But Not For Naught: A Clint Wolf Novel (Clint Wolf Mystery Series Book 5)
Author: Bourg, BJ
Date: 2018-02-23

BUT NOT

FOR NAUGHT

A Clint Wolf Novel

(Book 5)

___________________

BY

BJ BOURG

www.bjbourg.com

BUT NOT FOR NAUGHT

A Clint Wolf Novel (Book 5) by BJ Bourg

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

Copyright © 2018 by BJ Bourg
ISBN-13:

ISBN-10:

Cover design by Christine Savoie of Bayou Cover Designs

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 1

“Not for nothing had he been exposed to the pitiless struggles for life…” – Jack London (THE CALL OF THE WILD)

18 years earlier…

Sunday, June 14

Breechville, Kentucky

The young boy had spent most of the morning watching Stepdad dip a brush in a bucket and splash bright white paint all over the side of the house. He had begged to help, but Stepdad told him to go away, so he sat under a tree and played with his Tonka truck while keeping a curious eye on the progress.

He couldn’t tell time, but it wasn’t long after he and Sissy—it’s what he called his older sister—finished eating macaroni and cheese that he found himself all alone in the front yard with the bucket and paint brushes. Stepdad told him he couldn’t help with the wall, so he began looking for something else to paint. His eyes lit up when he noticed the old truck parked on the concrete driveway. He had heard Stepdad complaining to Mom about not having enough money to paint the truck. He smiled. Stepdad was always mad and saying bad words. This was his chance to make him happy.

The boy wrapped his small fingers around the bucket of paint and tried to lift it. “Wow,” he said out loud. “This is heavy.”

He started to slide the bucket by pulling on the wire handle, but it tilted over and paint spilled onto the dirt ground. He crossed his little arms and wondered what to do. He couldn’t ask Stepdad, because he wanted to surprise him and make him happy. Maybe then he wouldn’t be so mad all the time and he might not slap them anymore.

“I’ve got it!” The boy rushed to the bucket of water and removed the paintbrush from where it was submerged. He dipped the brush in the paint and walked across the yard and toward the truck, holding his left hand under the bristles to keep from getting paint on the grass. When he reached the truck, he started stroking the surface with the brush, smiling as the white paint began to cover the ugly color of the truck. “That looks better!”

The boy made trip after trip to the paint bucket. His left hand was covered in paint and he rubbed it repeatedly on his jean shorts, but he couldn’t get all of the paint off of it. His fingers were sticky and his hand smelled funny, but at least the truck was looking better. He was making another trip to the truck when the screen door opened and then slammed shut.

“Brother, what are you doing?” Sissy cried, running across the yard. “Are you crazy? Stepdad’s going to be mad!”

The boy smiled. “No, he’s going to be happy, Sissy. I’m helping him make his truck a pretty color.”

Sissy slapped her hands to her face. “We have to clean this right now. Go get the hosepipe.”

“But why? It looks so—”

“Just do it before Stepdad wakes up!”

The boy frowned. Sissy had never spoken like that to him and it scared him. Lowering his head, he trudged toward the side of the house where the green water hose was located. When Stepdad wasn’t around and Mom was home from work, she let them spray each other with the water, and he wanted to do that now. Smiling suddenly, he bounded the last few steps to the water hose and twisted the knob. He grabbed the nozzle and held it like a gun, aiming it right at Sissy as he ran across the yard. The water hose was long, and it slid behind him like a large green snake.

“I’m going to get you,” the boy shouted, smashing the nozzle and laughing as a stream of water shot in Sissy’s direction.

Sissy was on her knees rubbing a rag against the side of the truck when the water reached her. She screamed and jumped to her feet, startled and angry. Her wet blonde hair dangled in front of her face as she glowered at him. “Don’t do that! You need to help me—”

“What the hell are you doing to my truck?”

The boy dropped the water hose when he heard Stepdad’s voice. His knees began to shake and he watched in horror as the large man stomped down the steps, heading straight for Sissy.

“Why did you put that paint on my truck?” he demanded of Sissy. “What is wrong with you?”

Sissy shook her head and dropped the rag. “I…I was trying to clean it off.”

Stepdad lifted his hand high in the air when he reached Sissy and she squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for what she knew was coming.

“I did it!” the boy blurted, regretting it as soon as he said it.

Stepdad hesitated—his hand high in the air—and turned to look at him. “You did this?”

His teeth chattering nervously, the boy nodded.

“Get your ass over here,” Stepdad said, waving for the boy to join him and Sissy.

The boy walked as slowly as he could, keeping his head down as he approached the outer edges of his stepdad’s shadow. It made the man seem larger than life, and he certainly didn’t need any help. The boy had been on the receiving end of Stepdad’s anger many times, and he knew what was coming.

As soon as he made it to the driveway, Stepdad reached over and pulled him forward, knocking him off his feet. The boy fell to the ground and skinned the palm of one hand and the elbow of his opposite arm. Grabbing a handful of his hair, Stepdad jerked him upright. “Why the hell did you do that? Huh? Answer me!”

The boy just stood trembling, trying his best not to cry. He knew if he cried it would only be worse. When he didn’t answer, Stepdad slapped him right across the face, knocking him to the ground. His left ear rang and the side of his face stung. Stepdad’s hands were like sandpaper and it felt like his face was bleeding.

The boy pushed himself slowly to his hands and knees. He was dazed and his vision was blurry, but he could clearly hear Sissy yelling at Stepdad to leave him alone. He didn’t like it when Sissy got involved, because they both ended up getting beat up. He was about to tell her it was okay when Stepdad let out an angry snarl and shoved the palm of his hand roughly into her chest.

Sissy’s arms flailed into the air as she fell backward. When she landed, the sound of her head smashing against the hard concrete reminded the boy of the time he slammed a watermelon on the road just to see what would happen.

“Sissy!” The boy lunged from the ground and rushed toward his sister, but Stepdad backhanded him across the chest and sent him sprawling.

“Get up, girl,” Stepdad said, glaring down at Sissy. “I mean it. If you don’t get up right now, I’m going to punish you for a week.”

The boy stared wide-eyed from his place in the dirt. Sissy’s body was shaking in a weird way but, other than that, she wasn’t moving.

“I’m not kidding…get up,” Stepdad said, his voice sounding louder. He reached over and, grabbing her by the arm, jerked her to a seated position. When he let go of her arm, she collapsed in a lifeless heap to the ground.

Tears welled up in the boy’s eyes and rolled down his cheeks. “Is Sissy going to be okay?”

Stepdad glanced around the neighborhood. “Shut up and go inside—right now!”

The boy stood shakily to his feet and stared a second longer at his sister, whose lifeless body lay on the ground. She wore her favorite yellow dress and dirty white sneakers and the boy suddenly felt bad for spraying her with the water hose—

“I said get in the house,” Stepdad bellowed, shoving a finger toward the front door.

The boy rushed to the house and let the screen door slam shut behind him. He ran to the living room and then scrambled onto the sofa that was pushed up against the window. He watched through a crack in the curtain as Stepdad lifted Sissy into his arms and began screaming for help. Moments later, his cries got the attention of one of the neighbors, who ran outside holding a cordless phone in her hand.

Soon after, sirens sounded and a big square ambulance drove up. Mommy arrived a few minutes later and she ran to the ambulance people who were working on Sissy. The boy could hear Stepdad saying he came outside and found her like that. He wanted to run outside and tell Mommy he was lying, but he was too afraid.

He didn’t know why Sissy wasn’t moving, but she looked like Winter—their white German shepherd—did when she had gone to Doggie Heaven. It was the saddest night of his life. They had stayed up all night crying when that happened…well, except for Stepdad. He had told them to shut up so he could get some sleep.

The boy watched as the people in the ambulance uniform put Sissy in the back of the wagon. Mom got in the back with Sissy and Stepdad got in his newly painted truck to follow them. When everyone was gone, he just sat there staring out the window until it got too dark to see anymore. He then padded to his room and slipped into bed. He cried himself to sleep, wondering if Sissy was gone forever like Winter.

CHAPTER 2

Friday, November 18

Mechant Loup, Louisiana

It was almost noon when I guided the ten-passenger tour boat under a tree that had fallen during a thunderstorm last summer. The tree had come to rest against a neighboring cypress and was suspended about twenty feet above the water. Branches covered the length of the tree trunk and thick Spanish moss hung like ghosts from their gnarled fingers, making for an interesting tunnel under which to coast. Every one of the six passengers in the boat turned their attention to the tree as we passed under it, no doubt looking for snakes.

“Clint Wolf—is that your name?” asked one of the four women onboard, her voice betraying her nervousness.

Before I could answer, my mother, Nancy, spoke up from her perch nearest me on the bench situated to the left side of the boat. While I got my dark hair and eyes from her, I certainly didn’t get her height. At five-two, she was eight inches shorter than me.

“He’s Chief Investigator Clint Wolf,” Mom corrected. “He’s Mechant Loup’s first official investigator. He took the day off from his real job and he’s only doing this swamp tour as a favor to me. I’ve lived in the city of La Mort all my life and have never been on one of these boats. My husband is working overseas for three months, so I’m staying with Clint and his fiancée for Thanksgiving. Um, her name is Susan and she’s the Chief of Police here.”

The woman cast an odd look in my mom’s direction—as though Mom had provided more information than the woman wanted to know—and then glanced back up at the tree. “What do we do if a snake falls out of the tree?”

“Whatever you do,” I said flatly, “don’t jump in the water, because it’s filled with alligators.”

Everyone began casting nervous glances around, including my mother.

“Can they jump in the boat?” one of the men asked. He was a young guy with a pale complexion and he wore a dress shirt and slacks. “The alligators, I mean?”

As I puttered along, I told them the story of how Dexter Boudreaux had lost his arm. There were gasps from some of the tourists and the guy with the slacks pulled back from the edge of the boat. I allowed the story to sink in with them for a moment before I spoke again.

“So, while we look for Godzator,” I finally said, “why don’t each of you introduce yourselves and share what brings y’all to the southernmost tip of Louisiana.” I nodded toward the woman who’d asked about snakes. “Why don’t you go first?”

A cold front was forecasted to blow through tonight, but at the moment it was eighty degrees and the young woman wore a light blue romper. She pulled her top a little higher on her chest and frowned. “I’m Shirley. I met a guy online who’s from here and who was supposed to be rich and good looking, but it turns out he lives with his mom and he posted a picture he found on a modeling site. He doesn’t even have a car.”

“Oh, dear,” my mom said, “thank God you weren’t kidnapped and murdered.”

The girl nodded. “Since I’d already driven six hundred miles to be here, I decided I’d do something fun. I’ve never been on a swamp tour, so, here I am.”

I nodded to a fellow with short-cropped dirty blond hair. He sat beside a woman with long dark hair. They were obviously a couple. “What about you two?”

“Matthew and Jill Bernard,” the man said. He nodded to my mother. “Like you, we’re here for Thanksgiving—visiting my mom. I joined the service four years ago and haven’t seen her since.” He lowered his eyes. “It seems she’s sick and might need a kidney transplant.”

“He was stationed in Hawaii and we got to live there for over a year,” Jill explained, seemingly unbothered by the plight of her mother-in-law. “We’re in New York now, but I didn’t want to leave the Islands.”

The guy with the dress clothes chimed in next, shoving his thumb in the direction of the girl sitting on the opposite row and at the far end of the bench. “My sister dragged me out here. We came down from—”

“Look!” Shirley jumped to her feet and pointed out in the distance ahead of the boat. “Is that Godzator?”

Achilles was resting at my feet and he popped his head up when he heard the tone of Shirley’s voice. I leaned toward my right to see past her, shook my head. “No, that’s a nice size gator, but it’s not Godzator.”

Everyone crowded toward the front of the boat to get a better view, and some of them snapped pictures from their cell phones. Achilles’ ears were perked up and he rose to a seated position. “Stay,” I said calmly.

“Can we get closer?” Matthew asked.

I nodded and guided the boat slowly toward the giant lizard. I shut off the engine when we were fifty feet away and held up my hand for them to be quiet and remain still. “If it feels threatened,” I whispered, “it’ll disappear beneath the surface.”

We all watched as the alligator glided effortlessly through the water, moving closer to our location. When it was about twenty feet from the boat, someone gasped and asked if we were in danger. At the sound of the voice, the alligator instantly disappeared from view, like a ninja on the water.

