“Hi there,” he said with his best smile. “I’m here to see Mr. R.J. Parish.”
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.
“I sure do,” he claimed.
If she told him he did not, he would complain that it must be some big mistake. He would then huff and puff about how far he had come to meet R.J. Parish.
“We don’t have Mr. Parish’s schedule,” she said.
“Oh, what a pity,” he said with a frown. Inside, he was smiling.
“Mr. Parish’s office is down the hall and to the left. His secretary would be able to assist you there.”
“Thank you,” he said.
He walked down the hall. He noticed half a dozen people at their desks. Not a single person looked up at him. They were too busy with their work.
When he reached the end of the hall, he turned left and was now in another hall, this one narrower than the first. He kept going until he was confronted with a set of glass doors. He entered. The space was smaller, and there was a desk in the middle. It was empty.
He spotted a set of chairs. He thought about waiting, but then he saw a walnut-colored door with a gold plaque on it which said:
“Rufus James Parish, CEO & President, Parish Holdings Inc.”
Callaway looked around. He started to feel an itch, something he felt whenever he was about to do something he might later regret.
He took another deep breath and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” bellowed a voice from inside.
He went in and squinted as sunlight blinded him. The room had floor to ceiling windows, and the sunlight silhouetted a man behind a large oak desk.
“Who are you?” the man asked. “Where is my secretary?”
Callaway still could not see his face, but he assumed it was R.J. Parish. “There was no one at the desk,” he said.
“Not again,” the man grumbled. “You will have to make an appointment with my secretary.”
“Mr. Parish,” Callaway said, moving further into the room. “I’m a reporter for Above the Fold in Fairview. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”
Callaway was met with silence. He could tell Parish was studying him.
“What’s your name?” Parish asked.
Callaway removed a fake business card. “It’s Gator Peckerwood. And before you ask, my parents were from Louisiana.”
Parish reached over and grabbed a small object on his desk. He lifted the object and pressed a button.
Behind him, drapes began to cover the large windows.
Suddenly, the surroundings became visible.
Callaway was face-to-face with R.J. Parish. His bald head glistened from the overhead lights. His diamond ring sparkled on his ring finger. His tiny eyes were fixed on him. And there was a smile on his face that Callaway found menacing.
“You are not who you say you are,” he snarled.
Callaway swallowed. “I’m not?”
“Your name is Lee Callaway, and you were hired by David Becker.”
NINETY-ONE
Fisher took a sip of her latte and stared out the window. The coffee shop was currently half-empty. Even then, Fisher felt like prying eyes were around her.
On the table in front of her was Casey’s laptop. She had borrowed his computer without his permission. Like his cell phone, it was also not password protected.
She had no interest in going through his personal files or any other content. She needed his computer to access privileged information. Information she could only get as a member of the Milton P.D.
She knew it was unethical of her to do so without a superior’s consent, but she was desperate. There were so many questions swirling in her head. If anyone confronted her, she would say she was helping a colleague from another department. If someone pushed for more, she would say it was Detective Nunes.
Fisher had offered her help to Nunes, and as far as Fisher was concerned, Nunes had not turned her down. In fact, it was a courtesy among fellow officers to assist each other in any way possible. That could mean knocking on doors for potential suspects who were out of their jurisdiction. That could mean pulling up old cases that might shed light on their own case. That could even mean going into databases the requesting officer might not have access to.
This was only done to expedite an investigation. The more perpetrators behind bars, the better society would be.
If I’m so confident what I’m doing is right, she thought, then why do I feel so guilty?
She sighed.
She took another sip of her latte. She hoped the caffeine would steady her nerves. She had her eye on becoming captain one day. If she was caught, she could kiss her dreams goodbye.
But this was Casey. He was her brother.
She protected him. She always had. First, it was against their older brothers, then it was against the school bullies, and now, it was to get him out of the mess he was in.
Screw the promotion, she thought. Casey is family.
She could ask for Holt’s help. He would never turn her down if she did. But Fisher was not going to get him involved in what she was about to do. She alone would take responsibility for this action and not take him with her.
She took a deep breath and signed into the Milton P.D. networks using her ID and password. She then spent an hour going through the system. There was a lot she had to verify and confirm.
When she was done, she leaned back in the chair, utterly exhausted.
She was able to clarify certain things that were missing in Casey’s case.
The information also helped formulate what might have happened on the day Miranda Temple’s body was found at Pine Trail.
NINETY-TWO
It took a lot of digging before Holt was able to get the address for Viggo Radovic. Radovic had a driver’s license, but it was registered in Pennsylvania. He had applied for a mortgage many years ago, and that was for a property in Las Vegas. He had also been pulled over for speeding a while back, and the ticket was given in New Jersey.
Radovic seemed like a man who was forever on the move, or he was eluding local authorities. Holt could not tell which was the case.
