Scott’s body lay on a gurney in the cold room, covered in a green sheet. Wakefield stood on the other side of the gurney. As the medical examiner, she was preparing for the autopsy, but she could not proceed until the victim’s next of kin performed the standard procedure of formally identifying the victim.
Rachel Scott shivered. Fisher placed her hand on her arm. “Are you okay?” Fisher asked, concerned.
Rachel bit her bottom lip and nodded. “Please show me.”
Wakefield pulled the sheet back to reveal the face. It was gray and frozen. Even in death, Scott had left a beautiful corpse.
Rachel put a hand over her mouth. “It’s him.”
“Can you say it for the record?” Fisher said.
“It’s my husband, Dillon Jeffrey Scott.”
Wakefield would note Rachel’s identification in her report.
“How did he die?” Rachel asked.
“We believe it was from being hit on the head with a heavy object,” Fisher replied.
Rachel was confused. “A heavy object?”
“There was a bookend in the house, and we believe it may have been used to hurt him.”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“We are in the early stages of our investigation. We will let you know once we make any progress.”
Rachel nodded.
Wakefield covered the body.
Fisher and Rachel moved into the hall.
“I know this must be a difficult time for you,” Fisher said, “but do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Okay, I guess,” Rachel replied.
“When was the last time you spoke to your husband?”
“Yesterday.”
“Around what time?”
Rachel thought for a moment. “I think around six.”
“Did he tell you what he was doing?” Fisher asked.
“We spoke briefly. He said he was leaving rehearsals and heading home.”
“Was he meeting someone later that night, do you know?”
Rachel shook her head. “He never mentioned anything to me.” She paused. “You have to understand, Dillon was a star and he relished being one. It gave him a free card to do whatever he wanted. This meant he didn’t seek my permission to do something, even though I was his wife. I knew this before I married him, so I couldn’t hold it against him. I’m used to him keeping me in the dark because he’s always been away, shooting one movie after another.” She sighed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be complaining. My husband is dead, and my children are without a father, but the man who was at home was not the man who was on the big screen.”
“Can you elaborate?” Fisher asked, “I just want to know who could have done this to him.”
“Being married to an actor is not easy. I mean, the money is good, and sometimes even the fame is too, but you are constantly in the public eye, and that can be difficult for a marriage.”
“You and Mr. Scott were having marital problems?” Fisher asked.
“We had our disagreements. What married couple doesn’t?” Rachel replied. “What I’m trying to say is that even if Dillon was somewhere last night, he would not bother to tell me.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Callaway took the stairs to the hotel’s third floor. After constantly moving from one place to another, he had booked a room for a month. Nothing permanent, but it was much cheaper than renting an apartment. He didn’t have to provide first and last month’s rent or sign a long-term lease, and with landlords becoming more cautious, he didn’t have to give them access to his credit report. If he did, it would show him as a delinquent, which would not impress a potential landlord. Also, if he fell behind in his payments, he didn’t have to worry about being evicted. He would put all his stuff in his one suitcase and go someplace else.
The hotel was not a five-star, it was more like a two-star. He wasn’t sure why they didn’t just call it a motel.
What‘s the difference between the two? he wondered.
He wasn’t complaining, though. The monthly rate was far more affordable than most places in the city. His room had hot water, functioning plumbing, and the heating worked.
He once stayed in a basement apartment where the water was ice cold, the toilet didn’t flush all the way, and there was a strong draft coming through the windows, which were not properly insulated. The apartment was tolerable for a couple of days, until his toes started to tingle and go numb from the near negative temperature. He packed up and left that very night, forgoing the remainder of the month’s rent.
The landlord was a cranky old man who thought he was doing Callaway a favor for even renting his luxurious suite to him. Callaway had very little money, and the rent was very little as well, so he did not see a point in arguing with the old man for not providing the basic necessities.
The hotel room had a few cockroaches and other multi-legged critters, but no rats, thank goodness. If he saw even one, he would haul his butt out of there in no time. Rodents gave him the shivers.
He entered the cramped room. There was a bed on the right with a futon next to it. A TV sat across from the futon. He grabbed the remote and turned the TV on. Like the one in his office, it was set to a twenty-four-hour news channel. He pulled off his jacket and dropped it on the bed.
The room had a small bathroom but no kitchen. Callaway always ate out, so a kitchen would have served no purpose. The room came with a tiny microwave, which was useful for reheating leftovers.
Callaway had managed to squeeze in a minifridge he had found lying on the sidewalk. He had carried the fridge up to his room—something he later regretted doing because he was in terrible shape—but when he plugged the fridge in, to his surprise, the thing worked. He had stuffed it with cold drinks and microwave dinners.
He pulled out a bottle from the fridge and sat up on the bed. The reporters on TV were still talking about Dillon Scott’s murder. It was not every day a movie star was murdered in the city. But Callaway’s mind was not on Scott’s murder. It was on Frank Henderson.
