The Missing Mistress

by Thomas Fincham

  “Have you told anyone else in the family?”

  He shook his head. “No, only you.”

  “Why just me?”

  He leaned forward. “Because you and I used to be very close until that fateful night. After that, I withdrew from you and the world. I want us to be close again like we were as kids.”

  He reached out his hand to her. She took it without hesitation.

  “I love you, sis,” he said.

  “I love you too,” she replied.

  No matter what he had done, to her Casey would always be the young boy who used to hold her hand as they walked to school together.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Callaway pulled up across from the apartment building.

  There was still so much he did not know. Who was this Lana Anderson? And how was she linked to Becker?

  The answers lay inside that building. More specifically, in the building’s security footage, which would show when Lana Anderson had left, and if she was alone or with someone. Could the person who searched her apartment have taken her?

  He was not sure. He also was not sure how to gain access to the security cameras.

  Unlike on his previous visit, when he had just walked in without anyone stopping him, a security guard was seated behind the lobby desk.

  Callaway leaned forward, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out a police badge and ID.

  In one of his older cases, a man was imitating a Saudi prince and was conning people out of their money. One of his victims hired Callaway to expose him. Callaway approached the man as a prospective investor. The man was so good at conning people that he almost convinced Callaway to invest in his fake project. Fortunately for Callaway, he did not have any money to invest because he was broke.

  Callaway managed to expose the con, and the man was sent to prison for his actions. When he was released a few years later, Callaway tracked him down. The man was from New Jersey, but his ability to play a Saudi prince highly impressed Callaway. The man also had a talent for creating fake IDs. During his trial, it was discovered that he had imitated a priest, a doctor, and a police officer. Callaway got the man to sell him a fake badge and ID.

  He knew it was illegal to impersonate an officer, and the chances of getting caught were quite high, but he had no choice but to take the gamble. He had to see what was on the building’s CCTV footage. The security guard would not allow just anybody to look at that.

  Callaway got out and slowly walked up to the front entrance. He could see the security guard was speaking to a tenant. He did not want any witnesses, so he waited until the tenant left.

  He made his move.

  He tapped on the glass door and waved his hand. The guard buzzed him in.

  Callaway knew where the cameras were, so he had to be careful when he showed the badge, which he had clipped to his belt.

  “Hi there,” Callaway said as he approached the guard’s desk. “You work here?”

  The guard made a face. “Um… that’s why I’m sitting here.”

  He was young with whiskers on his chin and his hair was pulled back into a ponytail. He was wearing a security guard uniform.

  Callaway lifted his coat up to reveal the badge. “Detective Greg Holt from the Milton P.D. What’s your name?”

  The guard blinked. “Trevor Donley.”

  “Trevor,” Callaway said, resting his left elbow on top of the desk. “I’m afraid I’m here on a police matter.”

  “Okay.”

  “I need to see your security camera footage.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t really say.”

  “I’m going to have to call property management.”

  “I’m sure they are busy,” Callaway quickly said. “We don’t want to bother them, do we, Trevor?”

  Trevor shrugged. “I don’t know. If this is a police matter, I have to get their permission.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Callaway insisted. “If you do what I say, I’ll make sure to recommend you for the mayor’s annual good citizen award.” He was not sure one existed, but right now was not the time to worry about that.

  “I’m really sorry, but I have to follow procedures,” Trevor replied.

  He reached for the telephone.

  Callaway asked, “How long have you worked here?”

  “Eight months.”

  “Do you, by any chance, know a tenant named Lana Anderson?”

  He pulled out the photo he had taken from her apartment and placed it on the desk.

  The guard stared at the photo. “Yeah, I’ve seen her around. Why do you want to find her?”

  “That’s none of your business. When was the last time you saw her?”

  Trevor shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Think. It’s important.”

  “Maybe a couple of days ago, but I don’t work here every day. I alternate with Andre.”

  “Were you here two days ago?”

  Trevor pondered the question. “I was.”

  “And the day before that?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then you must have seen her.” Callaway was grasping for anything.

  “There are hundreds of units in this building. I don’t keep track of everyone who comes and goes.”

  “Exactly, and that’s why I need to see your security footage.”

  “Like I told you, I have to ask management. In fact, if you wait ten minutes, my boss usually comes down around this time to check on the place.”

  Callaway did not want to get busted. “You know what? I’ll be back with a warrant. And I will make sure you are not recommended for the mayor’s annual good citizen award.”

  Callaway turned and left.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  The city morgue was in an old government building that was in desperate need of a renovation. With government budgets being slashed each year, the building’s occupants had long given up any hope of an upgrade.

  The building’s exterior was cold and uninviting. The interior was no better. The walls were painted in dark colors and the floor tiles, which were once white, had turned an ugly shade of yellow.

  Fluorescent lightbulbs flickered above as Holt walked down the hallway.