I continued the tour and we were able to locate a dozen more alligators, thanks to the warm weather we’d been having. Once I’d reached the end of the route, I turned around and headed back to Brennan Boudreaux’s restaurant on the water. The brother of former mayor Dexter Boudreaux, the elderly man owned Brennan’s Seafood and Swamp Tours. When I’d given up my tour business to go back into law enforcement work, I donated my equipment to Brennan and he invited me to give a tour anytime I felt like it.

“Now that you’re not taking business away from me,” he had drawled, “I guess we can work together from time to time.”

I tied the boat to the dock at Brennan’s Seafood and Swamp Tours and watched as the passengers disembarked one at a time. They all tried to give me a tip when they walked by, but I refused to take their money.

“I do this for fun now,” I explained, “but if y’all insist on parting with the extra money, there’s a church south of town that’s taking donations to feed needy families for Thanksgiving.”

They loved the idea and most of them hurried off, but Jill Bernard stopped and asked if she could pet Achilles. I told him to sit and then placed a hand on his head while he smelled Jill’s hand. He then turned his head, seemingly bored with her, and I nodded. After rubbing his ears for a few seconds and talking in baby-speak, she thanked me again for the tour and turned to follow her husband down the dock.

“Is that it?” my mom asked.

I gathered up the tour paperwork and nodded. “I’ll turn this in and we can head home.”

Once we were in my old truck, I fired up the engine and headed for Main Street, where I turned south. My mom was beaming and she raved about the swamp tour from the second we left Boudreaux’s place until I parked in the driveway of the house I shared with Susan. My mom had spoken at length to every person on the boat—her first line into every conversation was, “Who’s your momma?”—and she now claimed to be five friends richer. “I even have their phone numbers and I’m going to call them.”

I groaned silently, let Achilles into the back gate, and then followed my mom inside, where I called for Susan. She didn’t answer and my mom turned her frowning face in my direction. “Where could she be? Do you think she’s okay? Maybe she fell and can’t get back up.”

Ever since the bone in Susan’s right leg had snapped clean during her fight against Antonina Ivanov, she had been hobbling around on crutches. While she never complained, I knew she was frustrated to not be able to do everything she was accustomed to doing—including training every day.

“I know where she is,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

I then headed across the street to the gym we had built for Susan’s fight training. Although she swore her last fight was her final fight, I wouldn’t hold it against her if she wanted to get back into the cage. Truth be told, I always got a rush out of watching her fight. Sure, my nerves were all tied up in knots during the fight, but a surge of excitement would course through me every time she landed a hard punch or kick or when she’d slam her opponent to the ground.

Susan didn’t look in my direction when I pushed through the door. She was standing in front of a heavy bag—her right leg resting gingerly against the floor—executing punch combinations with vicious intentions, careful not to put too much weight on her broken leg. She dipped to the right and left as the punches flowed seamlessly from one to the other. She was punching bare knuckled and her fists made a sharp splat with each strike.

“What’re you doing?” I asked. “You’ve got a broken leg.”

“I’m training for my next fight.”

I smiled to myself. I knew you couldn’t stay away from the cage. “Oh, yeah, when’s your next fight?”

She stopped what she was doing and wiped a stream of sweat from her tanned face. As her hand brushed against her cheek, I couldn’t help but notice the torn skin on her knuckles and the spots of blood leaking between her fingers. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her brown eyes sparkled when they met mine. “I have no clue,” she explained. “It could be tomorrow…next week…or three months from now. Whenever it is, I need to be ready—and so should you.”

I frowned. “Huh? Are you going to jump me?”

Laughing, she hobbled toward me and put a hand on my face before pressing her moist lips to mine. She was only a couple of inches shorter than me and, while her body was made for combat, she was more beautiful and sexy than any woman I’d ever known. The longer we were together, the more I came to know and love her. Hell, we could even finish most of each other’s sentences, but I had no clue what fight she was talking about.

When she pulled away, she said, “In our line of work, we never know when our next fight will be, so we have to always be prepared.”

“Well,” I said, pulling her by the waist, “I hope you let your leg heal up before you put yourself in a position to get into another fight. Remember what the doctor said; if you don’t let it heal, she’ll have to open you up and put pins in your leg.”

Susan grunted. “Yes, Mother.”

CHAPTER 3

Saturday, November 19

“Clint…Clint!” Susan’s voice broke through my dreams. “Your phone’s going off.”

I rolled away from her smooth body and snatched my phone from the nightstand, instantly awake. “Yeah…this is Clint.”

“Clint, I need you out at Mitch Taylor’s Corner Pub.” It was Officer Amy Cooke and her voice was strained. “There’s been a murder.”

I glanced at the digital clock on the dresser across the room. It was a little after five in the morning. “Anyone I know?”

“It was Mitch—he was shot in the back inside his place.”

“Oh, no.” I rubbed my face. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“What is it?” Susan asked when I rolled out of bed and reached for the jeans draped over the back of the chair on my side of the room.

“Mitch was murdered last night.”

I could see her face in the dim glow from the clock and she frowned. “Who would want to kill Mitch? He’s as nice as they come.”

I just nodded and hurried through getting dressed and brushing my teeth. After shoving my pistol in my waistband, I kissed her forehead and headed out the door. I shivered when the cool air hit me. That’s what all the rain was about, I thought. I’d awakened at about one-thirty to the sound of heavy rain pounding the roof. I guess the cold front made it here.

It wasn’t raining anymore, but the highway still glistened from the downpour several hours earlier. The Corner Pub was along Washington Avenue, about four blocks up from the police department. While it was primarily a barroom, Mitch served hamburgers for lunch and sometimes dinner. His burgers were among the best. I parked along the sidewalk behind Amy’s marked cruiser and stepped out, joining her under the overhang. She was writing in her notepad and looked up when I approached.

“Hey, Clint, sorry to wake you.” She pushed a strand of blonde hair from her face. “He’s inside. Looks like he was shot while talking on the phone.”

“Someone he knew?” I asked.

“Not likely.” Amy waved for me to follow as she led the way through the door and into the crime scene.

Across the hardwood floor from the entrance was a long mahogany bar that stretched from right to left inside the dining area. Round tables with chairs resting atop them littered the dining room. All of the barstools except one were neatly in place. The one barstool out of place was pulled out slightly, as though someone had been sitting there.

I snatched my flashlight from my back pocket and shined it across the floor, searching for wet shoe prints.

“Bone dry,” Amy said. “Whoever did it must’ve been inside before the rain started.”

“Which was what time?”

“The rain?”

I nodded.

“It started drizzling around one o’clock and was raining heavy thirty minutes later. It ended around two-thirty.”

“Who reported it?”

“His girlfriend,” Amy explained. “She said she’s usually asleep when he gets home, but the rain woke her up and she went into the living room, where she fell asleep on the sofa. She said she woke up at four-thirty and was surprised he didn’t wake her up when he got home. She went into the bedroom and realized he wasn’t there. She began calling his cell phone and then called the bar. When he didn’t answer, she started thinking he wrecked in the bad weather and started freaking out. She called in a welfare complaint and I came out here to find the main door open, the screen door closed, and the lights still on.”

When I approached the bar—careful not to step on anything that might be evidence—I noticed a saltshaker knocked over and a small pile of salt on the bar. It was the only thing out of place.

Amy pointed a slender finger at the barstool. “It looks like someone was sitting there and knocked the saltshaker over when they got up. It could’ve been the robber getting up to go shoot Mitch in the kitchen, out of sight of the street.”

“What makes you think this was a robbery?” I asked.

“The register’s open and empty, and there’s a ledger under the counter showing he took in a little over a thousand dollars last night.”

I nodded and followed Amy past the bar to the left and down a narrow hallway that ended at the kitchen. There, slumped on the floor against the far wall, was Mitch Taylor, the owner. I’d eaten there at least a few dozen times. Although I could only see one side of the victim’s face, there was no mistaking the man.

“It looks like the shooter snuck back here,” Amy explained, “and shot him as he was speaking on the phone.”

I approached Mitch’s lifeless body and visually examined it. There were no obvious injuries. Had I not known better, I would’ve thought Mitch was sleeping on the job. Well, except for his open eyes—that wasn’t normal.

The phone was pale green and mounted to the wall. The handset was attached by a long, spirally cord and it rested on the ground just inches from Mitch’s outstretched hand.

I carefully leaned over his body and used my light to examine his back. There was one gunshot a little left of centerline and in the area of his heart. There was no stippling or fouling, so it was fired from at least a few feet away. Amy’s scenario wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibilities.

“I’m thinking it’s a revolver,” Amy offered. “I couldn’t find a casing anywhere, so it must be a wheel-gun.”

I twisted around from my squatting position and shined my light in all directions across the floor. I didn’t see an obvious casing, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t rolled up under the sink or fallen into a crevice. “Once I finish processing the scene, we’ll tear this place apart,” I said.

“I didn’t touch anything,” she acknowledged, “so I could’ve missed it, but if he was shot from the doorway it should be right in this area.”

I straightened and glanced at the ceiling. “Any cameras in the place?”

“Not that I saw.”

“That figures.” I walked back toward the front, where light was starting to spill in from the rising sun, and stopped in the dining area. I glanced around, making a mental note of all the items I’d need to fingerprint. Like any good patrol officer, Amy had traveled along the outer edges of the room to get to and from the crime scene, taking a path least likely to have been used by the killer. I glanced at her. “Is Takecia working days?”

She nodded. Takecia Gayle was one of Susan’s officers who worked the day shift—she was also a damn good fighter—and she should be getting on duty soon.

“Do you want me to call her to help with the scene, or do you—?”

“Hell no,” Amy said quickly. “I want to help.”

Before heading to my Tahoe to get my crime scene box, I asked her if she’d notified Mitch’s girlfriend.

“Since they live out of the town limits, I got a shift supervisor from the Chateau Parish Sheriff’s Office to deliver the bad news.”

CHAPTER 4

Three hours later…

I was covered in black fingerprint powder as I squatted behind the bar with Amy. After processing the scene and relinquishing the body to the coroner’s investigator, Amy and I had set about dusting everything that could’ve possibly been touched by the killer—including the floor. We’d recovered some smudges and a palm print from the bar, two fingerprints and a few smudges from one of the tables, and four prints from the register. All of the other tables and the rest of the bar were void of prints and had circular streak marks, which told me Mitch had cleaned up the place prior to being shot.

“Whoever did this wasn’t very savvy,” Amy surmised. “They didn’t even wear gloves.”

I was staring thoughtfully at one of the fingerprints we’d recovered from the register. It was of great quality, and that had me puzzled a bit.

“You’ve got a strange expression on your face,” Amy said, tugging at the front of her uniform shirt. She always kept the top three buttons undone, and that often drew the ire of local townswomen, especially when they caught their husbands or boyfriends staring.

I handed her the print. “This print is perfect.”

She studied it and shrugged. “Okay?”

“More evidence that the murder happened before the rain started—or the shooter was already inside,” I explained. “We need to find out who was here last night and into this morning.”

Amy nodded and stood to her feet. “I’ll start canvassing the businesses, looking for surveillance cameras.”

“Good idea.” I followed her outside, where it was cool and cloudy, and watched her head across the street to one of the businesses. When she disappeared inside, I loaded my gear into my truck and decided to give the bar one more pass-over in an attempt to locate the spent shell casing.

I ducked under the crime scene tape tied to the front posts and opened the screen door. The spring squealed as it jerked the door shut behind me. It was a sound that brought back fond memories of rushing out the door at my grandpa’s house when I was a kid. The sound of the spring and the door slamming shut behind me signaled freedom. Unlike youngsters nowadays, I couldn’t wait to go play outside. My mom or my dad—when he was home from offshore—often had to hunt me down and drag me back to the house when the sun went down. Sometimes, I fought back.

I made my way back to the kitchen and dropped to my hands and knees. I couldn’t help but think we’d missed something. The shell casing had to be here somewhere. Using my flashlight, I went over the scene again and again, beginning in the kitchen and working my way out into the hallway and then the dining area. Knowing how casings can ricochet off of walls and roll along hardwood floors or get stuck under boots and carried away, I crawled under the bar counter and began searching the floor inch by inch—

“Breakfast is on me, Mitch!” called a loud and hoarse voice from the doorway. “I’m buying today!”