Callaway took a sip from the bottle and wondered how he was going to confront Frank the next day. It was not going to be pleasant, but it was something he could not avoid forever.
TWENTY-FIVE
The apartment building was in dire need of repairs. The lobby had not had a facelift in years. Not all the elevators were operational at the same time. The heat and cooling systems were known to stop working during the cold and hot months, respectively. The fire alarms were likely not up to code, and the hot water sometimes shut off at the most inopportune times.
Fisher had considered moving out on multiple occasions, but with rent so high in the city, and without a promotion in years, the place was the most she could afford at the moment.
Fisher was in excellent shape. She ran a mile each morning. Whenever the elevators were taking too long, she would race up the stairs to her apartment on the sixth floor.
That day, however, she was spent.
After meeting Rachel Scott at the morgue, she decided to pay a visit to the security alarm company. They were displeased to see her. The moment they saw her badge and heard what she was looking for, however, they were eager to assist her in her investigation. It seemed everyone had an opinion about what happened to Dillon Scott.
Unfortunately, the footage was of no use.
The camera was sensor-activated, turning on and off whenever there was any movement. The camera caught the limo driver dropping Scott off at the house at around six thirty in the evening, but the moment Scott disabled the alarm with his password, the camera was never reactivated.
Maybe he forgot to turn it back on, she thought. Or maybe he didn’t want anyone to know what he was up to.
An elevator arrived, and she took it up to her floor.
Her apartment was brightly colored. When she had moved in, the beige walls had turned yellowish after years of accumulating dirt and grime. She took it upon herself to give her place a new coat of paint.
The
bedroom was on the right, with the kitchen and living room on the left. The previous tenants had enclosed the balcony, and she now used it as a meditation room.
The walls of the apartment were covered in family photos. They were mostly of her and her three brothers posing with their parents. Some of the photos still made her cringe. There was one where her parents decided to dress up all the children the same. In another one, Fisher looked like a boy. Her father cut all her brothers’ hair, so her mom figured she could do the same. This was a big mistake. Her mom ended up almost shaving her head entirely. Fisher wore a scarf over her head until her hair grew back to a decent length. Most of the kids in school thought she was Muslim.
Fisher dropped on the sofa and put her feet up on the coffee table. She shut her eyes. It had been a long and exhausting day. With Holt not available, she had to carry the load.
She stayed still for a couple of minutes before getting up and walking over to a DVD stand in the corner. She searched through the movies and pulled one out. On the front was a photo of a youthful-looking Dillon Scott.
She had suddenly felt the urge to watch Romeo and Juliet again. She wanted to be reminded of why she had fallen in love with Scott all those years ago.
TWENTY-SIX
He made his way down the street late at night. Osman Maxwell was wearing a hoodie, a baseball cap, and baggy clothes. The only thing flashy on him were his gold sneakers. They were an exclusive edition, and he had paid a steep price to acquire them.
He didn’t care how much they cost, not when he just had a big windfall.
The people who he hung around with were suspicious. They asked where he had gotten the money.
“It’s none of your damn business,” he told them.
He owed nobody an explanation.
The first time he received a big payout, he had gone to Vegas and foolishly splurged on girls, booze, and drugs, but he had grown up poor and wanted to live a little.
This time, though, he was going to take it easy. He would not draw any unwanted attention.
Osman was a low-level drug dealer and, on occasion, a pimp. The girls needed someone to escort them to and from the client’s place, and he was more than happy to oblige—for a fee, of course. But he was seriously considering doing something else with his life. He had seen way too many people get shot and killed in his line of work, and Osman didn’t want to be another casualty.
Drugs and prostitution were a mean business that made you hard and cruel. In order to survive, you lied, cheated, and hurt people. Osman had no qualms about doing either of those.
He was just tired of hustling for scraps.
He had bigger plans.
The first time he received the money, he had spent it. This time he was going to invest his cold, hard windfall.
That night, however, he wanted to have fun and blow off some steam. The last couple of days were really stressful. Everything had to be just right or else it could have backfired on him. He could end up in prison doing ten to fifteen years.
Fortunately, everything went smoothly, and he came away a richer man.
He approached a building with no sign. There was a long line out by the front. A huge man stood behind velvet ropes. The man could crush Osman with his bare hands if he wanted to.
Osman pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. If the man refused to let him in, Osman would try his luck somewhere else.
The man revealed a toothy smile and snatched the bill from his hand. He removed the rope as Osman entered the club.
The music was loud. Lights flashed all around him. The club was packed, and Osman had to push his way past a group of people before he made his way to the bar.
He ordered a drink.
A girl came up next to him.
“You wanna buy me a drink?” she asked.
Osman eyed her from top to bottom. She wore revealing clothes, along with extra makeup and fake eyelashes.
“Sure,” he replied with a smile. He ordered whatever she wanted.
