The Invisible Wife Page 11

  Holt’s voice broke her from her reverie. “We have to go back to the facts,” he said.

  “And that is?” she asked.

  “The victim was robbed of his possessions. The safe inside the house was opened using his severed thumb. So, whoever robbed the victim also killed him.”

  “But none of the people who knew Big Bob had a motive to rob him,” she said.

  “Then we have to believe that it could be a stranger who was aware the victim had money and he or she forced their way into the house, murdered the victim, and then took whatever was inside the safe.”

  Fisher realized they would have to widen their investigation.

  Holt finished his tea and said, “I’m going back to the station.”

  He got up and left Fisher sitting in the café by herself.

  Instead of running after him, she leisurely drank her coffee.

  If he doesn’t want a break, she thought, fine. Well, I do.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Fisher returned to the station and made her way to her desk. Holt came over, “I just received the victim’s phone logs.” He handed her a sheet of paper.

  She scanned the calls. “Do we know who these numbers belong to?”

  “I ran them through the online phone directory,” he replied. “He called his wife several times throughout the day. But two calls stick out to me. One is from an unknown number; likely a prepaid phone. Another is registered to someone named Manuela Herrera.”

  “Do you have her address?” she asked.

  He held up another piece of paper.

  She smiled. “Let’s go and see what she knows.”

  The drive took them to a predominately Latino neighborhood on Milton’s west side. The houses were painted in bright colors. Some of the buildings were covered in graffiti depicting a Mariachi band or Spanish dancers. Most of the houses had large religious crosses on the front door.

  Holt and Fisher pulled into a cream-colored bungalow. Wooden boxes and other debris were scattered on the lawn.

  They got out of the car and walked to the front door.

  They knocked and waited.

  A group of young men strolled by on the sidewalk, giving Holt and Fisher suspicious glances. Holt gave them a hard look. The young men increased their pace, not wanting any trouble.

  A moment later, a curtain was pulled aside, and they could see a woman behind the window.

  They flashed their badges. The curtain fell back.

  The lock was turned, and the door slid open slightly. “Yes?” a woman said.

  “Manuela Herrera?” Fisher asked.

  “Yes,” came her reply.

  “Can we talk to you?”

  She hesitated.

  “It’s important you come outside and speak to us, ma’am.”

  Manuela came out. Her jet-black hair was silky smooth, and her olive skin was without a blemish. She wore a long dress which had a colorful pattern on it.

  Fisher held up a photo of Big Bob. “Do you know this man? He goes by the name of Big Bob.”

  Manuela nodded.

  “How?” Fisher asked.

  “I work for him,” she replied.

  “Doing what?”

  “I clean his house.”

  “Did you call him two days ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to pick up my money.”

  “So, you called Big Bob. What did he say?”

  “He did not sound happy.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, but I asked him if I can come to get my money.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He says he is at the casino, but he will be home later that night.”

  “Okay, then what happened?”

  Manuela bit her bottom lip. She avoided looking at them straight in the eye. Fisher sensed she was afraid of something.

  Manuela looked back into the house.

  “Is someone else at home?” Fisher asked.

  “No,” Manuela quickly replied.

  Fisher pulled out her weapon. “Please stay here, ma’am.”

  Holt had his weapon out too. He gave her a nod, silently telling her: You go. I’ll keep an eye on her.

  Fisher moved into the house with her gun at the ready. The house was poorly lit, and her eyes took a second to adjust. The living room was on the right with a sofa and coffee table. A kitchen was up ahead. Dishes were piled up in the sink. She moved down the hall. The door on the right led to a small room with a mattress on the floor. She checked the closet and then moved to the next room. Unlike the first one, this one had a bed, dresser, and a computer table stuffed inside. She stuck her head into the bathroom and saw no one was there. She then moved to the back of the house and peered through a window. The backyard was also filled with garbage and debris. She waited a second to see if there was any movement. When she did not, she holstered her weapon and went back to the front of the house.

  She shook her head at Holt, silently telling him: It’s all clear.

  Manuela had her arms wrapped around herself. She was staring at her feet.

  Fisher said in a soothing voice, “Manuela, everything will be okay. You can talk to us. What happened when you went to Big Bob’s house?”

  She took a deep breath and said, “I was walking up to the house when I heard a loud noise.”

  “What kind of noise?”

  “Like people are fighting.”

  “Who was fighting, do you know?”

  “At first I didn’t, but then the door opened, and he came out.”

  “Who?”

  She hesitated.

  “Who came out, Manuela?”

  “Chase.”

  Fisher’s brow furrowed. “Who?”

  “Chase Burley. Big Bob’s son.”

  Fisher glanced at Holt. He was staring intently at Manuela.

  “Keep going,” Fisher said.

  “Chase saw me. He looked angry, but he walked past me and got in his car and drove away.”