I snapped upright and jumped to my feet, turning my attention toward the door. A drunken man was standing on wobbly legs across the counter staring back at me. His face was thick and red. The curly white hair on his head grew down into his beard, where it completed a white circle—well, it was white save for the stains on his moustache and chin. I recognized him as one of the local drunks named Jack Billiot who lived on the east side of town near the water. He pointed a long crusted index fingernail in my face. “You don’t work here.”

“And you must be blind.” I walked around the counter. “Didn’t you see the police tape? This is a crime scene.”

Jack’s eyes grew wide when he saw the pistol on my side and the badge clipped to the front of my belt. He scurried backward toward the door, his brown sandals dragging the ground. “No need to get physical,” he said.

He hurried to where a rusted bicycle was leaning against one of the columns out front. His white pants were stained and drooped low on his waist, and I was thankful his jacket covered his backside. I watched him throw a leg over the bike and he pushed off to a shaky start. His pedals didn’t quite make a full revolution before he crashed into a garbage bin and fell over. He seemed to be moving in slow motion as he dropped to the ground. I had to stifle a chuckle.

Jack got up cursing. He pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped down the seat. I wanted to tell him his pants were already stained, but resisted and started to turn away instead. I had to go over the scene once more and—

I suddenly froze and spun around. Something had fallen from his shirt pocket when he pulled out the rag and I realized it was money. “Wait a minute, Jack,” I said, hurrying toward him.

Jack stumbled and fell to the ground again. He covered his puffy face with his stained hands. “Please, don’t hit me.”

Grabbing his arm, I helped him to his feet. “Don’t be stupid.” I reached down and retrieved the bill from the sidewalk. It was a hundred. He had to be the only drunk in town with that much money on his person. Hell, I didn’t have that much cash on me and I had a job.

“Where’d you get this?” I held up the money. “And don’t tell me you worked for it.”

“Found it.” Shrugging, he pointed to the north. “Over by the bakery.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

“Show me.” After frisking him for weapons, I locked the front door to the bar and walked beside him. The stench of stale urine drifted across the few feet that separated us. Jack led me to Granny’s Oven, a bakery down the block, and then he shuffled down an alley toward the back. He stopped and pointed toward a fence that loomed ahead. “Found it right there. On the ground.”

“When?”

“It was this morning…about an hour ago.”

My heart pumped like a piston. I felt that a break in the case was near. I carefully checked the alley, digging through the two garbage cans positioned near the back door to Granny’s Oven, but there were no clues—nothing but some old food in the cans and a stray cat running around on the opposite side of the fence.

Before I threw in the towel, I decided to speak to Granny. I told Jack to wait for me on the bench in front of the bakery and I pushed through the front glass door. The sweet smell of wedding cake icing tickled my pallet, but that’s not why I loved this place. I smiled at Granny. “Got any brownies?”

She shook her gray head and laughed. “My dear, people buy them faster than I can make them.”

I pulled up a stool and shoved a thumb over my shoulder. Her usually glowing face turned to ash when I told her why I was there and asked if she recognized Jack Billiot.

She pulled at the buttons on the front of her shirt. “You think those murderers might come here?”

“I don’t think so. Do you recognize that drunk?”

She looked past me and squinted against the sunlight pouring through the front window. Finally, she nodded. “Everyone knows Jack Billiot.”

“Did you see him around your place this morning? Maybe out by the back door in the alley?”

Granny shook her head. “I went outside to feed the cat this morning and didn’t see or hear anything.”

“Well, he said he found some money in the alley near the fence.”

Granny scoffed. “That’s unlikely. There was no money on the ground when I went out there.”

“Do you have surveillance cameras out back?”

“I sure do.” Granny led me to a back room and pulled up the footage from earlier. It didn’t take us long to fast-forward through the video file from that morning. The ground in that area was bare of anything, and nothing ever popped up as we blew through the footage.

I scowled. I didn’t think Jack was capable of murder, but I’d known of drunks who would do anything for their next drink, and not all of it was as “respectable” as murder. If he didn’t find the money behind Granny’s, then where’d he get it? And why would he lie about it? Could it be he killed Mitch for his money?

“Have you seen anything suspicious over the past few days?” I asked. “Strange vehicles? People acting weird? Anything out of the norm?”

“No. I spend most of my time out back in the kitchen. I can’t see anything from back there.”

“Any customers who weren’t regulars?”

“You mean other than the tourists who come in here every day?” She ran a finger along her wrinkled brow. After a while, she shook her head. “I can’t think of nothing out of the norm. I sure am sorry.”

I nodded and thanked her, then walked out onto the sidewalk. “You lied to me, partner,” I said to the figure stretched out on the bench. I had to shake him several times to stir him from his nap.

Jack dragged himself to a seated position and wiped his crusty eyes. “Where am I?”

“You’re fixing to go to jail if you don’t start talking.”

While waiting for him to say something, the radio in my back pocket scratched to life. I pulled it out and told Amy to go ahead with her radio traffic. She told me to call her cell phone.

When I got her on the line, she said she might have stumbled upon something. “I just spoke with the teller here at Cig’s Gas Station,” she said. “It seems a wino came in this morning and bought eight hundred dollars worth of lottery tickets.”

CHAPTER 5

I whistled out loud. That was a lot of money for lottery tickets. “Would this wino have a name?” I stared at Jack as I waited for her answer, and soon my suspicions were confirmed.

“Yeah, it was Jack Billiot.” Amy explained how the teller said Jack had sat at a corner table—one of only a couple tables in the store—and began scratching off the tickets. “She said he was wet when he came in and he sat in the store for about two hours scratching off those tickets. He’d win a few dollars and immediately buy more tickets, and then go back to scratching. He was making such a mess that she was finally forced to kick him out.”

“What about all the tickets?”

“He went out into the parking lot to finish scratching them off. When he had scratched the last of them, he left the pile of tickets on the ground and rode off on an old bicycle. She had to go clean up the mess he left behind.”

“What time did he leave?” I asked.

“About thirty minutes ago.”

I pulled my phone away from my ear and checked the time. It was already almost noon. I asked if there was anything else, and she said there wasn’t. I ended the call and folded my arms across my chest. “Jack, you have the right to remain silent…”

Jack’s eyes widened as I read him his Miranda rights. When I was done, he stammered for a few seconds before words finally trickled from his mouth. “What…what did I do? Why am I going to prison?”

“For starters, you made a hell of a mess out at Cig’s,” I said. “It seems you spent eight hundred dollars on lottery tickets and then left the trash in the parking lot when you were done going through them. That’s littering.”

He shook his head from side to side. “That wasn’t me. I didn’t even go to Cig’s.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t you?”

He nodded his head vigorously. “I’m positive.”

“Well, that’s good,” I said, forcing a fake sigh. “Now the teller won’t have to split the winning ticket with you.”

It took a few long seconds, but realization finally hit him. “What winning ticket?”

“It’s possible whoever bought all those tickets overlooked one and the teller scratched it off.” I nodded slowly for emphasis. “Do you want to guess how many millions she might’ve won?”

“That’s my money!” Jack’s face turned from red to purple. “Those are my tickets. She can’t have that money…it’s all mine!”

“Sorry, but you didn’t even go to Cig’s this morning, so it can’t be your ticket.”

“Wait, I remember now…it was me. You had me confused when you started reading those rights to me. I did buy those tickets, so the money is for me.” A huge smile split his round face in half. “It’s the break I’ve been waiting for. Now I can buy a car and get my kids back—”

“Look, you won’t be buying anything if you don’t start telling me the truth.” I sat on the bench beside him and watched people walk by, some of whom were here for the holidays. A few of them turned their heads to stare at us. “I already know where you got the money to buy the lottery tickets, but if you want me to believe you own the winning ticket, I need to hear you say it.”

He stared down at his thick fingers and took a heavy breath. “Okay, I’ll tell you everything.”

I sat there waiting, wondering what he did with the gun and what would possess him to shoot someone now, at the age of nearly seventy. He’d spent most of his life drinking alcohol and being lazy. The only offenses on his record were alcohol-related, beginning with a DWI when he was eighteen. After his third DWI offense four years later, he did some jail time and never obtained another driver’s license. I’d only been in town for about two years, but Susan and Melvin said he had been a bum as long as they could remember.

“Okay, here it goes…I found the money.”

I forced a smile, trying to remain patient. “Where did you find it? And don’t say the alley, because I already know that’s a lie.”

“No, it wasn’t in the alley.” He shook his head for emphasis. “No, sir, I found it in the bar.”

If I would’ve been Achilles, my ears would’ve perked up. When he didn’t elaborate, I told him to go on and explain.

“Well, I went to the bar yesterday morning like I always do and I spent most of the day there. I left to go for a ride and I came back in the afternoon like I always do.” He paused to scratch his puffy nose. “It started raining and I couldn’t leave, so Mitch let me sleep in one of the booths. He told me he’d wake me up when the rain stopped, but no one was around when I woke up. It was still raining a little and the wooden door was wide open. I called out for Mitch, but he didn’t answer. I walked around the bar to see if he was back there, but he wasn’t.” He took a labored breath, as though talking took up too much energy. “I saw the money just sitting there on the counter and there was a note from Mitch telling me it was a gift. Wait—no, it was a payment. I had done some work for him a while back and he said it was to pay me back for all the work I did.”

That explained why the killer didn’t track water into the bar—he was already in the bar. “Who else was in the bar with you and Mitch?”

“No one.”

“That’s not possible. Someone had to be inside with y’all.”

Jack picked his nose and then stared at the tip of his finger to see if he’d recovered anything. After rubbing his hand on the front of his shirt, he shook his head. “Nope, it was just me and Mitch. It was a quiet night…probably because of the rain.”

I leaned close to Jack. “Look, I need you to think hard about your answer, because this is really important. Someone had to be in the bar with y’all, so who was it?”

“I already told you…it was just me and Mitch.”

That would mean he killed Mitch. I straightened beside him and pierced him with my eyes. “Jack, did you touch the register at all?”

He shook his head.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive.”

I grabbed one of his beefy hands and turned it upward so I could see the pads of his fingers. While I couldn’t ascertain with my naked eyes that his prints were a match, they were the same general pattern as the ones Amy and I had recovered from the table and the register. I bent his index finger back and jerked it upward. “Then why is this fingerprint on the keys of the register?”

Jack’s red face turned a shade whiter. “If my fingerprints are on the register, then somebody must’ve took my finger and pressed it against the register while I was sleeping. And the same person must’ve put the money on the counter for me to take.”

I let go of his hand. “A more likely scenario is you opened the register and stole the money—but that was after you shot Mitch in the back and killed him.”

Jack threw himself back against the bench. “What are you talking about? I would never shoot Mitch.”

“Well, someone did, and—according to your own statement—you were the only one inside the bar at the time of the killing. You already admitted to stealing his money, so why don’t you—”

“Killing?” He shook his head in disbelief. “What are you talking about? Are you saying Mitch is dead?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, but you already knew that.”

Jack hung his head so low I thought he was going to pitch forward off of the bench. “If what you’re saying is true and Mitch is really dead, then where am I going to get my free beer?”

CHAPTER 6

I studied the aged alcoholic and frowned. While he certainly had the opportunity to commit the murder and he had just confessed to stealing the money, I still didn’t have a murder weapon and I couldn’t fathom what reason he would have for killing off his liquor supply. He seemed genuinely surprised to learn of Mitch’s passing and he had stumbled into the bar earlier calling out to Mitch, which would suggest he didn’t know the man was dead. Still, I had to be sure.

“Jack, what would you say if I told you I found the gun that killed Mitch and your prints were all over it?”

He shook his head from side to side. “I would say that’s impossible.”

“Why’s it impossible?”

“Because I’ve never touched no gun.”

“Never?”

“Nope…never.”

I sighed and slapped his back. “Okay, old timer, why don’t you stand up and put your hands behind your back?”

“Are you arresting me?” He didn’t move. “I told you I didn’t kill Mitch. I loved him like a son.”

“You also told me you stole his money, so you’re under arrest for felony theft.” While I was fairly certain he hadn’t committed the murder, I wanted him on ice until I could sort things out.

Once he was handcuffed—I put them in front so I could process his hands—I walked him to my Tahoe and had him sit in the front seat. I then swabbed his hands for gunshot residue and secured the swabs in an evidence container. “Did you wash your hands since you stole the money?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I can’t remember the last time I washed my hands.”

