“No names. They all use aliases.”
Callaway was confused. “But if you handle the payments, then you must have their credit card information.”
Maker smiled, looking proud of his creation. “That’s what makes my website so different. The client is guaranteed that none of his information is stored anywhere.”
“How’s that possible? There is always a trail in any transaction.”
“The client pays in digital currency, which I convert and transfer to the girls in US dollars.”
Callaway thought for a moment. “How do these clients get purchase this digital currency?”
“I never ask where they get them, and they never tell me in order to protect their privacy. On the website, I direct them to various websites that sell digital currency. There are even people who will meet you in person, exchange money, and then transfer the currency digitally to you. It’s pretty sophisticated.”
Callaway mulled this over. “Are you able to see an address where the clients meet the girls?”
“No personal information is ever exchanged on the website. It’s to protect the clients.”
“What about the girls? Who protects them?” Callaway asked, putting an edge on his last word.
“I considered that before I set up the website,” Maker replied, sounding defensive. “I’m a married man. I even have a young daughter. So I do value these girls’ safety. We have something in place to protect them.”
“We?”
Maker opened his mouth but shut it. He stood up. “You have to go before my wife shows up. I’ve told you everything I know.”
“Give me something I can use to find Linda,” Callaway said. “Please.”
Maker stared at him. He sighed and said, “I can’t tell you anything about the clients because even I don’t know much about them, but what I can tell you is that Linda was referred to the website by a friend.”
Callaway’s eyes widened. “Give me the name.”
SEVENTY-FIVE
Holt and Fisher were at the motel across the road from the furniture store. Cassandra Steven’s phone call to Isaiah had pinged from a cell tower not far from the motel. They believed the call could only have come from there, but it raised a question: Why did Cassandra not ask Isaiah to meet her at the motel parking lot instead of the furniture store’s? Was she setting him up for his eventual demise? They needed answers.
They found the owner in his cramped office. He gave Fisher another gap-toothed smile and said, “Welcome back, Detective. How can I help you?”
Fisher pulled out Cassandra’s photo and held it up for the owner. “We believe this woman was staying in one of your rooms.”
The owner squinted and said, “Yeah, I remember her. She was here a couple of nights ago.”
Fisher looked over at Holt. That’s around the time Isaiah was killed.
“Was she with someone? Perhaps with a tall African-American man.”
The owner shrugged. “She came alone and paid cash. Like I told you the last time you were here, we charge by the hour, and we don’t ask any questions. I’m guessing she might have met a customer later in her room.”
“She’s a hooker?” Fisher asked.
“That’d be my guess. Why else would she be here?”
Fisher looked over at Holt. His face was drawn.
Isaiah was in contact with not just a stripper but also a prostitute.
“Can we see the room she paid for?” Fisher asked.
The owner checked his ledger and said, “It’s on the top floor. I’ll take you up myself.”
They moved to the elevators.
Fisher asked, “Is it safe?”
“It is if you are not underage.” The manager cackled at his joke. “Nothing will happen, Detective. You have my word.”
Right now, your word means very little to me, she thought.
The ride up was bumpy, but they emerged from the elevator in one piece. The owner escorted them to a room that had a bed in the middle, a sofa on one side, a TV across from it, and a bathroom next to it. A strong odor hung in the air that made Fisher pinch her nose.
She was walking around the room when she noticed a dark brown stain on the carpet. “That’s blood,” she said.
“I tried to clean it up as best as I could,” the owner said.
Holt glared at the owner and said, “You saw blood and you didn’t report it to the police?”
The owner suddenly looked defensive. “Listen,” he said, “the people that come here don’t want the police showing up and asking questions. My clientele involves hookers, drug dealers, crack addicts, and pimps. I am used to seeing blood in my units. I once had a fight break out where one renter smashed a mirror over another guy’s head. I had never seen that much blood in my life. I made the renter pay for the mess, but even then, it was impossible to clean up the blood entirely.”
As Fisher and Holt stared at the stain on the carpet, they could not help but wonder, Did Cassandra meet the same fate as Isaiah?
SEVENTY-SIX
Cosimo entered the suite and took in his surroundings. The room had a king-size bed, a stocked fridge, a plush leather sofa, a fifty-inch flat-screen TV, and a Jacuzzi hot tub. Cosimo did not care for any of the amenities. He was not going to use any of them.
The five-star hotel was selected for its location across the street from a convention center. For the next three days, the construction industry was holding its annual fair. Companies from all over were vying for people’s attention and their money. Cosimo, a stranger from out of town, would blend right in.
He provided a different name and ID when he checked in, one he had used numerous times. He had thought about retiring the alias, but he did not have time to get a new one made on short notice. The call from Don Beniti had caught him by surprise. Cosimo had just returned from a job in Montana and was not actively soliciting any new contracts. But Beniti’s offer was too enticing and lucrative to pass up. He was paid in cash, all up front.
The target had surfaced after years of hiding. There was no telling when he would disappear again. Maybe he already had, but Cosimo doubted that. The target had no idea Beniti had sent someone to snuff him out.
