Callaway approached her. Next to him was a woman with a walking cane.
“This is Elle Pearson,” Callaway said, introducing her.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Detective Dana Fisher,” she said. She then got right to the point. “Lee told me your sister is missing.”
“Yes,” Elle replied.
Fisher turned to Callaway. “Can you describe her to me?”
“I can do better.” He stuck his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out the Polaroid. He handed the photo to Fisher.
Fisher’s eyes narrowed. “How long has she been missing?”
“Three months,” Callaway replied.
“And you said her name is Katie Pearson?”
“Yes.”
Fisher stared at him. “But she might be going under the name Linda Eustace?”
“It’s a long story,” he said.
Fisher nodded and said, “Come with me.”
They followed her into the building. They took the elevator to the basement and walked down a tiled hallway.
They went through a heavy door and approached another. Fisher stopped and turned to Callaway and Elle. “I must warn you the body has suffered severe trauma.”
Callaway knew the warning was not for Elle but for him. He took a deep breath and nodded.
They entered a sterile room and found the medical examiner standing before a body lying on a table. The cadaver was covered with a green sheet.
“Andrea Wakefield,” Fisher said, “this is Lee Callaway and Elle Pearson.”
The medical examiner gave them a nod.
She pulled off the sheet.
Callaway nearly threw up on the floor. He covered his mouth and looked away.
“It’s not a pretty sight, I’m afraid,” Wakefield said.
Callaway turned back, but he did not move his hand away from his mouth.
The woman looked like she had been beaten to a pulp. Her face was swollen, puffy, and purple.
“Who would do this?” he asked.
“That’s what we are trying to find out,” Fisher replied.
Elle stood where she was. She said, “My sister has distinguishing marks on her body. Would that help to identify if this is her?”
“Absolutely,” Wakefield replied.
Elle provided her the details.
Wakefield checked the body. She shook her head and said, “It’s not her.”
Fisher frowned. “Then who is it?”
NINETY
Elle was seated on a chair outside the examination room. She wept as Callaway tried to comfort her.
“It’s not Katie,” he whispered to her. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
“Every time they find a body, I can’t help but think it’s her.” She heaved a sigh and said, “I can’t keep doing this.”
Callaway sighed. This was taking a toll on her and him. She was right, though. When Callaway saw the news, his first thought was that the police had found Katie. A part of him wanted this search to be over, but another part of him did not want it to end with a dead person. Elle deserved closure, but she also deserved a happy ending.
The longer it took for them to find her sister, the less hope he had that she was still alive. He understood why they could not find Katie Pearson, but he could not fathom what happened to Linda Eustace.
Is she on the run from someone? Is that why she took on a new identity? Callaway wondered.
Fisher joined them. “The medical examiner has started the autopsy. There is no point for you to stay here.”
Elle sniffled and said, “Do you know who hurt that woman?”
“We have a suspect.”
“You do?” Callaway said, feeling curious.
Fisher paused for a moment before she said, “Holt would kill me for telling you this, but the victim was found wrapped in a garbage bag. Her ankle was tied to a concrete block so it would stay underwater.”
Elle gasped and said, “Oh my God.”
“How did you find the suspect?” Callaway asked.
“The suspect had gone to a nearby hardware store and purchased the concrete block and the rope used to drown the body.” She pulled out her cell phone and held the screen up for Callaway. The image was black and white, but it was clear that the man was standing by a cash register.
Callaway’s eyes narrowed. “He looks awfully familiar,” he said.
“He does?” Fisher asked, surprised.
“Yeah. I’ve seen him someplace.”
“Where?” she asked eagerly.
He rubbed his chin in deep thought. His eyes suddenly widened, and he stuck his hand in his jacket pocket to pull out another photo. “We found this while we were searching for Elle’s sister. It was in one of her sister’s personal effects.”
Fisher examined the picture. “I can see the similarities, even though the hair is a different color and style.”
“We think his name might be Bruno Rocco,” Callaway said. “Before her disappearance, Elle’s sister mentioned she was seeing someone by that name.”
“That’s good to know,” Fisher said.
“Could the same person be responsible for what happened to that woman in there and also for Elle’s sister going missing?” Callaway asked.
“It could very well be,” Fisher replied. “I’ll ask Holt to run the photo through our facial recognition software. Hopefully it will confirm the name you just gave us.”
NINETY-ONE
Holt was making his way through the police department’s parking lot when a familiar Buick pulled up in front of him.
Agent Ed Schaefer rolled down his window and smiled. “Detective Holt, do you have a minute?”
Holt nodded. “What can I do for you, Agent Schaefer?”
“I just heard on the radio that you guys pulled a female body from the lake. Is that true?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Do you know who she is?”
“Not yet, but we’ll know soon enough.”
“Do you believe this is related to your nephew’s murder?”
Holt’s brow furrowed. “How so?”
