He parked the Charger by the curb and got out. The street was empty except for a mailman making deliveries several houses down.
When he reached the front porch, he heard loud noises coming from inside. They were children’s voices, accompanied by an adult’s voice.
Callaway looked for a doorbell but then knocked on the wooden door. He waited. The noise from inside had intensified. The adult’s voice was booming.
He knocked again, this time harder.
A second later, the door swung open. A woman stared at him. She was overweight, with multi-colored hair, and she was holding a baby. The baby’s mouth and hands were covered in what looked like raspberry jam.
“What do you want?” the woman asked.
She sported several tattoos on her arms. Callaway realized the names written in calligraphy were likely her brood.
“Lana Anderson?” he asked.
“Who wants to know?”
Callaway whipped out a card and handed it to her. She took the card and said, “Gator Peckerwood?”
“That’s my name, ma’am.” It was a name Callaway used when he did not want his identity known. “I’m a private investigator.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want from me?”
“Do you know a man named David Becker?”
“David Becker?” she said with a frown. “Hey, isn’t that the guy who jumped off a bridge?”
“Overpass.”
“What?”
“Do you know him?”
“No, I don’t, but these kids are driving me nuts. I wouldn’t mind jumping off a bridge right now.”
“It wasn’t a bridge, it was a… never mind. Have yourself a great day.”
He walked back to his car.
Strike two, he thought.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Nina put her elbows on the table. She had just finished a burger and fries. She stared out the window at the cars in the parking lot. Each time a car pulled up to the restaurant, her heart jumped. But when she realized it was not her dad, her heart sank.
Joely came over and sat down across from her.
“Hey sweetie,” she said. “What’s with the sad face?”
“I’m waiting for my dad.”
“I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”
“I know, but I really want to go see the pandas. The zoo will close soon.”
Joely glanced at the clock. “You still have a few hours. That should be enough time for you to see the pandas and maybe even take photos of them.”
Nina still looked sad.
“How about this?” Joely said. “Why don’t you help me out until your dad comes?”
Nina looked up at her. “Help? How?”
“I need someone reliable behind the counter.”
“I’m reliable,” she quickly said.
“Are you, really?” Joely asked, narrowing her eyes.
“I sure am. Once, my mom’s friend left her purse at our house. I found it and held on to it until she came to pick it up.”
“So, I can trust you?”
“Absolutely.”
Joely smiled. “Alright then, come with me.”
She took Nina behind the counter. “Don’t tell anyone that I let you touch the cash register, okay?”
“I won’t.”
Joely leaned closer and whispered, “My boss, Bill, doesn’t like people touching the machine. Especially not children. So, this will be our secret, or else I could get into serious trouble.”
“I promise I won’t tell anyone.”
“Okay, so this is what you have to do. When I take an order, you get to punch it into the machine.”
“How will I know what to punch?”
“I will tell you.”
Joely went to get an apron for Nina.
“There you go,” Joely said with a smile. “Everyone will think you work here.”
Nina smiled.
A man came out of the kitchen. He was short, pudgy, and bald. “What do we have here?” he said, staring at Nina.
“Charlie is our main cook,” Joely said, introducing him.
“Hi Charlie,” Nina said with a wave.
Joely turned to him. “Nina is a new employee.”
“Is that right?” Charlie said with a laugh. “Welcome to the team, kid.”
Nina was beaming.
“And what will you be doing?” Charlie asked.
“I’ll be watching the cash machine.”
“That is a very important job.”
“It is,” Joely added.
Charlie said, “And if you do a good job, I will whip up whatever you like. Pancakes, waffles, french toast, you just name it and I’ll make it.”
“I love pancakes with maple syrup.”
“As a reward, you’ll get Charlie’s special pancakes with hot maple syrup.”
Nina clapped her hands with joy.
THIRTY-NINE
Heather Keele had cropped auburn hair, full lips, and blemish-free skin. Prior to getting a job at The Lockport Chronicle, Keele had worked as a model, which explained her bone structure, wide shoulders, and perfect posture.
Keele was surprised when Fisher had contacted her. She did not expect Casey’s sister would want to speak to her. When Keele found out that his sister was also a police detective, she rushed over immediately.
They were sitting on a bench not far from the newspaper office.
Fisher said, “Whatever we discuss is off the record.”
Keele frowned. “Then what’s the point of us meeting up if I can’t use what you tell me in my stories?”
“You will get another side of the story,” Fisher replied.
“Another side?”
“I’ve read your articles, and I would categorize them as biased.”
“How so?”
“I get the sense you don’t like my brother.”
“I don’t like people who abuse their authority.”
Fisher gave Keele a stern look. “How did my brother abuse his authority?”
Keele did not flinch. “He is a teacher. Miranda Temple is a student. It’s obvious he coerced her into a relationship.”
“There is no proof they were in a relationship.”
