Callaway put the money back in his pocket. “Sorry, not interested,” he said. “Have a nice day, Mason.”
Callaway moved to the door.
Baxter blocked him.
Callaway glared at him. “You’re not going to hit a paying customer, are you, Baxter?” He was in no mood to let Baxter threaten him. “Imagine if the word got out. No one would come here knowing how you operate your business.”
“Relax,” Mason said, putting his arms up. “Baxter would never do anything unless I say so. He just did not want you to leave without finalizing the deal. That’s all.”
Callaway stared at Baxter.
Baxter smiled back.
Callaway turned to Mason. “So, we got a deal?”
Mason smiled. “Of course we do.”
Callaway pulled out the bundle of money. “I want this information as soon as possible, and by that, I mean yesterday.”
“No problem,” Mason said. He was salivating as Callaway counted out the bills.
SIXTY-SEVEN
Nikos Papadopoulos had short graying hair, a pot belly, and a tanned wrinkled face. His brown eyes had seen much in his sixty years. He had arrived in the United States with his family when he was eight years old. His father opened up a furniture store where he and his siblings spent most of their youth helping him out. Nikos watched how his father handled manufacturers and how he managed customers. He was tough with the former and kind with the latter. The furniture store was so successful that his father opened up two more locations. He gave one store to two of his older children to manage, and the flagship store was going to be run by his youngest son when he was old enough.
But Nikos had other plans. He did not want to be in the furniture business. His heart was set on opening a restaurant. He loved to eat, and he figured he could parlay that interest into creating dishes for others. His father was dismayed that he did not want to continue the family business, but he still lent money to Nikos so he could follow his dream.
After three years of blood, sweat, and all his savings, the restaurant was an utter failure. Nikos had no idea how the restaurant business worked. His prices were too low when he first opened, resulting in massive losses, and when he raised prices, customers stopped coming. His servers kept quitting, and so did his cooks. The staff turnover would set him back weeks because he would need to retrain his new hires. Then there was the rat infestation that nearly derailed the restaurant’s launch. Somehow they had found a way in through a hole in a wall. That should have been a sign of things to come, but he had poured in all his money to renovate the place. He could not turn back. But things kept going wrong. If it was not the city licenses he had to maintain, it was the appliances that kept breaking down. When all was said and done, Nikos shut the doors and was left with debts he could not repay. He soon declared bankruptcy.
The furniture business, however, had thrived during the time Nikos was gone. The business’s success had caught the attention of a retail giant. They made an offer to his father he could not refuse. He sold the business, split the proceeds with his older children, and returned to Greece to retire.
Nikos was given nothing. He had turned his back on the family, and he still owed the money he had borrowed from his father. The loan was forgiven, but no additional funds were given to him after the family business was sold.
Bitter, he joined a large company that supplied frozen pastries, croissants, biscuits, and other delicacies to restaurants, coffee shops, and grocery stores. Nikos started off on the factory line and worked his way up to line manager. He got married during this time and had two children, but he never lost the desire to prove to his family and his father that he was not a failure for trying to start a restaurant. He was young and naïve at the time, but with age, he gained a lot of experience.
The moment he reached thirty years of service at the company, Nikos cashed out his pension, much to the dismay of his wife and children, and invested the money in his own furniture store.
Unfortunately, things did not go the way he had hoped after all the years of waiting. The location was ill-suited for a high-end furniture store. The clientele were bargain hunters looking for cheap and affordable items. The products Nikos had imported from Italy, Germany, and Denmark sat in his store for months. And with the economy turning sour, things went from bad to worse. He had two burglaries that cost him thousands in losses.
He soon liquidated the remaining inventory, paid back the suppliers, and was now looking for a buyer to take the building off his hands.
His father had died the year before, but Nikos was not invited to the funeral. When the family decided to sell his father’s properties in Greece, however, Nikos flew over to fight for his rights. His father never made a will, and as his offspring, Nikos was entitled to his share.
After a long and protracted battle with his siblings, Nikos was given a house his father once lived in. Nikos immediately sold the place so he had the capital to start a business again.
He then received a call from his wife, who told him something terrible had occurred on his property.
Nikos took the first available flight to Milton.
He unlocked the furniture store’s front door and scowled at the vile graffiti spray-painted on the front window. The vulgar street art reminded him of the mistake he made in opening a business in a rough neighborhood rife with drugs, violence, and crime.
He heard a beep and hurried to the back of the store. He punched in his access code and disabled the alarm. Even though the outside security camera was not functioning—some punk kids had smashed it—Nikos had installed a second camera inside, just behind the front windows.
He headed to his office in the back of the store. He placed his bag on a table and then pulled out a laptop. While the machine loaded, he left the office and surveyed the open space that was once the show room. He sighed as he thought about how he had managed to mess up another business. Most people were never given a second chance, and he somehow threw his away.