Considering the thick funk caked under his black nails, I believed him. I then called Amy on my cell to see if she could transport him to the police department. She agreed and arrived five minutes later. Although it was considerably cooler than it was yesterday, strands of her blonde hair were plastered to her sweaty forehead.

“I’ve been up and down the street looking at surveillance videos, but the rain was so heavy I couldn’t see much of anything.” She pointed across the street. “None of the shops across from here have cameras, so we’re out of luck in that regard.”

I turned Jack over to her and thanked her for her help. “Lock him in the cell and tell the dispatcher to keep an eye on him until I get there,” I said. “Tell her I’ll be in as soon as I interview Mitch’s girlfriend.”

When Amy had left with Jack, I dug through the stack of papers I’d recovered from under the bar. There were no employee records among what I’d gathered. I had taken a picture of the work schedule on the wall—it was from October—and remembered seeing another sheet with telephone numbers scribbled across it. I snatched up my camera and scrolled through the images until I found the one for which I was looking.

“There it is,” I said to myself when I saw the photo I’d taken of the wall. I zoomed in and read the names and numbers on the sheet. Some were beer vendors, one was the number for the police department, and then there were two names I recognized from the schedule; Foster Blake and Joyce Reynolds. I jotted their numbers in my notebook for later and tossed it on the seat of my SUV.

My phone rang just as I slipped into the driver’s seat of my Tahoe and fired up the engine. I glanced at the display screen. It was Susan.

“I heard you made an arrest,” she said when I answered. “Did you solve the case already?”

I sighed. “No. I just arrested Jack Billiot for theft. He was definitely in the bar when the killing happened, but I don’t think he killed Mitch.”

“How do you know he was in the bar when the killing happened? What if he went in afterward and stole the money?”

“Mitch had already cleaned the bar for closing, so he was killed sometime after two in the morning, when it was raining. If Jack would’ve entered the bar afterward, he would’ve tracked water on the floor.”

“What if he stole the money before Mitch was shot?”

I grunted. “If he would’ve tried pulling that stunt while Mitch was alive, he would be the one lying on the barroom floor.”

Susan was quiet for a few long seconds. “Do you think the murderer was in the bar before closing time? That Mitch knew the person?”

“I don’t know if Mitch knew his killer, but the person had to be in the bar before the rain started and after Mitch began cleaning up for the night.” I cocked my head sideways as I stared at the front of the bar. “Unless they were a ghost or…”

“Or what?” Susan asked when I allowed my voice to trail off, lost in thought.

“Let me call you back.” I ended the call in the middle of Susan demanding that I finish my sentence, and I approached the front of the Corner Pub.

CHAPTER 7

15 years earlier…

Sunday, January 7

Breechville, Kentucky

The young boy knew it was his golden birthday, but he didn’t fully understand what it meant, so he asked his stepdad.

“It’s when you become the age of the day of your birth,” he explained idly. “You were born on the seventh and you’re seven, so it’s your golden birthday.”

“That’s it?” The boy scowled. “I thought it was something special.”

“Shut up,” Stepdad said. “I’m trying to watch the game.”

Ever since the day Sissy had been taken away in the ambulance, things had gotten worse around the house. After a week of waiting for Sissy to come back home, the boy had made the mistake of asking about her. Mom had started crying and had run out of the room. That had prompted Stepdad to slap him so hard one of his baby teeth flew out of his mouth. Sure, the tooth was already loose, but the slap was that hard.

The boy stood and stomped toward his bedroom when the television erupted in chaos. Some football fans cheered and others booed. Stepdad began cursing and threw a can of beer across the room, spraying the yellow liquid across the carpet and on the wall. “Look what you did!” Stepdad bellowed.

The boy jerked in his skin as fear wrapped its icy fingers around his heart and squeezed tight. He tried to calm the trembling in his jaw as he braced himself for what would happen next. He was tired of crying. Tired of living in fear—tired of watching Mom live in fear. “What did I do wrong?” he asked in a voice that sounded calmer than he felt.

“You made them lose!” Stepdad stormed toward him and lifted his hand high in the air. The grown man derived great pleasure out of watching the young boy sweat. “I ought to knock the hell out of you.”

The boy didn’t flinch. He stood strong, staring up at this animal who made a habit out of beating him. A look of shock seemed to spread across his stepdad’s face. “What’s the matter? Aren’t you scared?”

The little boy didn’t answer for fear his voice would betray him. Instead, he stood a little taller and set his feet, anticipating the beating that would follow—and he didn’t have to wait long. Stepdad punched him right in the face, knocking him off his feet. When he fell, his head slammed against the floor and a sharp pain shot across his head. He rolled to his stomach and scurried forward, determined to get away this time. This was it—he wasn’t taking it anymore.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asked Stepdad.

The boy scrambled to his feet and broke into a run, darting through the living room and toward the hallway that led to the back door. He wasn’t fast enough. A huge hand grabbed him by the shoulder and jerked him off his feet—

“Hey!” called a shrill voice. “What’s going on in here?”

The boy rolled onto his belly in time to see his mom open the bedroom door behind Stepdad and enter the hallway. Her hair was a mess and she was wearing a thin nightgown.

“I’m teaching him a lesson,” Stepdad replied, reaching for the young boy. “He’s heading down the wrong path and if we don’t nip this in the bud, he’ll be a terror when he’s a teenager.”

“No!” Mom said. “Please leave him alone. I’m trying to sleep. I have to work tonight.”

The boy watched as Stepdad froze, and then slowly turned to face Mom. “Did you just correct me in front of the kid? Did you just disrespect me in the presence of a child? What kind of example do you think you’re setting?”

Mom cowered against the doorframe as Stepdad moved closer to her.

“Please, just let me get some rest. I need to be at work for—” Her sentence was cut short when Stepdad slapped her across the face, knocking her to the ground.

“I’ll kill you!” the young boy shouted, bursting off the floor and diving into the man’s legs. They were like tree trunks and the boy collapsed to the ground upon impact. Righting himself, he began punching blindly as the man continued to slap his mother around. Before long, he felt a hand on his head and he was jerked off his feet by the hair. His feet dangling, he clawed at the hand that held him, but it was no use. Stepdad was too strong.

“You think you can kill me?” Saliva sprayed from Stepdad’s mouth and into the young boy’s face. “Do you?”

Summoning courage from deep inside of his gut, the young boy tried to nod, but couldn’t because of the grip on his hair. So, he quietly said, “I might not be able to kill you now, but when I turn eighteen, I’m going to come back and find you and I’m going to kill you for what you did to Sissy! Just you wait and see.”

“What did he do to Sissy?” his mom asked in a weak voice.

“Come back?” Stepdad sneered, ignoring Mom. “What makes you think you’ll ever leave this place?” He then dropped the young boy to the ground and began dragging him through the house by the hair. The boy could hear his mother crying somewhere behind them as she begged Stepdad not to hurt him. “Shut up, woman, or it’ll be worse!”

Stepdad opened the door to the basement and stomped heavily down the stairs as he dragged the young boy roughly behind him. The wooden corners of the steps dug into the boy’s back and legs, but he refused to cry out in pain. When they reached the floor level, Stepdad threw him against the column in the middle of the room and retrieved two lengths of chain from a nearby shelf. The boy struggled to get away, but it was no use. Stepdad chained his hands and feet to the column and then stood to admire his handiwork.

“There,” he said triumphantly, “that’ll teach you to threaten me.”

“I’m still going to kill you when I turn eighteen,” the boy said defiantly.

Stepdad leaned close and slapped him across the face, causing his ear to ring. “You could be thirty and I could be a hundred, and you still couldn’t kill me,” he said. “At this rate, you’ll be lucky to make it to eighteen. If you’re not careful, I’ll send you to be with your sister.”

Tears welled up in the young boy’s eyes as he watched his stepdad stomp up the stairs and slam the door shut, leaving him alone in the dark. But these tears weren’t for him—he was well past crying for himself. No, these tears were for Sissy and what had become of her. “I don’t care how long it takes,” he muttered to himself. “I’m going to get out of here and train myself to be a killer, and then I’m going to come back for you. I’ll do it, I swear!”

CHAPTER 8

I fished the keys to the Corner Pub from my pocket and pulled the screen door open to unlock the main door. Once it was unlocked, I pushed it open and stepped back, allowing the screen door to slam shut. From the sidewalk, with the sun beaming down through the clouds overhead, it was impossible to see inside the bar. But at nighttime, with the lights on inside, it would be easy to see inside the establishment.

I then picked my way back to the kitchen and studied the very spot where Mitch Taylor had taken his last breath. The phone was on the wall to the right. In order for Mitch to take a bullet to the back, he had to have been facing the back wall. I rubbed my chin.

Boots shuffled on the hardwood behind me and I turned to see Susan approaching on her crutches. “I can’t believe you hung up on me!”

“I can’t think and talk at the same time.” I pointed to the phone. “We’ve been working off the assumption that Mitch was shot while he talked on the phone, but he was shot in the back.”

There was a blank expression on Susan’s face. “What’s wrong with that?”

“There’s nothing on the back wall and the phone’s on the wall to the right, so wouldn’t he have been facing the phone or the open kitchen? I mean, who stands with their face to the wall while talking on the phone?”

“Go on,” she said, seemingly curious.

I moved back to the bar, where the stool was still pulled out and the salt shaker was still tipped over. I sat on the bar stool and glanced over my shoulder, nodding at what I was seeing.

“What is it?” Susan asked, turning from me to the doorway and then back to me.

“The killer didn’t even enter the bar. Whoever it was, they shot Mitch from outside.” I jumped off the stool and hurried to the screen door, where I dropped to my knees and scanned the screen carefully. “Holy smoking alligator tails!”

Susan lumbered toward me and bent to see over my shoulder. “Is that a bullet hole in the screen?”

“Yep! The killer shot Mitch through the screen—didn’t even open the door.” I straightened and glanced back toward the stool. “When Mitch got hit, he ran to the kitchen to call for help, but he must’ve died before he could dial the number, because we never got a call.”

Susan cocked her head sideways. “So, the theft is unrelated to the murder?”

I nodded as I walked outside, holding the screen door open until Susan cleared the opening with her crutches. “The gunshot is probably what woke up Jack. He stole the money because it was in front of him and no one was there to tell him not to do it.”

I scanned the sidewalk, searching for a spent bullet casing and hoping passersby hadn’t kicked it down the street. When I didn’t see an obvious casing, I dropped to my knees on the hard concrete and searched more closely. Susan stood over me and moved as I did, searching from her vantage point on high. I had just crawled past a post when she called out to me.

“Look in that water puddle.”

I looked where she pointed and saw something shiny submerged in a tiny puddle of water that had formed inside a crack in the sidewalk. When I leaned closer, I saw that it was a spent nine millimeter shell casing. I nodded up at Susan. “This is where the killer stood.”

As she guarded the shell casing, I retrieved my crime scene kit and documented the evidence before collecting and packaging it. Once I was done, I locked up the Corner Pub and glanced at my watch. One o’clock.

“I have to interview Mitch’s girlfriend,” I said. “Do you want to come along and then grab lunch afterward?”

“Lunch would be a start.”

“A start?” I cocked my head sideways like Achilles did when he didn’t understand my English. “What do you mean?”

“It would be a good start on your way to earning my forgiveness.” Her eyes narrowed. “You hung up on me, or don’t you remember?”

“I was in the middle of a thought and—”

“Thought or not, it had better never happen again.”

Although there was a playful glint in her eyes, it did appear she was a little upset about it. I moved close and gave her a peck on the cheek. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. Now, what about we go find”—I pulled out my notepad and studied the information Amy had given me—“Brandy Lewis and see if she knows anyone who might want to kill Mitch?”

Susan followed me to my Tahoe and slipped inside, tossing the crutches over her seat. She groaned. “I can’t wait to be rid of these things.”

I nodded my agreement and headed north, quickly putting the town in my rearview mirror. After a thirty-minute drive, we found Brandy Lewis sitting on a swing at a trailer in Central Chateau. I dropped down from my Tahoe and waited for Susan to catch up, and then we joined Brandy on the porch. Her long blonde hair hung wild and her blue eyes were red. She had thrown on a pair of sweat pants and an oversized sweat shirt, but I think it had little to do with the drop in temperature—it seemed she lacked the energy to find something suitable to wear.