“Is that what your brother said?”
Fisher knew Keele was poking for information. “Yes, he did, and I believe him.”
“Why?”
Fisher could not tell her he was already in a relationship with Nunes. Instead, she said, “What makes you so sure it wasn’t Miranda Temple who tried to seduce him? I mean, didn’t you ever have a crush on a teacher when you were in high school?”
Keele stared at her. After a pause, she said, “I can’t say I haven’t, but I never acted on it. And to answer your previous questions, I don’t believe Miranda seduced your brother.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“If she seduced him, then how come she’s the one dead?” Keele leaned in closer. “This is how I see it. Your brother pushed Miranda to have a relationship with him, and when she rebuffed him and, perhaps, even threatened to expose him, he killed her. He may not have planned to do it, but it’s a textbook case of someone trying to protect their reputation.”
Fisher said, “I still don’t understand why you would try to destroy my brother even before he’s charged or has gone to trial.”
Keele’s eyes hardened. “I had people try to take advantage of me when I was an aspiring model. These people were powerful. They could make or break a career. As you can see, I’m not in the industry anymore, which tells you I didn’t go along with what they had in mind for me.”
Fisher was silent. Keele had been hurt by those she trusted. She was now defending the weak and powerless. Fisher had to commend her for that. But this was about her brother, whose life hung on what a prospective jury thought of him.
“My brother said when he left Miranda by the side of the road, she was still alive,” Fisher said.
“According to the police statement, Miranda died
of a broken neck. When her body was discovered, her neck was twisted at an awkward angle that blocked the airway. She pretty much suffocated.”
“So, what are you trying to say?”
“It wasn’t some random person who showed up after your brother had left and killed her. Miranda was fully clothed. She was not assaulted in any way. So again, it couldn’t have been a stranger who saw a pretty girl walking alone on a secluded road and decided to take advantage of the situation. Whoever killed her wanted her dead.”
Fisher looked away.
Keele said, “Your brother admitted to being with Miranda on the day she died. I’ve spoken to witnesses who confirm this. And just to let you know that I’m not as cold-hearted as you think I am, your brother was in a relationship with Miranda. I just never printed it.”
“How can you be so sure he was?”
“I have proof.”
Fisher’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of proof?”
Keele smiled. “I’ll show it to you if you go on the record.”
FORTY
After speaking to the teller, Holt was introduced to the bank manager, Brian Wittles, a thin man who sported a goatee and wore prescription glasses. He was so thin, his suit hung over his body like he was a coat hanger.
Wittles led Holt down a hall to his office in the back. The office was half the size of a single car garage, which was fitting, Holt supposed, for a small bank like this.
“Can I see the receipt?” Wittles asked.
Holt pulled out the bank receipt he had found in Becker’s briefcase and handed it to Wittles.
“It has the date and time stamp on it,” Wittles said as he examined the receipt, “so, it won’t be too hard to pull it up.”
He got behind his computer and began typing on the keyboard. “You know,” he said, “I applied for a job with the Milton P.D.”
“What position?” Holt asked.
“Officer.”
Holt made no comment.
“I didn’t pass the physical. They said I needed to build more strength. I tried working out every day, drinking protein shakes, eating lean chicken, anything to gain body mass. But all I got was bony arms and legs and a hanging gut that made me look like I was five months pregnant.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Holt said, not sure of what else to say.
“Thanks,” Wittles replied. “You’re a big guy. How much do you eat a day? I bet it’s like three to five thousand calories, right?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t count calories,” Holt admitted. “And I’ve always been big.”
When Holt was in fifth grade, he was the tallest kid in the entire school. By the time he was in high school, he was well over six feet tall. As far as his girth, that gene ran in his family. His parents were big people, though not necessarily fat, but they had thick legs, arms, and even hands.
Holt would not admit it to anyone, but growing up, he tried to go on a diet. He wanted to be slim like the other boys in class. He thought girls liked them more. But then he met a girl named Amy. She liked him for who he was, not what he looked like. They were together throughout high school. They only split up when she went to a university several states away.
“I was disappointed over not being able to get into the academy,” Wittles said. “But then I thought to myself, I’m not really cut out to be a police officer. I prefer to sit on my couch and play shoot ‘em up video games, rather than run around catching criminals. You know what I mean?”
Yes, you would rather be an armchair cop than a real one, Holt thought.
Wittles punched in a couple more keystrokes. His eyes widened. “Whoa. Isn’t that the guy who…?”
“Yes, he’s the jumper,” Holt said. “Do you mind if I see it?”
“Oh, sorry.”
Wittles moved away to let Holt get behind the computer.
On the screen was a black and white image which showed Becker entering the bank and walking up to a line that was at least a dozen people long.
Becker was wearing a business suit, and he was holding his briefcase.
Holt squinted, focusing his gaze on Becker’s face. He looked calm, not like someone contemplating suicide the next day.
