Fisher went to the back of the yearbook and began looking at the student photos again. It took her twenty minutes before she found him.
Sid Gorman.
SEVENTY-ONE
Holt walked around the parking lot, looking for security cameras. He saw two at each end of the lot, attached to metal poles, and one was above the collector booth, recording all those who entered and exited.
Holt dialed the telephone number listed on the booth. It took him a moment to get a hold of the right person, but the company that owned and operated the lot quickly dispatched someone to the scene.
While Holt waited, he watched the area surrounding the parking lot. The media had stationed themselves at the entrance. Among them were irate drivers whose vehicles were parked in the lot. They wanted to get to their cars and head home after a long day at work.
Holt felt for them, but he had no choice. There was no telling what evidence was still present. Once the crime scene unit had done their job, the lot would be reopened to the public.
Until then, no one was allowed to enter or leave the lot,
It was up to McConnell to make sure procedures were followed. It was also up to him to explain to the drivers why they could not access their cars.
Holt did not envy the position McConnell was in. Drivers were venting their frustrations at him. To his credit, he listened to them calmly and patiently.
He’s a keeper, Holt found himself thinking. Even though Fisher was his colleague, their relationship went deeper. He cared for her, almost like an older brother. And he wanted her to be happy.
He would never tell this to her face. She would remind him that she already had three brothers. She did not need another.
McConnell waved a man through the yellow police tape. The man wore a gray coat, round spectacles, and he was balding.
He hurried toward Holt and said, “I’m Brian Isley. I’m from Lockport Point Parking.”
“I need to see your security video,” Holt said.
“Yes, of course,” Isley said, hurrying to the collector booth. He removed a set of keys attached to his belt and unlocked the booth door.
“Why don’t you have a person in the booth?” Holt asked.
“It used to be manned, but the company decided to save money and switch to an automated system,” Isley replied with frustration.
“You don’t sound happy about it,” Holt said.
“I’m not. My job used to be managing people. Make sure we always had someone at each booth. Now, I have to run around all over the city to make sure the automated system doesn’t break down.”
“Does it break down?”
“All the time,” Isley replied. “You wouldn’t believe how many people try to jam the machine so they don’t have to pay for parking.”
“But you have cameras,” Holt said. “You can track down those drivers who avoid paying.”
Isley almost laughed. “You really think we have the money to go after people for ten dollars, or in some cases, even for five dollars? That’s how much it costs to park in this lot. The cameras are more of a deterrence.”
“But they are breaking the law,” Holt said.
“Sure, they are, but if we report them, do you really think the police will do anything?”
He has a point, Holt thought. The department did not have resources for that kind of misdemeanor.
“So, you let them off the hook?” Holt asked.
“Of course not,” Isley replied. “We log their license plate into our system. If we find they are doing this on a regular basis, we give them a ticket, or we tow their car away for invalid payment.”
Holt realized he was getting sidetracked. “The footage from the camera,” he said, pointing to the one atop the collector booth. “Were does the feed go to?”
“Straight to company headquarters. We’ve got half a dozen officers watching the cameras in all the lots in real time.”
Holt’s heart sank. “So, there’s no footage at this booth?”
“There is,” Isley replied. “The original is stored on the hard drives in the booth, but there is also a backup stored at company headquarters. It was done to prevent loss of data in case something messed up. When we had that big blackout years ago where several states were in the dark, we lost all feed to the lots. Fortunately, back then, we still had people at each lot, so we didn’t suffer any significant property damage. A few cars were broken into, but we forwarded the footage to the police and the culprits were quickly apprehended.”
“Show me what’s on the cameras in this lot,” Holt said.
They squeezed into the booth, which was made for one person. Isley quickly sat on a stool. He turned on a small monitor and began working on a keyboard.
“What’s the time frame you are looking for?” Isley asked. “We have hours of footage.”
Holt blinked. “I have no idea,” he replied.
SEVENTY-TWO
Callaway returned to his office and plugged the external hard drive into his laptop. He impatiently waited as the old laptop booted up.
“Come on, come on,” he muttered.
I should throw it in the garbage and get a new one, he thought. Or better yet, I should get a refurbished laptop from one of those electronic repair shops. They have got to be faster than this hunk of junk.
He decided to pass the time by running down to the convenience store around the block. He purchased a coffee from the vending machine and picked up a granola bar as well. He did not want the owner asking him any questions and slowing him down.
He hurried back to his office, and when he was seated behind his desk, he saw the laptop was fully functional.
He got to work.
Twenty minutes later, he sat back in his chair with a frown on his face. The hard drive’s contents were password protected. Callaway had searched online to see if he could find a way to break in, but none of it worked. Amateurs had posted techniques that only worked on the most basic encryptions.
