Becky got off the bus and walked the two blocks to her house. When she opened the door, she said, “Mom, I’m home!”
She could tell from the lights inside the house that her mom had returned from work. She found her at the dining table.
“How was the clinic?” her mom asked.
Becky worked at the veterinary clinic. It had started off as a volunteer position, but after her dad died, the veterinarian turned it into a paying position. It was only part-time, but it helped cover a bit of the mortgage.
Becky headed straight for the fridge and scanned for something to eat. “I’m starving,” she said.
Her mom pointed to a pot on the counter. “There’s beef stew for dinner. You can warm up however much you like.”
Becky filled her bowl to the top and then nuked it in the microwave. She said, “A Good Samaritan brought in a stray dog. The poor thing was malnourished, and it looked like someone had abused it.”
“Oh my god,” her mom said.
“We took it in, of course, and we put it on IV fluids so that it could regain its strength.” The microwave beeped. Becky grabbed a spoon and dove into the bowl. She then went over to the dining table and sat next to her mom. “What’re you looking at?” she asked with a mouthful of stew.
“It’s just some brochures.”
Becky made a face. “What kind of brochures?”
“I was thinking, now that we’ve had this good luck, why don’t we think about what school you want to go to when you graduate high school?”
“Mom, I still have another year to go.”
“But your dad—”
Becky put her hand up. “I know, Mom. Dad never got the chance to go to college because Grandma came down with leukemia…”
“…and your grandfather had abandoned them when your dad was still a baby. Don’t forget that,” her mom said.
Becky was quiet.
“Honey,” her mom said in a soothing voice, “your grandmother raised your father on her own. When she fell ill, your father dropped out of school to take care of her and run the house.”
Becky exhaled. “You’ve told me this story a dozen times. I know it by heart now.”
“What you don’t know is that these brochures were ordered by your dad before you even went to high school.”
Becky looked away.
“I know you have your heart set on becoming a vet,” her mom said, “but you should also look at other professions.”
“But I like animals,” she said.
“Just think about it.” Her mom held up a brochure. “You can go to Harvard, Yale, or Stanford. We have the money to pay for a better education.”
“I’m going to my room. Good night, Mom.”
She stormed upstairs, taking the bowl of stew with her.
FIFTY-ONE
The tower rose five hundred feet into the sky. The exterior was covered in bronze glass consisting of more than twelve thousand windows. Each pane had cost over a hundred dollars at the time of the building’s construction. From a distance, it looked like a gold bar that was specifically brought over from Fort Knox.
The lobby had twenty-five-foot-high ceilings, brown stone marble floors, and light strategically placed to give it a regal feel.
Fisher sat in the waiting area. There were two sofas and one chair. Across from her was a young man dressed in a suit with a folder on his lap. He looked anxious and excited. He was likely here for a job interview.
Her theory turned out to be right when a woman appeared from the elevator a minute later. She was wearing a blouse, skirt, and high heels. She approached the man, shook his hand, and then escorted him to the elevator. They then disappeared from view.
Fisher checked her watch but made no comment. She was here on short notice.
The elevator doors opened. A woman came out and approached her. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, Detective Fisher,” she said.
She was young, attractive, and wearing a white top and blue jeans. Her name was Cameron Kilgane, and she was a reporter for the Milton Morning newspaper.
“I had an important call to take,” Cameron said, “and it went longer than I had hoped.”
“That’s all right,” Fisher said.
“So, why does someone from the Milton PD want to speak to me?” Cameron asked.
“It’s about Dillon Scott.”
Cameron’s face narrowed. “Okay.”
“The night before Mr. Scott was found dead, he had gone to a bar on Yonge Avenue, and he had spoken to you there.”
“How did you find that out?” Cameron asked, surprised.
“The bar has CCTV cameras, so there is footage of you together.”
“Oh, right, of course.” She rubbed her forehead. “Yes, we did speak, but it was brief.”
“Why didn’t you come forward with this information?” Fisher asked.
“I didn’t see the need to.”
“Mr. Scott was found dead only a few hours later.”
“If you think I had something to do with it, then you’re wrong.”
“How can I be sure?”
“If you saw the footage, you’ll see that after Dillon Scott had left the bar, I was still there for another hour.”
“Was he there to meet you?” Fisher asked.
Cameron looked confused. “Was that the reason he was at Yonge Avenue?”
Like any good reporter, Cameron was now prodding Fisher for information. Fisher said, “I was hoping you would tell me.”
“I was surprised to see him at the bar. It’s not every day you bump into movie stars in Milton.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what were you doing at the bar?”
“I was at Yonge Avenue covering the premier of a new film. Afterwards, I decided to go to the bar to type up my story for the morning edition. It was then that I saw Dillon Scott, and I decided to approach him.”
“What did you talk about?” Fisher asked.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Is that why Mr. Scott stormed off?”
Cameron looked away. “I asked him a few questions, and he didn’t want to answer them.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Again, I can’t say.”
“You can’t say, or you won’t?”
