The Dead Daughter

by Thomas Fincham

  THOMAS FINCHAM

  THE DEAD DAUGHTER

  A LEE CALLAWAY MYSTERY

  The Dead Daughter © Thomas Fincham 2017

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, including the right to reproduce this work or portions thereof, in any form.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Visit the author’s website:

  www.finchambooks.com

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  contact@finchambooks.com

  HYDER ALI

  The Silent Reporter (Hyder Ali #1)

  The Rogue Reporter (Hyder Ali #2)

  The Runaway Reporter (Hyder Ali #3)

  The Serial Reporter (Hyder Ali #4)

  The Street Reporter (Hyder Ali #5)

  The Student Reporter (Hyder Ali #0)

  MARTIN RHODES

  Close Your Eyes (Martin Rhodes #1)

  Cross Your Heart (Martin Rhodes #2)

  Say Your Prayers (Martin Rhodes #3)

  Fear Your Enemy (Martin Rhodes #0)

  ECHO ROSE

  The Rose Garden (Echo Rose #1)

  The Rose Tattoo (Echo Rose #2)

  The Rose Thorn (Echo Rose #3)

  The Rose Water (Echo Rose #4)

  STANDALONE

  The Blue Hornet

  The October Five

  The Paperboys Club

  Killing Them Gently

  The Solaire Trilogy

  FOREWORD

  Dear Reader,

  In The Rose Water (Echo Rose #4) I had introduced Lee Callaway with the intention that one day he would get his own novels. The Dead Daughter is the first book in what will hopefully be a long and exciting series.

  I had a great time writing the book and I hope you enjoy reading it.

  Thomas Fincham

  ONE

  Sharon Gardener woke up with a splitting headache. She shut her eyes and hoped the pain would go away, but it didn’t. She squinted at the alarm clock on the side table. The time was well past nine in the morning.

  Next to the clock was a half-empty glass of water, and next to it was a bottle of prescribed sleeping medication. She must have taken one too many. She had to be careful, though. She had once made the mistake of mixing alcohol with the pills. Had it not been for her husband, she probably would not have woken up that time.

  She looked over at the other side of the bed. Her husband was not there. She was not expecting him to be, either. They had been going through a rough patch. They had fought many times before, but somehow, they always managed to get back together. But this time was different. She knew her marriage was over, and it was her fault.

  She could not completely blame herself for it ending, though. There was not much love in the relationship to begin with. Hers was a marriage of necessity. Paul was a kind and caring man, and he loved and doted on their daughter.

  She got up from bed and moved to the bathroom. She turned on the light switch. The light nearly blinded her. She waited a few seconds and opened her eyes.

  She stared at herself in the mirror.

  She had shoulder-length hair that was dyed red. Her skin was smooth without a single wrinkle to be seen anywhere. This was not due to her age but to the work of a highly skilled plastic surgeon. Her lips were plump and full, but recently, they were looking a bit thinner. She would need to get them injected again.

  She turned her body to the side and examined her stomach. She was still in great shape. She used to be a cheerleader in high school. All the cool boys and jocks were after her. She knew the power her body had on men, which was why she still watched what she ate. Her shapely figure also benefited from her regular trips to the gym and yoga classes.

  She smiled at the last thought.

  She took a long shower. She normally took one before going to bed, but last night, she lacked the time.

  The hot steam reinvigorated her mind and her body, and her headache dissolved in an instant.

  She dried herself and dressed in a jumpsuit before she made her way downstairs. She half-expected her husband to be in the kitchen. He was an early riser, and he always put the coffee on to brew. But after their last argument, he was sleeping in the guesthouse.

  She walked over to the living room and peeked out the window.

  Odd, Paul’s car is still in the driveway, she thought. He’s normally at work by now.

  She walked back to the kitchen and proceeded to make breakfast.

  As she sat down to eat, a thought came to her mind: Where’s Kyla?

  Their daughter was a junior at the local university. She was majoring in Classical Studies. Paul was dead set against it. He wasn’t sure how learning about Greek and Roman history would help her get a job. Sharon agreed with him, but that did not mean she would go against her daughter’s wishes. If Kyla wanted to study something with low employment potential, then so be it. The only thing that mattered was that her daughter was happy.

  Sharon walked down the hall and checked the home office. It used to be Paul’s, but ever since Kyla began going to college, she had made it her study room.

  Her backpack and books were still on the table.

  Sharon returned to the kitchen and examined Kyla’s semester schedule, which was stuck to the refrigerator door by a magnet. She had put her schedule there to remind herself of Kyla’s class times.

  Sharon ran her finger over the dates. Kyla had Greek Literature this morning. She shook her head. Kyla must have been out late last night with her friends. She was likely still in bed.

  On any other day, Sharon would have let her sleep, but her next class was only an hour away. If Sharon woke her up now, Kyla could definitely make it to class.

  She went upstairs and knocked on the bedroom door. “Kyla, darling. It’s morning, and you’re late for class.” She waited, and when there was no response, she knocked again. “Kyla, you’re late for class,” she said.

  She turned the door handle and found her door was unlocked.

