The lack of a sign was more of a safety precaution than anything else. His job required him to follow cheating spouses and catch them in compromising positions. Naturally, the spouses did not take too kindly once they found out. They threatened him with legal action, and some even threatened him with physical harm.
Callaway used to carry a registered firearm with him at all times, but during a heated dispute, he had pulled his gun and brandished it. He had scared away the guy who was giving him a hard time, but at the same time, he realized the ramifications of what he almost did. He could have pulled the trigger and ended the man’s life. The responsibility was too much for him, so he started keeping the weapon locked up in his office. He only took his gun with him when he went into a dangerous situation. He would rather err on the side of caution in those circumstances.
So far, he had been lucky that no one had pulled a gun on him. He did, however, have an irate client break his nose and bruise his ego. Callaway deserved what he got. He had slept with his client’s wife, whom he was supposed to have been following to gather evidence of her infidelities.
There was a more pressing reason for not having a sign out by the front door. Callaway was never good when it came to money. The moment he had some in his hand, he would gamble it away on one thing or another. There was always a sure bet out there that would make him instantly rich. All he had to do was be there at the right time. More often than not, it was not an opportunity but a scheme to sucker people out of their hard-earned dollars, and with a near-zero bank balance, Callaway would foolishly go to unsavory people to borrow the money for these get-rich-quick ventures. When it would all blow up in his face, he would spend the next couple of days or weeks hiding from these people until he could find a way to pay them back.
I should just play the lottery like most sensible people, he thought. The odds may be stacked against me, but at least I would only be out a couple dollars, not my entire investment.
He reached the top of the stairs and unbuckled his belt. The meal, albeit delicious, was now coming back up his throat. He should not have gorged himself as if he had been starving for days.
FIFTEEN
Callaway opened the door and entered the small, windowless space. There was no air conditioning, and the heating barely worked during the winter months, but the rent was the cheapest in the city.
He had considered closing down the office, but he liked the idea of having a place to go other than his home. Speaking of his home, with his finances in shambles, he was constantly moving. Sometimes he would sleep in his office until he found a place to stay.
He was lucky to crash at a beach house for months. His client was away traveling Europe, and she had let him use the property as a reward for catching her husband in the act. The divorce settlement was so substantial that she would never have to work another day in her life.
I need to get me a nice rich old lady, he thought. She would surely rid me of my money problems.
But he knew he would never go after someone because of their wealth. He had spent his professional life helping his clients get money out of their spouses, and he saw the damage first-hand. The clients would say and do anything to squeeze even an extra penny out of the other spouse. They would even involve their children in the divorce proceedings. Those children never asked for that. They only wanted a stable and loving home. They didn’t want to have to choose between their parents.
He shut the door and sat at his desk. There was a sofa in the corner, and across from it was a flat-screen TV a client had bequeathed him. He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, which was tuned to a twenty-four-hour news channel. He liked the sound of the TV running in the back. The sound made him feel like he was surrounded by people, not stuck in a confined space. The news also let him know what was happening in the city. This gave him a chance to search out potential clients.
He sat upright when he saw the headline at the bottom of the screen: MOVIE STAR DILLON SCOTT FOUND DEAD. CAUSE OF DEATH SUSPICIOUS. POLICE HAVE NO SUSPECTS OR MOTIVE YET.
Callaway had heard of Scott. Who hadn’t? Unless you lived in a cave and didn’t have access to a TV or internet. He had even watched some of his movies, and he found them entertaining. The characters Scott played were average Joes down on their luck who overcame all obstacles to defeat the bad guys and win the day.
If they made a movie about his own life, Callaway would have chosen Scott to play him. That dream had now faded like a movie’s end credits.
Dana must be overwhelmed, he thought. He knew with Holt away, Fisher was likely running the show solo.
He turned on the laptop on his desk. He prayed someone had contacted him via his website. He desperately needed some work.
He once had a stable job and a steady source of income. Prior to becoming a private eye, he was a deputy sheriff for a small town. The job was uneventful, mind-numbing, and utterly dull. The most exciting thing that ever happened in Spokem County was when someone lit a firecracker and shot it in their neighbor’s shed. The shed went up in flames, but the loss was a few gardening tools and a lawn mower. Callaway was so bored he could have slit his wrists.
The laptop took a good fifteen minutes to boot up. The computer was an older model he had bought secondhand. The laptop had an outdated operating system and an old processor, but it was good for checking emails and surfing the internet. Sometimes, though, he would turn the laptop on, leave the office to buy coffee, and when he returned, the computer would still be loading.
He decided to check his voicemail.
As he listened to his messages, a smile crossed his face.
SIXTEEN
The Roman-column-shaped bookend had been tagged and photographed. Even though it was not the murder weapon, they at least had an idea of what the weapon might look like.
Fisher watched as Scott’s body was loaded into an ambulance. She heard a commotion in the distance, coming from the main road. A man was talking loudly to one of the officers. The officer was trying to calm the man down.