FIFTY-TWO
Cameron gave Fisher a hard look. She then relaxed and said, “Listen, I’m working on a major story, and I don’t want it to leak, okay?”
“If it has something to do with Mr. Scott, then I doubt you have a major story.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if you did, it would already be on the front pages of today’s newspaper. Dillon Scott is dead, and there is no better time to write something explosive about him than now.”
“Fair enough,” Cameron said. She crossed her arms over her chest. “How about this? I tell you what I know, and the moment you break this case, I will be the first one to know about it.”
Fisher considered Cameron’s proposal. “Okay, agreed.”
Cameron said, “I have a popular online celebrity column that is read by over half a million people daily. It’s not your typical gossip column. Instead of focusing on the glitz and glamour, I like to focus on the dirty aspects of Hollywood. Actors behaving badly. Directors fighting with studio heads. Production crews being mistreated.”
“I’ve read your column,” Fisher said. “That’s how I recognized you.”
Cameron was surprised that a homicide detective was interested in her stories. She then said, “About a year ago, I received a call. The caller ID was blocked and the voice was muffled, so I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, but the caller said they had information on Dillon Scott that was potentially damaging to him.”
“What kind of information?”
“Before I could ask, the caller hung up,” Cameron replied. “I waited for another call, but I never got one. After that, I began looking deeper into him.”
“And what did you find?” Fisher
asked.
Cameron fell silent.
“If you expect me to tell you about a major break in the case, then I expect something in return.”
“Okay, sure. In my investigation of Scott, I found out that someone might have been blackmailing him.”
“Blackmailing him?” Fisher repeated to make sure she heard correctly.
“Yes.”
“How do you know this?”
“I had a source.”
“You have to give me more than that.”
“All right. About six months ago, during the shooting of another movie, Scott had his driver take him to a dozen ATM machines. The driver believes Scott withdrew a lot of money.”
“How can the driver be sure?”
“Scott was carrying a duffel bag with him. The driver could tell it was heavy. Scott then had the driver take him to a location where the driver swears he saw Scott leave the bag under a park bench. He then asked the driver to drive away.”
Fisher mulled this over. Scott was seen with a backpack when he had taken the taxi to Yonge Avenue. At the bar an hour later, he no longer had the bag.
Did the bag contain money Scott had withdrawn from his bank account? And was Scott meeting his blackmailer on the night of his death?
Fisher was hoping for answers when she came here. She got some, but now she had even more questions.
She suddenly realized Scott’s murder could be more complicated than she first thought.
FIFTY-THREE
Osman walked back to his apartment building, feeling less jittery than before. After running out of the crack house, he hid in a dark strip club. He was shaking when he had ordered his first drink, but after his fourth, his hand became steadier.
Tamara had to go. She had become a liability. Her death was not a tragedy, though. The woman was killing herself by injecting poison into her veins. Osman had tried to put her on the right path. He paid for all her basic needs. But her needs were darker. They were not going to be satisfied until she got her next hit.
I put her out of her misery, he told himself. If I had not done what I did, she would have died a slow and debilitating death.
Addicts were lucky if they overdosed. What awaited them after years of abuse was a life where they had no idea who they were, where they were, or what they were supposed to be doing with themselves. They wandered the streets aimlessly, like zombies. Or worse yet, they were confined to a bed in a vegetative state, their mental faculties forever destroyed by their drug of choice.
Even so, he would have to live with the fact that he killed someone.
Just because he worked at the fringes of society, it didn’t mean he was a bad person. There was a demand for drugs, and he merely provided the supply. It was economics 101.
He was raised by a single mother who had her first child when she was sixteen. By the time she was twenty, she’d had four kids by four different men.
Osman was the youngest, which meant he had to fight his older siblings for scraps. All his clothes were hand-me-downs, and if there was food on the table, he would be lucky if he got enough to eat. His mother would try to make sure he was taken care of, but she had a lot on her plate. He never blamed his mother for what he didn’t have. She herself was raised by a single mother, and she had a dozen siblings.
Osman had hoped to break the cycle. He was going to make something of himself. He was going to get an education. But society saw that he never lived up to his potential. He was marginalized and discriminated against because of his skin color. When his older brother was shot and killed by a police officer for refusing to obey his commands, Osman decided he was not going to live a straight life. There were different rules for different people, and he was not going to follow those rules.
He took the elevator up to his one-bedroom apartment. He entered his place and walked straight to the bathroom. He got on top of the toilet and pushed aside a panel in the ceiling.
He slowly and carefully pulled out a backpack. He put the bag on the bathroom sink and unzipped it. Inside were stacks of hundred-dollar bills. He lifted a bundle and sniffed it. The smell of money was the greatest thing in the world. It was his drug of choice—his aphrodisiac. With money, anything was possible.
He had counted the money the moment he brought it to his apartment, and now he would count it again. After doing so, he split the money in two. He placed his share back in the backpack and put it back inside the ceiling panel.
He then wrapped the other half in cellophane. When he was finished, the stack was thick and bulky, but it was watertight.