  “Darling, I’m going to come in,” she warned, in case her daughter got mad at her for barging in.

  The room was dark, but Sharon could see an outline on the bed.

  “Kyla,” she whispered. “It’s time to get up.”

  She flipped the light switch.

  Her hand instantly went over her mouth to stifle a scream.

  Kyla Gardener lay on the bed with her eyes closed. The front of her dress was soaked in red, and so was the pillow and bedsheet.

  Sharon ran out into the hall, fell to her knees, and began to wail in agony.

  TWO

  Detective Gregory Holt had thick arms, thick hands, and a thick neck. His head was shaved clean, and the skin on his head was wrinkled. His eyes were small and black, and they darted from one spot to another as if taking everything in.

  His shirt collar was tight around his neck, but he made no effort to loosen the button. Holt was six-four and weighed close to two hundred and fifty pounds.

  He rubbed the wedding ring on his finger three times. He did this before every new investigation. The gesture reminded him of why he chose to be a detective. He wanted to protect his loved ones, and to do that, he had to put criminals behind bars.

  Holt graduated from the police academy first in his class. He rose through the ranks, starting as a patrol officer, then making detective, and rising all the way to staff sergeant. He missed being a detective, however, and to the dismay of his wife, he requested a demotion.

  He felt he could do more good on
the streets than behind a desk.

  He made his way up to the house. There was a black Audi and a silver Lexus parked in the driveway. They looked shinier than his ten-year-old Toyota Camry. His wife had been bugging him to upgrade to a newer model, but he knew it would be tight on his detective’s salary. Maybe he could have considered it when he was a staff sergeant, but that was behind him.

  His wife enjoyed driving her two-year-old Prius, which he paid for. Her happiness meant more to him than anything else in the world. So what if he owned a decade-old car? It didn’t bother him, so why should it bother anyone else?

  He knew he would have to make sacrifices when he gave up the extra pay and the corner office. Detective work involved long hours and a ton of grunt work. The rewards only came when he solved a case. And most cases ended up turning cold.

  Greg Holt loved every minute as a detective, though. The rush of adrenaline when he chased a lead. The satisfaction when he put a perpetrator in jail. There was nothing that compared to that.

  He turned and took a look back. A strand of yellow police tape circled the front of the property. Good, he thought. I don’t want anyone messing up my crime scene.

  He went inside the house. He was approached by a uniformed police officer. The officer recognized him and eased up.

  “Where is it?” Holt demanded.

  “Upstairs. The second bedroom on the right,” the officer replied.

  Holt took each step deliberately. He was never in a hurry for anything. There was no point in rushing. He would eventually get there.

  He entered the room and found a woman leaning over a body on the bed.

  Detective Dana Fisher was five-five, one hundred and ten pounds, and she had dark, shoulder-length hair. Her green eyes were large and expressive. Her nose was thin and pointed upwards, and it moved whenever she opened her mouth.

  Fisher had moved up the ranks like Holt, but she made it known to those around her that she would not stop until she became captain. Holt admired her ambitions, but he felt she was better suited for detective work. That did not mean he would not support her if an opportunity for promotion ever arose. Plus, he liked working with her. She was as determined to solve a case as he was.

  “You wanna fill me in?” he asked her.

  THREE

  “Victim is Caucasian, age twenty, around five-foot-three by my estimate,” Fisher replied, “and from a cursory examination, it looks like she was stabbed to death.”

  Holt leaned over and saw thick blood spread across the victim’s chest. Her eyes were closed, but it was easy to see she was young. She had long blonde hair that fell across the pillow. Her lips were thin and parted, exposing two of her front teeth. Her face was round and had started to turn puffy. Holt knew from experience that when the organs stopped functioning, the body started to retain water.

  Fisher said, “I don’t see any lacerations on any part of her body except the chest.”

  “You think she was stabbed while asleep?” he asked.

  “That would be my guess, what with the amount of blood around her”

  “Looks like she was still dressed from the night before,” Holt said. The victim was wearing a light blue dress that went down to her knees, and she still had on matching-colored high heels.

  “So she comes home after a party and goes straight to bed,” Holt said. “Then someone enters her room and stabs her?”

  Fisher looked at him. “Do you think it was an intruder?”

  “We can check the locks to see if it was a break and enter.”

  Holt thought of something. “Who found the body?”

  “The mother.”

  “Where was she last night?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to speak to her yet.”

  It was Fisher’s turn to think of something. “What if the victim dressed for the party but never left?”

  “That’s plausible.”

  There was commotion out in the hall. They heard voices. They turned when a man came racing into the room.

  “Where is she? Let me see her!” he yelled.

  Holt stuck his massive arm out to stop the man from getting near the body. The last thing he wanted was the bereaved contaminating the crime scene.

  The same police officer from downstairs came into the room. “I tried to stop him, but he got through,” he said.

  Holt glared at him. The officer’s incompetence nearly destroyed evidence that might be in the room.

  Holt gently but forcibly escorted the man back out into the hall.

  “That’s my daughter,” the man said, pointing into the room.

