Viggo had planned to save up enough money to open his own nightclub. But the club would be a front for gambling, drugs, and prostitution. He would get involved in anything that would make him rich.
Back in Serbia, he had lived in squalor, and he had no plans to live like that ever again.
But he also knew he did not want to overindulge. The people who lived in mansions were soft and weak, even if they tried hard not to be.
Parish came across as cold and ruthless, but Viggo knew the truth. If he was handed a gun and told to pull the trigger, Parish would piss his pants before he killed another man. Viggo had no qualms about ending people’s lives. The way he viewed it, it was either them or him. If they were given a choice, they would execute him in a heartbeat.
Had Parish listened to his advice, they would not be in the mess they were in right now.
David Becker was dead. Lana Anderson was missing. And they had a private investigator as well as a detective on their tail.
Viggo was not going to take any chances, which was why he had rented a locker at the airport. He did not trust banks. They wanted to see a lot of ID. So, he kept his money in small denominations and in the airport locker. He knew his cash would not get stolen. And he also knew if he had to make an escape, he could grab the duffel bag and be on the next flight out.
The airport was also five minutes away from his apartment. His building was not in the safest neighborhoods, but the people living there minded their own business. They were so preoccupied with trying not to get shot that they could care less who he was or what he was doing there.
Viggo had lived in far worse places in his home country, so the filth and decay did not bother him. Plus, his living arrangements were temporary. Once his contract with Parish was up, he would find a new employer. He never imagined it would be this soon.
Parish was to blame for his own downfall. Parish should have trusted him in matters such as these. Viggo knew how to contain a situation or a problem. The only thing was, how far was he allowed to go?
Viggo hated the fact that Parish had him on a leash. Parish was all bark and no bite.
Viggo, on the other hand, would have left dead bodies in his wake. And none of them would have linked back to him.
He knew there was no point in dwelling on the past. Right now, he had to make sure he had everything in order in case he had to make a swift exit.
He removed a couple of hundred-dollar bills from the duffel bag and then shut and secured the locker.
He left the airport and drove back to his apartment.
He parked his car in the back of the building and went inside.
He took the stairs to his apartment. When he reached the third floor, he stopped in his tracks.
On the landing above him was a man he recognized.
The detective!
He was coming down as Viggo was going up.
Their eyes met. For a moment, Viggo hoped the detective was not there for him, but when he called out his name, Viggo knew he had to act.
He pulled out his weapon and fired.
NINETY-SIX
Callaway returned to his office feeling dejected. His visit to R.J. Parish had been a waste of time.
What was I expecting anyway? That Parish would confess to everything?
But Callaway did not come away empty-handed. Parish knew Callaway was looking for Lana Anderson. He also knew Becker had hired him to do so.
Parish had his guard up, and Callaway now understood why.
Callaway also got the sense Parish truly had no idea where Lana Anderson was.
That makes two of us, he thought.
He sat down behind his desk and put his face in his hands. He should drop this investigation. All he was doing was running in circles and getting even more frustrated.
But how could he give up when Lana Anderson could be out there? What if she was in danger? What if David hired him to save her?
But how was he supposed to do this? David did not leave him much to work with.
At the beginning, Callaway did not even know which Lana Anderson he was looking for. Valuable time and energy had been wasted just on that. Had he been provided with details, it might have shortened his investigation.
He felt anger rise in him, and it was directed at David. He had left him with a monumental task. Missing persons cases were not the easiest. Most private eyes avoided them when possible. If the police with their immense resources could not find them, then how could they? The word “private” in “private investigator” was there for a reason. They were private citizens like everyone else. They had no authority to detain anyone for questioning, and they most certainly could not arrest and charge anyone with a crime. All they could offer was their time, their commitment, and their skills in pursuing whatever task they were hired to perform.
He sighed.
I should not be angry with the dead.
Callaway did not believe David had intended to kill himself after hiring him. David probably thought he had more than enough time to provide further information as the investigation progressed.
Callaway turned his attention to his laptop. He had given the storage device to Holt, but he had kept a copy of the footage from the day Lana Anderson was last seen leaving her place.
He went through the footage one more time.
He froze the image of her walking out of the elevator.
“Where are you going, Lana?” he said out loud, hoping she somehow heard him.
He had already spoken to the taxi driver who had picked her up in the front of her building. The driver had mentioned that someone else had come by asking about her.
Was it the same person who tossed her apartment? Callaway thought.
The driver had then dropped her off outside Parish Holdings Inc.’s building. Callaway had thought she had gone to see R.J. Parish, but now he knew that was not true.
He shut the laptop and decided to head home.
There was nothing more he could do today. Come morning, he would re-evaluate the entire case and then decide whether it was worth pursing or not.