The officer turned toward her, and she realized it was McConnell. He waved to her and she made her way to them. Instantly, cameras were aimed in her direction and began to flash. The press thought she was about to make a statement. She was not. The communications officer would do so once Fisher had briefed her. She was planning to do that as soon as she had finished examining the crime scene.
McConnell met her halfway up the gravel road. “Sorry about this,” he said, “but he wants to speak to you.” He pointed to the man who was yelling at him a moment ago. “I told him you were busy, but he was adamant that he see you.”
“Who is he?” she asked.
“He says he’s a movie producer.”
“Let him through,” she said.
She moved further away from the crowd as McConnell escorted the man through the yellow police tape and toward her.
“I’m Detective Dana Fisher,” she said.
“Sherman Grumbly,” he replied. He was of medium height, medium build, wore thick prescription glasses, and had dark, unruly hair.
“You’re the producer of Memories of a Killer?” she asked.
His eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“I saw a copy of the script in Mr. Scott’s bedroom.”
“I need to get that. It’s confidential material.”
“No one is allowed in the house until the investigation is over,” she said.
“You don’t understand,” he said with exasperation. “If that script gets leaked online, the entire production will be jeopardized.”
“I assure you, the script is safe. The property has been secured.”
He didn’t look convinced.
“How about this,” she said. “You answer my questions, and I’ll have an officer personally deliver the script to your office.”
He mulled this over.
She added, “Unfortunately, no items can be removed from the crime scene at this moment.”
He finally nodded in resigna
tion. “Okay, what would you like to know?”
“Mr. Scott was in Milton to shoot a movie, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you or your production company rented the property for his use?”
“Yes, we did. Even though the studio is at the other end of the city, Dillon wanted a secluded area to rest and relax. I couldn’t blame him. He was constantly hounded by the paparazzi.”
“The property has a security alarm system. It was disabled when we arrived at the scene. Did you know the password?”
He paused to consider his response. “Of course I did,” he said. “I was provided this information when I signed the rental agreement. But I was nowhere near here yesterday.”
“Where were you?”
“In my office at the studio.”
“Can anyone confirm this?”
“Absolutely. I was in meetings all day. My secretary can vouch for me.”
Fisher made a mental note of this in case she needed to verify it later. “Do you know what Mr. Scott was doing last night?” she asked.
“I really don’t. We had a read-through of the script yesterday. I wasn’t there, but Barry was.”
“Who?”
“Barry Rowe. He’s the director of the film.”
“Okay, I’ll need to speak to him and whoever was with him at the reading.”
“I’ve already informed Barry. He knows there is going to be an investigation.” Grumbly pulled out his cell phone. “I have to call the insurance company and let them know our star actor is dead.”
Fisher could tell it was a call he did not want to make. As he walked way, she didn’t envy the position he was in.
SEVENTEEN
Callaway’s heart sank the moment he set eyes on the house. It was a semi-detached with a small garden in front, no driveway, and a tiny porch.
He double-checked the address and confirmed it was the right one. Back at his office, he had contacted the woman who left him the voicemail. She believed her husband was cheating on her, and she was eager to retain his services.
On the drive over, he was hoping the woman had money to spare. He needed a well-paying case, one that would fix the current predicament he was in. His landlady had been inquiring about the rent, and he didn’t want to resort to hiding from her.
He thought about turning the Impala around and going back to the office. In his experience, regular folks did not appreciate what he had to offer. They always tried to lowball him when it came to his fees.
The rich, on the other hand, were willing to pay to resolve their problems. They didn’t like to get their hands dirty. Most were downright lazy. Money afforded them the luxury to have others do their bidding. If they needed someone followed, they called him. If they needed information on a competitor, they called him. If they needed an alibi, they called him.
Callaway was not the only PI in town. His client’s spouses also hired their own private investigators. Sometimes Callaway would have to throw the other PI off his client’s tail. It was not an easy feat, but with some ingenuity, he was able to manage it.
A client once came to him and told him he was being followed. Callaway asked him whether he was being unfaithful to his wife. The client said he was. Callaway then began following his own client. One night, as the client went to meet his mistress, Callaway caught the other PI tailing him. Callaway quickly approached the mistress’s house and made it look like the client was in fact meeting a group of friends. Another time he spotted the other PI well in advance and warned the client not to proceed with his rendezvous. The other PI eventually lost interest when he could not catch the client alone with his mistress.
As Callaway debated whether to ring the doorbell, the front door opened. A woman came out on the porch. She was wearing a patterned dress, stockings, and she had short dark hair. The woman was on the heavier side, and she was wearing makeup.
She smiled and waved at him.
He reluctantly got out of the Impala and approached her.
“You’re the private investigator, right?” she said, still smiling.
“I am.”
“I saw you sitting in your car. I thought maybe you had forgotten my address.”
I hadn’t forgotten it, he thought. I was thinking of driving away from it.