Regardless, he could not find anything for Radovic in Milton. But when he conducted a search online, he found there was a P.O. Box registered to a Viggo Radovic. Callaway then visited a post office. He was able to convince the agent behind the desk that the information was for an ongoing investigation, which it was.
Radovic was a person of interest.
The agent was able to pull up an electronic copy of the form used to purchase the box. There was a signature at the bottom of the form. Holt could not verify if it was Radovic’s or someone else’s, but there was also a telephone number in case the post office needed to contact him if there were problems with delivery. The information was optional, and to Holt’s relief, the space was filled in.
Holt then conducted a reverse-lookup in the online phone directory, and it led him to a brown-bricked building on the wrong side of the city. The neighborhood was known for crime and violence. It seemed like there was always a shooting each week. If it was not gang-related, then it was armed robbery or even a dispute between neighbors.
The building was a low-rise. Holt counted four levels. The place had no elevators and no security cameras, making for a perfect place for someone with a criminal record to hide.
Viggo Radovic had one violation on his file, but that did not mean he was not dangerous.
Holt wished he had Fisher to back him up. He could always request for backup, though. A police cruiser would be at the building in minutes. But he did not want to raise any alarms. He was only here to ask Radovic a few questions.
He took the stairs up to the top floor. There was a foul, pungent smell in the hallway, an assortment of narcotics mixed with vomit.
He heard a couple fighting as he passed a door. Both the man and woman were screaming at the top of their lungs.
At moments like these, Holt always debated whether to get
involved. As an officer of the law, it was his responsibility to ensure the safety of city residents. But he knew dealing with domestic disputes was not as simple as it looked. Many times, they were not just one person’s fault. Disputes were usually triggered by something the other person had said or done, and things spiraled out of control from there. The hardest part was how to de-escalate the situation without making it worse.
Holt was not in the mood to get involved. He came here to speak to Viggo Radovic and find out what he was doing at Lana Anderson’s apartment building.
The door of the unit where the argument was occurring opened and a man came out. He was dressed in a hoodie, baggy jeans, and he had on a baseball cap which was turned backwards. His eyes met Holt’s and he shook his head. “Don’t make the mistake of getting your girl pregnant, you hear?”
“Right,” Holt said.
The man stormed down the stairs.
The hallway was quiet once again.
Holt stopped at Radovic’s unit. He placed his hand on his holster and knocked on the door.
NINETY-THREE
Callaway blinked. “How do you know who I am?”
Parish’s face still wore that menacing smile. “It’s my job to know what’s happening around me. It’s why I am worth millions and others are not.”
Callaway swallowed again.
So much for the element of surprise.
“I… I would like to ask you a few questions,” he said, regaining his composure.
“What if I chose to refuse?” Parish replied with a twinkle in his eyes.
Callaway could tell he was teasing him. He sensed Parish appreciated his boldness. It was not every day someone stormed into his office demanding answers. Also, if Parish wanted to kick him out, he would have called security by now.
Callaway said, “It’s your prerogative to refuse, but you won’t know what I know if you do.”
The smiled widened. Callaway did not like it.
“Please have a seat, Mr. Callaway,” Parish said, offering one across from his desk.
Callaway sat down. “What can you tell me about David Becker?”
He noticed Parish’s chair was higher than his, making Parish look like the bigger man. “What is there to tell?” Parish replied. “My company hired his firm to handle some of our projects. He ended up stealing millions from my company and we sued him to get it back. It’s unfortunate what happened to him. My sympathies to his family, of course. But I believe he knew what he did was wrong, and the guilt got the better of him.”
“I believe someone pushed him to take his own life,” Callaway said.
“I wasn’t aware that someone physically pushed him off the overpass.”
“You know what I mean,” Callaway said, feeling angry at his response. “Someone threatened his family. And I believe you know who did.”
“Are you accusing me of something?” Parish asked, his voice becoming hard.
“All I’m saying is that David had no history of mental illness. He was a good lawyer, good enough that your company hired him to represent you.”
Parish said, “I’m sure that’s all true, but we all have our breaking points. The stress of the impending litigation may have got to him.”
Time to take a new tack, Callaway thought. “What can you tell me about Lana Anderson?”
“Who?” Parish replied.
“Lana Anderson,” Callaway repeated.
“I’ve never heard that name before.”
Yeah, sure, Callaway thought.
“Governor Bartlett is very fond of her. And he believes you set him up with Miss Anderson.”
Parish laughed. “I don’t know nor care what the Governor does in his personal life. As far as I am concerned, Governor Bartlett has done an excellent job for the state and the city.”
“The Governor is also on the board that decides which government contracts are awarded to which companies. In fact, he has the deciding vote on one of the projects your company is bidding on.”
“We bid on dozens of projects at any given time,” Parish said with a shrug.
“But nothing as large as the renovation and maintenance of the state freeways.”
He scoffed. “We have tendered a bid like any other company. I don’t see what’s wrong with that.”
