The Gone Sister Page 4

  Holt shut his eyes and rubbed his temples. Fisher could tell the pressure was getting to him. He had a job to do, but he also had his family who were now going to look to him for answers.

  “You need to go talk to your sister,” Fisher said.

  Holt grimaced. She could tell he did not want to leave the scene. He was also delaying facing Marjorie.

  “We’ve got everything we need,” she added. “The press is going to want a statement soon. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be in front of the cameras. And I especially don’t think it’s a good idea for Marjorie to find out about Isaiah via the news.”

  Holt’s shoulders sank and he let out a loud sigh.

  “If you want, I’ll do it,” she said.

  He shook his head. “Isaiah was family. It’s my duty.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No, I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay.”

  Holt pulled out his cell phone. “I have to call Nancy first. If she found out from someone else, it would devastate her.”

  Fisher understood. Holt’s wife had seen her share of trauma, and it had left her mentally unstable. Even the most trivial setback could send her spiraling into a deep depression.

  Holt’s devotion to his wife was unlike anything Fisher had ever seen. He protected her as if she was the most fragile thing in the world. If Fisher could describe them, Holt was a granite rock while Nancy was a delicate flower.

  To an outsider, their relationship was baffling. Even Fisher wondered how they were still married to each other. But over the years, she realized Nancy gave Holt the hope he needed to keep going.

  Holt’s work made him see the evil side of human nature. Nancy made him see the beauty in an otherwise bleak world.

  They were sort of like Yin and Yang, and they complimented each other in ways no one fully understood, not even Fisher.

  As Holt walked away, Fisher could not help but feel sorry for him. He not only had to break the news to his sister, he also had to break it to Nancy.

  Fisher did not want to be in his shoes right now.

  SIXTEEN

  After a breakfast that consisted of a cup of coffee, a slice of toast, and one egg—all he could afford from the spare change he had found in the Impala—Callaway drove to his new digs, a hotel room he had booked for a month. He could have found something more permanent, but he was never sure when his next assignment would come. There was also the matter of providing first and last month’s rent. He just did not have the money. The hotel was much cheaper by comparison. And if he ever fell behind, he did not need to worry about being evicted. He would just go someplace else, maybe even a rooming house if it came down to it.

  The hotel was not five-star by any means. The place was barely two-star, but it was the only place he could afford at the moment. The hotel had running hot water, functioning plumbing, and he was assured the heating worked. Since the weather was still warm, he would take their word about the heat system. He had seen a few cockroaches, but so far, no rodents. If he ever saw mice or a rat, he would vacate the unit in an instant. Callaway could not stand the sight of those little creatures. He shivered at the mere thought of them.

  When Callaway came to check in, he had seen a long line of people at the elevators. He had specifically requested a unit on one of the lower levels so he could take the stairs. He was booked a room on the third floor.

  He unlocked the door and entered the cramped room. It had a bed on the right, and a futon sat beside the bed. A TV stand was across from the futon. The room had a bathroom but no kitchen. Callaway did not know how to cook, so a kitchen would have been useless. A tiny fridge would have been nice, but the room did come with a tiny microwave. Callaway could always re-heat his takeout leftovers.

  He pulled off his coat and dropped it on the bed. He made his way to the bathroom. He braced himself and turned on the lights.

  He looked far worse than he imagined.

  The reflection in the mirror was not a pretty sight. His nose had swollen into a lump. The redness in his eyes had not dissipated, and there was still puffiness underneath the eyelids. He turned on the taps and tried to wipe off the blood on his shirt. He realized his cleaning attempt was futile. Even though the t-shirt was black, the stain would be there forever.

  He pulled the shirt off and threw it in the garbage.

  He then took a long, hot shower. He savored cleansing his body of all the filth from the last twenty-four hours.

  Feeling somewhat refreshed, he went out and sat on the bed. He grabbed a bottle of painkillers from the side table, dropped two pills into his palm, and downed the pills with a glass of water.

  He pushed himself up on the bed and rested his head on the wall. He closed his eyes and waited for the painkillers to take effect.

  He felt like crap, and he looked it too.

  Why can’t I be more like my parents? he thought. They were good people who went to church every Sunday. His father never drank, gambled, or womanized. The only thing that mattered was God and family.

  Callaway was the opposite. He had not stepped inside a church in decades, and his actions and vices had led to the dissolution of his marriage.

  I’m a perfect example of how to screw up your life, he thought.

  His eyes snapped open when he realized he did not have his digital camera. In his rush to get away, he had left his camera at the client’s house. The camera did not have any incriminating photos, only what he took of the client’s wife when he was on a stakeout at the house. But now he would have to go and purchase a new camera, another expense he could not afford.

  He felt a migraine coming on.

  He reached for more painkillers.

  SEVENTEEN

  Holt watched as Marjorie sobbed into her hands. Dennis stood silently by the kitchen sink.