He had the target’s photo from years ago, but he was certain his appearance had been altered to make him unrecognizable. Even so, Beniti had contacts everywhere. They also believed the target was in Milton, but he was not just going to take their word for it. He would know the target was there when he saw him with his own eyes.
The basketball player’s murder had alleviated any doubts in his mind. Even though the shooter’s face was never seen on the video, Cosimo knew he was the target. He could tell from the way the shooter walked up to the car and the way he fired his gun.
You could change a person’s appearance, but it was hard to change the way a person moved or held their weapon.
And the motorcycle helmet, black leather jacket, and black pants and boots were a dead giveaway as to who it was.
You just made a grave error, Cosimo thought. It will now cost you your life.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Holt and Fisher were making their way to the police station’s entrance when a black sedan parked in an open space they were passing. The driver’s window rolled down, and a man asked, “Detective Holt and Detective Fisher?”
Holt’s eyes narrowed. “Can we help you?”
The man got out and said, “I’m Special Agent Ed Schaefer of the FBI.”
He showed them his credentials, and then he shook their hands.
“What can we do for you, Agent Schaefer?” Holt asked.
“Call me Ed.”
“Okay.”
“I want to make it clear that I’m not here on federal capacity,” Schaefer said. “I am visiting Milton on my own time. I heard about the Isaiah Whitcomb murder. I heard he was your nephew.”
“Yes, he was.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Schaefer said.
“Thank you,” Holt said.
“I want to offer you my assistance.”
Holt looked over at Fisher and back at Schaefer. “We appreciate your offer, but we can handle it,” he said.
“I am in no way saying you can’t,” Schaefer said. “I just want to say that your nephew’s murder has caught a lot of people’s attention. It’s all over the news.”
Holt’s eyes narrowed. “Agent Schaefer, with all due respect, if the FBI is only interested in the shooting because of the headlines or how good it will make them look when the shooter is caught, then you’re wasting your time. I don’t care who gets the credit. I only care that the person responsible for my nephew’s murder is in prison.”
Schaefer blinked and then said, “I think you may have misunderstood me. I have no intention of stealing anyone’s credit. I am here as a fellow law enforcement officer. I have family too, and your nephew’s death has affected me. I just felt an obligation to reach out to you. That’s all.”
Holt stared at him and then relaxed. “I apologize, it’s personal for me.”
“No apology necessary. I completely understand,” Schaefer said.
“How can you help us?” Fisher asked.
“I can run background checks on any suspects you might have. I can follow up on any leads you need looking into. I can be an extra pair of eyes and ears for you.” He paused for a moment. “I heard the shooting was drug-related. Is that true?”
Holt shook his head. “They were planted at the scene by the shooter. Isaiah was not involved in drugs of any kind.”
“That’s good to know,” Schaefer said, looking relieved. “But what about the person who called 9-1-1? Could he have a hand in what happened to your nephew?”
“Are you referring to Bo Smith?”
“Yes.”
“He’s clean. We thoroughly vetted his statements. He took the drugs from the Chrysler my nephew was driving, but he had nothing to do with his death.”
“Isn’t he a drug dealer?”
“A very low-level one.”
Fisher added, “Smith doesn’t have any priors for violent behavior. He doesn’t even own a gun.”
Schaefer mulled this over. “Well, that’s good to know. I also heard a woman may be involved in what happened.”
Holt nodded. “Cassandra Stevens was seen at the motel across from the furniture store where the shooting occurred.”
“Have you located her?”
“Not yet, but we are actively looking.”
Schaefer pulled out a business card and handed it to Holt. “If you need to bounce off any theories, or you need my assistance in any way, please don’t hesitate to contact me. My cell number is on there.”
“Thank you,” Holt said as he pocketed the card.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
After picking up the rental, Cosimo drove straight to the Milton Police Department. He knew that in order to get close to his target, he would have to follow the detectives who were working on the basketball player’s murder. Their investigation would lead him straight to his target.
He pulled into the department’s parking lot and spotted the two detectives. He had seen their photos in the local newspapers, so it was easy to recognize them. They were talking to someone, and when Cosimo looked carefully, his eyes widened in disbelief.
Special Agent Ed Schaefer!
Cosimo had never met the FBI agent, but his reputation was well known in organized crime circles. Schaefer had brought down the Beniti Family. Don Beniti had been personally cuffed by Schaefer. The photo of Beniti being led from his luxurious estate into a waiting government vehicle was plastered all over the newspapers. The look on Schaefer’s face was that of a man who had just caught the biggest fish in the sea.
Cosimo had quietly rejoiced at the sight of Beniti looking shocked and confused. Beniti never thought something like this would ever happen to him. He was careful in his dealings, but above all, he was feared. He did not hesitate to kill those who showed a hint of disloyalty. Even their families were not safe.
But the betrayal had not come from anyone who worked for Beniti. The betrayal had come from someone Beniti never guessed would snitch on him.
