The Missing Mistress Read online

  “Where did he jump from?” Holt asked.

  McConnell pointed to an overpass just behind him. Holt squinted in that direction. Traffic was already backed up. People were out of their cars, and they were standing by the railing looking at them. Most were holding up their cell phones, taking pictures and video.

  Holt frowned. “I guess we’re not going to get much privacy today.”

  “That’s why I covered the body as soon as I got here,” Fisher said.

  Holt looked at her. “Good thinking.”

  Fisher pulled on latex gloves. Holt did the same.

  They moved to the front of the vehicle. Holt lifted the white sheet up just enough for them to stick their heads in.

  David Becker’s head was facing them. His eyes were open but vacant. His reddish hair was combed to one side, and he was clean-shaven.

  He wore a dark blue pinstripe suit, and from the looks of it, expensive leather shoes. His red tie was still perfectly snug around his white shirt collar. On his wrist was a diamond-encrusted gold watch.

  Holt’s brow furrowed. “He looks like a lawyer.”

  “He is,” Fisher said.

  “How do you know?”

  “He has a business card in his wallet.”

  “Alright,” Holt said. “Then why did a well-dressed lawyer decide to kill himself this fine morning?”

  “That’s what we’re here to find out,” Fisher replied.

  FOUR

  Aliza Zubair sat on a stretcher in the back of an ambulance. She had a blanket over her shoulders and she was visibly shaken by what had just transpired. Every so often a paramedic would come by and check her vitals.

  Aliza had dark curly hair, a brown complexion, and an almost childlike round face. She hugged herself and wiped tears from her cheeks. Her tears had smeared her eyeliner and makeup.

  Fisher was seated next to her. She gave the young woman a moment to compose herself.

  “What do you do?” Fisher asked to break the ice.

  “I… I recently graduated…” Aliza replied between breaths.

  “From where?’

  “Milton College.”

  “What did you major in?”

  “Business Administration.”

  “Congratulations, that’s a great accomplishment.”

  “Thank you,” Aliza said, staring at the ambulance’s floor.

  “Where were you headed this morning?” Fisher asked.

  “I… I have an interview for a management position at a bank.”

  That explains why she’s all dressed up, Fisher thought.

  “What time was the interview?”

  Aliza turned and finally looked at her. “What time is it now?”

  Fisher told her.

  Aliza burst into tears. “I’m late for my interview,” she cried.

  Fisher gently put an arm around her. “Don’t worry, I’m certain once they hear about what happened today, they’ll let you interview another day.”

  “You think so?” Aliza asked eagerly.

  “I’m sure of it. In fact, if they don’t, you can have them give me a call.” Fisher held out a business card for her. Aliza took the card, handling it as if it were made of gold.

  “Now,” Fisher said, “tell me exactly what happened.”

  Aliza took a deep breath. “Well, I… I got up this morning and got ready. I then dropped my brother off at school.”

  “What grade is he in?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Okay.”

  “I then drove straight to the interview.”

  “How fast were you driving?”

  Aliza frowned as she thought hard. “With all the traffic, I think I was going like fifty.”

  “Fifty miles per hour?” Fisher asked.

  Aliza shrugged. “I think so. Maybe a little less.”

  “Okay.”

  “I was listening to an audiobook.”

  “What kind of audiobook?”

  Aliza blushed. “I was so nervous about the interview that I was listening to a motivational book to get me pumped up.”

  “Tell me the exact details about the accident.”

  Aliza swallowed and nodded. “I was feeling good about my chances of getting the job when I drove underneath the overpass and something hit my windshield. I didn’t know what it was. I pressed the brakes, and that’s when the car behind me slammed into mine. The steering wheel spun out of my hand and I drove into the barrier. The airbag exploded, nearly knocking me out. When I came to, I quickly unbuckled my seatbelt and got out of the car.” She shut her eyes and shuddered. “I then saw the man on top of my car. His eyes were open, and they were staring directly at me. I screamed as loud as I could. I remember someone grabbed me and pulled me away.”

  Fisher paused and then said, “I know the answer, but I still have to ask. Have you seen that man before?”

  Aliza shook her head.

  “Never?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” Fisher stood up. “If you remember anything, you have my card. Call me anytime.”

  As Fisher stepped out of the ambulance, Aliza asked, “Is he… dead?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Fisher replied.

  Aliza hugged herself again.

  FIVE

  Holt was busy speaking to another driver when Fisher decided to go check out the spot from where David Becker had allegedly jumped.

  She debated whether to go back to her SUV, drive along the freeway, take the next exit, and then make her way to the overpass. Then she noticed a grassy area along the side of the freeway which went up to the overpass. The slope was steep but manageable. Plus, she was in no mood to drive along the shoulder of the freeway again. The traffic had backed up so far that it would be hours before it resumed to normal.

  No point in irritating them even more, she thought.

  She decided to go up the grassy area. There was a morning dew on the grass, making her trek up slippery, but she reached the top with little trouble.

