THOMAS FINCHAM
THE MISSING MISTRESS
A LEE CALLAWAY MYSTERY
The Missing Mistress © Thomas Fincham 2019
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, including the right to reproduce this work or portions thereof, in any form.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Read Thomas Fincham’s Starter Library for FREE when you sign up to my Reader’s Group.
GET MY FREE E-BOOK
Visit the author’s website:
www.finchambooks.com
Contact:
contact@finchambooks.com
HYDER ALI
The Silent Reporter (Hyder Ali #1)
The Rogue Reporter (Hyder Ali #2)
The Runaway Reporter (Hyder Ali #3)
The Serial Reporter (Hyder Ali #4)
The Street Reporter (Hyder Ali #5)
The Student Reporter (Hyder Ali #0)
MARTIN RHODES
Close Your Eyes (Martin Rhodes #1)
Cross Your Heart (Martin Rhodes #2)
Say Your Prayers (Martin Rhodes #3)
Fear Your Enemy (Martin Rhodes #0)
ECHO ROSE
The Rose Garden (Echo Rose #1)
The Rose Tattoo (Echo Rose #2)
The Rose Thorn (Echo Rose #3)
The Rose Water (Echo Rose #4)
STANDALONE
The Blue Hornet
The October Five
The Paperboys Club
Killing Them Gently
The Solaire Trilogy
FOREWORD
Dear Reader,
Thank you for checking out my work. The Missing Mistress is book #5 in the Lee Callaway series.
After the last book, The Invisible Wife, I thought I was done with Callaway. But then I was hit with a question: what if Callaway was tasked to find a person who had vanished in thin air. I knew I wanted to find out what happens and the only way to do that was to write this book.
I know this sounds cliché, but I hope you enjoy reading The Missing Mistress as much as I have enjoyed writing it.
Thank you again for your support. Without you, I wouldn’t get to do what I do.
Thomas Fincham
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
SIXTY-FIVE
SIXTY-SIX
SIXTY-SEVEN
SIXTY-EIGHT
SIXTY-NINE
SEVENTY
SEVENTY-ONE
SEVENTY-TWO
SEVENTY-THREE
SEVENTY-FOUR
SEVENTY-FIVE
SEVENTY-SIX
SEVENTY-SEVEN
SEVENTY-EIGHT
SEVENTY-NINE
EIGHTY
EIGHTY-ONE
EIGHTY-TWO
EIGHTY-THREE
EIGHTY-FOUR
EIGHTY-FIVE
EIGHTY-SIX
EIGHTY-SEVEN
EIGHTY-EIGHT
EIGHTY-NINE
NINETY
NINETY-ONE
NINETY-TWO
NINETY-THREE
NINETY-FOUR
NINETY-FIVE
NINETY-SIX
NINETY-SEVEN
NINETY-EIGHT
NINETY-NINE
ONE-HUNDRED
ONE-HUNDRED ONE
ONE-HUNDRED TWO
ONE-HUNDRED THREE
ONE-HUNDRED FOUR
ONE-HUNDRED FIVE
ONE-HUNDRED SIX
ONE-HUNDRED SEVEN
ONE
He stood before a large window that stretched the length of an entire wall, taking in his unobstructed view of the city. The average person coveted such a view, but it did not come cheap.
Fortunately, Rufus James Parish, or R.J., as he was commonly known, was one of the richest men in Milton.
Parish was short and fat. He wore a three-piece custom-made suit that snugly fit his body. His head was shaved clean, and he wore a gold diamond ring on his pinky finger. Parish would have loved to have had a full set of hair, but he began to bald prematurely in his twenties. By his thirties, his hair was gone. He could afford a hair transplant, but the process looked too painful. Wearing a wig was out of the question too. The thought of wearing someone else’s hair disgusted him.
He wished he was taller, but that was genetics. His father was five-five and his mother barely touched five-feet. As for the extra weight, his work required him to sit at a desk for hours. Plus, he was never big on exercise.
Parish’s sheer will and determination more than made up for his lack of physical attributes. Parish Holdings Inc. had projects throughout the city. They had built a bridge, a shopping mall, and was now in the process of completing a sports stadium.
But things were not all rosy.
Parish had made the mistake of investing in foreign projects. He did not fully understand the customs and business practices of the countries the projects were located in. He had always been able to bribe his way into any situation, but in certain places, bribery was hard to do.
