He was walking for a couple of hours when his feet started to hurt. He spotted a park bench and decided to take a rest.
He pulled off his shoes and rubbed his toes and heel. He was certain he had blisters.
A man approached him. His hair was gray, his skin was wrinkled, and he sported a heavy mustache. “Do you mind if I sit here?” he asked.
“Help yourself,” Callaway said, giving him space on the bench.
The man gingerly sat down. He pulled off his wool cap and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Nice morning for a walk,” he said.
That’s all I’ve been doing, Callaway thought.
The man squinted. “You okay, son?”
“I am,” Callaway replied, not making eye contact with him.
“You don’t look so good. You need help?”
“I’ll be fine. Thanks.”
“Woman trouble?” the man asked with a grin.
Callaway finally looked at him. “How’d you know?”
The man tapped the end of his nose. “It’s been broken eight times. Twice during a bar fight. Once during a car accident. And the rest by boyfriends and husbands.” The man smiled wistfully. “I gotta say, those were the happiest times of my life.”
Callaway did not know how to respond.
“Was it worth it?” the man asked.
Callaway thought for a moment. “I guess it was.”
“The pain will go away, but the memories will last forever.”
The last thing Callaway wanted was to remember what happened the night before. He got up. “Nice talking to you.”
“Your nose looks pretty bad, son. You should get it checked out by a medical professional,” the man suggested.
I should get my head checked instead, Callaway thought, and walked away.
FIVE
Fisher debated whether to make the call. She knew she had to. If she did not, she would never be forgiven.
After she hung up, she shut her eyes. She wanted to be anywhere but here. She almost wished she had taken a cruise to the Caribbean like she had wanted to. Had she done so, she would not have to endure what she was about to go through.
She could not believe she was being selfish at a time when she was needed more than ever. Tragedy had struck, and as a friend and colleague, she would be relied upon to hold everything together. She could not imagine what she would do if something terrible happened to those she loved.
She opened her eyes and found the officer staring at her.
“Are you okay?” he asked, concerned.
“I’m fine, thanks,” she said, composing herself. “Did you touch anything?”
The officer shook his head. “No, ma’am. After arriving at the scene, I called dispatch and told them to contact you.”
“You did the right thing,” she replied. She suddenly felt guilty for being annoyed at the officer. His request for her was out of courtesy. His duty was to secure the area and wait for the investigator to take charge of the scene, which he did.
Fisher glanced at the officer’s name tag. It read McConnell. The name rang a faint bell in her memory.
She smiled. “Have we met before?”
McConnell nodded. “Yes, we have. I’m Officer Lance McConnell. We met at the annual police challenge.”
Each year, the department held an event that tested officers in a variety of exercises that ranged from disarming an assailant, to running obstacles, to accuracy with a handgun. Fisher was not sure which event he competed in.
As if reading her mind, McConnell said, “I won the hundred-meter track.”
Right, she thought. That’s why he looked familiar.
His flowing blonde hair was covered by his police cap. He had deep blue eyes and a prominent chin. He was tall, and his uniform clung tight to his body.
He smiled.
She blushed, but she did not know why.
“How’d you know who the victim was?” Fisher asked, getting back to the case. “You didn’t check his ID, did you?”
“I didn’t have to. I’d seen him in the papers, and it’s no secret who he’s related to. That’s why I thought you’d want to be here first.”
“I appreciate what you did.”
“No problem.”
A car pulled up to the curb. Officer McConnell rushed over and held the police tape so the car could pass through.
Fisher took a deep breath to steady her nerves.
Detective Gregory Holt stepped out of the car. He was six-four and weighed close to two hundred and fifty pounds. He had thick arms, thick hands, and a thick neck that was too large for his shirt collar. The skin on his shaved head was wrinkled. His small black eyes darted from one spot to another as if sizing everything up around him.
Holt walked toward Fisher as if he was in no hurry, like he usually did. His belief was not to rush unless he had to, and if things could wait, they did.
“I was surprised when you called me,” he said. “I thought you were looking forward to your day off.”
“I was, but this is important.”
Holt stared at her. “Okay, so where’s the victim?”
“Greg…” she started to say, but she stopped. Her eyes welled up.
“What’s going on?” he asked, alarmed.
“I’m so sorry…”
Holt’s face darkened. He tried to move past her, but she put her arm out to block him. Even though he could have pushed her aside with one finger, he held up.
“I need to tell you something,” she said.
“What?” Holt asked.
Tears flowed down Fisher’s cheeks.
“It’s Isaiah.”
SIX
Isaiah Whitcomb was six-foot-eight, weighed over two hundred and ten pounds, and he was a rising college basketball star.
He was also Holt’s nephew.
The Milton Cougars had made it to the NCAA tournament twice, and it was all due to Isaiah. He was not a good shooter, but he was a great passer and a demon on defense. There was a belief amongst coaches and scouts that if Isaiah continued playing the way he did, he could make it to the NBA.