After making the introductions and expressing condolences for her loss, I asked if we could talk to her about her boyfriend, Mitch.

“Sure,” Brandy said, dragging herself to one side of the swing to make room for Susan to sit. I remained standing.

“Can you tell me what happened?” she asked, rubbing her tired eyes. “The deputy who came by would only say that they found him dead in his bar. They didn’t say anything else.”

I pursed my lips, frowned. “Well, I can tell you he was murdered—shot in the back.”

“Oh, God.” Brandy hung her head, but she didn’t seem too surprised. “I was afraid this day would come.”

“What do you know?” I wasn’t going to waste time. She knew something, and I wanted to know what it was.

She looked up into my eyes. “Do you have a suspect?”

“Not at the moment.” I held her gaze for a long few seconds. “Do you?”

“I don’t want to falsely accuse anyone of anything…”

“Then don’t,” I said matter-of-factly. “Just tell me who wouldn’t be upset to see him pass.”

She hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Connie’s the first person who comes to mind.”

“Who’s Connie?” I asked.

“Connie Taylor—she’s his wife.”

CHAPTER 9

I scowled. As long as I’d been going to the bar to grab a burger, I never knew Mitch had a wife. “Is he still married? Or is he with you? I’m confused.”

Brandy sighed. “He never could make up his mind. He wants to be with me, but he doesn’t want to get a divorce. I know Connie took it hard when he moved in with me.”

I turned to Susan. “We need to notify his wife right away—”

“She already knows,” Brandy said, interrupting me. “I called and told her. I also called his mom and dad.”

“How’d Connie take the news?” I asked.

“She didn’t seem too bothered by it, if you ask me.”

“How long has Mitch been living with you? Has it been a while?”

“About two years now…on and off.” She was thoughtful. “Like anyone else, we had our ups and downs and he would go back to Connie from time to time.”

“When was the last time he went back to Connie?”

“Maybe six months ago. But, as always, it didn’t last long. The very first time he ever left her, it was for a reason—whatever that reason might’ve been—and that won’t just go away with time. Needless to say, he was back with me the following week.” She shifted on the swing and it caused the chain above her to squeak. “I figured it would only be a matter of time before she had enough and snapped. A woman can only take so much rejection, you know? He kept stringing her along, making her think they would be back together again if only she’d wait long enough. The back and forth was killing her.”

“Why’d he go back to Connie that last time?”

“It was cruel, really. We were eating out in town and Connie walked in with some guy. For the first time since I’d met her, she looked happy. Mitch tried to act like it didn’t bother him, but I could tell it did. Later that night, after we’d gotten back home, I caught him hiding in the closet on the phone. He was whispering to someone and I knew it was Connie, because he was saying how sorry he was and that he loved her and he wanted to get back together. He had told me many times before that he didn’t love her anymore, but then he freaks out the first time he sees her with someone else? I was so angry I kicked him out of my house.”

Brandy grunted. “I should’ve known he would run right back to her. I mean, that’s the only reason he would keep her around anyway—he wanted some insurance in case something happened between us.” She glanced at Susan. “You know how men are; they can’t stand to be alone. It’s as though they’re not a real man if they don’t have a girl hanging on their arm.”

“That’s not been my experience,” Susan said, trying to sound polite, “but I understand the type.”

“Yeah, he only stayed with her long enough to make sure she’d broken it off with her new man, and then he came running back home to me. That’s when I laid down the law.”

I sat there studying Brandy Lewis as she complained about men in general and Mitch specifically. When she was done talking, she reached into the front of her shirt and pulled a pack of cigarettes from her bra. After lighting one, she took a long drag and then blew out the smoke, groaning as she did so.

“What became of Connie?” I asked. “When Mitch ran back to you, what did she do?”

“I heard she’s back with that guy we saw her with at the restaurant, but I’m not sure.” She shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe he’s the one who killed Mitch because he was worried about Connie getting back with him.”

That was definitely a thought.

“Brandy, when Mitch didn’t come home at his regular time,” I began slowly, “did you suspect he went back to Connie?”

Brandy had been lifting the cigarette to her lips again, but she paused ever so slightly—her hand frozen in midair—before taking another drag from it. “I mean, when I woke up at four-thirty and he wasn’t here, sure, the thought did cross my mind. I called his cell and then the bar, but he didn’t answer. ”

“Did you go out to the bar to see if he was there?”

She shook her head. “He closes at two, so why would I go to the bar at that time to look for him? Besides, it was raining heavy and I wasn’t about to get on the road in that weather.”

“So, you deny going out looking for him?” I pressed.

She fixed me with her blue eyes. “Yes, I deny going out looking for him.”

“Well, what did you think might’ve happened to him?”

She shrugged. “I just figured he got in a wreck or something because of the weather, and that got me worried.”

“Is that when you called the police department?”

She nodded and explained she called the police department first so we could send someone to make sure he wasn’t at work. “If your officers didn’t find him at the bar, I was going to call the sheriff’s office next to check all the roads between here and there for any signs of a wreck.” She frowned. “Before I could call them, a deputy was knocking on my door to tell me Mitch had been found dead.”

I glanced at Susan and raised an eyebrow to see if she had any questions. She nodded eagerly and took over.

“So, Brandy, you told us how all of this impacted Connie, but what about you?”

“What do you mean?” Brandy tried to sound casual, but I could tell by the tightening around her eyes that Susan had hit a nerve.

“You know what I mean. Connie’s his wife and you’re just the other woman.”

“I’m not just the other woman,” Brandy retorted. “He loved me.”

“Right…that’s why he kept running back to Connie.” Susan leaned closer to Brandy. “You’re a smart woman. You knew he was taking advantage of you. You knew he was using you. You’re too smart not to have known.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Brandy was fuming now. “He was going to divorce her eventually; he just needed time. And that’s why she killed him—because she knew he was leaving her for good.”

“How do we know you didn’t kill him because you were tired of him running back to Connie?”

“Like I said earlier, I laid down the law. I told Mitch if he ever went back to Connie again I would burn his clothes and kick him out for good. I told him I’d change all the locks on my doors and call the law if he ever tried to come back. It was right then that I realized he did love me, because he started sobbing like a newborn. I’d never seen him cry, but on that night, I didn’t think he would stop. He held me all night and told me he’d die if I left him. Hell, he was still crying when I woke up the next morning.”

Brandy paused and stared at the tip of her cigarette for a long moment. She finally crushed it against the arm of the swing and turned to Susan. “You know how you can know I didn’t kill him?”

“How?” Susan asked.

“Because I won. In the end, I got the man and she got nothing, so she took him away from me the only way she knew how—by killing him.”

“Where can we find Connie?” I asked when Susan was done.

“In Mitch’s house on Coconut Lane.”

I knew Coconut Lane well. It was four blocks south of Washington Avenue, and it was where Dexter Boudreaux and his wife used to live before they were killed.

After questioning Brandy a bit more, I asked if I could swab her hands for gunshot residue.

“What will that do?” she asked.

“It’ll let me know if you fired a gun recently, was around someone who fired a gun recently, or handled a firearm that has been fired recently.”

She chuckled despite being upset over Mitch’s murder. “You can swab whatever you want—I didn’t shoot my boyfriend. I know I shouldn’t be saying this to the law, but if Connie would’ve been found dead, then even I would’ve suspected me.”

I nodded in Susan’s direction and she began making small talk with Brandy while I retrieved my crime scene box. When I returned, I set about swabbing her hands and packaging the kit for submittal to the crime lab. “If you didn’t fire a gun recently,” I explained, wondering if she might’ve cleaned off her hands, “then you should have nothing to worry about. However, if the results show you’ve got gunshot residue on your hands, you’ll have some explaining to do.”

“The only thing I’m worried about is y’all finding Connie before she kills again.” While Brandy might have been thinking about Connie being the killer for a while, saying it out loud made her shudder. “What’ll happen if she comes after me? I mean, if she killed the man she supposedly loves, what’s to stop her from trying to kill the person who took him away from her?”

I shot a thumb toward her driveway. “I’ll make a request with the sheriff’s office to have a car stationed outside your house. In the meantime, lock your doors and—”

Susan lifted a hand to stop me. “Or, she could stay at the shelter.”

I hadn’t thought of that, but it would be a good way to keep her safe if she was in danger, and also a way to keep her close in case she was the killer. Of course, if she was the one who killed Mitch, she wouldn’t be in fear and she wouldn’t want to spend much time around us. “That’s actually a good idea,” I said. “After all, the shelter’s empty at the moment.”

“What shelter?”

I studied Brandy’s expression as Susan explained. When Susan was finished, Brandy shoved her pack of cigarettes back in her bra and jumped to her feet. “Can I come now? At least until I know it’s safe to stay here?”

I scowled. Either she was a good actress, or she had nothing to do with Mitch’s murder.

CHAPTER 10

It was past three and I still hadn’t eaten. Brandy had followed Susan and me to town, where Susan retrieved her Tahoe and led Brandy to the shelter, and then I headed straight for Connie’s house. I had just turned down the street when my cell phone rang. I glanced at the screen. It was a number I didn’t recognize, so I ignored the call and parked my Tahoe on the shoulder of the road two houses away from Connie’s place.

After receiving radio confirmation that Takecia was in position behind the Taylor home, I slipped out of my SUV and walked along the town sidewalk until it ended at the edge of the Taylor property. While it was still cool out, the sun was shining bright and it had dried up the roads and made for a more pleasant day. I strode across the neatly cropped lawn while carefully eyeing the structures on the property, which took up the entire corner of the block.

A white pickup truck was parked under a detached carport that was pressed up against the western end of the property line. A workshop shared a roof with the carport and it appeared empty. I continued across the wide driveway that separated the carport from the house and passed two windows and a narrow door before making it to a winding sidewalk. The sidewalk curved around the yard and then ducked between two giant palm trees before reaching a bricked patio that served as the entrance to the house. Two white rocking chairs were positioned on opposite sides of the heavy brown door. I shoved one out of the way so I didn’t have to stand directly in front of the door as I knocked.

My fist echoed loudly under the patio and I waited. The house was built on a slab, so there was no chance of hearing footsteps approaching, but I listened for the slightest movements from inside. There were none.

I got on the radio and asked Takecia if there was movement out back.

“Negative,” she said. “It’s quiet as a church service back here.”

I wanted to ask her to clarify what type of church she meant, because my mom grew up in a church that believed in raising the roof when they worshipped. I frowned at the memories of being forced to attend church services. As a boy, I’d preferred spending my time tromping around the swamps hunting and fishing, but my mom didn’t appreciate my aspirations. When my dad was home from work, he would spend a lot of his time exploring the swamps with me and he even allowed me to skip church a few times, which drew a bit of ire from my mom. When I was about fifteen, I finally quit church altogether and that really caused some tension between my mom and me.

My relationship with Mom had improved when I’d moved out of the house at seventeen, but I joined the La Mort Police Department a few months north of my eighteenth birthday and suddenly found myself too busy to visit. After losing Michele and Abigail, I’d gone a long time without calling or visiting and it broke her heart. Dad was always working, so she had suffered through the empty-nest syndrome all alone. I had reconnected with my parents a little over two years ago and had intended to stay in touch, but life and my new job as police chief had ruined those plans—

“Anything?” Takecia asked after a few minutes.

“No.” I had noticed two garage doors on the western side of the house, so I walked over and banged on one of them. There were four windows high on each door, but they had been covered from the inside with aluminum foil and I couldn’t see inside. After five minutes of waiting, I called Takecia and asked her to meet me down the street near my Tahoe.

When she pulled up in her fully marked Dodge Charger, I leaned on the door frame. She reached up to push her dark sunglasses up to her forehead and the muscles in her slender arms rippled as she did so. I’d seen her spar with Susan and I knew she could take care of herself.

“It is the week before the Thanksgiving holiday,” Takecia said in her Jamaican accent, “so the lady might be out spending poor Mitch’s life insurance money.”

She was probably right. Although it would be a while before Connie could collect the money, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time someone had gone out and run up credit card debt in anticipation of a settlement or winning the lottery or some other kind of payout.

“Well, I guess I’ll head to the office and get Jack Billiot ready for transport,” I said. “He’s been holed up long enough.”