He would be extra vigilant with the money he had just inherited. Third chances were rare, and he was not going to squander his.
He went back inside the office. An external hard drive was hooked up to a small black box that was connected to the camera by the front window. The camera only turned on when there was movement. Nikos did not expect the camera to do anything but act as a deterrent for vandals, recording nothing of consequence. When he was told someone was shot and killed outside the store, he had to come and check.
He hooked up the hard drive to his laptop and played the video files.
What he saw made his eyes go wide with horror.
SIXTY-EIGHT
Holt was with Nancy at her mother’s house when he received the call. He dropped everything and rushed over. He did not even kiss Nancy goodbye as he left, something he always did. The hour drive felt like it was two hours.
He pulled into the parking lot and spotted Fisher by the front door. He got out when she approached him.
“Have you seen it?” Holt asked, getting straight to the point.
“No. I was waiting for you,” she replied. “The owner’s name is Nikos Papadopoulos, and he is quite shaken up.”
“Where is he?” Holt said.
“Inside.”
They entered the store. Papadopoulos was hunched over on a chair. His face was pale, and he reeked of vomit.
“Mr. Papadopoulos, this is my partner, Detective Holt,” Fisher said to him.
Nikos nodded in his direction, but he looked like he was on the verge of tears.
“Can you show it to us?” Fisher asked.
He nodded again and took them to his office. Holt winced. The smell of vomit was strong in the confined space, emanating from a wastebasket by the desk.
Nikos tapped the keyboard on his laptop, picked up the wastebasket, and left the room. He did not have the stomach to watch the footage a second time, but he was courteous enough to get the worst of the foul reek out of the room.
T
he image was black and white, and the camera was aimed at the parking lot across from the store entrance.
The image flickered whenever the camera came alive upon sensing movement. The two detectives waited with bated breath as a car pulled into the parking lot.
Holt’s back tensed.
It’s the Chrysler! he thought. Isaiah’s behind the wheel!
His nephew drove around the lot until he pulled into a spot. The car’s trunk was facing the camera. The rear lights turned off a moment later. Isaiah’s large silhouette was visible from the back windshield.
The image then went blank.
Holt and Fisher were not sure how much time had passed before the camera flickered on again.
A man appeared on the screen. He was dressed in black from head to toe, and he wore a motorcycle helmet.
He came up behind the Chrysler on the right. There was no way for Isaiah to see him coming.
Holt clenched his jaw and balled his fists. He knew what was about to happen.
The man was holding a gun. He aimed at the passenger side window and fired three shots.
Holt could see the silhouette in the driver’s seat shake violently before slumping and going still.
Tears filled Holt’s eyes. He had just witnessed the cold-blooded murder of his nephew.
The shooter waited a few seconds. He lowered his gun and removed something from his jacket pocket. The object looked white. He opened the passenger door and leaned inside.
Holt could only surmise the killer was placing the packet of heroin in the glove compartment.
He emerged, pocketing something in his jacket.
It could be Isaiah’s cell phone, Holt thought. We never found it.
The killer rushed out of view.
The screen went blank.
Holt sighed and got ready to leave the office.
Fisher stopped him.
“What?” he asked her.
“It’s not done.”
More footage started. A man riding a bicycle appeared on the screen. He was Bo Smith.
He rode past the Chrysler and stopped. He turned around and then circled the vehicle. He stopped by the driver’s side window and put his hands over his head as he recognized who it was.
Smith circled the vehicle one more time and stopped at the passenger side door. He jumped off the bicycle and began to search inside. He stuffed something inside his pants pocket. Holt guessed the object was Isaiah’s wallet. Smith then opened his backpack and placed something else inside: the heroin he would later nearly overdose on.
The screen went black.
The two detectives now knew Smith was not the killer, but finding the black-clad man who had committed the brutal crime was going to be a challenge.
SIXTY-NINE
After speaking to Mason, Callaway returned to the restaurant.
The booth where he had left Elle was empty.
“Your friend left right after you did,” Joely said.
“Did she say where she was going?” he asked.
“She didn’t say anything. And I didn’t bother to ask.”
He scratched his chin and nodded. Elle was not particularly excited that he had gone without her. She felt like they were a team. She was also his employer, and she wanted to keep a tab on what he was up to.
He thought about calling her but decided against it. Back at her apartment, she had told him she worked for a nonprofit organization that helped visually impaired people. She still had a life in Mayview that required her attention.
“What’s her deal, anyway?” Joely asked, snapping him out of his thoughts.
“Who?”
“The woman you were with earlier.”
“Her sister’s gone missing, and I am trying to help find her.”
“How’s your search coming along?”
He shrugged. “We’re making progress,” he said with little conviction.
“She’s got that quiet intensity to her,” Joely said.
Callaway raised an eyebrow. “How would you know that?”
“I’m a woman. I can sense these things. Don’t be fooled by her shy, introverted exterior. I bet if you put her in a corner, she’d fight her way out.”
