The Missing Mistress

by Thomas Fincham

  Wendy nodded.

  “Did Miranda instigate the kiss, or did Mr. Fisher?”

  Wendy looked away. “Miranda.”

  Casey was telling the truth, Fisher thought. “Why did Miranda setup Mr. Fisher?”

  Wendy sighed. “Each year, the school hosts a stage production for the neighborhood. Parents and family and friends of the students are invited to come. Strangers can also come and watch the production for a small price. All the money raised goes to a local charity. People from the media also show up. So, it’s a pretty big deal at the school. Mr. Fisher is the school’s drama teacher, so he’s in charge of the production. This year’s production was Sleeping Beauty.”

  “Let me guess, Miranda wanted to play the lead?”

  “Yes, but Mr. Fisher wanted someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “Bree Auden.”

  “Does Miranda get along with Bree?”

  Wendy shrugged. “They don’t really know each other.”

  “So, Mr. Fisher refused to give Miranda the part. And she decided to blackmail him, is that right?”

  She looked down at her hands. “Yes,” she slowly replied.

  Now it makes sense why Casey would take her to Leaside Forest Park, Fisher thought. He probably wanted Miranda to hand over the photos. But then, Casey would have a motive to want her dead if she refused.

  “Did Mr. Fisher give Miranda the lead role after that?” Fisher asked.

  “No.”

  Fisher was surprised by the response. “Why not?”

  “He knew the photos were a setup.”

  “Who told him?”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Mr. Fisher is a good teacher. He cares about his students. I only went along with Miranda’s scheme because I thought she was my friend. I never thought she would try to ruin his career.”

  Fisher’s brow furrowed. “If Mr. Fisher already knew the photos were a setup, then why did he go with Miranda to Leaside Forest Park?”

  “I don’t know. The moment she found out I’d told him about the photos, she stopped being my friend.”

  “Then how did you know she was going to Leaside Forest Park?”

  “She posted an online message on her page that said she’d be going there that day. She forgot to remove me from her friends list, so I was able to see her post.”

  A moment later, Fisher asked, “Why was she so keen on playing Sleeping Beauty?”

  “Matty was playing Prince Charming.”

  “Who’s Matty?”

  “Matty Gainsberg is the school’s star quarterback.”

  “Miranda liked him?”

  “Every girl likes him. He’s also the hottest guy in school.”

  “And what did Warren think about her wanting to play opposite Matty?”

  Wendy was quiet.

  “Warren was jealous of all the attention Miranda got. Isn’t that why he downloaded a spy app on her cell phone?” Fisher said.

  “You know about that?” Wendy said, surprised.

  “Detective Nunes told me. She also told me you told Warren that Miranda had gone to Leaside Forest Park.”

  “Warren looked so sad, and I don’t know why, but I told him. I never thought Miranda would end up dead.”

  Wendy’s eyes welled up with tears. Fisher worried she might break down and cry.

  “Is Warren capable of hurting someone?” Fisher asked.

  Wendy shrugged. “I’m not sure, but he’s gotten into a lot of fights at school.”

  “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “He lives with his dad. You can try there.”

  Fisher was about to ask something else when Wendy got up from the bench. “I have to go. My break’s over.”

  “Okay, sure. Thanks for talking to me.”

  As she watched Wendy walk away, Fisher knew she had to talk to Warren McGinty more than ever.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Callaway stared intently at the computer screen. He was inside a room at the back of the apartment building.

  He felt a shadow hovering over him. Trevor Donley stood behind him, biting his fingernails nervously.

  Once Callaway showed Trevor the photos he had taken of him smoking marijuana in his car, Trevor became more cooperative. Trevor knew if his employers found out what he was doing during his breaks, they would fire him.

  Callaway’s instincts had turned out to be right. The first time he spoke to Trevor, he had smelled an odor on him. The smell was thick, pungent, and unmistakable. One that did not easily go away with cologne or heavy deodorant. Weed stuck to you, and only went away after you scrubbed it off. Callaway knew that was what he would use against Trevor if the opportunity arose.

  He wished the fake badge and ID had done the trick. Then he would not have had to resort to blackmail.

  He winced. He hated the word “blackmail.” He preferred to call what he had gotten on Trevor “leverage.”

  “How long will it take?” Trevor asked, moving his weight from one leg to the other. He was anxious, and he was making Callaway anxious.

  “Why don’t you go outside and watch the front desk,” Callaway suggested. “You wouldn’t want building management to show up and start asking questions as to what I’m doing in this room, do you?”

  Trevor stared at him and sighed. “Okay, I’ll keep a lookout, but you gotta hurry up. I could get in serious trouble for this.”

  He left the room.

  You could also get in serious trouble for smoking weed on your breaks, Callaway thought.

  Callaway focused his attention back on the screen. The room he was in was small and windowless, and it reminded him of his office. But unlike his office, the room was warm and stuffy.

  He realized the cause of the heat. Next to the computer monitor was heavy electronic equipment used to store all the security footage. A fan was blowing hot air into the small space.

