The target headed into an alley. Cosimo quickened his pace. He was not about to lose his prey. He reached the alley and saw the target was already at the other end of it.
He went into a jog.
At the end of the alley was another road where a white van was parked. The target was now getting into the driver’s seat.
He took three long strides and pulled out his weapon. He aimed at the driver’s side window.
A loud honk startled him.
He turned and saw a Nissan sedan in the alley. The driver honked again. Cosimo was blocking the exit. He hid the gun behind his back and moved aside. The driver quickly sped away.
Cosimo watched as the white van pulled out of its parking spot and drove way. Cosimo raced to the road and saw the van in the distance. It was too far to get a shot.
No matter, he thought. I now know the make of the vehicle and its license plate number. I’ll catch up to it in no time.
NINETY-FIVE
Fisher was behind her computer. Holt was seated next to her. She did not tell him Callaway had provided her the name “Bruno Rocco,” or that she had met him at the morgue. It would lead to more questions, and she was in no mood to answer them. He was her partner, and he would have to trust her as she ran the name through an online search engine. She got over two dozen results. She clicked on the first link.
She squinted and said, “Bruno Rocco did time in Foxworth Prison for the murder of Anthony Carvalho and a waitress named Katherine Woodward. Carvalho was going to snitch on Paolo Beniti, a crime boss with deep roots in New Jersey. During a shoot-out with Carvalho at a restaurant, Rocco was hit badly. He somehow rode his motorcycle to a nearby hospital. Any time a patient comes in with gunshot wounds, stab wounds, or wounds due to a violent interaction, the hospital staff is required to contact the authorities.”
Holt frowned. “And you believe this Bruno Rocco is the same person we saw in the hardware store?”
“Give me one second,” she said.
She clicked on another link. An image popped up on the screen. It was the same photo Callaway had shown her earlier.
Holt’s eyes narrowed. “I see the resemblance, but I still don’t see what this has to do with the imprisonment of a mob boss?”
Fisher scrolled through another article. Her eyes went wide. “You won’t believe this.”
“What?”
“When Rocco was in the hospital, he cut a deal with the feds. Guess who the agent was?”
Holt’s face turned pale. “Don’t tell me. Special Agent Ed Schaefer.”
“Bingo! And because of Rocco’s testimony, a lot of bad people went to prison. And after serving the minimum required time, Rocco was put in the Witness Protection Program…”
“…And now he is in Milton living as someone else,” Holt said, finishing her sentence.
They were silent for a moment.
“Do you think Agent Schaefer is not being entirely truthful with us?” Fisher asked.
“I think he knows more than he’s letting on,” Holt replied. “In fact, he caught me returning to the station. He was eager to offer his assistance.”
“Something doesn’t feel right to me,” Fisher said.
“I know exactly what you mean.”
Fisher squinted at the monitor and said, “Hold on. Someone has posted a video of the shooting online.”
She clicked the link.
A video popped up. The camera was aimed at the patio of a restaurant. A large man was seated at a table. At another table, a blonde waitress was taking orders from a couple.
A motorcycle rolled up to the patio entrance. The rider was dressed in black from head to toe, and his face was covered by a motorcycle helmet. The rider jumped off the motorcycle, pulled out a gun, and fired at the large man. The first bullet hit the man, and he quickly took cover behind a table. People screamed and ducked for cover. As the rider turned to run, the large man pulled out a gun and fired in the rider’s direction. The bullet hit the rider in the back. He stumbled, and without looking back, he fired a burst. One of them hit the target, and another hit the waitress as she ducked for cover. The rider jumped back on the motorcycle and disappeared from view. People quickly huddled around the fallen woman. The large man let go of his weapon, and his body went limp. The entire video was less than a minute long.
Holt and Fisher sat in utter silence.
Holt gritted his teeth and said, “If Bruno Rocco is the man in the video, then he is the one who murdered Isaiah.”
“And if Bruno Rocco is responsible for dumping that body in the lake, then we have to assume she is none other than Cassandra Stevens, the woman Isaiah had gone to meet that morning.”
“We have to find this person,” Holt said with determination.
Fisher’s cell phone buzzed. For a second, she thought against picking it up, but she did. She listened and hung up.
“Guess what?” she said.
“What?”
“They found another dead body.”
Another one? Holt thought.
NINETY-SIX
Callaway stumbled into his office with a severe hangover. His one drink had turned into many. His brain was foggy as he dropped onto the sofa. The bar was only a block away. The trek normally took him less than five minutes, but that night, the walk took him twice as long.
He shut his eyes and cursed at himself. He should not have gone to the bar. He should have stayed in the office and worked on Elle’s case. Getting drunk was not going to help him find her sister.
His eyes welled up as a strong wave of emotion overcame him. He was using the alcohol to self-medicate. The possibility that Elle’s sister was still alive was nothing more than a fantastic dream. He had to face the hard truth. Elle’s sister was long gone, and no matter where he looked or how hard he looked, she was not coming back.