“I mean, I’m only speculating based on what I’ve read, but didn’t your nephew go to meet a woman at that furniture store?”
Cassandra Stevens!
Holt had a suspicion it could be her. Cassandra had blonde hair. She was five-three, and she weighed around a hundred pounds. The woman found in the lake had blonde hair. She was also around five-foot-three, but her weight would be impossible to match due to the body’s decomposition. And her killer had worked her face over. Holt doubted they would be able to ID her via her face. But the department had numerous tools at their disposal. A DNA sample taken from her hair. A print from one of her fingertips. Even dental records could be used to identify her.
Holt said, “We don’t know yet if it’s the same woman.”
“But it could be, right?” Schaefer prodded.
Holt studied him and said, “That is a possibility.”
“I just want you to know my offer is still on the table,” Schaefer said. “I want to help you find the person who is responsible for your nephew’s murder. He was a promising athlete, and it would be a shame for his death to never be solved.”
“I would not let that happen,” Holt said.
“If you feel comfortable, I would love to know how far you have progressed in the investigation.”
Holt paused to think this over. What’s the harm in letting him know what we’ve found? he thought. He is a federal agent, after all.
“We haven’t made much progress in Isaiah’s case,” Holt conceded. “But if the body belongs to Cassandra Stevens, then we might be able to solve both cases.”
Schaefer’s eyebrow rose. “How so?”
“We have a suspect on our radar.”
“You do?” he asked, sounding shocked.
“Yes.” Holt pulled out his cell phone and displayed a photo for Schaefer. “This was taken from a security camera at a hardware store. The suspect purchase
d items that were used to dispose of the body.”
Schaefer stared at the picture in silence. He swallowed and said, “Did you trace the payments to a name? That’s what I would do if I were you.”
“The suspect paid with cash, but it doesn’t matter.” Holt put the phone away. “We know what he looks like, and soon we will know who he is.”
Schaefer checked his watch. “Well, I wish you the best of luck. I hope you find what you are looking for. If you ever need my assistance, don’t hesitate to contact me.”
He drove away.
NINETY-TWO
Callaway dropped Elle off at a bus stop. She looked visibly ill. The thought that her sister might have drowned in the lake was too much for her. Even though it turned out not to be Katie, Callaway understood how mentally draining the experience was for Elle. It was close to torture.
Each time they felt like they were taking a step forward, they ended up taking two steps back.
Elle had declined his offer to drive her to Mayview. “I need some space,” she had told him. “I’ve got a lot to work through.”
He respected her independence, and at the moment, even he was not in the mood to make the drive. The pain in his head was pounding like a sledgehammer. He needed painkillers and a shot of alcohol in his system—preferably the latter.
He debated whether to go straight to a bar and get drunk, or go home and take the medicine and pass out.
He decided against either of the options. He doubted he would be able to fall asleep any time soon, and the alcohol would only make the headache worse.
What he needed was to keep his mind preoccupied. The only way to do that was to go back to the office and try to come up with another plan.
The search for Elle’s missing sister had also been a drain on his finances. The five thousand Elle had paid him was running out fast. Soon he would have to ask her for more money, which he did not want to do. He felt it was crass for him to worry about money when the poor girl was no closer to knowing the truth.
He let out a long sigh. Why did you agree to take on this case? he thought. You know better than most people how difficult missing persons cases are to solve.
The answer was simple. He was having a horrible day when Elle showed up out of nowhere. And her visit was fruitful on all accounts.
Earlier that day, he had messed up by sleeping with his client’s wife. The client punished him by breaking his nose, damaging his beloved Charger, and making him return the fee with some cash on top.
Elle’s case had come at a time when he was desperate. At first, the case was like a gift from the heavens, but then it had turned into a nightmare that he was not sure would end any time soon.
How long was he going to chase someone who may never be found? It could not be forever, he knew. Sooner or later, he would have to stop his search.
He just was not sure how he would break that to Elle.
He was suddenly parched. His tongue stuck to the back of his throat.
I’ll have one quick drink and then I’ll head straight to the office, he thought.
NINETY-THREE
Schaefer was in the falafel shop with a can of soda in his hand and a shawarma on his Styrofoam plate. He was not hungry, but he could not sit there without ordering something. Not placing an order would attract attention to himself.
The shop was busier than the last time he was there. Two students were sitting in a corner laughing at something only they thought was funny. A woman in a burqa sat at the other table, talking on her cell phone. Three people were lined up at the counter waiting for their orders.
Maybe this wasn’t a good idea, Schaefer thought. We should have found a more private location to meet.
But time was running out, and when he called Brogdon, his reply was to meet at the same spot.
Schaefer and Brogdon never spoke longer than thirty seconds over the phone. Schaefer was well aware that cell phone conversations were never as secure as people thought they were. The government was always listening in. Schaefer had done that many times, and without a warrant too. Federal agencies and government departments broke the law all the time, which was not uncommon. Civil liberties be damned. The moment they mentioned national security to a judge, they were free to do whatever they wanted.