  “Where was Big Bob?”

  “He was inside the house.”

  “Was he… hurt?”

  Manuela shook her head. “He was okay, but he looked like he was a little drunk.”

  That explains the bottle of whisky next to the armchair, Fisher thought.

  “What did he do next?”

  She paused and then said, “Big Bob gave me the money and I went home.”

  Fisher turned to Holt. She could tell he was thinking the same thing.

  They had to find Chase Burley.

  FORTY-SIX

  Callaway stood by the curb with a manila envelope in his hand. Inside the envelope were 8x10 prints of photographs he had taken of Carey Gilford with his assistant.

  Callaway preferred using film cameras, but when companies stopped manufacturing them, he had to go digital. But he could not load the digital images onto a disc and wait for the sales clerk to print them for him. His photographs were confidential material, and his clients would not be pleased if those photos got into the wrong hands.

  Callaway took no chances. He went to a department store, loaded his SD card into an instant-print machine, and printed out high quality copies of all the relevant photos. All he had to do now was hand them over to his client.

  He was checking his watch for the umpteenth time when the black limousine turned the corner and pulled up next to him.

  Callaway got in the backseat.

  Isabel Gilford was wearing a long coat, black boots, and large sunglasses.

  “I apologize for the delay,” she said. “I was across town when you called.”

  “No worries,” he said. “I would have gladly dropped them off if you had told me where.” For twenty-five thousand dollars, he would have driven to Canada to make the delivery.

  “It is better that I come to you and not the other way around,” Isabel said. “I would hate for my husband to see us together. He would be incensed if he found out I had hired a private investigator.”


  “I completely understand,” Callaway said.

  He placed the envelope on the seat next to her.

  She took the envelope with a gloved hand. She removed the photos. She then pressed a button on the side panel and the window closest to her slid down. She held the photo to the sunlight. She went through each photo carefully, as if she was searching for something in particular. She then dropped them on the seat and frowned.

  “I need more,” she said.

  Callaway blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “I need more proof. These won’t do.”

  “But… but…” he stammered. “They clearly show your husband out with his assistant.”

  “They do, yes, but they don’t show he is having an affair with her.”

  Callaway blinked some more. “They show they are having a meal together.”

  Isabel paused and then said, “Let me ask you this. Did my husband and his assistant leave the office separately?”

  “No. They left together.”

  “Which meant they were not trying to hide anything,” she said. “If I confronted my husband about this, you know what he’ll say? It was a professional lunch and that there was nothing between him and his assistant.” She looked away, paused, and then looked back at him. “Do you know how many people my husband takes out for lunch or dinner on a regular basis? Dozens. It’s how he procures investors for his firm.”

  Callaway ran his hand through his hair. He then reached over and grabbed the photos. He held one up. “In this one, your husband is leaning very close to his assistant like he is whispering something to her.”

  “He could be whispering something related to his work. He controls millions of dollars of investments and a lot of it is privileged information. He would be wise to be careful what he says out loud.”

  “Okay, then what about this one?” He held up another photo. “They are laughing like they are sharing something intimate or personal.”

  She scoffed. “My husband can be funny when he chooses to be. He could be telling her a joke.”

  Callaway was beside himself. He held up one last photo. “If you look at your husband’s arm, it looks like he is holding her hand.”

  “I wish the photo showed this, but I can’t see that. His hand could be resting next to hers, which could mean something or nothing.” She exhaled. “Like I said, I need more proof.” Her voice suddenly turned steely. “I need you to catch them in the act.”

  In all his years as a private investigator, Callaway never had a client ask him to catch their spouses in compromising positions. They did not want to see the hard truth. They preferred he catch them holding hands, out on a romantic dinner, or even kissing—which was as painful as catching them in bed.

  Isabel said, “My husband is in discussions to merge with another, much larger brokerage. Together, they would control funds worth half a billion dollars. He will do anything for this merger not to fall apart, which means I can use this opportunity for a very hefty settlement. Does that explain my urgency and desire for indisputable proof?”

  “Yes, it does,” Callaway replied.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Fisher could not believe they had not focused on Chase Burley earlier. There were several reasons for that. His address on file was for Westport, which was a good six-hour drive from Milton. And, by all accounts, Chase and Big Bob had a great relationship.

  At least, that’s what Fisher thought while reading the articles on the family. But things had suddenly changed.

  Chase had become a person of interest.

  They were still unsure if he was the killer, though. The maid, Manuela Herrera, confirmed Big Bob was still alive after Chase was seen leaving the house. But that did not mean he could not have returned later and murdered his father.

  Holt and Fisher got in Fisher’s Lexus SUV and made the trek down to Westport. Fisher had gone on long trips with Holt before, but she much preferred to fly than drive. Holt was not a big talker, so he spent most of the time staring out the window. Also, if he was not driving, he was sleeping. It was not uncommon for him to be snoring for two-thirds of the ride.