  He removed the photo he had taken from Lana Anderson’s apartment and placed it next to the keyboard. He was not sure how old the photograph was, but it was all he had to work with.

  He began to review the footage. He had to find Lana Anderson, no matter what.

  FIFTY-NINE

  Holt returned to his desk with a frown on his face. He had spent an hour with the sergeant, going over the David Becker investigation, but it was not a discussion. The sergeant had grilled Holt more than anything. He was not pleased Holt was still working on the case. All evidence pointed to Becker’s death being a suicide, so why not say so and close it?

  Holt tried to justify why he was still looking into the case, but the longer he spoke, the less confident he became. The department was already stretched for resources, and with Fisher on personal leave, it was all hands on deck.

  He removed his suit jacket and placed it on the back of his chair. His shirt was soaked with sweat. The sergeant was not a man of many words, but today, he blasted Holt.

  Holt knew the sergeant was right. It was foolish of him to pursue something that even he knew to be true. David Becker had killed himself and he did it in front of a dozen people.

  He reached over the desk and lifted Becker’s case file.

  Holt sighed.

  It’s time I close this file and be rid of it, he thought.

  He began assembling all the necessary paperwork when he realized Becker’s Mercedes was still at the department’s parking lot. He would have to contact Becker’s wife, and also let the guys at the lot know that they could release the car to her.

  A realization suddenly dawned on him. The Mercedes was never thoroughly inspected. No crime was committed in the vehicle or with the vehicle, so it was not deemed necessary. As per procedure, the car was merely towed away from the scene.

  Holt grabbed his jacket and took the elevator down to the basement level. He got out and walked through the underground parking lot to the back of the building. Behind a chain-link fence was the department’s impound lot.

  He spoke to an officer and was
led to the silver Mercedes.

  No man contemplating suicide would have taken care of the vehicle as well as Becker did. The exterior and interior were spotless.

  Holt shook his head. Stop analyzing it, he thought. You have orders to close the case.

  He got behind the wheel. The car smelled of lavender.

  He realized he had never examined the vehicle himself. It was Fisher who had done so, right before she left for Lockport.

  He checked the glove compartment, the storage compartment between the seats, and the space underneath the seats. He was about to get out and check the trunk when he pulled down the visor.

  An envelope fell on his lap.

  There was something inside the envelope. Holt reached inside and pulled out photos.

  The first one showed Mrs. Becker holding her daughter’s hand and walking down the street. The second showed Becker’s son riding his bicycle outside their house. The third showed all three having fun at a playground.

  He flipped the envelope over.

  There was a handwritten note on the back.

  HOW MUCH DO YOU LOVE YOUR FAMILY?

  SIXTY

  Callaway was starting to feel hopeless. He had fast-forwarded through hours of footage and still no sign of Lana Anderson. The apartment building had several cameras. One was pointed at the entrance, one was in the lobby, one was at the back exit, and one was at the entrance of the parking garage.

  Callaway had to make sure he kept an eye on all of them. If Lana Anderson decided to leave from the front, two cameras would catch her doing so. If she chose the back, then he had to make sure she did not slip out without being detected. The garage was the most difficult of the four.

  In his initial search, he had found that no vehicle was registered to a Lana Anderson at this address, which meant she did not drive herself out of the building. But that still did not mean someone else could not have.

  Someone had gone through her apartment. What if she was there at the time, and she had been taken down the elevator to the basement garage and left the building from there?

  Callaway had a feeling that did not happen. Whoever was in her apartment could not have accessed the garage without a garage opener. And he doubted very much that Lana Anderson had let him in.

  The only way out of the building was through the front.

  Callaway was about to call it quits when he spotted a familiar person on the screen.

  David Becker was wearing a suit and holding a briefcase. He was at the entrance when he picked up the phone and dialed a number. A moment later, the door buzzed, and he went inside.

  He calmly walked through the lobby and up to the elevators. He waited, and then disappeared into one of the elevators. There were no cameras on any of the floors, but that did not mean Callaway could not find out where he was going.

  The floor numbers changed as the elevator went up, finally stopping at the sixteenth floor.

  Callaway’s eyes widened.

  Lana Anderson lived in unit 1602.

  David was visiting her!

  Callaway fast-forwarded the footage.

  Half an hour later, David emerged from the elevator. He looked distressed. His strides were long and hurried as he quickly left the building.

  Callaway was not sure what was discussed between Lana and David, but it must have clearly upset him.

  Callaway knew he was on the right track. Sooner or later, he was certain Lana Anderson would show up. He was certain of it.

  He was right. Almost an hour later, she came out of the elevator.

  He paused the footage.

  She had a backpack slung over her shoulders. Also, on one shoulder, she had slung a purse. In one hand, she was pulling a hand carry, and in the other, it looked like she had her cell phone.

  She was wearing a jeans jacket, dark pants and boots, and a baseball cap. Even with the cap, Callaway was certain he was staring at the woman he had been searching for.