  She moved along the side road which crossed the overpass. An officer behind the yellow police tape raised his hand to stop her from proceeding. She flashed her badge and the officer quickly held up the tape for her to duck under.

  The silver Mercedes C-Class was parked close to the concrete guardrail. She went close to the guardrail and looked over. In the distance, she saw the accident site.

  She was surprised David Becker landed on the sedan, which was going close to fifty-miles-an-hour. She doubted Becker had planned it that way. If he was suicidal, he likely wanted a swift end to his life.

  She moved to the Mercedes, which looked like a newer model. The car had a Milton license plate, and there was not a single scratch on it.

  Her phone buzzed, and she let it go to voicemail. She had more important matters to attend to right now.

  She examined the interior, which was black, leather, and spotless. Fisher also smelled lavender.

  She noticed a cell phone on the passenger seat. She grabbed the phone and found that it was locked.

  Becker might have dropped the phone or forgotten it before he left the car. If it was the former, that meant his death was a deliberate act. He could very well have been on the phone with someone—perhaps in a heated conversation with his wife, or soon to be ex-wife, and in a moment of anger, he dumped the phone and jumped into oncoming traffic. If it was the latter, then he might not have been provoked to take his own life. He might have planned to do so at a time of his own choosing.

  There was a briefcase in the backseat. Fisher reached over and pulled the case out; it was heavy, and when she opened it, she found it was filled with papers.

  She scanned them and saw that they were mostly legal documents.

  Was Becker on his way to a court hearing? she thought.

  It would make sense if he was. After all, he was dressed in an expensive suit and shoes. He was clean shaven and wore a valuable watch. He looked like he got ready this morning to stand before a judge and jury.

 
So, then what happened that made him end it all?

  SIX

  He pulled the Dodge Charger to the curb and shut off the engine.

  He looked in the rear-view mirror to double-check how his face looked.

  Lee Callaway was tall, tanned, and had silver around his temples. He still looked youthful, even with the appearance of crow’s feet around his eyes. He considered applying moisturizing lotion to smooth out those wrinkles, but he quickly shot down that idea.

  He prided himself on being a man’s man. He shaved twice a week and he showered even less, leaving him with scruffy cheeks and slick hair.

  Callaway was not the type to ignore basic hygiene. On the contrary, he made sure to keep his fingernails trimmed, and he brushed his teeth after each meal. He just did not like to fuss about his looks. He preferred to get up each morning, change into a t-shirt, jeans, and a jacket, and be out the door. Sometimes he wore the same outfit for days. A good spray from a musky cologne was all that he needed.

  He sniffed his shirt and then smelled his armpits. He frowned.

  Maybe I should have sprayed twice, he thought.

  He was not sure why he was so nervous. There had been times he had shown up unannounced, and sometimes he had been a little drunk too. If he was forgiven for showing up tipsy and out of the blue, he would surely be forgiven for having a little body odor.

  He grabbed the cardboard container and the paper bag from the passenger seat and got out.

  He walked up to the house and rang the doorbell.

  A moment later, the door swung open.

  His breathing stopped the moment he saw her.

  Patricia “Patti” Callaway had short dark hair, brown eyes, and lips that were always curled in a smile. Her eyes were also great bullshit detectors. Callaway was known to fib in order to get himself out of a difficult situation, but he would never try that with Patti. She could tolerate a lot from him, but not lies.

  They were once married, and that relationship had produced a girl. But Callaway could not take being domesticated, or the responsibility of being a parent. He was honest with Patti about his restlessness, and because of that, she had let him go without a fight. She even let him come and go in their daughter’s life. Patti believed a father, even one absent most of the time, was crucial for a child’s development.

  Callaway was forever indebted to her for what she did.

  He was also still in love with her. She was the one girl who knew how to make his heart skip a beat. He always berated himself for being so foolish as to let her go.

  But that was in the past. He had mustered up the courage and asked her out. To his happy surprise, she had agreed to give him another chance.

  They had been on a couple of dates. He was nervous during both of them. He knew the stakes were high this time around. If he messed up just once, he might never get another chance with Patti. Thankfully, their dates were not a total disaster.

  They had decided to take things slow. They had not even told their daughter they were going out. They did not want to break her heart if things did not work out this time. “You’re actually on time,” Patti said.

  “I am,” Callaway said with a smile. “And I brought these.” He held up the box and paper bag.

  “What are they?”

  “Fresh muffins and bagels.”

  “Well,” she said, checking her watch. “I can’t have them. I’m running late for my shift.”

  “I know that,” he said. “That’s why you can take them with you at work.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to bribe my co-workers?”

  Patti’s colleagues at the hospital where she was a nurse knew what Callaway had done. There were only so many times she could refuse to talk about herself, and she hated lying.

  “I’m trying to atone for my sins—one muffin and bagel at a time.”

  She finally smiled. “Fine, I’ll tell my co-workers you brought them. But don’t think they’ll forgive you so easily as I have.”

  He was still smiling. “I understand.”

  SEVEN

  Ronnie DeChamps had a mullet hairdo, a handlebar moustache, and tattoos across both his arms. He was the driver that smashed into Aliza’s sedan.