“I fed him lunch around noon,” Takecia said. “When I offered him a cola, he turned it down and requested a beer instead.”

“Did you give him one?” I asked jokingly.

“Of course.” She smiled, exposing a row of perfect teeth. “I wouldn’t want to violate his civil rights.”

After saying goodbye to Takecia, I drove to the police department and finished the paperwork on Jack’s arrest. I then called the sheriff’s office requesting a prison transport. While waiting for them to arrive, I set about packaging all of the evidence I’d recovered and then secured them in lockers. Once that was done and Jack had been picked up, I traveled to the coroner’s office—grabbing a burger from a drive-thru on the way—and attended the autopsy of my victim.

Doctor Louise Wong was in a hurry, so she didn’t waste any time cutting Mitch Taylor open. Her assistant had x-rayed the body earlier in the day and marked the general area where the projectile was supposed to be located, so it was easy for Doctor Wong to fish out the bullet that killed the bar owner.

Once she’d pulled it out of a narrow wound channel with a pair of thin forceps, she dropped it into a white envelope and handed it to me. “What size caliber do you think it is?” she asked.

“Nine millimeter,” I said without looking at it.

Doctor Wong raised an eyebrow. “You sound sure of yourself.”

“I found a nine shell casing at the scene,” I explained. “If it’s not a nine, then I’m in trouble.”

She sealed the envelope and handed it to me. “Well, I hope you’re right then.”

Once she had made her recorded notes, she pointed to a paper bag on the floor in the corner. “Those are his personal effects: clothes, wallet, belt, wristwatch, and some cash money—lots of it, so it couldn’t have been a robbery.”

I nodded my head. “You’re right about that.”

I drove to the police department and secured the bullet in an evidence locker. First thing Monday morning, I was heading to La Mort to turn in all of my evidence, but right now I had two more interviews to conduct.

CHAPTER 11

One hour later…

After going to her house and speaking with her husband, I found Joyce Reynolds standing outside of the Corner Pub reading the official notice that I’d posted declaring the place closed until further notice. I stood in the shadows of the building behind her and shoved my hands in my pockets. The sun was going down and, while the news called for fifty-three degrees, it felt much cooler where we were. People were walking up and down the sidewalk all around us and she didn’t seem to notice them—or me.

“Mrs. Reynolds, are you okay?” I asked softly.

She jerked, turned to face me, looking me up and down. Her gaze began at my black boots and moved upward until she was looking me in the eyes. “What…I don’t understand. What happened here?”

I shot a thumb down the street. “Why don’t you come to the station with me so we can talk?”

She tugged at the ends of her short jean skirt, trying to make it longer. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was flat-iron straight and I could smell her perfume from where I stood. She was too dressed up to know what had happened.

“Hadn’t you heard?” I asked.

Her mouth opened and then clamped shut. After two more attempts, she said she’d heard something on the news about a robbery in town. “But they didn’t mention a name or what business and I would’ve never thought it was Mitch or that it was here.”

When Joyce’s husband told me she was heading to work the nightshift, I figured she didn’t know. “Why don’t you follow me to the police station?” I said. “We can talk in private and I’ll be able to answer some of your questions.”

Joyce wrapped her arms in front of her chest and nodded, walking briskly to her car, which was parked on the shoulder of the street a few spots behind mine. I watched in my side-view mirror until she started it and pulled on her seatbelt, and then started down the street. Within seconds, I turned into the parking lot in front of the police department and parked in the visitor lot so she could follow me. I then led her upstairs and into my office.

After getting the preliminaries out of the way, I asked if she knew of anyone who wanted Mitch dead.

“No, he was a good guy. Everyone loved him.” Her face was ashen. “If someone could murder Mitch, then not a one of us is safe.”

“What about customers? Did he have to kick anyone out, cut them off, or break up any fights?”

“Every now and then he has to cut someone off, but they never get mad.” She shook her head to emphasize her point. “They always show up the next night and thank him for looking out. All of our regulars are like family and the tourists who come by love the place. We’ve got a solid five-star rating online—seventy-eight perfect reviews. No one has ever said a bad thing about the place.”

I wondered how much she knew about his personal life, and knew there was only one way to find out. “What do you know about the situation with his wife?”

“Well, I know he keeps going back and forth between Connie and Brandy. If you ask me, the biggest mistake he ever made was leaving Connie. She was the best thing that ever happened to him. She was with him when he was nothing, you know? She helped make him who he is today.” She stopped and frowned. “But Brandy, she came into it thinking he had money. If you ask me, that’s the only reason she’s with him. He does okay, but he’s not rich, and she’s got him blowing through his money. She’s bad news. I don’t think she wanted to hurt him while they were together, but if he ever left her, I could see her as the vengeful type who might try to do something to him or Connie.”

Great, I thought, it’s possible both women wanted him dead.

“Please understand,” I began, “I have to ask these next questions as a matter of formality, but I don’t think you did anything wrong.” When she nodded her understanding, I continued. “So, where were you last night?”

She fidgeted in her chair. “Is…um, is this confidential?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I leaned in a little, wondering what had made her so nervous. Did she know something about the murder? I didn’t peg her as the killing type, but what if she knew who did it? It would take about a week for the evidence to be processed, so to get a break now would be golden. “Everything you say here will stay here unless it’s needed in court, and you’ll know about it long before we have to reveal it.”

She hesitated, then sighed. “I was with Foster last night.”

“Foster Blake?”

She nodded. “He works weekdays at the bar. He told me his wife’s family was in town and he didn’t want to be around them, so he had rented a room in Magnolia Parish, where no one knows him, and he asked me to meet him there. I did and we spent most of the night together.”

I wanted to ask if anyone who worked at the bar was faithful, but resisted the urge. “What time did you get home?”

“Around three.”

“What did you tell your husband?”

“I told him I had to work extra because of the upcoming holidays.”

“And he bought that nonsense?” I winced inwardly. It had come out harsher than I intended, but I didn’t apologize.

“He trusts me.”

Instead of commenting, I scrolled through my notes. “Do you know where Foster lives?”

Joyce nodded. “He lives somewhere on Lacy Court.”

“Do you know his wife?”

“I’ve never met her, but he said they’re separating soon. They got into some kind of argument and he said it’s over for them.”

I spent another thirty minutes going over her story and gathering more information about Mitch. When I was satisfied she’d told me everything she knew, I ended the interview and walked her outside into the cool evening air. I glanced at my phone. It was almost seven. I wanted to speak with Foster and was halfway to his house when I remembered the call I’d ignored earlier. I pulled to the shoulder and selected the number from my recent calls list. Although I hadn’t recognized the number, I immediately recognized the voice that answered.

“Hey, Clint, how are you?” asked Detective Mallory Tuttle, who worked for the Chateau Parish Sheriff’s office. “I was calling about your murder case. I might have a suspect for you.”

CHAPTER 12

Later that night…

Susan and I took a lazy walk to the shelter while my mom cooked dinner for us. Achilles zigzagged along the street ahead of us, taking in the countless scents along the route.

“I keep telling your mom she doesn’t have to cook for us,” Susan said, “but she insists. When I got home this afternoon she was frying a pot of meat and cooking some rice. I won’t lie—it smelled delicious.”

“I think it gives her a sense of purpose,” I mused. “Since I left home as a teenager, she’s only had my dad to care for, but when he’s offshore she feels lost and lonely. She doesn’t have anything to do, you know? I think helping us out is making her feel useful.”

Susan walked in silence for a few seconds, and the only sound I heard was Achilles’ heavy breathing and her crutches scraping against the shell street. I knew something was on her mind, because she was way too quiet. Before I could ask, she brought up work.

“You got home late. Any breaks in the case?”

I told her about the phone call I’d made to Mallory Tuttle thirty minutes ago. “It seems Mitch Taylor testified against a fellow named Chris Jenkins ten years ago. It was a carjacking that took place at a convenience store where Mitch was getting gas. He was the only one who got a good look at the suspect and he was able to provide a license plate number of the stolen vehicle and a good description of the suspect.” I paused and shook my head. “Mallory said there were seven other witnesses in the parking lot, but they were all playing on their cell phones and didn’t see a thing.”

“I believe it,” was all Susan said as she continued walking beside me. It appeared she was listening to me, but I didn’t know if she was hearing everything I said.

“Anyway, Chris was released two months ago after serving only nine years of a twenty-year sentence, but Mallory didn’t find out about it until last week when his parole officer called to say he’d missed his meeting and there was a warrant for his arrest for violating the conditions of his parole.”

“How in the hell did he get out of prison early?”

“Thanks to the changes in the sentencing laws last year, he got credit for good time and was eligible for parole a lot sooner than he would’ve been under the old rules.”

“Who on earth had the bright idea to start releasing violent offenders early?” Susan asked.

“Beats me, but we’re going after him first thing in the morning.”

“What about Connie Taylor? I thought you told me earlier you were going to interview her first thing in the morning? How many ‘first things’ can you do in one morning? And I thought you were going to interview Foster Blake this afternoon?”

“I did tell you that, but now Connie will have to be the second thing in the morning, and Foster Blake will have to get in line. This Jenkins fellow seems to be a good lead.”

I could see the glow of light from the shelter when we stepped past the tall cane. The farmer who worked the land had begun harvesting his crop and he was at it every day, working his way across the property as quickly as he could.

When we reached the porch of the shelter, Susan fished out her key and unlocked the front door. We entered and she called out to Brandy Lewis. She called out a second time and Brandy appeared from one of the rooms down the hall. She wore a long night shirt and was drying her hair with a large bath towel. Her eyes were hopeful when she asked if we’d arrested Connie Taylor.

“Is it safe for me to go back home?”

“No, we didn’t arrest Connie yet,” Susan said. “We were just coming to see if you wanted something for dinner. My mother-in-law is cooking some pot fried pork and she’s making enough to feed a small army, so you’re more than welcome to join us.”

Brandy nodded, smiling warmly. “That sounds good. Can I come up to your house after I finish drying my hair?”

“Sure.” Susan and I went into the kitchen and checked the supplies to make sure Brandy would have everything she needed during her stay there, and we then began the long walk back to the front of Paradise Place, which was the street we lived on. The women’s shelter was something Susan had dreamed about doing all her adult life, and it was conveniently and securely located behind our house along the private lane.

Susan wasn’t saying much on the walk, and I knew something was still bugging her. “What is it?” I asked. “I can tell something’s eating at you. Is it your leg? You know it’ll be all healed up before long and you’ll be good as new.”

“It’s not that,” she said softly, her eyes following Achilles as he plunged in and out of the cane field rows, chasing ghosts.

“Then what is it?”

“I missed my period, so I took a pregnancy test today.”

My heart jumped in my chest. “Are we going to have a baby?”

She shook her head. “It was negative.”

My shoulders drooped. “Maybe you should’ve led with that last part, so I wouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.”

She didn’t laugh.

“There’s more,” I guessed. “What’s going on?”

“I didn’t think it before, but when there was a chance I was pregnant, I started to feel guilty.” She took a breath and exhaled. “I’d like for us to be married before we have a child.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!”

Susan jerked her head toward me, and in the dim glow from the street lamps I could see that her eyes were wide. “I’m not—why would I joke about something like this?”

“No, I mean my mom must’ve talked to you.”

She scowled. “Talked to me? About what?”

“About having a baby out of wedlock.” I grunted. “She knows better than to say anything to me, so she goes to you…classic move. Growing up, nothing I ever did was good enough for her and her preacher. I listened to the wrong music, hung out with the wrong friends, watched bad movies…” I grunted. “She tried to mold me into the person she thought I should be, rather than allowing me to grow into who I wanted to become. Thank God my dad was around from time to time between work hitches because he interfered where he could and I was able to enjoy some bits of freedom.” I shook my head. “I knew she would have a problem with our living arrangement, but I never thought she’d go behind my back and try to tell you how we should live our—”

“Whoa, Tiger, simmer down.” Susan lifted a hand to stop me. “This has nothing to do with your mom. It’s me. I don’t want to have a baby out of wedlock.”

“Wait…she didn’t talk to you about it?”

“No, this is all my idea.”

Relieved, I laughed at myself. “Oh, hell, I need to apologize to her. I guess she’s changed her ways.”

“So, are you okay with waiting?”

While it was the new millennium and that kind of thing was commonplace, I liked that she cared. “I am—we’ll just have to get married sooner, rather than later.”