I need a professional hacker, he thought. If not a professional, then at least a competent one.
He had just the person in mind.
Echo Rose was the best hacker he knew. It was not her sole job. She was a full-time reporter, so her hacking was done on the side as a hobby. He had met her in Fairview while trying to solve a case. With her help, they were able to stop a serial predator. In an odd way, the process bonded them.
Callaway had not spoken to her in some time, and whenever he did, he was always asking her for help. So far, though, she had not turned him down once.
He sent her a text and waited with bated breath for her reply.
A minute later, his phone buzzed. She wanted details. Name of the encryption software. Name of the firewall, if any. Name of the operating system the hard drive was running on. And so forth.
Callaway located everything she requested and texted her back.
He got up and paced the room. He did not know how long she would take, but he desperately needed to access the security footage again.
Callaway had a strong feeling Trevor Donley’s death was no accident. Someone had targeted him. But why?
He hoped to find out.
His phone buzzed again.
He checked. There was a message from her. The password to the hard drive was the address of the building.
How the heck did she find that out? he wondered.
Her next message told him. She apologized for remotely accessing his laptop, which was the only way she could access the hard drive.
Callaway was troubled Echo got into his personal data.
Well, you did ask her for help, he thought. If that was the only way, then okay.
He thanked her and got down to business.
He found that the files were organized by dates. Each date was further broken down by hours.
That’s a lot of footage, he thought. Guess I will pick up where I left off.
He started with the day Lana Anderson disappeared.
He re-watched her lea
ving the building. His next step would be to find out what that taxi driver knew. But before that, he wanted to find out if anyone else of interest had visited that building.
He fast-forwarded several hours of video.
David Becker appeared again.
Callaway played the footage at normal speed.
Becker entered the building. He was dressed in a suit.
Callaway squinted. Is that the same suit he wore when he came to my office? Yes, it is.
Callaway checked the date.
The footage was from the night Becker had hired him.
Becker immediately picked up a telephone and dialed a number. He waited anxiously for Lana Anderson to open the door. He had no idea she had left a few hours ago. He looked stressed. He kept checking his watch. He then hung up the phone. He paced the front area of the building until someone came out and he snuck in behind them. He took the elevator up to her floor.
A moment later, Becker was back in the lobby, hurrying out of the building.
Callaway decided to go back several days into the footage. If certain events had taken place that forced Lana to disappear and for David to kill himself, it had to have happened within a short time frame.
He went through each day, seeing Lana leave and return, but there was nothing in her behavior that indicated she was in trouble or distress.
As the images zoomed past him, Callaway found his eyes getting strained. He blinked but stayed focused. He did not want to miss anything. He hated the idea of going through the footage a second time.
Three days before Lana was last seen, something caught Callaway’s attention. He had to rewind the footage to confirm what he saw.
It was night. Only the front area of the apartment building was illuminated by lights. A black Escalade pulled up and stopped by the front entrance. The car waited there for several minutes. The engine was still running, and the headlights were still on.
Callaway squinted and leaned closer to the screen. He wanted to get the license plate number. But visibility was low. Maybe someone could zoom in and enlarge the footage. Callaway did not have that kind of technology, but he doubted he would need it. He merely wanted to confirm what he had seen a minute ago.
A man got out of the driver’s side door. He was wearing a suit and a long coat. He raced around the Escalade and held the passenger side door. A woman came out. She was wearing a dress, high heels, and her hair was in curls.
She smiled at the man.
They embraced but did not kiss.
She then entered the apartment and disappeared up the elevator.
Meanwhile, the man returned to the Escalade and quickly drove away.
Callaway stopped the footage and sat back in his chair.
Suddenly, everything started to become clearer.
The woman was Lana Anderson. And the man was none other than Governor James Bartlett.
SEVENTY-THREE
Viggo entered R.J. Parish’s office and was immediately informed by his secretary that Mr. Parish was on a conference call.
While Viggo waited for Parish to finish his call, he sensed the secretary was unnerved by his presence. He could not blame her. He had that effect on people.
Viggo was not a man of subtlety. He liked making an example of his targets.
If a situation required a scalpel, Viggo preferred a chainsaw. His previous employer, the crime boss, relished his methods and his results. Viggo could not say the same thing for Parish.
When news of the security guard’s murder had spread, Viggo received a call from Parish.
Parish had a feeling Viggo was behind the murder. After all, Viggo was staking out the apartment building in case Lana Anderson decided to return.
Parish wanted an explanation about the guard’s death, and Viggo would give him one. Plain and simple.
The guard knew too much, but he was willing to bargain with his knowledge, and for a fee, he would keep his mouth shut.
In Viggo’s experience, people who could be bought were the most unreliable. It would not be long before the guard would spill his guts to the highest bidder.
