“Thank you,” Beniti said as if the comment touched his heart. “I am sure you have seen the video of the young athlete in Milton being murdered.”
“I have,” Cosimo said.
“It seems that after all these years, the man who put me in this wretched place has finally shown himself.”
Cosimo could not help but take a jab at Beniti’s mistake. “It seems that way, but if you had hired me in the first place all those years ago, you would not be in this situation, Don Beniti.”
Beniti shrugged. “It was an error I am paying dearly for. I wanted to keep it in-house, but I should have contracted the job out to someone with your special capabilities.”
Cosimo almost smiled. Good that you know you are to blame for your predicament.
The old man’s eyes glowed with pure hatred. “I want you to go to Milton and find him,” Beniti said. “I want you to make sure he knows I sent you. I want you to make him pay for his betrayal.”
“That’s what I’m good at,” Cosimo said with no emotion.
SEVENTY-ONE
Fisher entered the bar and looked around. The time was midday, but even then, the place was half full.
Don’t people have jobs? she wondered. I doubt their bosses would let them drink during work hours.
While Fisher was still on duty, she was not here to indulge. She wanted a quiet spot to clear her mind. She was hoping to find a booth in the corner, but they seemed to be all taken.
I should go to the coffee shop across the street, she thought.
She was about to turn around and head back out the door when she spotted a familiar man sitting in one of the booths.
She smiled.
“Why am I not surprised to see you here?” she asked as she walked up to him.
Lee Callaway grinned. “I could say the same to you. You’re not working today?”
“I am,” she said.
“So if you’re not here to drink, then I’m guessing you are here to talk to me.”
“I am not here for you.”
He raised an eyebrow, but he kept grinning. “You sneaky girl. You are going to drink on the job. What will your poison of choice be? I’m buying.”
She shook her head. “I just needed to get away.”
“Let me guess, you need to get away from Holt?”
“It’s not always Holt I need a break from. We’re not a couple that needs time away from each other every so often.”
She took a seat across from him.
He leaned over and winked. “We could have made a beautiful couple, you know.”
Callaway and Fisher had dated once—and only once. She always reminded him of this whenever he brought up the subject. They were two different people. She was focused on a career and maybe a family down the road. He was focused on whatever caught his fancy, and he still had issues to sort out from his previous marriage.
Fisher strongly believed, even if Callaway vehemently denied it, that Callaway still harbored feelings for his ex-wife. She was the one he compared all his relationships to. In Fisher’s opinion, Patti was the best thing that ever happened to Callaway, and he was an idiot to give up on their marriage. He would look back one day with regret, but by then, it would be too late. People like Callaway were more interested in new shiny objects than paying attention to the object already in their hands. They were always searching for happiness in the distance when they did not realize it was already under their feet.
Fisher shook her head. She could not believe she was getting philosophical just thinking about Callaway. Maybe Callaway held potential in him to be a better husband, father, and person. If he only knew how to get out of his own way, perhaps he could do it.
“You okay?” he asked.
She blinked.
“You look like you are in a galaxy far, far away.”
“Sorry, I was just thinking.”
“What’ll you have?” he asked.
“Sparkling water,” she replied.
He got up, walked over to the bar, and returned with a glass. He sat back across from her.
“Thanks,” she said.
“I saw the video of the shooting on TV,” he said. “I bet it was Holt’s idea to release it to the media.”
She took a sip and sighed. “I tried to talk him out of it, but he is eager to find the person who murdered his nephew. I can’t blame him, though. This is the first big break we’ve had since we started our investigation.”
“Any potential leads?” he asked.
“The phones are ringing off the hook back at the station. Why do you think I needed to get away? It’s mostly people trying to settle a score with someone.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had one caller say it was his neighbor. He rides a motorcycle, so he had to be the shooter. When I pushed the caller, he confessed his neighbor would ride his motorcycle at all times of the day, and he wanted to scare him into stopping.” She took another sip from her glass. “I doubt any of the information will be useful.”
“You can’t be certain,” Callaway said.
“The shooter was covered from head to toe. It could be anyone. It could even be a muscular woman.”
Callaway thought for a moment. Fisher was right. There was not much to identify who the killer was.
He took a gulp from his glass. The scotch burned the back of his throat. Why am I drinking when I’m on the job as well? he wondered.
“Any new cases?” Fisher asked.
It was his turn to sigh. “Yeah.”
“As complicated as the Paul Gardener case?”
“Far more complicated than the Gardener case.”
Fisher checked her watch. “I’m in no hurry to go back to the station. You wanna tell me what it’s about?”
“Sure, but if you want a drink afterward, it’s not my fault.”
She smiled. “I’ll take my chances.”
SEVENTY-TWO
Special Agent Ed Schaefer of the Federal Bureau of Investigation parked his rented Buick outside a falafel shop. He could not believe he had to come all the way to Milton.
Schaefer was in the middle of an investigation in Florida involving casinos and organized crime. The view was great, the weather was perfect, and the women were nice and tanned.
