The Missing Mistress

by Thomas Fincham

  “Do you know where I can find Warren?” she asked.

  “I’d tell you if I knew.”

  She had a feeling Leonard would not even if he knew.

  “Thanks for your time,” she said and left.

  SIXTY-TWO

  Viggo watched as the security guard finished his shift and made his way to his car. Viggo approached him and asked, “What was that guy asking you?”

  Trevor Donley nearly jumped back. When he saw who it was, he relaxed, “Man, you scared the shit out of me.”

  “That private investigator, what did he want from you?”

  “What private investigator?” Trevor asked, confused.

  “Lee Callaway.”

  Trevor frowned. “Is that what his name is? I knew he wasn’t a cop.”

  “He told you he was a police officer?” Viggo asked.

  “Yeah, he even showed me a badge,” Trevor replied.

  “Why was he here?”

  “He wanted to see the security footage.”

  “And you let him see it?”

  “Sure. I mean, he had stuff on me.”

  Viggo’s brow furrowed. “Stuff?”

  “He caught me smoking weed on my break. I didn’t want to lose my job, so I let him. If I’d known he was a private investigator, I would have asked him for money.” A smile crossed Trevor’s face. “More money than you gave me.”

  Viggo had also seen the security footage. He knew Becker had visited Lana. On the footage, he had watched her leave the building and get in a taxi. Viggo had traced the cab to its driver. At first, the driver could not remember her, but Viggo had ways to make people remember. They did not have to involve violence or threats. It was the tone in his voice that did the trick.

  Viggo also knew people found his physical presence menacing, and it helped that he liked to dress in black. The color made him look like the angel of death.

  He had killed before. First as a member of the Serbian army, then as a private security contractor, and then as a hitman for a local crime boss. Viggo loved the last gig. The money was good, and he could inflict as much pain as he wanted. His boss had no qualms about getting blood on his hands. Had the crime boss not been convicted of tax evasion, Viggo would have still been working for him.

  Viggo spent the next several months moving through the country, looking for the right kind of work. When he knocked on the door of R.J. Parish, he thought he had found a place he could stay long-term.

  Parish had a reputation. He was ruthless and corrupt. He would do just about anything to get the upper hand. But that did not involve murder.

  Parish was just a businessman. Unlike the crime boss, he did not hold vendettas. All he cared about was money.

  Viggo felt handcuffed. Parish barked, but he did not bite. But not anymore. Parish knew he was wrong when he did not let Viggo do what he was good at. Viggo would take control of this situation the only way he knew best.

  The taxi driver told him where he had dropped Lana off. At first, he did not believe him, but the driver had shown him security footage from his cab.

  Lana Anderson had left her apartment building and gone to the office tower of Parish Holdings Inc.

  Viggo had checked security footage from the tower to confirm this. There was a record of her entering the building, but no record of her leaving.

  After that, the trail went cold.

  Viggo was not sure why she would go there. She was given specific instructions not to go anywhere near R.J. Parish.

  The office tower had twenty-two floors with dozens upon dozens of businesses. There was no telling who she was there to meet. It surely was not R.J. Parish. If he knew where she was, he would not have sent Viggo to find her.

  Viggo had searched her apartment for clues. He had hoped there was some rhyme or reason for her going to the tower. But he found none.

  He despised having to rely on other people to complete his tasks. He would have to wait for the private investigator and see what he came up with.

  He turned and began to walk back to his car when Trevor said, “Hey listen, why don’t you put me on your payroll?”

  Viggo faced him. “Payroll?”

  “Yeah, you know. If I hear something or see something, you’re the first person I call.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Come on, the security job doesn’t pay enough. I could use the money. And plus…” He paused and then said, “I know you and that woman had a thing going.”

  “What thing?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she’s your girl and you’re her pimp.”

  Viggo’s face hardened. “I’m not her pimp,” he snarled.

  Trevor put his hands up in defense. “Relax, I didn’t mean anything by it. I saw you drop her off in front of the building a couple of times, and I thought she worked for you. My bad.”

  Viggo stared at him. He wondered how much Trevor really knew. Probably enough. There was not much to do as a security guard other than sit in a chair and stare at people entering and exiting the building.

  So, what if he saw her with me? Viggo thought. It doesn’t raise any serious questions or concerns.

  “Go home, kid,” Viggo said.

  He turned once again to go back to his car.

  Trevor said, “You might find this interesting. A week ago, I saw someone else drop her off in front of the building.”

  Viggo’s back arched. “Who?”

  Trevor smiled. “Now wouldn’t you want to know.”

  “Tell me,” Viggo demanded.

  “Only if you double what you paid me last time.”

  Viggo suddenly had a feeling Trevor would be more trouble than he had first thought.

  SIXTY-THREE

  Fisher was pulling up to Casey’s house when she stopped in the driveway. What she saw horrified her. Someone had spray painted “Murderer” in red on his front door.