Parish was careful, however. Greasing the palms of the right officials was never explicit nor forceful, only being done as a last resort. Bribery was a tactic he used on occasion, but it was necessary in his line of work.
Hundreds of millions of dollars were at stake, and it was a cutthroat business. Parish believed he was not alone in resorting to bribes if need be.
He took a puff of his cigar and blew out a cloud of thick smoke.
Those foreign projects had cost him dearly. His investors were not pleased. There were even a few rogue investors who wanted him out as president and CEO.
He would never let that happen. Parish Holdings Inc. would not exist without R.J. Parish. He made the company what it was.
He had started the business almost thirty years ago with a ten-thousand-dollar loan from his father. His parents were poor middle class. His father worked as a tailor and his mother was a homemaker. Their loan was a lot of money for them, but his father believed in him.
By the time his father died,
Parish had made his first million. Right now, the company was now worth close to half a billion, even with all the accumulated debt.
Parish could feel his grip on the company was slipping away. He needed projects that were secure and long-term. Projects that were backed by the government.
He had a plan, one he had been working on for months. Everything was going accordingly until last night.
He took another puff.
The phone on his desk rang. He walked over and pressed a button. His secretary’s voice came on the line, “Mr. Parish, there is someone here to see you.”
“Let him in,” he said, putting his cigar in an ashtray.
The door opened and a man in a black suit came in. His hair was jet black, his eyes were black as coal, and his skin was pale.
Parish got shivers whenever he looked the man directly in his eyes. They were cold, lifeless. But Parish had come to rely on him. The man was discreet and resourceful.
“Viggo,” Parish said. “I hope you have some good news for me.”
Viggo shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
Parish grimaced.
“I lost the trail,” Viggo said.
Parish took a deep breath and sat down behind the desk. He took a moment to collect his thoughts. He then turned to Viggo. “Do whatever you have to and find her!”
Parish suddenly felt like the walls around him were closing in.
He knew if they could not locate her, everything he had worked so hard for would come to an end.
TWO
Dana Fisher drove down the freeway’s shoulder at top speed, blaring her emergency siren.
It was early morning rush hour, and Dana was getting plenty of sour looks from commuters either bound for work or returning from overnight shifts. Either way, they were not happy to be stuck in traffic. They wanted to be at their destinations at their regular times.
That will not be possible today, she thought. There’s been an accident on the freeway.
Under normal circumstances, it was the Milton Department of Transportation’s prerogative to investigate such matters. Seeing that the call came to her told her this was not an ordinary car crash.
Fisher was a ten-year veteran of the Milton Police Department. As a Homicide Detective, she had solved some of the most brutal crimes imaginable. Nothing fazed her anymore.
Up ahead, she saw the yellow police tape that was cordoning off the accident scene. She slowed her vehicle and a uniformed officer raised the tape to let her through.
She drove further up and parked her SUV next to a police cruiser.
Fisher was five-foot-five. She weighed close to a hundred and ten pounds. She had dark shoulder-length hair and her thin nose pointed upwards. Her nose moved whenever she opened her mouth.
She spotted an officer standing next to another police cruiser. The officer was tall, with deep blue eyes, a prominent chin, and blond hair that was hidden underneath his police cap.
She smiled when she saw him.
Fisher and Officer Lance McConnell were in a relationship. They had still not officially declared each other boyfriend and girlfriend, nor had they uttered the words, I love you, yet, but there was a strong attraction between them.
They came from law enforcement backgrounds, so they both knew how demanding their jobs were. As such, neither had to tell the other that the job took priority over anything else, even their relationship.
When she was deep in an investigation, Fisher ended up working eighty to ninety-hour weeks. She once spent five days straight at the police station, eating takeout and sleeping in the breakroom. She felt if the victim’s family could not eat or sleep because of the horror of what had happened, why should she? They wanted justice, and Fisher was tasked with providing it for them.
She knew such a work schedule was no way to live. Eventually, her lifestyle would catch up to her. But she did try to go for a jog each morning.
That counts for something, right? she thought.
She was jogging when the call came. She quickly turned back, showered, dressed, and rushed over.
There was another thing she liked about McConnell. He was low maintenance. He did not call her every hour of the day, wanting to know what she was up to. He trusted her, and he gave her the space she needed in her work life and personal life.
She hoped one day that would change. It would be nice to have someone waiting for her when she returned home, but that would be later when their relationship had moved a few levels up.
Right now, they were happy with their arrangement.
McConnell was writing something on his notepad. He looked up and smiled at her. She walked up to him and said, “I’m surprised they called you.”