How am I going to face Elle? he thought. How am I going to tell her I can’t work on her case anymore? I’m not cut out for this kind of work. I chase cheating spouses.
Callaway wanted to curl up and fall asleep. Maybe when he woke up, this nightmare would be over.
He heard a buzzing noise. His eyes snapped open.
“What the hell?” he wondered aloud.
He looked around, feeling dazed and confused. He realized the buzzing came from his jacket pocket. He shoved his hand inside and pulled out his cell phone. He checked. There were several text messages. He blinked a couple of times to clear the blur from his eyes.
The messages were from Echo Rose. She had emailed him the information he was looking for.
That was fast, he thought.
He turned on his laptop, and while it booted up, he rubbed his eyes. He grabbed a bottle of painkillers and downed two pills with some water. He clicked her email, and as he went through it, he was even more confused.
He took a screenshot of the information with his phone and left the office. He went straight to a variety store. He bought coffee from a vending machine. The brew tasted like motor oil, but it was strong. After finishing the coffee, he could feel the fog lifting from his head.
He could confirm what Echo had sent him later, but he needed answers now. They would eat away at him otherwise.
He got behind the wheel of the Impala and somehow made it to his destination without hurting someone or killing himself.
He raced up to the door and found it was still open. He entered the art gallery and was immediately welcomed by Carl Goodwin.
“Mr. Callaway,” he said with a smile. “Are you back to create your own masterpiece?”
Callaway blinked. His head began to spin as blood rushed to his brain. He shut his eyes tight to make it go away.
“Are you okay?” Goodwin asked.
“I’m fine. I just ran too fast.” He opened his eyes and pulled out his cell phone. “Can you explain this to me?”
Goodwin frowned and took the phone. He looked at the screen and said, “I’m not sure what I’m looking at.”
“It’s the messages fro
m your website.”
“How did you get them? They are password-protected.”
“I had someone… never mind. You said that once a girl agreed to take on a client, they sent a confirmation message.”
“Yes.”
“And once the transaction, as you call it, was complete, they sent you another message to say that it was.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“If you look at the screenshot on my phone, on the day Linda disappeared, she agreed to take on a client, but she never completed the transaction. You said all accounts were paid up, but according to this, Linda’s account was still open until she or someone else manually closed it today. How is that possible?”
“I’m not sure,” Goodwin said, staring at the screen. “Have you shown this to anyone?”
“Not yet.” Callaway shook his head a little too wildly. He was still plastered. “I wanted to ask you first before I took any actions, you know.”
Goodwin smiled. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I’m sure there is a reasonable explanation. Let me make a call and find out for you.”
“Okay, good,” Callaway said with a smile.
Goodwin disappeared behind the back wall.
Callaway turned to one of the computer tablets displayed around the gallery. He swiped his hand over the screen, and it came alive.
His smile widened. I can be a master artist too, he thought. Look out, world. Here comes Lee Callaway, renaissance painter extraordinaire.
He chuckled.
He felt movement behind him. He turned to see who was there.
Something hit the back of his head.
He fell to the floor and blacked out.
NINETY-SEVEN
Bruno Rocco drove away from Milton in his white van. The sun had started to set, and the roads were relatively clear. He had stuffed everything that was important to him into a duffel bag. Rocco could not wait to leave Milton. He should have done so the moment he killed those two people.
Cassandra Stevens and Isaiah Whitcomb.
No one would miss the stripper, but he had no idea Whitcomb was related to a police detective. This had put a big target on his head.
He had met Stevens at the Gentlemen’s Hideout. She was a nice girl, but she was also willing to make extra cash on the side. She offered her services to him. One night at his apartment, after they had done the deed, she decided to steal from him. When she went through his stuff, she stumbled upon his real ID. He was not Kevin Brogdon, but Bruno Rocco. She figured he was a lowly criminal on the run from the law and that she could squeeze him for money. As a painter, he would be scared and fork up the cash the moment she made a threat to go to the police.
If she had done her homework, she would have known how dangerous he really was.
They agreed to meet at the motel. He chose the location because he knew it had no surveillance. She was so dumb to show up by herself. She underestimated what he was capable of. The moment she was alone, he attacked her. He beat and tortured her for hours. He wanted to know if she had told anyone of his real identity. She denied it, but he did not believe her. As the night progressed, he went to the bathroom to take a leak. He thought, mistakenly, that she was unconscious, but when he came back out, he caught her talking to someone on her phone. He took the phone from her and made her tell him what she told the person on the other line. He now had another problem on his hands. If that person appeared at the motel, it would lead to more questions.
Across the road was a furniture store. It was dark and vacant. He texted back to the telephone number Stevens had just called. He told the person to meet her at the furniture store’s parking lot.
He then knocked Stevens unconscious and duct-taped her hands, feet, and mouth. He then watched from the window as a car pulled up at the furniture store.
It was early in the morning, so he knew he had no time to waste. He had driven on his motorcycle, so it was fitting that he would execute Whitcomb in the manner he was accustomed to before he went to prison and then wound up a protected witness.