He locked the door and went down the metal stairs.
He saw a car pull up to the back of the noodle shop and come to a halt.
A young Asian man got out of the car with a large delivery bag in his hand. Callaway recognized him. He was his landlady’s oldest son. Earlier, Callaway had seen him leave with a heavy delivery bag. The strain of carrying all that food was visible on his face.
Right now, with the bag empty and lighter, he smiled and waved at him.
Callaway smiled and waved back.
He walked to his Charger parked around the corner.
When he opened the Charger’s driver’s side door, a light went off in his head.
It was more like a thunderbolt. His entire body shook.
He suddenly knew where Lana Anderson was.
NINETY-SEVEN
Fisher watched as a man placed a ladder next to a wall and then proceeded to get on the roof. Her car was parked across from a house that was under construction.
The man’s name was Jerome Johnston. He was thirty-eight years old, divorced, and had a twelve-year-old daughter named Ashley, whom he shared custody with his ex-wife.
Jerome worked for a roofing company that required all their workers to complete their tasks within the company’s tight schedule, lest they wanted to work extra hours with no additional pay. On paper, the company adhered to all labor laws, but in reality, workers were told to follow verbal instructions given to them by their immediate supervisors. And one of those instructions was: If you went to the authorities, you will be fired.
Fisher had conducted a background check on Jerome. It was not necessary, but she wanted to find out more about the man.
Prior to this job, Jerome had been unemployed for six months. This put a financial strain on him and made it even more difficult to cover child support, a fact his ex-wife made sure to bring up at their last court visit. This affected his visitation ri
ghts with his daughter. Instead of being able to see her three times a week, he now got to see her only once a week.
Jerome made the most of his time with his daughter. He showered her with whatever gifts he could afford, and he also took her wherever she wanted to go.
Ashley had just celebrated her birthday last week. And to make up to her for not being able to see her often, he had splurged and bought her a pink bicycle, along with a pink helmet and a light reflecting jacket so Ashely could be safe, riding her bicycle in the evenings.
Fisher watched as Jerome laid each shingle on the slanted roof and secured it with a nail gun. His movements were precise and quick. He looked more like a robot than a human being.
It was late afternoon, so Fisher understood Jerome’s need to work efficiently. If the roof was not covered by sunset, Jerome would have to stay late and make sure it was done. It was also dangerous being on a roof alone during darkness. Anything could go wrong. And there was no telling what kind of health insurance the company provided to their employees.
Jerome desperately needed the job, so he did not complain. The money was good for his line of work, and it gave him the chance to see his little girl. If things kept going, he might be able to convince a judge to let him see her three times a week again.
For that reason, Fisher decided not to bother him and let him finish his work.
Almost an hour later, Jerome came down the ladder. He gathered his tools and equipment and began to load them into the back of his 4x4 truck.
Fisher approached him.
“Mr. Johnston?” she asked.
He turned. His skin was tanned from spending hours in the sun, and his hair was matted with sweat.
“Yes,” he replied.
“My name is Dana Fisher. Do you mind if I asked you a few questions?”
He stared at her. “What’s this about?” he asked.
“It’s about the death of Miranda Temple.”
NINETY-EIGHT
Callaway returned to the office tower.
He took the elevator up and got off on the fourteenth floor.
The hallway was poorly lit, and as he peeked through the glass doors of each unit, he realized the floor was vacant. He saw no furniture or office equipment of any kind.
He suddenly had a feeling that he might have jumped the gun, and that his trip might not be as fruitful as he had first thought.
Undeterred, he kept moving.
At the end of the hall was another glass wall. There was a large sign placed on the door by the property management company. It was for a short-term rental, and there was also a telephone number at the bottom.
He cupped his hands over his eyes and peeked inside. In the middle of the space he saw a long table surrounded by chairs, and on the table was a telephone.
It looked like the space was used by companies to conduct meetings and hold conference calls.
He turned to walk back to the elevator when something caught his eye. He cupped his hands over his eyes again and focused. Behind the long table was a speck of light. He changed his position along the glass wall and that was when he saw the light was coming from underneath a door in the back of the room.
He checked the door handle. It was locked.
What were you expecting anyway? he scolded himself.
He pulled out his small lockpicking kit and began to rake the lock. In less than a minute, he had unlocked the door.
He slowly moved into the dark space. His eyes focused on the light coming through the bottom of the door.
He gently grabbed the door handle. This door too was locked.
He put his ear to the door and listened. He heard no sounds from inside.
He examined the lock and decided he would not need the lockpicking tools. Instead, he pulled out a credit card and stuck it in between the door and the sidewall.
He licked his lips and took a deep breath.
In one smooth motion, he turned the handle and opened the door.