Everything would have gone accordingly, but the target had made serious errors in his execution of a contract of his own. Those errors were exploited by FBI Agent Schaefer. If
Cosimo had been the hired gun, he would have completed the contract without a hitch, and Beniti would still be free to run his now-defunct empire.
Beniti was not the only one who was betrayed years before. Cosimo also felt he was betrayed. He had earned his reputation after years of completing contracts to his clients’ specifications. If a client wanted someone to disappear, that person vanished as if into thin air. If a client wanted to make an example of someone, their fates sent messages loud and clear to the intended recipients. No job was too big or small for Cosimo. He took pride in his work.
He believed there was another reason Beniti had not hired him. Cosimo’s services did not come cheap, and his fee was nonnegotiable. If you wanted him for a job, you better have the money to see it through, and pay all the bucks up front. Cosimo did not do half up front and half later.
There used to be a code among criminals, but in his experience, the code was only valued by the older generation. The newer generation only cared about money, power, and notoriety. They did not appreciate the service Cosimo provided. They would renege on their agreement if they saw fit. If that happened, Cosimo would have to take the drastic step to teach them a lesson. It was messy, and the blowback was always harsh, but Cosimo was a professional hit man. You did not mess with a man who lived and died by a gun.
Cosimo watched as Agent Schaefer handed one of the detectives his business card. He then got in his black sedan and drove off.
Cosimo knew that if Agent Schaefer was in town, the target was not far behind.
He decided to follow the agent.
SEVENTY-NINE
Jennifer Paulsingh lived on the top floor of a row house. Callaway got her name from Glenn Maker.
According to Maker, Jennifer was best friends with Linda Eustace. Callaway thought about calling Elle to give her an update, but he again vetoed the idea.
He did not like having someone tag along during his investigations. He never knew where his search would lead him. He had found himself in dangerous situations before, but somehow, he always found a way out.
Elle would only slow him down. In fact, he had accomplished quite a bit without her. Obviously, when it came time to fill her in on what he had found, he had to tell her everything. She had every right to know what was going on in his investigation.
At the moment, though, he was enjoying the freedom to move about without being encumbered.
He knocked on the door. It opened an inch. A bolt chain lock prevented it from opening further. A face appeared between the opening, and it took Callaway a moment to realize it was the same woman he had seen posing with Linda in a photograph they had found in Linda’s landlady’s garage.
“Can I help you?” she said.
“Are you Jennifer?” he asked.
“Who are you?” she replied.
For a second, Callaway thought she would slam the door shut. He quickly pulled out his business card and said, “I’m looking for Linda. I was told she was your friend.”
She stuck her hand out and snatched the card from him. “You’re really a private investigator?” she asked, staring at the card.
Why are people always surprised to find out that we exist? he thought.
“Yes, I am. Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Why are you looking for her?” she demanded.
“Someone hired me to find her.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Who?”
Callaway was about to tell her it was Elle, but he stopped. Linda did not want anyone in Milton to know of her previous life. He doubted Jennifer knew who Linda really was or that she had a sister. Back at the landlady’s garage, they had found no photos of Elle in Linda�
��s personal items. Linda Eustace was an identity Katie Pearson had created to live a life she may not have been proud of. Most escorts did not want their families to find out the profession they were involved in.
Until they found Katie, Callaway was not going to destroy the alternate life she had worked so hard to create for herself.
“Her family has not heard back from her in months,” he said, trying not to be too specific. “They are worried about her.”
Jennifer’s features relaxed. She unlocked the bolt chain and came out into the hallway. She had dark curly hair, hazel eyes, and a brown complexion. She was wearing a sweatshirt, sweatpants, and no socks.
She crossed her arms and said, “It took them long enough to send you to find her.”
Callaway detected the bitterness in Jennifer’s words.
He could not tell her how Katie’s lies had prevented Elle from searching for her sooner.
“Do you know where Linda is?” he asked.
“If I knew, I wouldn’t have filed a missing persons report with the police.”
“You did?” he asked, surprised.
“Of course I did. She was my best friend.”
Callaway paused and then got to the point. “You introduced Linda to the escort business, is that correct?”
Jennifer looked away. “It was a mistake,” she said, her voice full of shame, “but Linda needed the money. I did too. That’s how I got into it in the first place. It was only supposed to have been a few times. I didn’t like doing it, so I quit. But Linda liked the money. She was able to afford things she didn’t have before.”
“I saw the photos from all the trips she took,” Callaway said. “She liked to share them on social media.”
Jennifer shook her head. “I didn’t agree with what she was doing. The money from escorting was supposed to pay for her schooling. She wanted to become a fashion designer, you know?”
“I do,” he said.
“I did it to pay for my paralegal certificate,” she said. “I never finished it, but I ended up getting a job doing data entry for an insurance company. The money isn’t great compared to what I made as an escort, but at least it’s a steady and stable job.”
The Gone Sister (A Private Investigator Mystery Series of Crime and Suspense, Lee Callaway #2) Page 17