Trevor Donley had become a thorn that needed to be removed. If Viggo had ignored him, Trevor would have turned into an infection that could have spread and destroyed everything they were trying to accomplish.
Trevor should have kept his mouth shut, but he became too smart for his own good.
He deserved what came to him.
Trevor told him he had seen Viggo with Lana Anderson. Viggo was not too concerned about that. Viggo was nobody. His presence with Lana Anderson did not interest anyone.
But when Trevor said he had seen Lana Anderson with Governor Bartlett, now that was something of serious concern. Bartlett was someone of importance. His presence with a woman other than his wife would raise not only eyebrows but also questions.
It would also undermine everything Viggo had been assigned to do.
Bartlett was never supposed to be seen with Lana Anderson. It was up to Viggo to make sure of that. He would drive Lana back and forth to meet Bartlett. That was the arrangement. This way Bartlett was protected and so was their plan.
But Bartlett turned out to be far more foolish than they had expected, risking his career and his marriage by meeting Lana alone.
After Trevor spilled his secret, Viggo was left with no choice.
He forced Trevor to get behind the wheel, which was far easier than he anticipated. The moment he produced a gun, Trevor followed all his instructions.
He made Trevor drive to a parking lot across the city. Once they were parked, he put a bullet in the side of Trevor’s head.
During the ride over, Trevor begged and pleaded for his life. He knew what he had done, and he made all sorts of promises. He even swore on his mother’s life that he would never utter a word about what he saw.
Viggo knew those were empty promises, made under extreme duress. The moment Trevor was no longer in danger, he would race to the nearest police station and report what he had endured.
Viggo was not going to take any chances.
He was familiar with that particular parking lot. He had driven there a few times when the train station’s lot was full. He knew where the cameras were and how to avoid detection.
After the deed was complete, he took a bus back to the apartment building to retrieve his vehicle.
He was certain no one saw him.
If they had, the media would have reported something.
There was nothing to report. And never would be.
Viggo was that confident in his ability to cover his tracks.
He wished he could have toyed with good ol’ Trevor. He missed those days working for the crime boss. There was nothing more therapeutic than torturing someone.
Trevor would have snapped under the pressure. But that would not be the point. Viggo already knew everything Trevor knew. The torture would be more for Viggo’s pleasure. He wanted to see how long it would take before life seeped out of Trevor’s body. If he had to take a guess, that would have taken six hours. Not anywhere close to the three days he made one victim suffer. But that was not entirely Viggo’s fault. The man he was questioning would not give up a name. He lived by some ridiculous ancient code of honor. He would rather die than rat on someone.
Viggo never understood these codes.
Nothing was more important than life. Without life, nothing really mattered.
Viggo remembered being exhausted but also invigorated after those three days.
Trevor’s death had to be swift. Time was of the essence.
His attention could not be diverted. He still had to find Lana Anderson.
Now, if Trevor had known her whereabouts, that would have led to a different outcome.
Trevor would still be alive, and Viggo would have rewarded him handsomely. Through Parish, of course.
Viggo took a deep breath. He noticed the secretary constantly glancing his way. Even though she was terrified of him, she still could not understand what a
man like Parish was doing with someone like Viggo.
I’m the guy who does the dirty work, so your boss doesn’t have to, Viggo thought.
The secretary’s desk phone rang. She answered it and then said to him, “Mr. Parish is waiting for you.”
He stood up and adjusted his jacket. As he walked into the room, he could feel her staring at him.
SEVENTY-FOUR
The house was located on a dead-end street. The only way out was the road Fisher was parked on.
It was a two-story house, with a red brick façade and large windows. There were no cars parked in the driveway, but the upstairs bedroom light was still on.
Someone is home, Fisher thought.
The house belonged to the parents of Sid Gorman. Gorman was the boy who was posing next to Warren in their school yearbook. Fisher had discovered that Gorman and Warren were in a garage rock band. They had played at some local venues, but the online reviews said they were not very good. The chances of them hitting big was a long shot.
Gorman’s parents were well-to-do. His father was an architect and his mother ran her own consulting business. Gorman had a sister who was five years younger than him. His goal in life was to become rich and famous.
Who doesn’t at that age? Fisher thought.
Even Fisher believed she would one day go on to make a mark in the world. Do something that would give her wealth and respect. How was she going to do that? She had no idea. Naivety made you think you could accomplish the impossible. It was only after the world had hit you hard that you realized how foolish that thinking was.
Fisher may not be changing the world, but, in her own small way, she was making it better. She was putting criminals behind bars, even though for every one she arrested, there was another around the corner. Without her, though, there would be more perpetrators walking free on the streets. This was something she reminded herself about whenever the job wore her down.
But Fisher was not here for Sid Gorman.
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