“They pretty much called everyone who was within five miles of the freeway.”
“Why?” Fisher asked, surprised. “What’s so different about this car accident?”
“Take a look.”
McConnell pointed in the other direction. She walked around the police cruiser. At least half a dozen vehicles were involved in a pile-up, their front bumpers damaged and mangled. Smoke was coming out from under the hood of at least three vehicles.
She squinted and realized the cause of the accident.
A Ford truck had smashed into the back of a Suzuki sedan, which then pushed the sedan into a concrete barrier.
Fisher frowned. I still don’t know why I’m here.
As if reading her thoughts, McConnell said, “Go around to the front of the sedan.”
She looked at him, but his face did not give anything away. McConnell was great at playing poker. It was hard to read his emotions, which meant, if she wanted to find out, she would have to do it herself.
She sighed and walked toward the sedan. When she came around to the front, she saw what all the commotion was about.
Spread across the sedan’s windshield was a man’s body.
This was no accident, she thought. This was deliberate.
THREE
Detective Gregory Holt parked next to his partner’s SUV. He, too, had reservations about why he was being called to a traffic accident. But it was not the first time he had investigated a crime committed on the freeway. There were cases of road rage that resulted in a fatality. Those constituted homicides, and as such came within his jurisdiction. But in those instances, he was usually called in after the Department of Transportation had taken control of the scene. Today was different, and he already knew why.
On his drive over to the scene, he heard the news on the radio. Someone had fallen from an overpass onto a moving vehicle below. Drivers on the freeway were posting information on all the social media sites. It seemed to Holt like everyone with a cell phone had become an armchair reporter.
This was a new way of disseminating information. Everything was being documented. This gave the police more evidence to sift through when investigating a crime. A cell phone recording could contradict false statements made at the scene. An image taken at the scene could lead to an arrest. A random post could reveal the missing piece to solving a case. But Holt knew that at the same time, there were also drawbacks. Witnesses at the scene may break the news first online, which the media would latch onto. This could give the perpetrator information on how to elude capture. That was why the authorities preferred to hold certain information back. They wanted the element of surprise when in pursuit of a suspect. Also, not all the information posted was pertinent and could lead the investigation in a dozen directions.
Holt did not believe every word that was said on the radio or posted online. He would observe the scene with his own eyes and form his own conclusions.
Holt was six-four and weighed close to two hundred and fifty pounds. He had thick arms, thick hands, and a thick neck which made his shirt collar tight. He was forever adjusting his collar. He could always get a larger sized shirt, but he did not like having a loose shirt around his neck.
His eyes were small and black, and they t
ook in information at a rapid pace. This was essential in his line of work. Even the smallest detail could be a clue to breaking a case. As such, he never ignored even the most mundane details.
He rubbed his wedding ring three times, a private ritual he did before each new investigation. He did this to remind him of why he chose to be a detective: he wanted to make the world a better place for his family.
He moved further up when he saw Fisher and McConnell next to a sedan. A white sheet was draped over the front of the vehicle.
“Morning, partner,” Fisher said as he approached them.
“Morning,” he replied. He then gave a slight nod in McConnell’s direction. In the department, it was no longer a secret that Fisher and McConnell were dating. Initially, Holt had reservations about an office relationship. He did not want to see Fisher get hurt, which could then affect her career. Fisher’s ultimate desire, a fact she did not hesitate to remind Holt, was to become captain one day. Holt had no doubt Fisher would make a great captain, and the first female one at the Milton P.D. too. But an office romance gone wrong could be extra baggage she might not want to carry as she progressed up the ladder.
Everything Fisher told him about McConnell made McConnell okay in Holt’s book, however.
McConnell smiled and nodded in return.
Holt asked Fisher, “What do we know so far?”
“The jumper’s name is David Becker,” Fisher replied. She held up a wallet. “It was in his pants. He’s forty-two years old. He has a wedding band on his ring finger, which would indicate he’s married. However, there are no photos of his wife in his wallet, but there are photos of his two kids. A boy and a girl.”
“Recently separated?” Holt said.
“That would be my guess.”
“It could explain why he chose to jump.”
“How do you know he wasn’t pushed?” Fisher asked.
“I don’t, but in my experience, a change in marital status, a sudden loss of employment, or other depressing things could lead many people to end their life.”
Fisher nodded. He knew she had come to the same conclusion, but as good detectives, they always tried to keep an open mind.