He pulled out a disposable phone and speed-dialed a number. He let it ring a few times and then hung up. The recipient on the other end would call him back. He always did.
Osman needed to speak to him. He had to tell him where to pick up the money, and also to inform him that their golden ticket had to be silenced.
FIFTY-FOUR
Callaway was working away on his laptop when Jimmy stirred on the bed. The night before, after their trip to the racetrack, Callaway had to carry Jimmy up to his hotel room. Jimmy had one too many drinks. He was drunk to the point of passing out.
I am in bad shape, Callaway kept thinking as he took each step. Jimmy was heavy, and he reeked of alcohol. Callaway had been around drunks before, so he was used to the smell, but it didn’t help that Jimmy burped in his face every so often.
Jimmy was also muttering incoherently. He was apologizing for something—Callaway was not sure what. Then he was crying. He would suddenly show a spark of anger, but it was quickly overtaken by more crying.
Jimmy was a sad drunk. Behind his bravado and life-is-about-having-fun attitude lay a mountain of guilt and remorse. These feelings simmered underneath the surface, appearing during moments of weakness, which usually happened when he drank.
Callaway felt sorry for him, but he would never let Jimmy know. The old man would be furious with him. Jimmy was old school, and he did not want anyone’s pity.
Callaway had somehow managed to make it to the room. Jimmy was snoring the moment his head hit the pillow. Callaway had grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and sat down on the chair, feeling exhausted. He was soaked in sweat, and he quenched his thirst. He shut his eyes, and within minutes he was passed out.
When he awoke, he was still wearing his clothes from the night before, and Jimmy was still snoring on the bed. He had decided to use the quiet time to catch up on some reading.
He was scrolling through his laptop when Jimmy suddenly sat up. His eyes were wide as he took in his surroundings.
“Where am I?” he yelled. “And why am I still dressed?”
“You’re not in some woman’s bed,” Callaway said. “You’re in my hotel room.”
“Oh,” Jimmy said. “How did I get here?”
“I hired some guys to carry you.”
“You did?”
“Of course not. I brought you here myself. You have to lose a few pounds, man. Better yet, lose a few hundred pounds while you’re at it.”
Jimmy rubbed his belly. “I would gladly, but the ladies love it.”
“I’m sure they do,” Callaway said with a small chuckle.
Jimmy shut his eyes as a sharp pain shot through his head. “At the racetrack, did we win that last bet?” he asked as he opened his eyes.
“No, we lost.”
Jimmy frowned. “I was certain Churchill Down was a winner.”
“It didn’t even finish the race,” Callaway noted.
“What’re you working on?” Jimmy asked.
“I was reading up on your case. The night Gail Roberts died, there was a witness at the scene. He said he saw a woman run out of the apartment building Gail had fallen from.”
“I looked into it, but I couldn’t find this woman. It was like she disappeared into thin air.”
Jimmy got up and stretched. He winced. “I used to be able to spend the entire night partying and still be ready for work the next morning.”
“I know, I’ve se
en you do it. By the way, when we were driving back, your phone was ringing off the hook.”
“Was it?” Jimmy asked, surprised.
“Yeah, I didn’t answer it, but it looked like someone was looking for you.”
Jimmy grinned. “It could have been a woman. You know they can’t live without me.”
“They can’t live with you, either,” Callaway shot back.
“Funny guy.” He shoved his hand in his pants pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “I’ll take it in the bathroom,” he said as he shut the bathroom door behind him.
FIFTY-FIVE
Fisher’s conversation with Cameron Kilgane had left her with another puzzle to solve.
Cameron’s sources believed someone was blackmailing Scott. While filming his last movie, he had withdrawn money from several ATMs and then left a duffel bag under a park bench.
Fisher had done an online search, and she found there was a small park next to Yonge Avenue. A narrow path cut through the street and into the park, which was built by a property developer as a green space for the residents of a nearby condo.
Could Scott have been meeting his blackmailer at that park? She had a strong inclination he was. She then had to confirm if Scott had withdrawn any money on that day.
It took her several calls to various banks. She could have driven to their main locations, but it would have taken time. She needed the information right away.
One bank gave her a hard time, while the others were more than willing to accommodate her request. She was eventually able to persuade the reluctant bank that it would be in their best interest to comply. It would be bad publicity for a detective to show up at their main office demanding information.
As she went through Scott’s bank statements, she saw no large withdrawals on the day he was murdered, or any preceding days.
Then how did he get the money? she thought.
She did notice something while going through the statements, though. Scott’s finances were a mess. He had no savings, and his checking account was close to nil. It looked like he was living off a large overdraft and a line of credit.
Scott once commanded a hefty salary, but those years were behind him. His last hit movie was over five years ago. Even then, it seemed like he was maintaining a lifestyle that did not reflect this change of stature. He was spending more than he was taking in. A lot more.
The Falling Girl (A Private Investigator Mystery Series of Crime and Suspense, Lee Callaway #3) Page 12