  “Your name, sir?” Holt asked.

  “Paul Gardener,” he replied between heavy breaths.

  Paul Gardener was slim with thinning hair. He had stubble on his cheeks from the night before. He looked to be five-seven and close to a hundred and fifty pounds. He wore round spectacles, and his eyes were glassy and moist.

  “Mr. Gardener, I need you to calm down.”

  “How is Kyla?” Paul asked. “Is she okay?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Holt replied.

  “What happened to her?”

  “If you let us do our job, we might have answers for you.”

  Hot tears began to stream down Gardener’s face. Holt suddenly felt sorry for him. No parent deserved to see their child this way. It was beyond cruel.

  Holt turned to the officer standing next to Gardener. “Please escort Mr. Gardener back downstairs and make sure he stays there until we are done.”

  “Yes, sir,” the officer said, eager to make up for his earlier mistake.

  The officer placed his hand on Gardener’s elbow, turned him around, and led him down the hall.

  Fisher said, “Look.”

  Holt turned to her.

  She nodded toward Gardener. Holt was still confused.

  “His shirt,” Fisher said.

  Holt looked and his eyes widened. There was a red stain on the back of Gardener’s golf shirt.

  “Wait,” Holt said.

  He moved toward Gardener. He got closer, and he knew instantly what the stain was.

  Blood.

  “Were you in the room earlier?” Holt asked.

  Gardener looked confused. “No.”

  Holt pointed at the bloodstain. “Can you explain how you got that on your clothing?”

  Gardener blinked. “I have no idea.”

  Holt looked over at Fisher. He could tell she was thinking the same thing. “Mr. Gardener,” Holt said. “Do you mind going to the Milton PD to answer a few questions?”

  “Why?”

  “It would help us get a better understanding of what’s going on.”

  “Am I under arrest?” Gardener asked, looking a little bewildered.

  “No, but it would be better if you did so voluntarily.”

  Gardener stared at Holt. He then glanced over at Fisher and then at the officer.

  “Please, Mr. Gardener,” Holt said, his voice steely and commanding. “It is in your best interest to cooperate with us. We are here to help.”

  Gardener swallowed. He then nodded.

  Holt turned back to the officer. “Have someone drive Mr. Gardener to the station.”

  “I’ll do it myself,” the officer said. He wanted Holt to know he could be relied upon.

  “Good,” Holt said.

  FOUR

  Strong winds forced the water onto the sandy beach. The sounds were both peaceful and violent at the same time.

  Lee Callaway lay on his stomach with his mouth wide open. His left leg hung over the bed while his right arm was underneath his chin. Drool had accumulated over his hand as he snored in unison with the crashing waves.

  The house was a stone’s throw from the water. The home was worth close to two million dollars, and it came with its own private beach.

  Callaway did not have the money to afford such a place. He was broke, and he had been for some time. The only reason he was allowed to stay in such an exclusive property was beca
use of a client.

  The soon-to-be-divorced Marla Westerhause was in line to receive her husband’s one-hundred-million-dollar real estate empire. Claude Westerhause was a savvy investor, a brilliant businessman, and a world-class philanderer. Claude prided himself for having a keen eye for investment properties, and for being a ladies’ man. In some circles, he was nicknamed “Casanova Claude.”

  Claude relished this title bestowed upon him. His wife, however, loathed that nickname with a vengeance. Claude was not even discreet in his affairs. He took his girlfriends and mistresses to the same restaurants he took his wife to.

  The first time Marla laid eyes on Claude was when he was sweeping floors at a French bistro. He had strong arms and a wide chest. He had a prominent nose and a well-defined chin. His hairline was receding, but that did not deter him from chatting up the ladies.

  Marla had known for a long time their marriage was over. She stayed with Claude because she loved him and kept believing he would change. She also knew how vindictive he could be. The divorce would be anything but amicable.

  Claude already had money hidden in offshore accounts, under numbered companies, behind layers and layers of corporate structures. If Claude wanted the money to disappear, he could do it with a snap of a finger. His numerous lawyers, accountants, and loyal employees would make sure not a trace of that money led to Claude. Marla would not see a penny once the assets were divided up.

  Marla never cared for the money, even though she enjoyed the comfortable life. Who did not? But what she valued more was respect. As his wife, Claude had embarrassed her by sleeping around with multiple women. Even her friends had begun to pity her for the way she had been tossed aside. She was older than him by a good five years, and as such, she sometimes looked like his mother. She spent money on makeup and minor cosmetic enhancements, but she knew she would never be able to compete with the younger girls.

  What irked her most was the fact that she had believed in Claude before anyone else did. She used to work at a bank as an investment consultant. She knew the value of saving money, and she also knew where to invest that saved money. She preferred stocks and bonds. She avoided mutual funds as she deemed them too risky. But when the housing market began to appreciate during the nineties (well before the crash), she got involved in a construction project. To protect her investment, Claude volunteered to keep an eye on it. If the project failed to meet certain deadlines, they would pull their money out. He quickly realized he enjoyed overseeing the construction from start to finish. To top it off, they made a good return on their investment.