“My name’s Maya.”
It was likely not her real name, he thought.
“What’s yours?” she asked.
Two can play that game. “It’s C.J,” Osman said.
“You come here often, C.J.?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Whenever I get the chance.”
He knew why she was chatting him up. To get in the club, you had to have money, and once in, you had to have more money to have fun. The drinks were expensive, and so were the girls.
Maya was not some regular girl out for a good night. She was an escort. And judging by her age, she had so far been unsuccessful in hooking a client.
Osman would string her along until he found someone younger. If he did not, she would do for the night.
He saw that a man sitting next to him was staring at his cell phone, engrossed in a news article.
“What’s that?” Osman asked.
“Oh, you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Dillon Scott is dead.”
Osman’s eyes widened in disbelief. “When?”
“Yesterday. They found his body in a house in Milton.”
Osman pulled out a wad of cash and paid the bartender.
“I gotta go,” he said to Maya.
“You need company?” she asked with a smile.
“Maybe next time.”
He hurried out of the club.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The next morning, Fisher was back at her desk at the Milton PD. She had a fitful night. She couldn’t help but feel like she was missing something. She wasn’t sure what it was, but she knew it had to do with the three hours between the time Scott left the studio and the time he asked Tillman to meet him at his house.
If he was so eager to work with Tillman on the script, then why not stay late at the studio? Also, why not just go straight from the studio to his house with Tillman? Why ask her to come later that night?
Fisher leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling.
Tillman was drained from a long rehearsal, so she had declined the offer. Maybe Scott figured after some rest, she would be ready to get back to work a few hours later.
But then why did Scott constantly check his cell phone? And why did she not find it when she searched the house?
Fisher had a feeling Scott was meeting someone that night. It would explain the gap between the end of rehearsals and the time he invited Tillman over to his house.
Did this person arrive shortly after the limo driver had left? And did they take the cell phone after they had murdered Scott?
She wasn’t sure about any of those answers.
She knew from her training that if something didn’t make sense, go back to the scene of the crime.
She turned her attention to the folder on her desk, which contained detailed photographs of the living room, the hallway, the entrance to the house, the kitchen, the bedroom, and even the main-floor bathroom. They were taken so that the prosecutor could lead a jury through a tour of the house when the case went to trial.
She went through the photos and frowned. There was nothing in particular that stood out to her. She had combed every inch of the house when she was there, and it was still fresh in her mind.
After ten minutes, she dropped the photos and put her face in her hands. She rubbed her temples and gritted her teeth.
What am I not seeing? she wondered. What am I overlooking?
Her thoughts were broken by a conversation two desks over. A male detective was telling a female detective a story from years earlier.
“So, I’m in the car, right?” the male detective said. “And it’s pouring like no one’s business. I mean, it’s so bad that I can’t see five feet in front of me. Now, it’s also late at night, so visibility is already low, and with the rain, I have no idea where I’m going. My wipers are on full, but all they are doing is moving the rain from one end of the windshield to the other. I’m pretty much driving blind. My wife’s in the backseat, and the baby is
about to come out any minute.”
“So what did you do?” the female detective asked earnestly.
The male detective shrugged. “What could I do? I parked the car by the side of the road and jumped into action. It was a scene straight out of a movie. I’ve never experienced anything like it. I was so scared that I nearly blacked out from the stress.”
“Oh my god!” the female detective exclaimed.
“But I’ll tell you this: The moment I held my son in my arms, all that stress melted away in an instant. That kid was a miracle. He was a sign from Heaven that no matter how tough things get, they will eventually get better if you push your way through.”
Fisher smiled. She had heard the detective tell that story to every new member of the unit, and he had told it with the same gusto when he told Fisher years ago.
She turned back to the photos. She wasn’t sure if going through them again was worthwhile.
She was examining them one by one when something flashed in the back of her mind. She opened her desk drawer, searched through the contents inside, found the magnifying glass, and held it up to the photo.
She turned to her laptop, typed on the keyboard, and confirmed her suspicion.
She grabbed her jacket and left the station.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Callaway was back at the department store’s shipping center. He had followed Frank Henderson from his home to his place of work. Frank was inside the building, likely getting ready for the scheduled deliveries for the day.
Callaway knew he would have to confront Frank sooner or later. He debated doing it when Frank left his house, but he worried his children might see his reaction. Frank was not going to appreciate a stranger meddling in his personal life. No man would. Then there was the matter of his wife. How would he act toward her knowing she had hired a private investigator to follow him?
The house was out of the question.
What about the shipping center? Their discussion would likely cause a scene, which could even affect Frank’s employment. Callaway was not sure if management knew of his relationship with the other woman. Did they have a policy against workplace romance? Callaway didn’t know, and he was not going to risk it.
The Falling Girl (A Private Investigator Mystery Series of Crime and Suspense, Lee Callaway #3) Page 6