Over the years, the professional game had changed, going from an inside game to an outside game. Seven-footers who played with their backs to the baskets were no longer as coveted as before. Players who could play along the perimeter were more sought after. The ones who could shoot three-pointers and also defend against the opponent’s three-point shooters were the new stars.
Isaiah was quick on his feet. It had something to do with his desire to be a soccer player as a kid. But then, at age sixteen, when he shot up six inches in height, basketball became the next option. He would hound every player on the opposing team, even the point guards. He had an abundance of energy. He never wanted to be taken out of a game even for a minute’s rest.
He was also very competitive. Whenever his team lost a game, he would lock himself in a room and watch footage of the game. He always strived to get better, and he wanted his teammates to succeed too. He was very vocal when they made a mistake. He was also supportive when they needed a boost. He was his team’s biggest cheerleader.
Holt stood frozen as he stared at the young man who held so much promise for himself and his family. The bright future that was before him was now gone.
Isaiah is no more.
Holt shut his eyes, hoping that when he opened them, he would not see Isaiah but someone else. He was used to seeing dead bodies of strangers. He never expected that one day a victim would be someone close to him.
Not Isaiah, he thought. Not the little boy that used to call me “Uncle G” because he couldn’t say my name.
He opened his eyes and saw the dead body of his nephew. His eyes welled up, and he almost wished no one saw him.
Holt wanted to reach through the window and hug Isaiah. He wanted to tell him everything would be okay. But he knew things would never be okay. Not for him, not for his family, and not for everyone who loved and adored him.
He f
elt Fisher next to him. She placed her hand over his and gripped tightly. Her eyes were moist as she stared into his eyes. “Why don’t you go home to your family and I’ll take care of this?” she said.
How do I go to my family? he thought. What do I say to them?
His chest tightened, and he felt like he could not breathe.
He clenched his jaw and inhaled deeply through his nostrils. This is no time to fall apart, he thought.
“Isaiah’s family,” he slowly said. “And I want to stay here with him.”
“Okay,” Fisher said.
SEVEN
Callaway stood before his beloved Dodge Charger with a tear in his eye. The black car’s side doors had key marks, the windshield had cracks, and the taillights had to be replaced.
He sighed, and his shoulders sank. What did he expect the husband would do the moment he saw Callaway’s car sitting across from his house?
Before returning, Callaway made sure the husband had left the house. Callaway hid behind a tree and watched until the husband and his soon-to-be ex-wife had driven away in their Hummer. There was no telling what the husband would do if he saw Callaway near his house again.
Callaway felt for the wife. She must have borne the brunt of his wrath. He doubted the husband had gotten physical with her. During Callaway’s long talk with the wife, she admitted the husband had never hit her once. If he did, she would return to Russia on the next available flight. Callaway had a feeling that was exactly what she would now do. She missed her family, and the only reason she was in the U.S. was to start a new life with her husband. The marriage was now over—Callaway was partly to blame for that—but she was not happy here anyway.
He put his hands over his face and quickly regretted it. His nose was still tender and would be so for a couple of days. I should avoid touching it, he thought.
He suddenly felt like sneezing, but he quickly put his finger near his nose to prevent it from happening. One sneeze and his nose would flare with pain, and blood would flow anew.
Callaway pulled out his car keys and unlocked the door. He grabbed the handle and suddenly sneezed violently. A sharp, stabbing pain shot up into his brain. He covered his nose and felt hot liquid on his fingers.
Damn, he thought.
He tilted his head back to stop the blood. He shut his eyes and pinched his nostrils again. He waited until the bleeding stopped.
He opened the car door and got behind the wheel. From the glove compartment, he pulled out a box of tissue and stuffed a bunch into his nostrils.
He saw his reflection in the rearview mirror and wondered why he kept putting himself in positions like this.
He used to be a deputy sheriff in a small town. He was married, he had a daughter, and he had a house to call his own. He still had his daughter, although he hardly saw her. But he was divorced, and he was relying on other people’s kindness for lodging.
A very wealthy client had let him stay at her beach house until she returned from her trip to Switzerland. She was back, and she had brought with her a much younger man. Callaway had to quickly make himself scarce.
Fortunately for him, he did not have much to move. Most of his belongings were in his ex-wife’s garage. After his last big case, he and his ex-wife were on much better terms. The payout was more than Callaway had expected. Instead of holding on to the money, which he would burn through in no time flat, he gave it to his ex. He was already way behind on his child support, and she could do more good with the money than him, although he could use the money about now. The Charger would need a new paint job, a new windshield, and new taillights. It would cost a pretty penny, but Callaway saw no other option. He could not see his prized possession in this condition.
He placed his hand on the dashboard. “I’m sorry, darling,” he whispered. “It’s my fault you had to suffer. I promise I’ll get the money somehow to make you good as new.”