  The front of his truck was wedged into the sedan’s trunk. Ronnie shook his head. “I don’t have insurance, man.”

  Holt stood next to him. “You do know it’s illegal in the state to drive without car insurance,” he said.

  “I know, I know,” Ronnie said. “Mine got cancelled only a week ago.”

  “Why?” Holt asked, sternly.

  Ronnie stared at him and swallowed. “I kinda…sorta… forgot to pay the premiums,” he replied.

  Holt shook his head.

  “Listen, man,” Ronnie said. “This wasn’t my fault. That guy fell on the lady’s car.”

  “Okay, tell me exactly what transpired before that.”

  “Well, I was driving at the speed limit—I want you to note that—when I heard a loud bang…”

  “Bang?”

  “Yeah, I thought it sounded like gunfire or something, but then the next thing I see, the car in front of me spins out of control. I think the lady braked hard, and by the time I braked, it was too late. I smashed into her at full speed.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t speeding?”

  “I wasn’t. I mean, it was fast.”

  “What was your speed?”

  “I think I was hovering around fifty-miles, or so.”

  “Okay, then what happened?”

  “I ended up shoving her car into the barrier. I was pissed. Even though I hit her from behind, she shouldn’t have braked in the middle of the freeway, you know. So again, it’s not my fault. When I got out to check the damage, that’s when I saw the guy lying on the windshield.”

  “What about the woman in the sedan?”

  “I think she was in shock. When I told her to get out of the car, she started screaming. I had to pull her away cuz she was acting crazy and stuff.”

  “Crazy and stuff?” Holt repeated.

  “Hysterical.”

  “Where were you headed?” Holt asked.

  “I just got myself contract work at a construction site,” Ronnie replied. His eyes widened. “Man, I gotta call my supervisor. He’d want to know what happened.”

  Holt squinted at Ronnie’s truck. “Is that a dashcam you have installed in your truck?”

  Ronnie smiled, revealing a missing tooth. “Sure do. That’s another reason I ain’t taking the blame for what happened to my vehicle, or anyone else’s for that matter. I got it all recorded.”

  “I want to see it,” Holt said.

  “How much you gonna pay me?”

  Holt glared at him.

  Ronnie broke into a sweat. Holt was an imposing man, and he knew when and how to use his size.

  Ronnie rubbed the back of his neck. “I was gonna sell it to the media to help fix the truck.”

  Holt could compel Ronnie to hand the footage over, but he was not sure if a crime had been committed. As such, Ronnie would not be obstructing justice if he chose not to comply.

  “Can you make me a copy of the footage?” Holt asked.

  “Sure can.”

  Holt turned to leave. He stopped and looked at Ronnie. “Why do you have a dashcam, anyway?”

  Ronnie shrugged, looking sheepish. “Did I mention I kind of get into a lot of fender-benders?”

  “And let me guess,” Holt said, “they were not your fault either?”

  Ronnie’s smile widened. “You got it, boss.”

  Holt walked away.

  EIGHT

  Fisher moved away from the Mercedes when a man approached her. He was medium height, medium build, wore thick prescription glasses, and his khaki work clothes were topped with a yellow vest.

  “You’re Detective Fisher?” he asked, extending his hand.

  Fisher shook his hand. “And you are?”

  He pointed to a white badge pinned to the front of his
vest. The badge showed his name, along with the Milton Department of Transportation’s logo. “Mark Forsten. I’m the lead investigator for MDT. Detective Holt told me I should speak to you.”

  Fisher knew Holt hated having to deal with investigators from other departments, though it was not because he did not believe in sharing information. He found the lack of sharing by other departments irritating.

  Every government department had their agenda, and not all meshed with the other. Sometimes they even conflicted. When the Department of Homeland Security asked other law enforcement agencies to keep a file on people of a certain background, the officers from the Milton P.D. refused. The request constituted racial profiling and went against their oath as officers to serve and protect their community. And the Milton P.D. had not been alone in their refusal.

  “It’s a jumper, right?” Forsten said.

  Forsten’s mandate was to find out who was at fault when it came to pedestrian and motor vehicle accidents. If David Becker’s death was not a homicide, the MDT would regain control of the scene, and as such, they could open the freeway and get traffic moving again.

  “He did jump,” Fisher agreed.

  “Okay, so?”

  “But we still don’t know why.”

  “He could just have been suicidal,” Forsten suggested.

  Fisher knew he was trying hard to be cordial and professional, but there was a hint of annoyance in his voice.

  “We are still gathering information.”

  “Do you know how long that will take?”

  “We’re working as fast as we can,” she said. “We have close to a dozen witnesses who may have seen what happened.”

  He stared at her and then pointed at the freeway below them. “Downtown Milton is west from here. It’s morning rush hour. We’ve lost three out of four lanes for your investigation. I hope you understand people are late for work.”

  Fisher suddenly felt anger rise in her. She took a step closer to Forsten and said, “I hope you understand that a man just died. Are you saying that is less important than being late for work?”