He glanced at his watch. The longer he sat there without touching his meal, the more suspicious he looked. The suit was already making him stick out amongst the patrons.
The door chimed, and a man entered the restaurant. The hood of a sweatshirt covered his head, and sunglasses covered his eyes.
He made his way straight to Schaefer’s table.
As he sat down, Schaefer said, “You have to get out of town. The detectives are on to you.”
Brogdon did not pull off his sunglasses, but Schaefer could still tell he was surprised. “How?” he asked.
“They have footage of you inside a hardware store.”
Brogdon’s jaw tightened. “I’m going to need another identity.”
Schaefer was ready to blow his top. “This is the third ID I’ve supplied you with. You remember what happened in the previous town?”
“The man was drunk, and he was rude to me.”
“He lost one eye because of you.”
Brogdon was silent for a moment. “Just get me another ID, okay?” he said. “I’ll start a new life somewhere far away from Milton.”
“I can’t promise you anything.”
Brogdon leaned closer. Schaefer could almost smell his breath. “You will do whatever I ask you to do. I took responsibility for crimes I never committed.”
“You murdered two people before I caught up with you,” Schaefer reminded him.
“One I planned to kill, and the other was at the wrong place at the wrong time,” Brogdon said.
“Is that what happened to Isaiah Whitcomb and Cassandra Stevens? You planned to kill Stevens, and Whitcomb was at the wrong place?”
“It was something like that,” Brogdon admitted.
Thick tension hung in the air between them.
Brogdon said, “I lied before a judge so that you could get the verdict you were looking for. I told them I was Don Beniti’s hired gun and that I murdered all of Beniti’s enemies at his behest. The truth was, until the last contract, I had never done a single job for Beniti. I lied for you, Agent Schaefer, and I got twelve years for that.”
Schaefer was seething. “When you killed those two people at the café, you should have gotten life, but because of me and our agreement, you only got twelve years, of which you only served half. So don’t get smart with me.”
Brogdon stared at him.
Schaefer took a deep breath. “You pack whatever you need and meet me outside the city. There is a gas station with a giant donut sign on the roof. You can’t miss it. You don’t go in the station because it’ll have security cameras. You meet me by the side of the road half a mile from the gas station. I’ll get you the new IDs, but you’ve used your last favor. After tonight, you are on your own. In fact, if I find out you hurt another person, I’ll put a bullet in your head myself. Got it?”
Brogdon grinned. “I got it.”
Schaefer did not like the smile, but since this murdering thug could get him in big trouble if he talked, he had no choice but to help him one last time.
NINETY-FOUR
Cosimo was parked across from the falafel shop.
Earlier, Cosimo had seen the agent speaking to the detective at the police department. Soon after their conversation, the agent drove off in a hurry. Cosimo followed after.
The agent cut in and out of traffic at speeds well above the speed limit. Cosimo could not risk being pulled over if he did the same. He was not a federal agent that a traffic cop would bow to. He was a hit man who had been eluding the authorities for years.
Cosimo was not worried about losing the agent, though. The tracker on the agent’s car would lead him back to him.
When the agent went inside the falafel shop, Cosimo had a feeling he w
as there to meet someone. He was willing to bet all the money Don Beniti had given to him that it was the target.
He stared at the shop.
A man appeared from the corner of the shop. His head was covered by his hoodie, and he had on dark sunglasses. Cosimo’s eyes narrowed. He focused on the way the man walked. You could disguise a person, but you could not disguise their walk.
It’s the target!
Cosimo opened the glove compartment and pulled out his weapon. He scanned his surroundings. There was no one around him. He carefully screwed the silencer over the gun’s muzzle and placed his weapon in his jacket pocket.
He got out.
A police cruiser pulled into the shop’s parking lot.
Cosimo cursed and sat back down.
The cruiser stood still for what felt like several minutes, but then it moved forward toward a metal garbage bin in the lot. The officer behind the wheel leaned over, stuffed a paper bag in the bin, and drove off.
The cop was throwing out the remains of his lunch!
Cosimo cursed again. He was about to get out again when he spotted Agent Schaefer exiting the shop.
The agent stomped over to his Buick and drove away.
Cosimo waited a few seconds. As he expected, the target walked out of the shop’s front doors. He quickly turned right and disappeared around the corner.
Cosimo bolted out of the car. He crossed the street and hurried past the shop to where he had seen the target go.
He saw him up ahead about half a block away. The target was walking casually. He had no idea he was being followed.
He gripped the gun in his pocket. The moment he was close enough, he would pull it out and fire three bullets. One toward the target’s head, another toward his chest, and the last toward his stomach. Even if one hit the target, they were all lethal shots.
The Gone Sister (A Private Investigator Mystery Series of Crime and Suspense, Lee Callaway #2) Page 20