  At first, Marjorie did not believe him. She had even slapped him for saying something so terrible, but when she saw the pain in his eyes, she knew he was telling the truth.

  Compared to him, Marjorie was half his size. She looked more like their mother while he looked more like their father.

  Marjorie was seven years older than him. There was a brother in between, but he was born with cerebral palsy and died before the age of two. His mother thought having another baby would make her get over the grief of losing a child, but Holt’s birth reminded her of the boy she lost. She began to experience mental breakdowns. By the time Holt was four, she had been in and out of mental institutions over half a dozen times.

  His father was a proud man, but after seeing his wife fall apart, he began to hit the bottle. He eventually drank himself to death, leaving Marjorie to take care of Holt and raise him. With the help of relatives—particularly his grandparents—Holt and Marjorie made it to adulthood.

  This life experience was why he was so gentle and understanding with Nancy. Holt and his wife had adopted a little boy from Ukraine. The boy was supposed to complete their family. He did not live to see his first birthday, dying from a rare form of cancer.

  His death had hit Nancy hard. The loss hit Holt harder. But instead of tearing their relationship apart, the loss made them closer.

  Unlike his father, who was a product of the time when men did not share their feelings with their spouses, Holt shared everything with Nancy. He discovered that by sharing how he felt, he became extra sensitive to her needs.

  As he watched Marjorie weep for her lost child, he could not help but feel like tragedy somehow followed his family wherever they went. There was a brother he never got to meet, then there was a child he never got to see grow up, and now there was Isaiah.

  “Where’s Brit?” Holt asked. Britney was Isaiah’s younger sister. She was a senior in high school. If Isaiah excelled in sports, Brit excelled in academics. She had her eyes set on attending Harvard, MIT, or Stanford.

  Marjorie looked up. “She’s having a sleepover at a friend’s house.” She turned to her husband. “We have to let her know.”

/>   “I’ll call her right now,” Dennis said and left the room.

  Marjorie faced Holt. She held out her arms and he embraced her. There were many times he had gone to her when he needed a shoulder to cry on. She was more of a mother to him than a sister.

  “Oh, Greg,” she said.

  Holt’s eyes were moist as he stared into hers. Until he met Nancy, he always thought Marjorie was the most beautiful woman in the world. With age, wrinkles had started to appear on her face. Gray strands were visible in her hair, but her eyes were still vibrant and youthful.

  That day, however, they were filled with pain and anguish.

  He wanted to tell her everything would be all right, but he knew it would never be. Holt had lost a child he barely knew, and it continued to haunt him. Isaiah was the first-born, and he had become the pride and joy of the family. Holt’s only wish now was that Marjorie did not fall apart like their mother. Marjorie had been the one constant thing in his life. She was the rock that held him together. If something happened to her, Holt did not know how he would keep going.

  EIGHTEEN

  The Callaway Private Investigation Office was on top of a soup and noodle restaurant. In order to get to the office, potential clients had to walk to the back of the building, go up the narrow metal stairs, and knock on a black metal door with no sign. There was only a telephone number taped to the door. If someone was eager to find him, they could always call him. Or better yet, they could visit his website and contact him there.

  There were several reasons for not having a sign displayed outside. Over the years, Callaway had gotten himself into too many difficult situations. This had caused him to borrow money from unsavory people. These people did not take too kindly when their money was not paid back on time. Even if Callaway was only a few hours late with the money, he would have thugs on his tail in no time. Callaway preferred not to deal with them in his office, where there was only one way in and out. It would be easy for someone to corner him in the office and do harm to him.

  Then there were the husbands and wives of his clients. Callaway had caught them in uncompromising positions, and as such, they acted like cornered wild animals. They would do anything to prevent their misdeeds from reaching their spouses. If confronted, some clients’ spouses even offered to double his fee, just as long as he handed over the incriminating evidence.

  Callaway never did.

  Once he made an agreement with a client, it was set in stone. Callaway would not break it, no matter how much money was thrown his way. If word got out that his loyalty was not to his client but to the highest bidder, no one would hire him. Catching cheaters in action required a great deal of delicacy and trust. That trust was irreparable if broken, and he took winning and keeping the trust of his clients seriously.

  He unlocked his office and entered. The space was small and windowless, lacked air conditioning, and the heating barely worked, making the winter months unbearable at times.

  He could always close the office. It was not vital to his profession, but he liked the idea of having a place to go to. He could not imagine waiting at home for the phone to ring. Instead, he preferred waiting in his office for the phone to ring. Another factor for keeping the office was the low rent. It was perhaps the cheapest in the city.

  He shut the door and pulled up a chair behind a small desk. A sofa was in the corner, which Callaway sometimes used as a bed. There were springs poking out from certain spots, but the sofa was not entirely uncomfortable. After an exhausting day, with nowhere else to go, the sofa was far better than sleeping on a park bench. If his office had a shower and bathroom, he would consider living there permanently just to save money.