“Do you know where Lana Anderson is?”
Parish paused. “Again, I don’t know who that is,” he slowly said.
Callaway went for the jugular. “Are you blackmailing Governor James Bartlett?”
Parish laughed.
Not the reaction I was expecting, Callaway thought.
“Is that an accusation?” Parish asked.
“It’s a simple question.”
“I won’t even justify answering it. I’m a businessman and a very successful one at that. Unless you have something of substance to ask me, I request that you leave my office and let me do my work. I would hate to physically remove you for trespassing on private property.”
So much for the direct approach, Callaway thought.
“Goodbye, Mr. Callaway,” Parish added to nudge him out.
Callaway bit his lip and left.
When he shut the door behind him, he saw Parish’s secretary walk into the room. It was the same woman he had seen on the elevator with him earlier, and she was still carrying the duffle bag, only now it looked lighter.
“What are you doing…?”
Before she could finish her sentence, Callaway bolted away.
Next time Lee, try more subtlety.
NINETY-FOUR
Fisher spent the better part of an hour asking around for him, and she found him sitting by the train tracks half a mile from his house.
Troy Temple wore a varsity jacket, blue jeans, and black sneakers. His hair was tousled, and he had bright blue eyes and a wide smile. He looked every bit like Miranda’s younger brother.
“Troy,” Fisher said, approaching him.
He looked up. It took him a second to recognize her. “You’re Mr. Fisher’s sister,” he said.
“I am,” she said.
“I saw you at his house.”
“Do you mind if I sit with you?” she asked.
He shrugged. “It’s a free country.”
She sat on a concrete block next to him.
The tracks were surrounded by trees and bushes. A winding trail led from the main road to the tracks. Fisher got lost twice before she reached the spot.
After a moment of silence, she asked, “Do you come here often?”
“I used to as a kid. Miranda would drag me to come with her. She was the adventurous one. I would start shaking just hearing the train roar down the tracks toward us. And as it passed by, the noise was so loud that you couldn’t even hear yourself scream. The sheer force of the speed would knock you off your feet if you didn’t hold on to something. It was a terrifying experience, but also an exhilarating one. You felt alive when you witnessed a moving train up close. Miranda would laugh and throw pebbles as it shot by us.”
Troy quieted. His eyes welled up. “She got me into a lot of trouble with our parents. But she was my hero. I could never say no to her. I didn’t want to either. I knew I wanted to be like her. But now…”
Fisher knew he did not have to say it. Miranda was gone, and he was alone.
Fisher’s heart ached for his loss. She could not imagine losing a loved one at his age. The trauma never fully healed; it just stayed there, waiting for that weakest moment in a person’s life to rear its ugly head again.
Fisher knew people who had gone through child abuse and had become fully functioning members of society. But the moment they were dealt with some setback, the memories of the abuse came roaring back. Most would overcome the memories and move on, but for some, the damage was permanent, no matter how hard they tried to mask it. Eventually, the pain became too much, and they ended up medicating themselves with painkillers, alcohol, or illegal drugs.
She had seen this firsthand with Casey. Jacob’s death had chan
ged him forever. He had gone from being a carefree kid to one who was not as trusting as before. She knew the reason now. Casey’s actions had ended the life of his best friend. He did not intend to do that, but it happened. A family had lost a son because of Casey. And now, another family had lost a daughter. And the world was ready to lay the blame on him.
Fisher could not do anything about the former, but she was prepared to do something about the latter.
“Troy, I need to ask you a favor,” she said.
He turned and looked at her. “A favor?”
“Yes. I need you to ask your parents to do something.”
“Do what?”
“I’ll tell you only if you agree to ask them.”
Troy stared at her. “Why should I do it?” he asked.
“Because it might help solve who killed your sister,” she replied.
NINETY-FIVE
Viggo entered the combination into the lock and unlocked the locker. He was in the airport, near the baggage area.
Inside was a black duffel bag with more than a hundred thousand dollars in cash. The bag also held his passport, fake IDs, and items from his life back in Serbia. Photos of his mother and siblings, and even some personal documents. One of them was his marriage certificate.
When Viggo was not even eighteen, he had married a local girl from his village. But when he joined the Serbian army, he saw an opportunity to escape a life filled with hardship. Jobs were hard to come by. You were always fighting just to survive.
He regretted leaving his young wife behind, but he was too young to be a married man anyway. Last he heard, she was remarried to some farmer in the north. She probably bore him five or six children by now.
Viggo never wanted any children. They would only hold him back. He was a hired gun, so to speak. He went wherever his services were required.
Had Parish not hired him, Viggo would have left Milton a long time ago.
He did not really like the city. Unlike New York, Miami, or Los Angeles, there was not much to do for a man like him. The girls were not as beautiful as in those cities, and there was not much excitement or danger for that matter.
The Missing Mistress Page 21