“Please come inside,” she said.
They sat in a small living room filled with children’s toys. In the hall, he had almost slipped on a remote-control car.
“After speaking to you,” she said, sitting across from him, “I sent the children to my neighbor’s house. I didn’t want them to listen in on our conversation. I don’t want them to know their father is…” She stopped, looking as if saying the words aloud would hurt.
“How old are your children?” he asked.
“Jackson is seven, David and Suzie are five, and Kim is two.”
His eyes shot up. “Four! Wow.”
She smiled. “My husband and I came from big families, so we wanted one ourselves.”
Right, he thought. “How long have you been married?” he asked.
“Our eight-year anniversary is coming up.”
Callaway noticed a wheelchair in the corner. “Does someone else live with you and your husband?”
“No, that was actually for me. It was during last winter, and I was unloading groceries from the car when I slipped on ice, broke my leg, and fractured my hip. I couldn’t stand or walk for months. My husband took care of me and the children.”
He nodded. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name on the phone.”
“Oh, how rude of me. It’s Betty Henderson. My husband’s name is Frank.”
“Okay, I’m Lee Callaway.”
“I know. I read about you in the newspapers when you worked for Paul Gardener.”
He had gained some notoriety from that case, but unfortunately, it had not resulted in many jobs like he expected.
“Can I offer you coffee or tea?” she asked.
“Thank you, I’m fine,” he replied. “Now, let’s get to why I’m here. On the phone you said you believed your husband was having an affair.”
Her eyes welled up. She bit her bottom lip and nodded.
“I know this is tough, but you will have to tell me all the details. That is the only way I will be able to help you.”
She inhaled deeply and then exhaled slowly. “Frank does deliveries for a large department store. He works long hours, but the pay is good, and it comes with benefits. Anyway, Frank likes to laugh, and he likes to have fun. The children adore him. But he has been acting like a different man the past couple of months. He is withdrawn, and he looks unhappy. Even the children have noticed a difference. I asked him what’s wrong, and he said it was stuff at work. One day I decided to surprise him. I dropped the children at the neighbors’, and I bought tickets to a superhero movie he had been waiting to see, and I drove to his workplace. While I was waiting in the parking lot, I saw him and another woman coming out together. The way they were talking was like they knew each other really well.”
“Maybe they are co-workers,” Callaway suggested.
“They are,” she agreed. “I found out she works in the company’s shipping department. I was about to go up to him when they both got in his truck and drove away.”
She covered her face and broke down in tears.
Callaway wanted to console her, but he wasn’t sure how. He was never good at that stuff.
When Betty was done, she said, “I want him to leave this other woman, and I need your help.”
Callaway blinked. “That’s not how it works,” he said. “My job is to prove your suspicions that he is being unfaithful, not to convince him to do something he shouldn’t be doing.”
“I want my husband back, Mr. Callaway.”
“I understand, but sometimes it’s not as simple as that. If your husband is being unfaithful, then I can get you material evidence to convince a judge that you deserve more of the family assets at the time of the divorce. You are th
e devastated spouse in this relationship.”
“But I don’t want to divorce Frank. He is the only man I’ve ever loved. And he is the father of our children.”
Callaway stood up to leave. “Unfortunately, I don’t think you need a private investigator. You need a marriage counselor.”
She pulled an envelope from her purse and held it out for him. “It’s five hundred dollars. I’ve been saving it for a rainy day, but this is far more important. We need our old Frank back.”
Callaway stared at the envelope. Five hundred was not a lot of money, but he was desperate. Something was better than nothing.
“Please,” she pleaded. “Just talk to him. He needs to know how much he means to his family.”
“What if I can’t convince him?”
“Then I’ll focus my attention on my children and move on.”
Callaway reluctantly took the envelope.
EIGHTEEN
Barry Rowe, director of Memories of a Killer, was tall and lanky with a full head of gray hair and a heavy British accent. He was wearing a checkered shirt, blue jeans, and black boots.
Fisher was in Rowe’s makeshift office at the movie studio. The room was not spacious, and the amount of material scattered around made it look and feel even smaller. Fisher saw large storyboards on the walls, along with mock-up posters for the film. Pieces of fabric lay on a table, likely from the costume department. Camera equipment was stacked in the corner, and there were even props in the middle of the room.
Barry shook his head. “When Sherman called and told me what happened, I thought he was playing a movie joke on me,” he said.
“A movie joke?” Fisher asked.
“Sorry, that didn’t come out right. What I meant was that in our films, we come up with creative ways for a victim to die so that the hero can solve their murder. When Dillon died, I thought it was a cruel joke, because his character in the film was an investigator, you know?”
“I see,” she said. “And have you worked with Mr. Scott before?”
“No, this was the first time,” Rowe replied. “My background is in stage production, but I have directed TV series and films for the BBC. This was actually my first big picture, even though the budget is relatively small.”
The Falling Girl Page 4