  On the wall across from the sofa was a flat-screen TV, courtesy of a generous client. He grabbed the remote and turned the TV on. It was always on the twenty-four-hour news channel. Callaway always wanted to know what was going on in the city. There was no telling where he would find his next client.

  He then turned on the laptop on the desk. He hoped someone had contacted him about a job. After what happened the night before, he could use some good news.

  NINETEEN

  The members of the crime scene unit went over the crime scene diligently. They found three shell casings—one near the front right tire, one underneath the Chrysler, and one on the passenger’s side floor mat. The evidence further supported the theory that Isaiah was ambushed. The key was still in the ignition, and his seatbelt was still on, which indicated he did not even have a chance to react.

  Fisher pondered these facts over and over as she surveyed the crime scene. The press had gathered in full force. A star athlete had been murdered, and the press never failed to pander to public interest in such crimes. Were it not for Officer McConnell, the gathered press would be all over the scene. They could care less if they contaminated evidence. They had stories to file.

  Fisher found herself glancing over at McConnell. She was not sure why. Maybe it was because he was tall and handsome. And she also caught him staring in her direction a few times.

  She blushed whenever their eyes met. He merely smiled back. There was something happening between them, but she did not want to get distracted. She had a huge task in front of her, one that was tragic and personal.

  Holt was a wreck when he had driven away. He did not want to leave, but he trusted her. She would not miss any details that could help them find the person who had brutally killed Isaiah.

  Isaiah did not even see his attacker coming. His arms and hands had no defensive wounds, which further showed how his killer had snuck up on him.

  Fisher shook her head. No person should die like this, she thought.

  There was something else that troubled her about the scene. A six-foot-high wooden wall covered the back of the furniture store. There was no way the shooter could have driven up from behind, parked his car, fired into the Chrysler, and sped away.

  There was only one way in and out at the furniture store, and the Chrysler was parked in such a way that it faced the door. Isaiah would have seen the killer approach.

  What if he did, but he did nothing about it? What if he was waiting for his killer? That would explain why the keys were in the ignition, his seatbelt was secured, but the Chrysler was not running.

  What if Isaiah came here to meet someone, but then an argument broke out and he was killed because of it?

  This was a possibility, a very strong one.

  But there was another possibility. What if the shooter came on foot? That would explain the ambush theory, and a shooter fleeing on foot could have been seen by someone. Maybe the person who called 9-1-1 had seen the killer. At the moment, though, they had no idea who he was or where he was.

  Fisher rubbed her eyes. This was supposed to be her day off. With Isaiah being Holt’s nephew, Fisher was now the lead investigator on the case. The police department had guidelines for detectives working on cases involving loved ones. They were not entirely prohibited from participating, but it was frowned upon. There was fear that the personal nature of the investigation could affect the detective’s ability to do his or her job. But Fisher was now in charge, and Holt would assist her. She was not going to let him down.

  Isaiah’s body had already been taken to the morgue, and the CSU would be on the scene for the next couple of hours. There was nothing more she could do here. She decided to survey the area. She wanted to know why Isaiah was here in the first place.

  TWENTY

  Fisher ducked under the yellow police tape. Immediately, the press converged on her. They snapped photos of her, aimed video cameras in her direction, and hurled questions at her. She suddenly felt overwhelmed.

  It’s a good thing Holt’s not here, she thought. He would have punched some reporters.

  She was trying to push her way through when Officer McConnell appeared next to her. He held the press back as she made her way across the road. She gave him an appreciative nod. He tapped the brim of his cap in return.

  The furniture sto
re was surrounded by apartment buildings and retail stores. On the opposite side was a motel. Fisher hoped their security cameras caught something.

  As she got closer to the motel, her hopes were quickly dashed. The motel looked to be in far worse shape up close than from afar. The exterior paint was peeling or chipped, the cracked windows were held together by duct tape, and the front door handle was rusted and had turned brown.

  She went inside. A pungent smell hit her nose—a combination of mold and body odors.

  The lobby carpet was damp and stained. The interior walls were painted an ugly color, and the paint bubbled here and there. As she passed the elevators, a sign posted next to them made her pause: CHILDREN UNDER 18 NOT ACCOMPANIED BY AN ADULT ARE NOT PERMITTED TO USE THE ELEVATORS. STAIRS ONLY. She thought the rule was odd but continued ahead.

  She found the owner in a cramped office. He gave her a gap-toothed smile. He was wearing an old shirt, jeans, and a large buckled belt.

  “Morning, ma’am,” he said.

  She flashed her badge. “What’s with the sign at the elevators?” she asked out of curiosity.

  “Oh, that,” the owner replied with a short laugh. “The elevators don’t always work properly. We once had a kid get stuck in them. It took the firefighters two hours to get him out. The kid was traumatized from the ordeal. I figured I’d raise the age limit for elevator users in case something like that ever happened again.”

  “Didn’t the kid’s parents sue you?”

  “They wanted to, but once they realized this place was worth less than the cost of hiring a lawyer, they decided not to.”