CHAPTER 13

After eating dinner and walking Brandy back to the shelter, Susan and I joined my mom at the dinner table and we all huddled around a large box of photographs that my mom had brought from her house. “Since you’re about to marry my son,” my mom began, “you need to know about every embarrassing moment he’s ever experienced.”

As she began flipping through the pictures in a red photo album, I snatched up a familiar blue one. I turned the pages until I found a picture of me and my dad with our white German shepherd, Winter. We’d lost her during a severe thunderstorm when a tree fell on her house and crushed her. My dad had been so upset over the loss that he never bought another dog.

“Mom, have you spoken to dad lately?” I asked. He was supposed to be working somewhere in Egypt, but I hadn’t been able to reach him when I tried calling two days ago. “I haven’t been able to get him by phone.”

Either she didn’t hear me or she was ignoring me, because she began telling Susan about this one time I tried jumping the bayou on my bicycle. “This is the picture of him trying to get the bicycle out the bayou,” she was saying. “I was screaming at him to hurry and get out of the water, but his dad just stood there laughing.”

“Oh, my God, he must’ve been such a hoot!” Susan began flipping the page on the album when I saw her frown. She began feeling the picture pocket with her fingers. “This one’s thicker than the rest. It feels like there’s a picture behind this one.”

My mom started to say something, but Susan wrestled a small stack of pictures out of the pocket. There were three of them and she spread them on the table in front of us. I glanced down and scowled. One picture was of a man and a baby, and the other two were of my mom, the man, and the baby. The man had his hand around my mom’s waist. The baby couldn’t have been more than a month old. What the hell?

“Mom, who in the hell is that man and why is his hand around your waist?” I asked. “And who’s that baby? Is it me?”

My mom’s face turned to ash and her mouth moved a bit, but nothing came out. After stammering for a few very long seconds, she finally just shook her head. “It’s an old picture. It’s from a long time ago. Let’s just keep going.”

I snatched up the picture of the baby and the man and held it closer to get a better look at them. The baby had some kind of bonnet on her head and the outfit she wore was pink. “This isn’t me,” I blurted. “This is a baby girl.”

“Well, if I didn’t know better,” Susan said slowly to me, “I’d swear that man was you. If you had a twin who went back in time, he would be it.”

“Who are these people?” I demanded again. “And I want to know why that man has his arm around your waist. Does dad know about this?”

Susan was an only child and, as far as I knew, so was I, but this picture was suddenly starting to make me doubt that fact. As Susan had pointed out, the man looked just like me, but my father was Ezekiel Wolf—and the man in the picture wasn’t Ezekiel. I felt my face flush. Had my mom been leading a double life?

“Please just put the picture back,” my mom said in a low voice. She was staring at the photo like it was a bomb. “I didn’t know those pictures were still in there. I shouldn’t have brought these albums. It was a bad idea.”

As she scrambled to gather up the albums, I suddenly realized there was something about the pictures she didn’t want me to see. I glanced down at the one in my hand and turned it over. We both gasped at the same time—my mom in fear and me in disbelief. The date scribbled on the back of the photo preceded my birth by five years, and there were three names written in faded ink under the date. I had to strain my eyes to read it, but the names were Nancy Montana, Garvan Montana, and Baby Crystal.

“Who in the hell is Garvan Montana?” My voice was more forceful than I meant it to be, so I asked the question again, but a little calmer. “Were you married before? Do I have a sister? Why were these pictures hidden? Does Dad know?”

My mom just lowered her head and sat there wringing her hands. She didn’t deny it. “Mom, were you married before?”

After another long moment of silence, she nodded her head. “I…yes, I was married before.”

“Shoot me dead!” My mouth dropped open as I wondered how I could’ve missed this bit of history. “This Garvan Montana fellow, was he your husband?”

“Yes.”

“And the girl…” I was afraid to finish the question, but I didn’t have to. I could tell by her expression that I had a sister. I sank back into the wooden chair and felt the spindles push hard against my shoulder blades. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I didn’t know what to say.

Finally, I asked if my dad knew about her previous family.

Mom nodded, but didn’t speak.

I stared back down at the picture of…of my sister. I had a sister. Well, a half sister. “Why didn’t I ever know about this?” I finally asked after a few long minutes. “Why didn’t anyone tell me about her? Where is she? Do you keep in touch with her? How old is she? Why haven’t I ever met her?”

A ton of questions were swirling through my mind and some were spilling from my lips, but my mom remained silent. It had been a while since I’d spoken to my dad and I didn’t want our first conversation in a while to be about this new information, but I wanted answers. I stood and walked across the room, pulling out my cell phone as I made my way out into the back yard. Achilles was relaxing in the far corner of the property, but his ears perked up when I walked through the door. He stood, stretched, and ambled toward me, his body swaying from side to side as he approached.

“Hey, Big Man,” I said as the phone rang, “what are you up to?” I scratched the space between his ears and frowned when Dad’s voicemail picked up. I turned and walked back inside, allowing Achilles to follow me to the dining room. He went straight to Susan and rested his head in her lap.

Mom’s face was twisted in anguish. “Who’d you call?” she asked. “Were you trying to reach your father?”

I nodded, tossed my phone on the table. “He didn’t answer.”

Mom went back to wringing her hands. “Clint, there’s something you should know, and I think it’s about time I tell you.”

“What is it?” I braced myself. Whatever she was about to say couldn’t be good, because it appeared she was about to pass out. “Is it worse than me having a sister I never knew about?”

“Your father and I…we should’ve told you this a long time ago, but we could never bring ourselves to do it. We could never find the right time.”

“What is it?” My patience was waning. “Just spit it out.”

She took a long and wavering breath. After blowing it out, she quickly said, “Ezekiel Wolf isn’t your father.”

CHAPTER 14

I could’ve been knocked over by a butterfly. “What’d you say?”

“I said,” Mom began, “Ezekiel Wolf isn’t your father.”

“I know what you said, but…what…how is that even possible?” I shook my head. “That’s not true. He’s listed on my birth certificate. His name is right there next to yours. I’ve seen it many times. You’re mistaken.”

“No, son, this is not a mistake.” My mom, her voice still quivering, pointed to the picture on the table. “This man—Garvan Montana—he…he’s your biological father. Crystal is your older sister.”

The room seemed to spin. I’d heard of this happening to others—had even worked a case similar to this very scenario—but I’d never imagined I would find myself in this situation. I shook my head to clear it. “This isn’t happening. This can’t be real.”

“I’m so very sorry, Clint.”

“I…I don’t understand how this could happen. Does Dad even know?”

My mom nodded as tears filled her eyes. “He does know. Please understand, no matter what, he is your one and only father. Garvan abandoned us when I was pregnant with you. He took Crystal and ran away, leaving me to fend for us alone. He never offered support or even cared to check in on you.

“Ezekiel came along when I was about three months pregnant,” she continued, speaking rapidly as though fearing she’d lose the courage to continue. “Although I was carrying another man’s child, he accepted both of us as his own. He came to every doctor visit and he supported me like a real man should. I was six months pregnant when he asked if he could be your father. He didn’t want you to grow up a bastard child, so he wanted to give you his last name.”

She paused and got up to grab a glass of water from the kitchen. When she returned to her place at the table, she frowned and tears began rolling freely down her cheeks again. “Ezekiel has always been such a great father and provider. He held my hand as I gave birth to you. He was there when you took your first steps. He walked you to the school bus every morning when he was home. He taught you how to shoot a rifle and even took you on your first hunt.” She nodded solemnly. “While he might not be your biological father, he’s your real dad—and don’t you ever forget that.”

Susan scooted her chair close and hugged my mom. “It’s okay, Miss Nancy, let it all out.”

In stunned silence, I watched Susan and my mom interact. I slowly lifted the photograph of Garvan Montana and studied this stranger, who was my real father. The implications were mind-numbing. The last name I was carrying wasn’t the one I was supposed to be carrying. I should be Clint Montana. It sounded awkward and weird inside my head, and I figured it would sound worse out loud.

“So, this man”—I stabbed an index finger over the man next to Crystal—“is my real dad?”

“No, he’s not,” Mom said through the tears. “I already told you that Ezekiel is your real dad, and nothing can ever change that.”

“Well, I think science would disagree.” I tilted the picture and placed my finger over Crystal’s face. “And she’s my sister…”

Mom nodded, her face twisting in agony as she stared at her only daughter.

“When was the last time you saw her?” I asked.

“She was almost five when Garvan kidnapped her from me. I haven’t seen her since.”

“He kidnapped her? Why didn’t you call the cops?” I wanted to know. “Why didn’t you fight to get her back?”

“He kidnapped her legally—he used the courts to steal her away from me.”

The three of us sat there for about ten minutes, no one saying anything. There was no sound but that of my mom’s silent cries and Achilles’ thunderous bark whenever he heard a coyote howling outside. It was clear he wanted to be in the back yard, so I finally let him out. I was lost in thought as I moved. Mom was right about one thing; Ezekiel Wolf would always be my dad. But, as I returned to the table and stared down at the picture of Garvan Montana, a strange curiosity came over me. I began to wonder what kind of man he was. Was I anything like him? Did I look like him? Had Abigail looked like him? Was he a good man? What if he was a criminal?

I rubbed my thumb over the baby in the picture. I’d never considered what it would be like to have a sibling, but now I learn I have a sister. She would be a few years older than me. What did she look like? Would I recognize her if we passed on the street? Did she have any children? If so, that would make me an uncle.

“Mom,” I finally said, breaking through the silence, “Whatever became of Garvan Montana and Crystal? Where can I find them?”

“What became of Garvan?” Her eyes clouded over. “I’ve spent half my life trying to forget that man’s name. I…I don’t know where he is or what became of him. I ran into his mother in the city a couple of years ago, but I didn’t even have the desire to speak with her. I don’t even think she recognized me.”

“Do you have any information at all?” I pressed. “Is he still in Louisiana?”

“I really don’t know. I’m guessing his mother still lives in the same place in La Mort. It was a family home. I saw in the paper that his dad passed away a few years back, and they mentioned he was a surviving member of the family, but I don’t know where he’s living. He always said he wanted to move to Mexico and start up a surf shop on the beach.” She grunted. “He didn’t know the first thing about surfing—I don’t even think he’s ever been on a surfboard—but you couldn’t tell him anything. He was as stubborn as they came and he knew it all.”

I stared down at my hands, wondering how I could locate Garvan and Crystal. If they were suspects, locating them would be easy, but I had to figure out how to find them without using my law enforcement resources. It was illegal for an officer to use state and federal databases for personal reasons.

“I want his mom’s address,” I said. “I have to head to La Mort tomorrow, so I’ll pay her a visit and see if I can find Garvan.”

Susan cocked her head and mouthed the words, Are you sure about this?

Mom clutched at her throat and her face turned paler than it already was. It seemed as though she regretted mentioning Garvan’s mother. “Oh, dear, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Why not?” I asked. “He’s my biological father, so I think I’m entitled to meet the man. And if I find him, that would lead to Crystal. Wouldn’t you like to see her again—after all these years?”

Mom stared into space for a few long seconds and then slowly shook her head. “No, Clint, I just think too much time has passed. I hope you’ll reconsider. It’s a bad idea to go down that path. It won’t end well.”

“Why not?”

“We didn’t end on good terms. The custody hearing was vicious. He’s a vindictive man and he turned Crystal against me. I don’t want to face them and be forced to relive that painful experience.”

“I want to find them.” I said it with a finality that left no doubts as to my intentions. I was beginning to sense that my mom was keeping something from me, and I wanted to know what it was. “Where was his mother living when you and he were together?”

“I’d rather not…I don’t remember.”

I studied my mom. In all my years of living, she’d kept this information about Garvan and Crystal quiet. It suddenly occurred to me that she must’ve been under a tremendous amount of pressure and guilt. It was hard enough for me to keep a Christmas present secret from Susan, and I couldn’t imagine how it felt to keep a secret about your own child’s father and sibling.

Speaking of siblings, I’d always said I never missed what I never had, so it never bothered me that I didn’t have a brother or sister growing up, but now I found myself wanting to know more about her. Had Garvan told her about me? At the time he left my mom, did he even know that I would be a boy? If Crystal didn’t know about me, would she be excited to learn she had a younger brother?