  Which is what he did now.

  Fisher had no choice but to sing along with all the songs on the radio, count all the towns they passed, or listen to an audio book.

  When they were an hour away from their destination, Holt groaned, and then his eyes snapped open. He looked around in confusion, and then he wiped drool off his chin and sat up straight.

  “Sleep well?” Fisher asked.

  “Ah… yes. I needed a short nap.”

  “We are almost there,” she said.

  “Oh, is that right?” Holt said, blinking. “I must have been really tired.”

  A short time later, they pulled up to a large house.

  Fisher squinted. There was a strand of yellow police tape across the front of the house. The windows were cracked and shattered, and bullet holes peppered the front door.

  Fisher and Holt parked and got out.

  They walked up, stopping at the police tape.

  “What do you suppose happened here?” Holt asked.

  “Let’s find out,” Fisher replied.

  She walked over to the neighbor’s property and rang the doorbell.

  An old man opened the door. He had thick glasses, and he was wearing a robe. “Can I help you?” he said.

  Fisher held up her badge.

  The man squinted and got closer to take a better look at the badge. “You’re from Milton, huh?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  He glanced over at Holt, who was standing behind Fisher. The man said, “I’ve been to Milton once. It was years ago, when I was younger. Nice place, if I remember correctly.”

  Fisher worried the man might tell her the story of his visit, so she quickly said, “What happened to the house next door?”

  The man frowned. “Scared the daylights out of me. I was on the sofa, watching TV. It had gotten dark when I heard a noise. It sounded like tires screeching to a halt. I then heard the car door open, which was followed by loud bangs.”’

  “Bangs?”

  “Gunshots.”

  “Okay.”

  “The shots came one after the other. I counted like six shots. I quickly dropped to the floor and cowered behind the sofa. Growing up, my parents didn’t have much money, so we lived in some rough neighborhoods. I know a gunshot when I hear it. I was lucky a friend’s dad got me a job working in construction. I later ended up opening my own company, and when I sold it for a nice profit, I moved here. So, what I’m trying to get at is that this is a quiet neighborhood. We don’t see stuff like this here.”

  “After you heard the gunshots and took cover, what did you do next?” Fisher prodded.

  “I heard a car door slam shut and then the car roared away. I stayed in the same spot for a minute or two before I went to check. The guy was out on the front porch of his house and he looked like he’d seen a ghost.”

  “Who was on the front porch?”

  “My neighbor.”

  “Chase Burley?”

  The man nodded. “He told me he was sitting on the porch having a beer when he spotted the car turning the corner at the end of the street. I guess he kind of knew what was going to happen next, because he raced inside the house in the nick of time. The bullets would have torn him to shreds, you know.”

  “Why did someone try to kill him?” Fisher asked.

  “Beats me.”

  “Did you get to know your neighbor well?”

  “Not really. He kept mostly to himself. I heard his old man had won a lot of money. I guess he bought him the house next door, because I doubt the guy had a job or anything.”

  “Did you notice anything else unusual about him?”

  The man’s face scrunched up in disgust. “When he moved in he was pretty much quiet, but later he started hosting parties. I used to see a lot of girls come in and out of his house. I think some of them were even hookers. On the weekends the noise woul
d be too much. A group of us from the neighborhood got together and complained to the police. He wasn’t pleased with that, I’m sure, but after a while, things quieted down again.”

  Fisher thanked the old man, and she and Holt left.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Callaway was parked across from the office tower once again. He thought his job was done, but he should have known better. For the amount of money his client gave him, she could ask him to do whatever she wanted.

  Client satisfaction was number one on his list, even if his discoveries broke a lot of hearts and marriages. He would be more than happy to go back to a client and show him or her proof that their spouse was not cheating on them. That would be a pleasant outcome for both parties. The marriage would still be intact, and he would feel better about his fee.

  If people were always faithful to their spouses, Callaway would be out of a job. And yet, the PI business had changed from the time Callaway had started, which was not that long ago. The advent of cell phones and social networking sites had taken a big bite out of his work. Spouses could go through their partner’s phones to see who they were speaking to and could keep track of who they were hanging out with via the posts on their social media pages. That, coupled with other advances in technology, meant that one day there would be no need for people like Callaway.

  Until that time, Callaway intended to make the most of every opportunity that came his way.

  He glanced again at the front of the office tower. So far, Carey Gilford had not once left the building, not even during lunch time.

  Is he aware he’s being followed? Callaway thought.

  He shook his head. Callaway was many things—a lousy husband, father, tenant—but he was a damn good private investigator. His instincts would tell him when the target was on to him, because a good PI could sense when a target did something out of character. People tended to follow a daily routine. They rarely deviated from their pattern unless something provoked them to do so.