He placed the key in the ignition and turned it. The Charger roared to life. The damage was cosmetic. The car was still in running condition. The cracks in the windshield were not so bad, and he could still make out what was in front of him. The taillights would be a problem. Not for him, but for the drivers behind him. A minor inconvenience, he thought.
He grinned. No matter what life threw at him, he would find a way to get through it with a smile on his face and his middle finger raised high.
He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.
He heard a loud bang, almost like the sound of a shotgun. He shut off the engine and got out. He walked around the vehicle and saw his right rear wheel was flat.
So much for the smile and the raised middle finger, he thought.
EIGHT
Fisher glanced at Holt and saw the strain on his face. I’d prefer it if you went home, she thought. Her partner was in mourning, and she worried his emotions could cloud his judgment. As investigators, they were supposed to be impartial, but this case was personal, Fisher knew, even for her. She had met Isaiah a few times, and she found him polite, respectable, and full of energy. He seemed like he could not sit still in one place for long. There was always something that needed his immediate attention.
Holt’s gaze did not move away from Isaiah’s Chrysler. He was not going to leave Isaiah, and Fisher was not going to try to make him leave. If someone she cared for had been brutally victimized, she would damn well do everything in her power to find out who did it.
The crime scene unit would soon be going over the area with a fine-tooth comb, and the medical examiner was on her way too. Holt and Fisher had to conduct their preliminary examination before anything was touched or moved.
Fisher placed her hand on Holt’s shoulder. He slowly turned to face her.
“You up for it?” she asked.
Holt took a deep breath and let it out.
He nodded.
Fisher pulled on a pair of latex gloves and handed a pair to Holt. He put them on.
They approached the body together.
Isaiah was wearing a Milton College sweatshirt. He had dark curly hair and olive skin. He was a handsome kid, the product of a white mother and a black father. He had full lips, an aquiline nose, and emerald eyes. His eyes were closed, but Fisher remembered how bright and full of life they once were.
The front of Isaiah’s shirt and the side of his neck and head were covered in thick red blood. The smell was overpowering.
Fisher gently pulled the driver’s side door open. Shards of glass fell by her feet. She scanned the car’s interior. Glass was everywhere—on the seats, the floor, and the dashboard. The glass was from the passenger’s side window, which was completely shattered.
The Chrysler was an older model that lacked the technology that came with the latest models. No GPS, no back camera, no lane assist. For a moment, Fisher wished the car had GPS. They could have used the device to track Isaiah’s movements the night he died.
“It’s not his car,” Holt said.
She looked up at him. He too was leaning into the vehicle. “How do you know?” she asked.
“Isaiah was saving up to buy a brand-new Dodge Ram. I was supposed to go with him after the semester was over.”
Fisher’s eyes narrowed. “We need to find out whose car it is then.”
NINE
Even with a cracked windshield and broken taillights, Callaway made it to his destination after putting on his spare tire. As he pulled into the auto shop, he felt grateful no police cruiser had passed by him on the way over. The cops would have ticketed him for equipment violations.
He stepped out when a Hispanic man appeared from the garage. He had smooth dark hair, a pencil-thin mustache above his upper lip, and scruffs on his chin. He was wearing blue overalls. He wiped grease off his hands with a cloth and smiled. “Lee Callaway, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Hello, Julio,” Callaway said sheepishly.
Julio’s smile faded when he saw the condition the Charger was in. “What happened?” he asked.
“It’s a long story.”
“Let me guess. You slept with your client’s wife, and he hurt you and your baby.”
Callaway frowned. “How’d you know he did anything to me?”
“Your face, man. Those tissues stuffed in your nose makes you look like a warthog.”
Callaway pulled out the tissues. His nostrils stung. “I need you to fix the Charger,” he said.
“Sure, that’s what I’m in business for,” Julio said. “The only question is, do you have the money to pay for the repairs?”
Julio was aware of Callaway’s money troubles. In fact, Callaway still owed him for the last two oil changes he had done for him.
“You know I’m good for it,” Callaway said.
“That’s what you always say,” Julio said, sounding exasperated. “And I believe you, but then you disappear until you need me again.”
“Listen, I’ve been busy. You hear about the Gardener case?”
“I read it in the papers. I heard you got a nice chunk of change out of it.”
“How’d you hear that? It wasn’t printed anywhere.”
“People talk when they are waiting for their cars to be fixed. I’m a good listener, you know.” Julio gave him a crooked smile. “You still have any of that money left over?”
Callaway’s shoulders drooped. “No.”
“I figured that. You can’t help yourself, can you? It must have been a very special horse you bet on.”
“Actually, I gave most of it to Patti.”
Julio’s eyes widened. “You did?”
“Yeah, I figured the temptation of a special horse would be too much for me.”
Julio laughed. “I never thought I’d see the day when you put other people over yourself.”
Callaway was not amused.
“But I’m still going to need cash up front to fix your ride,” Julio said.
The Gone Sister (A Private Investigator Mystery Series of Crime and Suspense, Lee Callaway #2) Page 2