He took a deep breath and dialed the number on Kirkman’s SIM card. He waited for it to ring before he hung up. He suddenly got cold feet.
That was stupid, he thought. Maybe I should let Echo extract data from the phone before I proceed further. This number could be my only chance to find out what was going on.
The phone buzzed. He saw the call was coming from the same number he had just dialed.
He didn’t answer.
The phone buzzed half a dozen times before it stopped. Callaway wasn’t sure if Kirkman had a voicemail. If he did, there was no way he would ever be able to access it.
The phone then buzzed once. He checked and realized there was a text message from that very number. He opened it.
HEY MAN, I TOLD U I AIN’T GIVING U DA MONEY.
What money? Callaway thought. Maybe I should play along and find out.
I WANT MY MONEY, Callaway texted back.
I GAVE U UR SHARE.
LET’S MEET UP SO WE CAN TALK.
Several minutes went by with no response.
Maybe I pushed it too far.
OK, MEET AT USUAL SPOT.
Usual spot? Callaway had no idea where that was.
Callaway typed, WHY NOT SOMEPLACE ELSE?
NO WAY, THE TRAIN STATION IS THE ONLY PLACE I MEET U.
What train station?
Callaway didn’t want to lose this opportunity.
OK.
He put the phone back in his pocket and frowned. He had no idea where this meetup was.
He saw a man across the street. Callaway got out of the Charger and approached him.
“Sorry to bother you, sir,” Callaway said. “I’m not from here. Do you know if there is a train station around here?”
“Sure,” the man replied. “The Bayview Central Train Station is about a mile from here.”
Of course, that makes sense, Callaway thought. Kirkman lived in Bayview, so he would meet someone somewhere nearby.
“Thank you,” Callaway said.
He returned to the Charger and drove off.
ONE-HUNDRED
Fisher glanced at her watch and then at the Milton PD’s front doors. She was seated in one of the lobby’s hard plastic chairs. A laptop was cradled in her arms. She hoped it wouldn’t be necessary, but she came prepared just in case.
Ten minutes passed before the woman entered the building. Mrs. Rachel Scott was wearing a long coat, large sunglasses that covered most of her face, a blouse, tight pants, heels, and she wore dark lipstick.
She removed her sunglasses and came over to Fisher. “I hope I can finally take my husband home and give him the burial worthy of a movie star,” she said.
“We’ve completed the autopsy, so I don’t see why not,” Fisher said.
A smile crossed Rachel’s face. “I’m glad to hear that. When you called, I was concerned there was something wrong with Dillon’s investigation.”
“No, everything is exactly how it’s supposed to be.”
“That’s good to hear. Do you need me to sign any documents?”
“Documents?” Fisher asked.
“Yes, to take possession of Dillon’s body.”
“We’ll get to that later. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind answering some of my questions.”
“Questions?”
Rachel looked surprised.
“Yes, just to tie up some loose ends in the investigation.”
“Don’t you have a suspect in custody?” Rachel asked.
“He’s in a holding cell as we speak,” Fisher replied. “Please follow me upstairs.”
They took the elevator to the second level. They walked through the halls. Fisher noticed how Rachel’s heels audibly clicked on the concrete floor.
They entered a room with a giant mirror on one wall. The other wall was bare. There was a metal table in the middle with chairs on either side of it.
“Am I being interrogated?” Rachel asked, suddenly defensive.
“Unfortunately, this is the only room available for us to speak in private,” Fisher claimed. That wasn’t true. The room was equipped with cameras and recording devices. On the other side of the mirror, an officer was making sure everything was being recorded as evidence.
Rachel almost laughed. “Dillon starred in a couple of crime movies, and this looks awfully like an interrogation.”
“Are you not comfortable answering my questions? Is there something I should be aware of?” It was Fisher’s turn to get defensive, a tactic she used to disarm an interviewee.
“Do I need a lawyer?” Rachel asked.
“You are entitled to one. Would you prefer to call one while we wait?”
Rachel stared at her. Fisher knew she was wondering where this was going, but she also wanted this over with so she could head home. She figured because they already had someone in custody, she had nothing to worry about.
Big mistake.
Rachel smiled. “No, I don’t mind answering a few questions.”
“Please have a seat.” Fisher took the chair across from her. She placed the laptop on the table and said, “The reason I asked you here was to verify certain things that have come up in my investigation.”
Rachel swallowed. “What kind of things?”
“Things that could be minor or irrelevant but need to be addressed before I close the case.”
“Okay.”
“Where were you on the night your husband was murdered?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Rachel said with a smile. “I was at home in Bayview.”
“Do you have someone who can corroborate your story?”
“I don’t know. My kids were at my mother’s house. I think I might have spoken to a friend on the phone.”
“Can you give me the name of this friend?”
Rachel thought for a moment. “I could have spoken to my friend a day earlier. I don’t remember.”
“So, there is no one to confirm you were at home that night?” Fisher asked.
Rachel paused to think. “I guess I was alone,” she replied.
“Have you been to Milton before?”
“I’ve been here several times now.”
