Bayview to see her dead husband. She was dressed all in black—black coat, black heels, even her nails and lips were painted black. It was as if she came prepared to look the part of a grieving widow.
Fisher couldn’t blame her. The press had gathered outside the morgue. They wanted a photo of the Mrs. Dillon Scott. After years of being married to a star, she knew what a perfect photo op could mean.
Her skin was without a blemish or wrinkle, almost too smooth for a woman her age. According to the newspapers, she was five years younger than Scott, which would make her forty. But even with all the Botox, Fisher could see dark circles around her eyes. She had been crying prior to arriving at the morgue. The stress of losing a loved one was hitting her hard.
The Falling Girl (A Private Investigator Mystery Series of Crime and Suspense, Lee Callaway #3) Page 5