  She saw Casey sitting on the front porch. Their eyes met, and she could see that he was scared.

  She approached him. “Who did this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  When she had first arrived at his house, she noticed the grass on the front lawn had been trampled on. Casey told her the media had converged like a mob. They wanted to know what he knew. But he was able to get the Lockport P.D. to shoo the reporters away.

  “We need to report this to the police,” she said.

  “I already did.”

  “And?”

  “They came and took a statement. They also took photographs of…”

  He fell silent.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, concerned.

  He shrugged.

  She noticed a piece of paper in his hand.

  “What’s that?”

  He held up the paper for her, and she took it.

  “They fired you?” she said, shocked.

  “This morning the board made the decision to terminate my employment,” he said.

  “They can’t do that.”

  “They just did.”

  “You can appeal.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “You haven’t committed any crime. You are still innocent until proven guilty.”

  “But in the eyes of many parents, I am guilty.”

  Fisher understood that the assumption of guilt was far more powerful than actually being guilty. She had seen the effects of this firsthand, which was why as a detective she made sure to be a hundred percent certain before she accused anyone of a crime. Merely being a suspect could have long-lasting effects.

  She hoped that would not be the case for Casey. He loved being a teacher, and from the way he spoke, she could tell he adored his students.

  “It’s probably for the best,” he said.

  “You don’t mean that.”

  He looked away. He then covered his face with his hands. She leaned over and wrapped her arms around him.

  He began to sob.

  He was always the sensitive one in the family. He would break down in tears for even th
e smallest of reasons. Once, as a kid, he saw a cartoon where the main character’s father had died. Casey cried for days.

  If he saw a rainbow, he would get teary-eyed. If he saw a dead bug, he would mourn its death.

  “Maybe I deserve this,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Karma is punishing me for what I did to Jacob.”

  She lifted his head, so he was facing her. She looked him in the eye and said, “This has nothing to do with what happened years ago when you were a kid.”

  He stared at her, but she could tell he did not believe her.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s clean that stuff off your front door.”

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Patti and Nina were at Callaway’s apartment, having dinner.

  Nina said, “This is the best pizza ever, Dad.”

  Callaway turned to Patti. “Did you tell her to say that?”

  “I thought you were cooking something special for us tonight. I didn’t want to break your heart.”

  Callaway had planned to cook meatloaf, but he had ended up spending too much time going over the footage at Lana Anderson’s apartment building. By the time he got home, Nina and Patti were already there.

  Fortunately, he had picked up a pizza on his way over.

  “To tell you the truth,” he said, “you don’t want me cooking anything. If I don’t end up burning the meal, I’ll end up burning down the building.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Patti said. She turned to Nina. “Did you know, right after we got married, your dad tried to make me breakfast?”

  Nina was surprised. “Really?”

  “Yes, really,” Patti said. “Fortunately, I was already awake in bed and smelled something burning. By the time I got to the kitchen, it was covered in thick black smoke.”

  Callaway’s eyes widened. “I remember that day. I could not put the fire out.”

  “You made the mistake of putting water on burning oil.”

  “I saw flames and my instinct was to douse it.”

  “You’re supposed to suffocate the fire,” Patti said.

  Nina looked puzzled. “Suffocate it?”

  “Yes, fire needs oxygen to grow, so you have to remove all oxygen from the flame.”

  “Oh, I get it,” Nina said. “It’s like the time we went camping and you blew on the flames to light it up.”

  “Exactly. And in your dad’s case, I had to cover the burning pan with another pan to subdue the flames.”

  “Cool,” she said as if her mom was some hero.

  “I was going to do that eventually,” Callaway quickly said, seeking to redeem his self-respect.

  “When?” Patti asked, teasing him. “When the house was up in flames?”

  Callaway raised an eyebrow, grinned, and said, “At least by then, you’ll need water to douse the fire and not some stupid pan.”

  They laughed.

  When dinner was over, Nina rushed to her bedroom. She had ideas on how to decorate it.

  After seeing what Callaway had done to prepare the room for their daughter, Patti had finally relented. Nina could sleepover one night but only under certain conditions. Nina was not allowed to stay up past her bedtime. She was not to eat junk food all day. She was not to be left alone in the apartment under any circumstance. And, this was most important, Callaway would not take her to a bar, casino, or any other establishments that would be detrimental to her development.

  Callaway agreed to everything.

  He just wanted an opportunity to be a father to his only child.

  So far, though, he had really messed up. He did not take Nina to the zoo like he was supposed to, and he had left her in Joely’s care.

  He was fortunate Patti was still not aware of what he had done. Unlike him, Nina could keep a promise and a secret.

  Callaway wanted desperately to fulfill his promise to take her to the zoo.

  He and Patti were washing the dishes when he leaned closer and said, “I know Nina gets to sleepover at my place. When will you sleepover?”