“I meant prior to your husband’s death.”
“No, never.”
“Not even on the night your husband was found dead?”
Rachel scoffed. “Of course not.”
“Do you mind if I show you something?” Fisher pulled open the laptop and pressed a key. An image popped up on the screen. “This footage was taken from the Norton Bridge Toll Center. If you look at the date and time at the bottom, you can clearly see you entered Milton at 12:23 AM—which doesn’t really make it the same night Mr. Scott was found dead, but the next morning—but that’s not the point here. What’s important is that you returned an hour and a half later.” Fisher fast-forwarded the footage and pressed pause. “That is you on the screen, isn’t it?”
Rachel stared at the image in disbelief.
“Who were you visiting in Milton?” Fisher asked.
“Um… I was going to meet a friend.”
“Is it the same friend you spoke to a day earlier?”
Rachel swallowed. “Maybe.”
“At this early in the morning?”
Rachel shook her head. “What does this have to do with anything? I thought you had someone who confessed to killing my husband?”
“We have a full written confession,” Fisher said. “Now let me ask you about your husband’s diabetes.”
ONE-HUNDRED ONE
“Were you aware your husband was suffering from Diabetes Heart Disease?” Fisher asked.
“Of course I knew. I’m his wife,” Rachel replied. “He wouldn’t hide something like that from me. And if you’d like to know, I’m also diabetic.”
“I am aware of that. In order to be insured for a movie production, the insurance company looks at a client’s entire family history, which includes the wife.”
“Okay.”
“Can you open your pu
rse?” Fisher asked.
“What? Why?”
“Can you remove a bottle of glucose tablets you carry with you at all times?”
Rachel’s mouth dropped. “How did you know?”
“Like your husband, you take insulin injections. But unlike him, you are hypoglycemic. Your sugar levels can fall dangerously low, so low that you have to occasionally take glucose tablets to raise your sugar level. The tablets can be bought at any pharmacy, and most grocery stores. Do you mind pulling the bottle from your purse?”
Rachel reached down and removed a plastic bottle.
“Please place it on the table.”
Rachel did as Fisher instructed. “Where are you going with this?” she asked. “I thought my husband died from being hit on the head?”
“Yes and no. He was hit on the head with a heavy object, but he didn’t die from that injury. What he died from was a heart attack.”
“A heart attack?” Rachel said, feigning surprise.
“Our medical examiner is one of the best in the state, perhaps even the country. She was thorough in her examination of your husband’s body. She discovered a tiny wound in your husband’s arm. She thought it might be because your husband was using recreational drugs, but when she conducted a blood test, she discovered his blood sugar level was four times higher than normal. The contents inside his stomach did not indicate it was caused by something he ate or drank. It was caused by something else—something that was injected into his body, which would explain the puncture mark on the arm.”
Rachel’s face turned hard as stone.
“I went back to the crime scene,” Fisher said, “and guess what I found? A glass in the kitchen sink. I hadn’t paid too much attention to it at first, but when I looked carefully this time, there was a white residue at the bottom. It’s in the lab being tested as we speak, but I have no doubt it’s residue left behind from glucose tablets that were dissolved in water. The glass is also being dusted for fingerprints, and if my theory is correct, the fingerprints on it belong to you.”
Rachel’s lips quivered. Her eyes turned moist, but she didn’t utter a word.
Fisher said, “The first time I met you, I noticed stress on your face. I thought it was because you had lost a loved one and were in mourning, but in reality, you were stressed because you had committed the crime and were struggling to keep yourself together. I also discovered that you are the sole beneficiary of your husband’s estate. Even though he was financially struggling, he was still receiving residuals for all the movies and television shows he had starred in. They could add up to millions each year. I also believe you were aware that your husband was unfaithful during your marriage, and that you had heard rumors about what he had done to other women. That he was a sexual predator.”
At Fisher’s last sentence, Rachel covered her face and broke into heavy sobs.
“He was a monster,” she said. “No one saw the real him. All they saw was a hero on the big screen. He was physically and verbally abusive.” She looked up at Fisher with anger in her eyes. “I should have left him a long time ago. I hated being married to him, but I knew how being married to him could help me, so I never asked for a divorce. When people found out I was his wife, they would hire me to sell their houses. My real estate firm was flourishing because of who I was married to. I was the one who was supporting the family. Dillon hadn’t had a hit in years, and the way he spent money was like he was still an A-list actor.”
Rachel sobbed.
“And yes, I had heard the rumors, and they ate away at me,” she continued. “I’m a woman, so how can I sleep next to a man who does that to other women? I wanted to catch him in the act. I knew he wouldn’t be able to help himself when he was on the road shooting a movie. I was certain he would be with another woman that night when I drove to Milton. When I got to the house, I found the door unlocked. I went inside, and I found his body lying on the floor in the living room. I was horrified. I knew something bad must have happened. I thought about calling 9-1-1. I even thought about getting back in the car and driving away. But then he moaned. I could see he was still alive. I don’t know what came over me. I thought about taking a pillow and smothering that face of his, but I knew I didn’t have it in me.” Rachel took a deep breath. “Whenever I get overwhelmed, my sugar levels go down. I went back to the car to get my glucose pills, and I had an idea. I shouldn’t have done it, but you can’t imagine living with someone like him. He thought he was a gift to the world, like he was someone special. He was nothing but a vile and evil man. I was not going to let this man hurt me or anyone else ever again. I dissolved the entire bottle of glucose tablets in water and then I injected it into his arm. I should have taken the glass with me, but I wasn’t thinking straight. I just wanted this nightmare to be over with. I’m so sorry.”