He approached the car from behind and shot the young man behind the wheel three times. He then took his cell phone. He did not want his phone to be linked with hers. He also placed a bag of heroin in the glove compartment.
The painting job was a façade for the U.S. Marshals who were tasked to administer the Witness Protection Program. He had only met the marshal in charge of his case once, when he was first relocated. The marshal was a man who was overworked and underpaid. After providing Rocco with his new identifications, he never once checked up on him.
Rocco was not too worried. He had Agent Schaefer to keep an eye on him. Or was it the other way around?
He smiled at that thought.
After killing Whitcomb, he still had to get rid of Stevens. The police would quickly link the two deaths if they were within the same proximity, and he could not transport Stevens on a motorcycle.
He left her back at the motel and returned to his apartment. He changed into his work clothes and drove his white van back to the motel. By then, the police had already arrived at the furniture store. Someone must have stumbled upon the body. He later saw on the news that it was a junkie named Bo Smith. Fortunately for him, the police were too busy with Whitcomb’s body to pay too much attention to him.
He snuck Stevens’s body out of the motel and loaded her into his van. As he was leaving, a police officer stopped him. He thought he was surely going to jail. But he played it cool. He asked what had happened, and the officer told him it was a homicide. The road was blocked, so the officer redirected him to another street. After that, he was gone.
He purchased the materials from a hardware store, which he now realized was a big mistake, and then shot Stevens in the head and dumped her body in the lake. After that, he destroyed the young man’s cell phone so it did not provide the police with a lead.
Everything was going smoothly until it suddenly fell apart. The detectives were looking for him, and he had to get as far away as possible.
He would be relieved once this was all behind him. Agent Schaefer would come through in their agreement. He always did. He did not have much choice.
He spotted the giant donut sign in the distance. The sign was hard to miss. A thousand light bulbs illuminated the donut like a heavenly sign.
He slowed down and pulled the van to the side of the road. He shut the engine off and waited.
He checked his watch. He still had lots of time. He thought about going into the gas station and buying something to eat. He was hungry, but he was not going to risk getting caught on the surveillance cameras. He had already made that mistake at the hardware store.
When he was a good distance away from Milton, he would stop for a bite.
He saw a flash of light in the rearview mirror. A car had pulled up and parked behind him.
Agent Schaefer’s early, he thought.
The headlights blinded him as he waited for the agent to come out and hand him his IDs.
After several minutes passed, he got out. He walked over to the car and found the engine still running.
He checked the driver’s seat.
No one was behind the wheel.
What the…? he thought.
He turned and suddenly froze.
NINETY-EIGHT
Callaway tried to lift his head up, but it hurt like nothing he had experienced before. The pain was ten times worse than a hangover. For a second, he did not know where he was. He blinked some more when he saw the figure standing before him, and he remembered what had happened.
Carl Goodwin had his arms crossed over his chest and a solemn look on his face.
The room they were in had a low ceiling and no windows.
“Where am I?” Callaway asked, wincing.
“You’re in the basement of the art gallery.”
Callaway looked down and saw he was sitting on a chair with his arms tied behind his back. His legs were also restrained with rope.
Goo
dwin sighed loudly. “You should not have come here. You realize what I have to do now, don’t you?”
Callaway took a deep breath. He tried to make the throbbing in his head go away, but it would not. He said, “What did you do to Linda? Did you kill her?”
Goodwin shut his eyes, acting as if it troubled him to even think about her. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” Callaway said. “I’ve spent countless hours looking for her, so I think I deserve to know what happened to her.”
Goodwin stared at him and then sighed. “I never meant to hurt her. I liked her. I really liked her. I had seen her many times at the gallery when she would come to meet the clients. I would talk to her before the client’s arrival. She was smart, funny, and she knew quite a bit about art. I hoped one day she would work at the gallery with me. But she had other plans in her life. She wanted to travel the world. She wanted to fly first class. She wanted to dine at the fanciest restaurants out there. She wanted to buy the nicest things money could buy. She wanted a life other than the one she had. I thought it was a bit shallow of her, but I figured she was still young. I asked her out a couple of times, but she turned me down. She wasn’t interested in dating me.”
He looked away like it stung to even speak of her disinterest in him.
“I finally got fed up, and I offered to pay for her services. When she came, I had converted this basement into a private restaurant. I had spent all day cooking something delicious for her. I opened a bottle of wine I had kept for special occasions. I even picked out some romantic music for us to enjoy. I hoped after she saw all the work I had put into the night, she might change her mind about me paying to be with her.”
He grimaced, and his lips curled into a frown.
“I hated it when she went with the other men. It was a cold transaction and nothing more. I was willing to offer her love, comfort, and security.”
He balled his fists. “Instead of realizing how lucky she was that I had shown interest in her, she laughed in my face. She said it was sweet, but I still had to pay her for her time. I don’t know what happened, but I snapped, and I hit her with a wine bottle. She fell to the ground and went limp. I thought she had passed out, but when I checked, she was dead.”
The Gone Sister (A Private Investigator Mystery Series of Crime and Suspense, Lee Callaway #2) Page 21