A bright light hit his eyes, almost blinding him.
He blinked. A woman was sitting on a sofa, looking at her laptop, which she had placed in her lap.
She saw Callaway and quickly jumped up on her feet.
The laptop fell to the floor.
“Who are you?” she asked, startled.
“My name is Lee Callaway,” he replied. “And you must be Lana Anderson.”
NINETY-NINE
Viggo clutched his stomach as he raced to his car. He had been shot, and he was bleeding profusely.
When Viggo had caught the detective in the stairway, they had exchanged fire. One of the bullets had hit Viggo as he turned to make an exit.
Viggo was not sure if he had hit the detective, but he did not wait to find out.
His lone thought was to get out of there as fast as he could.
He got behind the wheel and sped out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell.
He clenched his jaw as pain shot up through his body. He was in shock, and he needed immediate medical attention.
But there was no time for that.
A dozen different scenarios moved through his head, and one by one he shot them down.
He could not go back to the airport to retrieve his money and IDs. Airport security would be on him in an instant.
He could not go to the hospital. Police would be waiting for him the moment he pulled up to the emergency room.
He could not go to Parish for help. The man would not know what to do. In fact, he might make matters worse.
No. I’m on my own, he thought.
He glanced at the rear-view mirror. He saw no vehicles following him.
He had already broken into a cold sweat. And his body had started to shake.
“Get a grip on yourself,” he mumbled. “You can do this.”
He checked the mirror again and when he was certain it was clear, he pulled up to the side of the road. He winced as he reached down and pulled out a bag from underneath the passenger seat.
The bag contained equipment and tools used by Viggo for torture. He always kept the bag in his car in case he needed it on the spot. He rummaged inside the bag. He pulled out duct tape, a rag, and a bottle of vodka.
He opened the cap with his teeth and doused the wound with the alcohol. Searing pain went through his body as the liquid burned the exposed flesh. He tried hard not to scream. He had been through far worse in his home country. This was nothing compared to that. But the pain was unrelenting.
His hand shook as he reached over and opened the glove compartment. He grabbed a bottle of painkillers and downed a handful with the vodka.
He regretted not taking them before cleaning the wound.
Now is not the time for self-recrimination, you fool, he thought. Now is the time for action.
He pressed the rag over the wound and then wrapped the duct tape around his body to hold it in place.
It will do for now, he thought.
He looked around. He did not see anything that concerned him.
He waited a couple of minutes for the painkillers to kick in, and then he got back on the road.
He had formulated a new plan. He would get across the state line and find a motel in some seedy town. He would then break into a pharmacy and get all the things he needed to remove the bullet from his body.
In the Serbian army, he had learned to stitch a wound and perform minor procedures to save a life.
It would not be as precise as a medical doctor, but it would have to do for now.
Once he had healed, he would return to Milton, grab his money from the airport, and somehow find a way to leave the country.
Now that the police knew who he was, his face would be plastered all over the news.
I also need hair dye from the pharmacy, he thought.
He would have to change his looks.
He wiped the sweat from his brow.
He was now on a quiet road, driving well above the speed limit.
His licked his upper lip as he chec
ked the rear-view mirror yet again.
He saw he was being followed, and it was the same vehicle he had seen the detective driving earlier.
He swore at the top of his lungs and pressed the accelerator as hard as possible.
The car shot ahead like a cannonball.
He slammed the horn as cars appeared in front of him, and he maneuvered past them at high speed.
He realized his hands were shaking violently. He was going to go into septic shock.
“Not now!” he screamed.
He blinked to clear the sweat from his eyes.
He lost his grip on the steering wheel.
The car spun out of his lane and went off the road, tearing through grass and bushes before it slammed into a lamp post.
Viggo’s head jerked forward and hit the steering wheel.
For a minute, he blacked out. When he came to his senses, he realized where he was.
He reached for his gun, which was still on the passenger seat.
Something cold touched his temple.
He looked up.
Standing outside the driver’s side door was the detective. He was aiming his weapon at him.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said. “Now place your hands where I can see them.”
Viggo knew he had no more fight in him.
He placed his hands on the steering wheel.
ONE-HUNDRED
The room had no windows, but it had enough space for a sofa, a desk and chair, and a bookshelf. It was likely used for private meetings, but right now, it was being used as a living space.
Lana Anderson sat on the sofa with her head bowed. She was wearing a hooded shirt, track pants, and runners. Callaway sat across from her on a single chair.
The room had the smell of someone living in a confined space. There were boxes of takeout food in the corner. Lana’s hand carry lay open on the carpet floor, revealing her clothes and personal belongings. Her toiletries were spread on the desk. Plastic bags containing dirty laundry were in the corner, and her backpack was on the floor next to the sofa.
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