  He pressed “play” and watched her move through the lobby and exit the building. The camera at the front of the building caught her entering a waiting taxi.

  The taxi drove away.

  Callaway leaned back in his chair. His eyes narrowed as he pondered what he had just seen.

  His instincts were right. Lana Anderson had gone on a trip somewhere.

  Where she went, he had no idea.

  He realized his search for Lana Anderson had suddenly become far more difficult than he had hoped.

  Lana Anderson could be anywhere.

  His phone buzzed. He checked the number.

  I’m running late, he thought and left the room.

  SIXTY-ONE

  Fisher drove up to the house and frowned.

  This doesn’t look promising, she thought.

  To say the bungalow looked derelict would be an understatement. Everything about the place, exemplified by the roof, the exterior walls, and the cracked windows, was in dire need of repairs.

  The last time anyone had ever worked on the home was when it was built, which, by Fisher’s estimate, was a good thirty years ago. Even the lawn required a good mowing. The grass was up to an average person’s knees.

  Maybe Wendy gave me the wrong address, she thought. Or did she send me on a wild goose chase?

  Fisher had no idea. And the only way to make sure was to go find out.

  She got out and walked up to the house.

  Reminds me of a crack house, she thought.

  She wished she had her weapon with her. She took a step onto the porch and felt the wood creak underneath her feet. She knocked on a weather-beaten door and waited.

  When she got no reply, she moved to the front window. She cupped her hands around her eyes and peeked in. The interior was dark, but she could make out the silhouette of furniture inside.

  She squinted to get a clearer view.

  “Hold it right there, missy,” a man’s voice said from behind her.

  She slowly turned and saw a rifle was being pointed in her direction. The man holding the rifle wore a wifebeater, cut off shorts, and cowboy boots. He had a cigarette hanging from his mouth, and his face was etched in deep wrinkles.

  Am I in some bad Western? she thought.

  “What’re you doing spying in my house?” the man asked in a southern drawl.

  “I’m looking for Warren McGinty,” she replied.

  “Why?”

  “Are you his father?”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” he growled.

  She could see his finger was on the trigger. She did not want to provoke him into firing.

  “Can I show you my badge?” she asked.

  His brow furrowed. “Badge?”

  “Yeah, I’m a detective.”

  “You are?”

  She pulled back her coat, revealing the Milton P.D. badge clipped to her belt.

  He lowered the rifle and said, “Why didn’t you say you were police?” He shook his head. “I could have shot you, you know.”

  “I was going to, but you had a weapon pointed in my direction.”

  “Sorry about that. I don’t like intruders on my property. I wouldn’t want someone getting the idea I’m not home and stealing my stuff.”

  What stuff? Fisher thought. All I see is junk.

  He rubbed his nose. “Hey, how come you don’t have a gun?”

  “I didn’t think I was going to need it today.”

  He stared at her. “Always carry one. You never know what dangers are lurking out there.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” she said. “My name is Detective Dana Fisher.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You don’t happen to be related to that teacher who killed that girl, would you?”

  “There’s no proof that he did anything. But yes, I’m his sister.”

  He thought a moment. “That girl, Miranda, used to date my boy. You are here to ask about that, aren’t you?”

  She realized he liked to end his sentences with a question. “I am,” she replied. “And sir, yo
u are—?”

  “Leonard McGinty,” he replied with a nod. “Before you ask me further questions, I’d like to make a statement.”

  She was not sure where he was going with this. “Okay.”

  “My official statement is I don’t know where Warren is. I haven’t seen him in two days.”

  That’s how long Miranda has been dead, she thought.

  “Warren lives with you, doesn’t he?” she asked.

  “He does.”

  “And you’re not worried that he hasn’t come home in two days?”

  “He’s a grown boy.”

  “He’s seventeen.”

  Leonard smiled. “Do you know what I had done by the time I was his age?”

  She was not interested, but she still said, “I don’t know.”

  “I had left my parent’s house and hitchhiked my way across half the country. And look at how great I turned out.” She could tell he was proud of this.

  “I noticed that your car isn’t parked in the driveway,” she said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Two days ago, Warren took your car to Leaside Forest Park. It’s not far from where Miranda’s body was found.”

  After Wendy had blurted out to Warren where Miranda had gone, she had seen him get in a weathered 4x4 and drive away.

  A 4x4 was registered to Leonard McGinty.

  “Is that right?” Leonard said, looking genuinely surprised.

  “You let Warren take your vehicle?”

  He shrugged. “He’s got a license, so why not?”

  “You don’t need the vehicle for work?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’m on disability benefits. I hurt my back while loading stuff onto a truck.”

  “What did you do?” she asked, curious.

  “I used to drive an eighteen-wheeler over the border to Canada. I did that for almost thirty-five years. I made the darnedest mistake of lifting stuff with my hands instead of the equipment the company gave us. I liked to do things fast and I figured it’d be faster with my hands. I’m paying the price for my mistake. Even with the pain medication, some days I can barely leave the house. Why else do you think my house looks like crap?”