Rachel’s shoulders slumped. She hugged herself and began crying uncontrollably.
Fisher wanted to reach out and comfort her. Rachel was not only the perpetrator, she was also a victim. Dillon Scott had hurt a lot of people, including his family. Unlike the movies, there were no heroes in Rachel’s story.
Rachel Scott would be charged with the murder of her husband, but Fisher would make sure the prosecutor, the judge, the jury, and the whole world knew who the real Dillon Scott was. Maybe that would help Rachel escape a penalty harsher than she deserved.
ONE-HUNDRED TWO
Callaway was at Bayview Central Train Station. He was standing on the platform observing everyone that got on and off the train. He wasn’t sure what the caller looked like, but Callaway was certain he would be here. He just hoped he wouldn’t miss him.
He glanced down at his watch and then leaned on a pillar as if he was waiting for someone. What if the caller was already here? What if the caller was watching him now?
He shook his head. Like him, the caller didn’t know what he looked like. They were both on a sort of blind date, but there was a big difference: the caller thought he was meeting Kirkman, so he would be searching for him out on the platform.
Callaway had to focus on anyone who was doing just that.
He spotted a man in a hoodie. He was twenty feet away from him. The man had large headphones over his ears, and he was bobbing his head. A train entered the terminal, the man boarded, and the train left the station.
On the other side of the tracks, Callaway noticed a man who was looking at his watch. The man was dressed in a business suit. Callaway doubted the man was the caller. The texts were written in slang. But what if the caller had done that to fool him, to mask who was really sending them?
Callaway kept his gaze on the man. Kirkman was the head of a production company, which at one point was behind million-dollar blockbuster movies. It would make sense for him to meet a man who was properly dressed.
The man looked in Callaway’s direction. Their eyes met. Callaway suddenly froze. Did he recognize me?
The man averted his eyes. He glanced down at his watch again and frowned. Another train entered the station and blocked Callaway’s view. He debated whether he should run down the stairs and go to the other side of the tracks.
The trained pulled away. Callaway caught sight of the man again. He was walking down the platform, holding a toddler. A woman pushing a stroller was next to him.
He was waiting for his family, Callaway thought.
Ten more minutes passed before Callaway decided it was time to head back. His trip to the train station had been a waste. The caller must have realized something was up when he didn’t see Kirkman.
Callaway was about to leave when his cell phone buzzed. He didn’t answer. He looked around the platform.
He spotted a man who had a cell phone to his ear. The man had on a baseball cap, a sweatshirt, and baggy jeans.
Callaway’s eyes narrowed. He can’t be the caller.
Or could he?
He saw the man hang up and type something on his phone.
Callaway’s cell phone buzzed again. He looked down and saw a
text message.
WHERE U AT?
Callaway looked back at the man. He was staring at the screen, waiting for a response. When no response came, the man mouthed a curse and shoved the phone in his pocket. He then adjusted his baseball cap and looked down the platform as another train entered the station.
The doors opened, and the man got aboard.
Callaway boarded the train as well.
ONE-HUNDRED THREE
Callaway was in the same train car as the man. He had a clear view of him as he played with his phone. Every so often, a girl would walk past him, and the man would look up and grin.
Callaway could not imagine what Kirkman was doing with someone like him. Callaway was not prejudiced in any way, shape, or form, but the man gave off a criminal vibe.
Maybe he was a street thug or drug dealer. Something about him did not look right. Callaway wished he had his weapon with him. He didn’t like to carry it on him at all times. He had left his weapon back at the office because his trip to Bayview was solely about digging up information on Gail Roberts’s death. He never expected he would be chasing a man who may or may not have something to do with what happened to Gail. However, Callaway had a feeling the man knew something about why Dillon Scott had gone to Yonge Avenue with a bag full of cash.
This man could very well be the blackmailer.
The disposable phone Kirkman had on him could have been provided by this man, and the first text message Callaway received from him was about the money. Was Kirkman in on the blackmail? If he was, it would explain a lot of things.
But before Callaway could jump to any conclusions, he had to see where this man was going.
The train pulled into a station.
The man got off. Callaway followed.
Callaway tailed the man from a discreet distance. The man went down a flight of stairs, never once looking back to see if someone was following him.
The man walked like he was out on a stroll.
This was exactly what Callaway was hoping for.
The man made his way down the street, turned left, and kept walking until he stopped in front of an apartment building.
The Falling Girl (A Private Investigator Mystery Series of Crime and Suspense, Lee Callaway #3) Page 23