Elle is highly motivated to find her sister, Callaway thought. She will do just about anything to know where Katie is.
“She’s also kind of cute, you know,” Joely said with a wink. “Have you…?”
Callaway shook his head. “She’s a client.”
“Hasn’t stopped you before.”
Callaway sighed. “You got me there.”
“Is it because she’s blind?” Joely asked.
Callaway was horrified at that thought. Would he be interested in someone who had some form of handicap? Of course he would. The reason he never thought of Elle in that way was because of what she was going through. She was not just a client who wanted to get money out of a cheating spouse; she was desperate to find a loved one whom she had not heard from in months.
A thought occurred to him, which he was not proud of. Her blindness had made him more attentive towards her, almost in a protective way. She never asked for special treatment. He just took it upon himself to tread carefully whenever he was around her.
He caught something playing on the TV behind Joely.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“All the stations have been playing it over and over,” she replied.
A man wearing a motorcycle helmet approached a parked vehicle and fired into it. The vehicle was blurred out to protect the viewer from seeing violent images, but Callaway could easily surmise the occupant had not survived the barrage of bullets.
The image of the shooter froze on the screen. The news anchor came on and said, “This man is a suspect in the death of Isaiah Whitcomb. Anyone with any knowledge as to his identity should contact the Milton Police Department.”
Holt must be devastated at the sight of his nephew being gunned down like that, Callaway thought. I can’t blame him. I would be too.
SEVENTY
Mainsville Penitentiary was a federal prison in New Jersey. It housed over two thousand of the most dangerous criminals in the state. The jail was surrounded by twenty-foot-high concrete walls topped with barbed wire. Surveillance cameras captured every inch of the structure, and close to two hundred trained guards monitored the inmates around the clock.
Cosimo went through a metal detector and a physical search. He was made to fill out a form and was then escorted down a narrow corridor. Instead of going to the visitors’ area where family members and lawyers met the prisoners, however, the guard took him to another part of the prison.
Cosimo’s visit was pre-planned. A huge sum of money had already been distributed to all the guards involved and their supervisor, a man more corrupt than most people Cosimo had worked for. The part of the prison he was going to had suffered a mysterious “camera malfunction” lest the warden know his most famous inmate was receiving a visitor, and Cosimo had provided the guards at the entrance with one of the several false identifications he utilized.
There was still the possibility the guards and their crooked supervisor could turn on him. Even if no one had been able to pin them on him, Cosimo was still behind half a dozen killings. His arrest would be a giant score for the authorities. But even the bent supervisor and his corrupt underlings knew the reach Cosimo’s employer had in the outside world. If they chose to renege on their deal, the retaliation would be swift. A car bomb, a hail of bullets during a quiet walk, or worse—the abduction of a loved one.
His employer had lost significant control when he was arrested, but he still had money stashed away that no federal agency could find or touch. Money was power, and it could compel people to do horrible things.
The guards and their supervisor were aware of this. But even then, Cosimo took no chances before arriving at the prison. He had surveilled the corrupt men’s places of residence. He had photographed their children, wives, mistresses, mothers, and anyone else who hel
d value to them. He then sent copies of these pictures to each man. The message was clear: If you get any smart ideas, someone you know will get hurt.
The guard who walked next to him also received a package of photos, and his contempt for Cosimo was palpable. But Cosimo could care less. His freedom was at stake, and he would do just about anything to stay free.
They moved down a corridor and came to a stop at a heavy door. The guard unlocked the door with a key that was hooked on his belt and then held the door for him.
He understood. The guard will go no further.
Cosimo entered and realized he was in the prison’s laundromat. The industrial washers and dryers were on one side, and bins filled with laundry were on the other. The area was hot and stuffy and smelled of detergent.
The room was also empty.
This meeting’s going to be private.
Cosimo spotted a man sitting next to a table with clothes neatly folded on it.
He walked into the room and approached the inmate.
The man was short, balding, and he had on thick prescription glasses. His face was without a wrinkle, which made him look much younger than he was. He had a cross tattooed on his right arm, and a tattoo of a dagger on the left. The images were symbolic. He was both good and evil. Religious and feared. Peaceful and dangerous.
Paolo Beniti stood up and extended his arms for an embrace. Cosimo walked over and let the man hug him, and then Beniti kissed Cosimo on both cheeks.
“It’s good to see you, Cosimo,” Beniti said, smiling like he was greeting an old friend. Cosimo had only met him once, and that was for a job. “Thank you for coming,” he said.
I didn’t have much choice, Cosimo thought. “Anything for you, Don Beniti,” he said in reply.
“I wish we could have met under different circumstances.” He looked around the laundromat with disdain. “But it is what it is.”
“I cried when they sentenced you to life,” Cosimo said. His thoughts, however, were different. I could care less what happens to you, old man. It was your hubris that was the end of you.
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