When he saw the news, he knew he had to get on the first available flight out. He made some excuse to his superiors about needing to deal with a personal matter. They were not pleased. The investigation had been ongoing for months and had cost the Bureau a good chunk of their budget. But they agreed to let him take some time off, as Schaefer knew they would after all the positive exposure the Bureau had gotten from his last major investigation.
Schaefer was tall and wiry. His skin was weather-beaten and wrinkled, his eyes were gray and hollow, and his teeth were stained from years of smoking.
He reached for a pack in his suit jacket but decided against a smoke. He had an urgent matter to attend to.
He entered the shop, making the door chime. He looked around and spotted his man in the corner.
The man was wearing a checkered shirt, cargo pants, and work boots. A painter’s cap covered his dark hair, which was once a golden color. He had stubble on his cheeks, and his eyes were black.
The first time Schaefer had looked into those eyes, he almost shivered. He saw no soul in them. They belonged to a killer. Schaefer knew the moment he made a deal with him, there was no turning back. He was shaking hands with the devil.
Schaefer looked around the falafel shop. The owner was behind the counter. He was more interested in what was on the TV, which was playing a Middle Eastern program.
Good spot for a private meeting, Schaefer thought.
He approached the man and sat across from him. He slid a plate with a shawarma on it across to Schaefer.
“No thanks,” Schaefer said. “I’m not hungry.”
The man was not offended. He pulled back the plate and bit into his shawarma. The man’s real name had not been spoken in years, and
Schaefer was not about to use it either. He feared someone might hear it. The man was known to the world as Kevin Brogdon.
“I saw the video,” Schaefer said. “Everyone did.”
He expected a response, but he got none.
Schaefer leaned closer. “What were you thinking? He was a state basketball star.”
“He should not have been there in the first place,” Brogdon replied without emotion.
“And what about the woman?”
“It’s been taken care of.”
“Are you sure? Or am I going to find another video?”
Brogdon was silent.
Schaefer gritted his teeth. “The deal was, you keep your head low and you follow the law. I did not say you could kill people.”
Brogdon leaned in closer. “I kept a low profile just like you told me, but I got bored, okay? I wanted to have some fun. I had no choice in what I did. The woman would have exposed me.” He pointed a finger at Schaefer. “She would have exposed you.”
Schaefer tried to keep his emotions in check. He did not want to cause a scene. The falafel shop was still relatively empty, but he had seen a customer or two glance in their direction.
Schaefer felt self-conscious in his black suit. He missed wearing golf shirts, shorts, and loafers. But Milton was cool and breezy, not sunny and balmy. He had no choice but to wear his business attire.
“Just make this go away,” Brogdon said.
Schaefer’s eyes widened. “Make this go away? Who do you think I am? The president? I am not supposed to even be here. I came because you messed up.”
“You came to protect yourself,” Brogdon said. “Because of me, Don Beniti is in prison. I gave him to you on a silver platter.”
Schaefer was silent.
Brogdon gave Schaefer a menacing and arrogant smile. “I heard the FBI gave you a medal for your exceptional work.”
Schaefer’s jaw clenched. A part of him wanted to get up and walk away. Brogdon was not his problem anymore. He had held up his end of the bargain.
“I should let the Beniti family find you,” Schaefer said. “Guess what they do to rats?”
Brogdon stared at him.
It was Schaefer’s turn to smile. “Oh wait, you do know what they do to those who betray the code. It was your job to make an example of those who did, wasn’t it?”
Brogdon moved his tongue over his front teeth and snarled. He said, “You owe me for the time I spent in prison for you.” He pointed again at Schaefer. His finger was inches from his face. “Don’t you ever forget that, got it?”
Schaefer held his stare and then sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, you keep your head down and don’t do anything stupid. You’ve already caused enough damage for the both of us.”
Brogdon smiled. “Sure, whatever you say. You’re the boss.”
SEVENTY-THREE
Callaway was on his way to his apartment when he received a call. Mason had information for him. Linda Eustace’s photo was on a website run by a man named Glenn Maker.
“What kind of website?” Callaway inquired.
“What do you think? It’s for escorts,” Mason replied.
Elle’s sister was an escort? Callaway thought. That explains how she was able to pay for all those overseas trips.
“How do I find Glenn Maker?” Callaway asked.
Mason was silent. It was his negotiating tactic. He would not give up the address unless Callaway handed over more money.
Callaway said, “Listen, I paid you a grand to find me information on Linda Eustace and Bruno Rocco. What about him?”
“I asked around, but no one’s heard of him,” Mason replied.
“Then I guess I’m owed a refund.”
“I don’t do refunds,” Mason shot back.
“Our deal was, you find information that I can use and you get paid. Glenn Maker’s name I can use, but unless you find something useful on Bruno Rocco, I will be in your office to collect my five hundred bucks.”
“Okay, okay, slow down,” Mason said. “I’ll tell you where you can find Maker.”