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  Callaway had a twinkle in his eyes. “I mean, we are dating, you know.”

  “Slow down, hot shot,” she said with a smile. “I don’t jump in bed after a few dates. I’m not that type of girl.”

  When they had first started dating, before their marriage, Patti had warned him that if he wanted the relationship to progress, he would have to wait. She wanted them to get to know each other better. Callaway waited, and he was rewarded with a wife and daughter, which he threw away for a life of supposed excitement and adventure.

  He would wait however long to make sure this relationship with Patti progressed further than the last time.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Governor James Bartlett had silver hair, smooth skin, and sparkling blue eyes. Bartlett did not look anywhere close to his age of fifty-one. He had grown up on a farm in Texas. His parents raised livestock, and Bartlett, along with his seven siblings, helped them from early morning until late at night.

  But Bartlett had bigger plans for his life. He did not see himself herding cattle and sheep seven days a week, three-hundred sixty-five days a year.

  He studied hard at school and got grades good enough to get to college. He graduated, the only one in his family to do so—a fact he always mentioned throughout his political career—and then he went to law school. After passing the bar exam, he landed a job at a prestigious firm on Wall Street.

  He moved up in the firm, making partner by the age of thirty-five, one of the youngest in the firm’s history. He was making more money in a year than his parents made in their entire lives.

  Life should have been complete. He had married his college sweetheart, and they had two daughters together. He was living in a mansion in upstate New York. He even had a personal driver and a three-star chef who came to his house to prepare a meal once a week.

  But that was still not enough for Bartlett. He quickly realized that real power was in the hands of politicians, not the millionaires and billionaires. Sure, the rich and wealthy propped up a candidate, but it was the candidate’s own abilities that pushed them to victory.

  Bartlett had risen from humble beginnings. He used this to launch his first campaign. He made himself out to be a nobody who became a somebody. The boy who was cleaning cow dung was now going to clean up the state.

  He championed for the working class. And he won in a landslide.

  Deep down, though, he resented what his parents had gone through. They did not have to struggle so hard. He did not have to struggle so hard. And he vowed his family would never struggle again.

  The only way for that to happen was for him to gain power, but more importantly, retain it. At any cost, if necessary.

  This meant he had to make alliances with people of dubious backgrounds. He was fully aware that some were even criminals—not the mafia kind, though. They were dangerous, and they did not understand the precarious situation he was in. The dons who had politicians in their grips used them as their personal errand boys. If they needed the feds to lay off them, they thought the politicians could make one call and make it happen. That’s not how it happened. It was a delicate dance.

  On the one hand, the politician had to make his voters feel like he was working for them. On the other, he had to satisfy the people who had invested thousands of dollars in him. They were the real decision makers behind his policies, not the voters. But through it all, he had to make sure that he stayed afloat. Politics was not about survival of the fittest. According to him, politics was a survival of the crooked. How deep were you willing to go before your arms were fully submerged in filth?

  James Bartlett was up to his neck in filth.

  He had made deals with people he would never associate with on a personal level. But he always followed one rule, and that was: never be seen with these people out in public. His image was key to him winning re-election. Any deals, no matter how great they looked on the surfac
e, could backfire sometime down the road.

  There was another reason he did not make a public spectacle with these people. He could always backtrack on his agreement. He had to be careful how he did so, though. These people did not take kindly to being screwed. But Bartlett was a politician. He knew how to promise something but deliver nothing. He would blame other parties, individuals, government bureaucracy, anyone but him for why the deal fell through.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” he said.

  His chief of staff stuck her head in. “They are ready for you, sir,” she said.

  Bartlett was inside the waiting room of a large auditorium. He was there to give a speech to a group of wealthy businessmen. He would tell them everything they wanted to hear. But if they were held under a microscope, his words would hold no substance.

  His cell phone buzzed. He checked the number. Bartlett was dreading this call, but it was one he could not go without answering.

  “Thank you,” he said to his chief of staff. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  She nodded and shut the door behind her.

  Bartlett took a deep breath and placed the phone to his ear.

  SIXTY-SIX

  Holt stared at the envelope he had found tucked between the visor of David Becker’s Mercedes. On the surface, the handwritten scribble on the envelope was innocent, but when combined with the envelope’s contents, it took on a menacing undertone.

  HOW MUCH DO YOU LOVE YOUR FAMILY?

  That was the question on the envelope.

  The contents were photos of Becker’s wife and two children enjoying a day out.

  The photos were taken from a distance, which meant Becker didn’t take them.

  Someone was watching them, Holt thought. And this person wanted Becker to know this.

  The hair on the back of Holt’s neck stood up. He could not imagine how he would feel and what he would do if he found out someone was stalking Nancy.

  He would probably drop everything and dedicate his full attention to finding out who this person was and what their agenda was.