When his turn came, Becker walked up to the teller. He withdrew twenty-thousand dollars and then left the bank. The entire process took less than fifteen minutes.
Holt turned to Wittles, “Can you pull up Mr. Becker’s bank statements for the past year? I want a copy.”
“No problem. But it’ll take some time. We store everything electronically at our main offices in Kansas.”
“I can wait,” Holt said.
FORTY-ONE
Callaway pulled up to an apartment building with a gray façade. By his estimate, it was at least twenty stories high.
One more to go, he thought.
The last Lana Anderson on his list lived on the sixteenth floor.
He did not want to go home empty-handed. A part of him felt like he was being stubborn, that he should be at the zoo with his little girl right now. But another part of him felt like he had no time to waste.
Why else would David show up at his office, in the pouring rain, and offer him more money than some people make in a year if it was not important? This woman knew something, or perhaps had something that David wanted.
But then why did he kill himself before I could even begin my search?
The questions swirled in his head as he made his way to the building’s front lobby. He saw a security desk behind the glass wall, but it was empty. He looked up and saw a camera staring directly at him.
He moved to the intercom system located on the wall. He lifted the phone and put it to his ear, pretending like he was trying to reach a tenant.
He waited until he saw someone come out the front doors. He snuck inside before the doors closed.
He took the elevator up to the sixteenth floor and walked down the hall to unit number 1602.
He knocked on the door and waited. Like with the previous Lana Anderson, he would be honest and straightforward. He hoped that would be enough for her to tell him why David wanted her found.
There was something else that had been nagging him from the moment he took the case. Why would David pay him such a large sum to find this woman? The simple answer was David could not find her on his own, which meant Callaway going around knocking on doors was likely a wasted effort. If finding her was that easy, David would have done it.
He knocked one more time, and when there was still no answer, he pulled out his lockpicking kit. As a private investigator, he was not bound by the rules and regulations law enforcement officials had to follow. His job was to complete a task he had been hired for—regardless of how he did it. And yet, he disliked committing a crime, and breaking and entering was just that. But now was the time for action, not debating himself about right and wrong.
In less than thirty seconds, he was in.
He moved down the hallway and found he was in an open space with floor to ceiling windows. The living room had a sofa, coffee table, and TV stand. Adjacent to the living room was an area for a dining table and chairs, and next to it was the kitchen. Down the hall was the bathroom and the bedroom.
He moved to the bedroom. He saw that everything was scattered on the bed and the floor. The clothes in the closet were in a heap at the bottom, and the cabinet drawers were open with the contents inside them all disorganized.
His eyes caught something on the side table. He walked over and grabbed the framed photo. A young woman was smiling at the camera. She had short dark hair, expressive eyes, and perfect teeth.
He removed the photo from the frame and pocketed it. If this was the right person, he might need the photo later.
He spent the next half hour going through every inch of the apartment. When he was done, he came to two conclusions. One: someone had been through the entire apartment, looking for something. Two: Lana Anderson had left in a hurry. He could not find a laptop, luggage, toiletries, cell phone charger,
or even a jacket. All items that she would take on a trip.
He suddenly had a feeling this was the Lana Anderson he was searching for.
FORTY-TWO
Fisher was furious when she confronted Casey at his home. His head was bowed as he stared at the photo in his hand.
After agreeing to go on record, Heather Keele had provided Fisher with the proof that Casey was indeed having an affair with Miranda Temple.
In the photo, Casey was seen kissing Miranda in a school hallway.
Fisher knew Casey had always been good with girls. She could not count the number of girlfriends he had in high school. She hated to admit it, but her brother was a player. He would date one girl but also flirt with others at the same time.
She had questioned him numerous times why he behaved like this, and his answer was always that he could not help himself. He had a soft spot for a pretty face.
She also could not understand why girls would keep giving him a chance even when his reputation preceded him. The girls foolishly believed they would be the one to change Casey Fisher. Somehow, he would become monogamous because of them.
And when their hearts were inevitably broken, some would even come to Fisher for a shoulder to cry on. They hoped she would talk some sense into him. Instead, Fisher would talk sense into them.
A leopard doesn’t change his spots, she would tell them. Casey will always be a cad.
Deep down, though, Fisher hoped her brother would mature with age. And that he would find that special someone and settle down. Jumping from one relationship to another took a toll on him. Behind his bravado, he was still sensitive. He just hid the pain better than others.
“Talk to me,” Fisher implored as she sat across from him at the dining table. “Tell me what I’m seeing isn’t what it is.”
He looked up. His eyes were soft. “It isn’t.”
“Then what do you call that in the photo?’
“Miranda pushed herself on me,” he said. “She initiated the kiss. And I pushed her back. I swear. Do you know who took the photo?”
“Heather Keele wouldn’t tell me.”
The Missing Mistress Page 9