Callaway jotted down the address. After hanging up, he thought about calling Elle. She deserved to know what he had found. Might not be a good idea just yet, he thought. If Katie’s working as an escort, Elle will be devastated. Better I first confirm Mason’s findings and then gently break it to her.
He did not know how she would react to the news. She was already dealing with the knowledge of her sister’s false identity. This new revelation would be a double whammy.
He would visit Glenn Maker without her lest she get overwhelmed.
He drove to the address. For a second, he thought Mason had pulled a fast one on him. Instead of finding a seedy-looking property, he was in front of a decent house on a residential street. There was even a park with a playground across the road. Parents and their children were visible from where he sat in the Impala.
He pulled out his cell phone to give Mason a piece of his mind, but intuition stopped him.
Why don’t I go up and knock on the door? he thought. What’s the worst that could happen? I’m already here.
He got out, approached the front door, and rang the doorbell.
SEVENTY-FOUR
As Callaway waited, he scanned the street again. It was quiet except for a woman walking her dog. She looked like she was heading toward the park.
He was about to ring the doorbell again when he heard a man’s voice. It was coming from an intercom next to the doorbell. “Who is it?”
“I’m looking for Glenn Maker.”
“Who wants to know?”
Callaway spotted a camera above the door. Maker appeared to take security very seriously. Callaway considered telling him the truth, but something told him Maker would not open the door to just anyone. He was running a website for escorts, after all, which made him sort of a pimp. He would have to try a different approach.
“My name’s Gator Peckerwood,” Callaway claimed. He pulled out the card with his alias on it and waved the card at the camera fast so Maker could not catch the lettering. “I work for A to Z Delivery.” Callaway had spotted several cardboard boxes from A to Z stacked next to a garbage bin. “We have become aware that our customers’ packages have gone missing, and we want to speak to you to see how we can make your deliveries more secure.” Callaway knew that in some cities, mail theft had become such a big issue that delivery companies were considering installing large boxes to hold packages outside people’s houses.
“Finally you guys are taking it seriously,” Maker said over the intercom. “I’ve had a dozen packages go missing. I’ve caught people on my camera pulling up to my house, parking their car, grabbing my package, and driving away.”
“That’s why I am here, to make certain that this doesn’t happen to you again, sir,” Callaway said. “I’ve got a few documents that require your signature. This way I can have everything set up for you.”
“Give me a minute.”
Callaway waited.
The door swung open. Callaway was half-expecting a man with a fur coat, top hat, and a gold cane. Maker was wearing a t-shirt, baggy shorts, white socks, and he had a smartwatch on his wrist.
“Where do I sign?” Maker asked eagerly.
Callaway shoved his way into the house.
“What’re you doing?” Maker demanded, sounding confused.
Callaway pulled out Katie’s photo and said, “I’m looking for this woman. Tell me where I can find her.”
“How would I know?” Maker claimed.
“She was on your website, which either makes her a client of yours or a client of someone else’s. Her name is Katie Pearson, but she might be going by the name of Linda Eustace.”
“Are you a customer?”
“No, I’m a private investigator hired to find her.”
Maker suddenly looked emboldened. “Get out of my house before I call the cops.”
Callaway crossed his arms over his chest. “Go ahead, and wh
at will you tell them?”
“I’ll tell them that you forced your way in.”
“With what? I don’t carry a weapon. And I didn’t threaten you.”
“My camera will tell the truth.”
“It will show you opening the door for me, and me going through it.”
Maker thought for a moment. “You have to leave.”
“Why?” Callaway asked. He caught sight of a framed photo hanging on a wall in the hallway. Maker was dressed in a tux next to a woman in a wedding gown. “So you’re married,” Callaway said with a smile. “Does your wife know that you’re a pimp?”
“I’m not,” Maker said, his eyes wide with horror.
“Does she know you run a website for escorts?” Callaway said. “I bet she doesn’t. Why don’t I wait for her and tell her myself?”
Callaway walked over to the sofa and took a seat.
Maker came over. He had broken into a cold sweat. “Listen man, you gotta leave or else my marriage will be over.”
“Tell me what I need to know and I’ll go.”
Maker stared at him. He sighed. He took a seat across from Callaway and said, “I recognize the name you mentioned, but I’ve never met her.”
Callaway frowned. “You’re a pimp who’s never met his girl?”
“I told you I’m not a pimp. I’m a coder.”
“A what?”
“I sit at home and write codes for computer programs.”
“Is that what your wife thinks you do?”
He lowered his head, looking ashamed. “Yes. I lost my job at a tech company a year and a half ago. To pay the bills, I created the website. Its main purpose was to handle payments between the girls and their customers in a secure and confidential way.”
It’s good old prostitution for the twenty-first century, Callaway thought. What will they think up for the twenty-second?
“So how does it work?” he asked.
“The girls post their profiles on the website. If a prospective client is interested, he contacts the girls through the online system. If she accepts his offer, I set up the transaction and handle all the payments.”
“So you must have the clients’ names?” Callaway asked.
The Gone Sister (A Private Investigator Mystery Series of Crime and Suspense, Lee Callaway #2) Page 16