  He went through a set of doors then entered a cool room. A strong smell of ammonia and disinfectants hung in the air, but it still did not mask the smell of death, which was strong and overpowering.

  Holt found Andrea Wakefield standing next to a table with a green sheet on it. She was wearing a white lab coat that reached down to her knees.

  “Is Detective Fisher not coming?” Wakefield asked.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Is she alright?”

  Holt was surprised by the medical examiner’s concern for his partner. According to him, Wakefield spent so much time dissecting cadavers that she preferred the dead over the living. He did not know this for a fact. He knew very little about her. Their relationship was always professional. He trusted her judgement. He had to. If her findings contradicted their statements in any way, then they had no case.

  “Fisher is fine,” Holt replied. “She had some family matters to attend to.”

  Wakefield nodded and then pulled down the green sheet, revealing the face of the deceased. David Becker’s eyes were closed. He had a bluish tint over his skin, with the tint more prevalent on his lips.

  “Official cause of death?” Holt asked.

  “Everything.”

  “Everything?” he repeated, confused.

  “The victim—” Wakefield paused and then said, “Have you concluded whether he jumped of his own freewill or someone pushed him?”

  “So far, our investigation leads us to believe it might be a suicide.”

  “Then he’s not a victim. We’ll refer to him as the deceased.”

  Holt was not sure why that mattered right now. “Alright,” he said.

  “The deceased had suffered broken bones, broken ribs, internal bleeding, a cracked skull, swelling of the bra
in, a fractured vertebra, and a punctured lung. Take your pick. Any one of those injuries could have killed him.”

  “He sustained all that?” Holt asked.

  “The height of the fall, matched with the speed of the vehicle, resulted in a powerful impact that caused severe damage to his body,” Wakefield replied.

  “Were there any drugs or alcohol in his system?”

  She walked over to a table and returned with a clipboard. “The tests came back negative for any drugs. There were traces of alcohol in his system, but it was far less than the legal limit.”

  “So, he wasn’t intoxicated or under the influence of drugs when he jumped?”

  “No.”

  Holt frowned.

  David Becker was fully aware of his actions when he decided to take his own life.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Fisher was sitting in her car when she spotted Nunes coming out of the Lockport Police Department. She took long strides as she made her way to her unmarked cruiser.

  Fisher got out and walked up to her.

  “Detective Nunes?” she said.

  Nunes turned, and when she saw who it was, she smiled. “I told you to call me Helen.”

  “Right, sorry,” Fisher said. “Do you have a minute?”

  “I was on my way to court. Will this take long?”

  “No, I just have a few questions to ask you, if you don’t mind.”

  “If they have anything to do with Miranda Temple’s murder investigation, then I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

  “I won’t ask anything specific. I just need to clarify some things that have been nagging at me.”

  Nunes laughed. “It’s that detective voice inside your head, right?”

  Fisher said nothing.

  “If you’ve worked long enough as a detective, you start to analyze everything in your life. You try to make sense of even the smallest things. Everything becomes a puzzle that needs to be solved. Don’t worry, you’re not the only one. I get that too. So, what’s bothering you?”

  “It’s about Casey.”

  “What about him?”

  “There were witnesses who saw Miranda get into his car on the day she died. In fact, he confirmed he was at Pine Trail where her body was discovered sometime later.”

  Nunes’s eyes narrowed. “Where are you going with this?”

  “What I don’t understand is, with all that information at your disposal, why haven’t you arrested my brother for her death?”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “It’s what I would have done if I was the lead investigator on the case.” Fisher paused and then said, “Unless, of course, there is something you know that is preventing you from proceeding with charges against my brother.”

  Nunes looked away. “Yes, you’re right, we can’t charge your brother until we…”

  She hesitated.

  “Until what, Helen?” Fisher asked. “This is about my brother’s life, and I deserve to know what’s going on.”

  Nunes sighed. “Until we speak to Warren first.”

  “Who?”

  “Warren McGinty. Miranda’s ex-boyfriend.”

  “Why?”

  “After her death, we spoke to several of her friends, as we do in any investigation of this nature. And one of her friends told us that Warren had not gotten over his breakup with Miranda. This friend also stated that Miranda complained to her that Warren was following her, even after they had broken up.”

  “Okay.”

  “And get this, the reason for the breakup was that Miranda had caught Warren spying on her.”

  “How?” Fisher asked.

  “Through her phone,” Nunes replied. “Apparently, from what I’m told, he had downloaded an app on her cell phone which allowed him to see who she was texting and messaging. Miranda was furious. She ended the relationship and changed cell phones.”

  “Alright, but that still doesn’t explain why you want to speak to Warren.”

  “The friend we spoke to confessed that she mistakenly blurted out to Warren that Miranda was meeting someone at Leaside Forest Park. Warren had been contrite, and he wanted the friend’s help to get back together with Miranda. But the moment he found out about the meetup, he rushed out.”

  “So, you believe he was also there that day at the park, and perhaps, even at Pine Trail?”

  “We won’t know until we speak to him.”

  “Why haven’t you yet?”

  “We’re having some trouble locating him.”

  Fisher mulled this over. This was a gamechanger in the investigation. Then a thought occurred to her. “Do you have Miranda’s cell phone? You can check to see if she called anyone else right after Casey left her at Pine Trail. Or if she texted her friend to come pick her up or something.”

  “We haven’t been able to locate it. It wasn’t on her person, and we searched the entire area where her body was found. We also tried to trace it, but the signal was lost on the day she died.”

  Dammit, Fisher thought.

  Nunes opened the door of her car. “I have to go. I’m running late.”

  “One more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you give me the name of her friend? The one who told you about Warren.”

  Nunes shook her head. “I can’t have you questioning people in Lockport regarding Miranda’s death.”

  “I’m just trying to find out the truth, that’s all.”

  “That’s what I’m doing as well.”

  “How about this,” Fisher offered. “You want to find Warren, and now, so do I. I’m sure you would rather spend your time putting cases together than spend it knocking on doors. Let me ask around. I’ll let you know what I find. I promise.”

  Nunes stared at her. She then sighed. “Fine.”

  FIFTY-SIX

  Callaway was parked across from Lana Anderson’s apartment building, watching Trevor Donley through the glass doorway.

  After Callaway had returned to his car, he had seen a man in a suit enter the building and speak to Trevor. He may have been the property manager Trevor had been referring to. Trevor might have even told him about the visit by “Detective Greg Holt.” Callaway hoped the manager did not go to the Milton P.D. and ask why an officer was making demands without a warrant.

  Callaway cursed. He could not see a way forward in his search for Lana Anderson without that security footage.

  The footage might show when she left her apartment, what she was wearing, and if she was carrying something with her like a hand carry or backpack.

  If she was not planning to return, that meant she had left the city.

  That would make his search all the more difficult.

  If there were a couple of Lana Andersons just in Milton, who knows how many there are all over the United States? he thought.

  Callaway felt a migraine coming on. He reached across and opened the glove compartment. He searched the compartment and then shut it.

  He had left his painkillers back at his office.

  He suddenly felt parched. In days gone by, he would have gone to the nearest bar. But now that he was back with Patti, that was out of the question.

  He looked around the interior of the car and found a bottle of water underneath his seat.

  You better get used to this, Lee, he thought as he took a sip.

  When he had emptied the bottle, he saw Donley come out the main entrance.

  Donley walked to a white, beat-up Ford Taurus. He got behind the wheel and slowly pulled out of his spot.

  Callaway was not sure where Trevor was headed, but something told him he should follow.

  The Ford drove away with Callaway right on its tail.

  Donley moved through traffic at speeds higher than the limit. He looked like he was in his early twenties, so it explained why he was a bit reckless. Regardless, Callaway did not match his speed. He only had to make sure he did not lose sight of him. And even if he did, he knew where to find him.

  After a couple of
minutes, the Ford pulled into a rundown plaza. Callaway did the same, and he saw up ahead that the Ford had parked next to a barbershop. A man in a hoodie was leaning into the passenger side window. The hoodie man reached into his pocket, pulled out something, and then extended his hand into the car.

  Callaway knew what was going on. He grabbed his camera and quickly snapped a couple of photos.

  A moment later, the Ford headed to the other side of the plaza and went around the back.

  Callaway followed right after.

  There was a giant parking lot in the back. The Ford drove all the way to the end and then parked. The driver’s side window slid down a couple of inches. Two minutes later, thick smoke began coming out.

  Callaway could not help but smile.

  I got you now, Donley, he thought.

  He aimed the camera and began taking more photos.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Wendy Benton was the polar opposite of Miranda Temple. She was short, slightly overweight, and she had crooked teeth.

  Fisher had known many popular girls in school who were friends with girls who were not as attractive as them. Most did not care what their friends looked like, while others thought it made them look hotter.

  As Wendy spoke, Fisher got the sense Miranda was in the latter category.

  When Fisher had called Wendy, she agreed to meet her at a mall. They were seated on a bench not far from the store she worked at as a salesperson.

  Wendy wiped her eyes. “Miranda could be manipulative when she wanted to be,” she said.

  “But she was still your friend.”

  “Yeah, I mean, she was friends with a lot of people at school.”

  “You liked hanging around with her?”

  She shrugged. “We didn’t really hang around outside school. But yeah, I liked her.”

  “Why did you say she could be manipulative?” Fisher asked.

  Wendy fell silent.

  “Were you the one who took the photo of Miranda kissing Mr. Fisher in the school hallway?”