“What about Crystal?” I wanted to know. “Where can I find her?”

“Clint, it’s not a good idea.”

“Mrs. Wolf,” Susan interjected softly. “I really think it’s important that Clint find the rest of his family. As you already know, family is the most important thing we have.”

I could tell in my mom’s eyes that she was in distress. There was something she didn’t want me to know, and it made me more determined to find out.

Susan was intrigued about this new revelation and began asking my mom questions about Crystal, attempting to steer the conversation toward happier times she would’ve shared with her daughter. It worked and my mom began talking about Crystal, telling fond stories of her first steps, her first birthday, and how she wanted to wear her pajamas on her first day of pre-school.

When it appeared my mom had begun to relax a little, I tried turning the conversation back to Garvan, but she remained tightlipped. When it appeared she was about to start crying again, Susan cut in.

“So, Clint, what kind of cake do you want for the wedding?”

“Chocolate on chocolate,” I said without hesitation, willing to change the subject for my mom’s sake. I would find Garvan and Crystal on my own, and in good time. “That double or triple flavored chocolate, too—not the weak kind.”

“You haven’t changed one bit, Clint Wolf,” my mom said, forcing a smile of relief that we were finally finished with the Garvan and Crystal subject. She turned to Susan. “It was so easy to make him happy for his birthday. I’d get him army men and a chocolate cake and he’d be content until the following year.”

“We can’t have chocolate cake for our wedding,” Susan said. “That would be ugly.”

I sighed and then leaned across the table and kissed her on the forehead. “You can pick the cake, the venue, the tux, and everything else about the wedding,” I said. “I’m just grateful to have you.”

I got up and refilled my cup of hot cocoa. When I returned to the table, Susan was talking about having our wedding on a cruise ship. She had a website pulled up and was looking at cruises to Jamaica and Cozumel, Mexico.

“Maybe I’ll find Garvan Montana down there,” I said, stealing a glance at my mom. “He might be running a surf shop on the beach.”

She didn’t even look at me.

CHAPTER 15

Sunday, November 20

It was a little after five in the morning when I met Mallory Tuttle in Northern Chateau and followed her down a long country road. It was paved, but bumpy and narrow. After driving for about thirty minutes, I finally saw signs of civilization when a middle school and a library came into view, but we were quickly swallowed up by trees again as we continued onward.

We eventually drove over a flat bridge that crossed a narrow canal, and Mallory pulled to the left side of the road immediately upon crossing the bridge. There was a wide area off the shoulder that was covered in shells, and it appeared to be where cars turned around. She whipped around and I pulled up on her driver’s side and slid my window down. A blast of cold air blew in and I shivered. It had dropped into the thirties overnight and I hated it.

Mallory shoved the gearshift of her unmarked Dodge Charger in Park and lowered her window. She shot a thumb over her shoulder.

“Chris Jenkins lives in a shed about three houses down.” Mallory brushed some strands of long brown hair out of her eyes. “Last time I arrested him, we parked in front of the shed and he broke out the back while we were getting out of our cars. We caught him, but we had to chase him about a mile into the swamps to get him.”

I nodded and stared straight ahead. My headlights were trying to penetrate the eerie fog that covered the area. “What do you propose?”

“His shed is in the middle of a large field and it’s built on solid ground,” Mallory explained. “Why don’t I drive directly to the back of the shed and you pull up to the front door? That way, we’ll have everything covered if he tries to run.”

I nodded and removed my seatbelt. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Mallory revved her engine and her back tires spun in the loose shells as she whipped around and headed for Jenkins’ place. I remained close behind her. When we reached this large lot with a tiny square object situated in the middle of it, she crossed over a dirt driveway and sped across the property. I smashed the accelerator and went wide to the right, driving around her and coming up behind the metal shed.

I was out of my Tahoe in a flash, but the back door was already open and a tall skinny fellow was jumping the steps to run. He landed in a stumbling run and that bought me some precious time to reach him. I smashed my shoulder into his thin ribs and he grunted audibly as I propelled him through the air. We both landed hard, but I was on top and his wind had been knocked out.

I flipped him onto his belly and jerked his arms behind his back. Before I could reach for my cuffs, Mallory was beside me and she put a boot on his neck.

“Make a wrong move and I’ll stomp a mud hole in your throat,” she said.

“What’s going on?” Chris wailed from the ground. “You can’t do this to me. You’re just mad that I was set free on good time, but my lawyer said that’s the law and there’s nothing you can do about it. He said if I get harassed even once by—”

“A condition of your parole was that you sign up with a parole officer and meet with him monthly.” Mallory bent over and grabbed his left arm while I grabbed his right arm. When we stood him to his feet, she looked up at him. “But you skipped your first meeting and now you’re going back to prison.”

“I didn’t skip my first meeting! I went to it and I signed up and we talked and he told me everything would be fine.”

“At that first meeting, when you signed up with him,” Mallory explained, “he told you when the next meeting would be, and that was last week. You didn’t show up, so here we are to save the day.”

Chris moaned as we stood him to his feet and walked him to Mallory’s car. After strapping him into the back seat, Mallory called for a patrol car to guard the place until Jenkins’ parole officer could arrive to search it. Once the deputy arrived, I followed Mallory to the detective bureau in Central Chateau, and we went about interviewing Chris.

CHAPTER 16

“This is Clint Wolf,” Mallory told Chris, indicating with her head toward me. “He’s from Mechant Loup and he’s got some questions for you about Mitch Taylor.”

Chris’s face twisted into a painful scowl. He was an ugly one, that’s for sure. His face was long and narrow. There were three or four wild tufts of hair sticking up from his bare dome and a long scar stretched from his left eye down to his chin. “I don’t know no Mitch Taylor,” he said. When he spoke, I could almost see his rancid breath float across the space between us.

Trying not to gag, and in the interest of officer safety, I eased a little farther back in my chair.

Mallory had caught a whiff, too, and she waved her hand in front of her face. “Damn, dude, what the hell crawled up in your mouth and died?”

Chris grinned, exposing a row of stained teeth. “It’s a defense mechanic. I used it in prison to keep the perverts off of me. I guess it works on cops, too.”

“Mechanism,” Mallory said.

His face fell. “What?”

“It’s called a defense mechanism.” Mallory brought him back to the subject at hand. “You remember Mitch Taylor. He’s the witness who identified you at your trial—you know, the one you threatened in open court. What were your exact words again?”

Chris’ eyes fell. “That was a long time ago. I didn’t mean what I said.”

“No?” Mallory cocked her head to the side. “You didn’t mean it when you said you would kill him once you got out of prison and that he would never sleep easy again?”

“No, ma’am. I’m a changed man. I swear on my grandmother’s grave.”

“Let’s leave your grandmother out of this.” Mallory pointed toward me. “Answer Chief Wolf’s questions.”

“You can start by telling me where you were and what you did Friday night,” I said.

“Friday night…” Chris stared up at the ceiling, as though trying to remember. “Is that the night it rained real bad?”

“That’s the one,” I said.

“Hmm, I don’t remember what I did Friday night.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“And you can’t remember what you did two nights ago?”

He shook his head. “I think I was home drinking. If not, I was down the road at Old Man Pat’s Place.”

I’d heard of Old Man Pat’s Place. It was a shoddy bar set back in the swamps where a man—or woman—could get more than a lap dance for anything south of twenty bucks. Old Man Pat was in the news not long ago for Letting Premises for Prostitution. If found guilty, his property would be seized and sold at public auction, but word on the street was that the witnesses were no longer cooperating with the district attorney’s office.

“Did you get rained on that night?” I asked.

“No. I was inside.”

“Who was with you inside?”

“Nobody.”

“What time did the rain start?”

“I don’t remember. A little after midnight, I think.”

“What were you doing when the rain started?”

“Drinking a beer.”

“Was Jack Billiot there?”

Chris scrunched his face. “Who?”

“Jack…the drunk from town.”

“From here?”

“No, from Mechant Loup.”

Chris shook his head rapidly from side to side. “I don’t know no Jack Billiot and I wasn’t in Mechant Loup on Friday.”

“No?” I cocked my head to the side. “When were you in Mechant Loup?”

“I haven’t been there since I got out of prison.”

I leaned forward, but carefully. “Do you own a handgun?”

“No.”

“You don’t own a nine millimeter pistol?”

His eyes darted around the room as he shook his head.

“You do realize your parole officer is searching your house as we speak, don’t you?” I asked. “He’s going through everything in your place. If you have a marijuana seed in your pillowcase he’s going to find it. You understand that, don’t you?”

Chris was looking for a place to hide, but there was nowhere to go. Twitching and shaking, he finally pounded his fists on the table. “Okay, look, there’s a pistol in my house, but it’s not mine. It was there when I moved in.”

“What kind is it?” I asked. “Make, color, caliber?”

“I don’t know the brand name, but it’s black and I think it’s a nine millimeter.” He shook his head from side to side. “But it’s not mine and I never even touched it.”

“Where’s it located in the house?”

“It’s in the front pocket of a leather jacket in the closet. The jacket was there before I moved in.”

Mallory glanced at me for the okay to move in on the interview, and I nodded. She leaned forward. “Chris, when did you move into this shed?”

“When I got out of prison.”

“Had you lived there before?”

He shook his head.

“The only other place you’ve ever lived was with your mom on Sycamore?”

He nodded.

“And you say you found this pistol in the pocket of a leather jacket that was already in the shed when you moved in?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Chris said cautiously, as though he thought he was being lured into a trap.

“Does this leather jacket have a big eagle embroidered on the back?”

Chris nodded weakly.

“That’s your jacket,” Mallory said. “You were wearing it the night I arrested you for the carjacking. They gave it back to you when they released you from prison and you put that pistol in the pocket, didn’t you?”

Chris’s head was nearly resting on the desk now.

“Chris, where’d you get the gun?” Mallory asked. “You and I both know you didn’t find it, so stop wasting our time. Where’d you get it?”

“I found it in a car.” Chris was mumbling now and we could barely understand him.

“What car?” Mallory asked.

“Up the road from where I live.”

Mallory’s fingers drummed the desk and her eyes narrowed in thought. Finally, she grunted. “So, it was you who broke into the principal’s car at the school. You stole his pistol, didn’t you? That would’ve been a week after you got out of prison.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Chris said softly. “I needed a gun for protection and everyone around here knows he keeps a gun in his car.”

Mallory leaned back and nodded to let me know she was done.

“Chris, I guess you’re smart enough to know your parole officer is going to bring that pistol to me,” I began, “and I’m going to send it to the crime lab. Will it match the shell casing we recovered from the crime scene and the bullet we recovered from the dead man’s body?”

Chris lifted his head and threw his hands in the air. “How am I supposed to know that?”

“If you killed Mitch Taylor, then you know they’re going to match.”

“What if that principal killed this Mitch person you keep talking about? What about that?” He shook his head and dropped his hands at his sides. “That would be my dumb luck—steal a gun that was used in a murder.”

“So, you think this gun will match my shell casing?” I pressed.

“I don’t know. All I know is I didn’t kill nobody.”

“Who can verify you were at Old Man Pat’s Friday night?”

“There was this dancer I talked to, but I don’t remember her name.”

“What does she look like?”

“I don’t remember.”

“What time did you leave?”

“When they closed.”

“Do you have a car?”

“No.”

“Then how do you get around?”

“There’s this bike I use. It’s for my neighbor, but she lets me use it whenever I want.”

I nodded and studied the man in front of me. He was as good a suspect as Connie, maybe better. I didn’t have a shred of evidence to hold him on the murder, but his parole violation and the new charge of a felon being in possession of a firearm would keep him locked up until his revocation hearing.

I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture of him.

“Why’d you do that?” he asked, his lips curling up in anger.

“It might help save you from a murder charge.”

“How’s that?”

“If one of those dancers at Old Man Pat’s remembers you and verifies you were in their place at the time of my murder, then you’re all clear.”

“I’m already all clear,” he said, “because I know I didn’t do it.”

CHAPTER 17

“He said the same thing about the carjacking,” Mallory told me when we had concluded the interview and gone to her office. “He swore all the way to trial that he didn’t do it, even though we had an eye witness and his DNA in the stolen vehicle. He tried to say we planted his blood and skin cells on the airbag that smashed his face in.”

While we were talking, the door to her office opened and Doug Cagle walked in. Doug was a detective for the Chateau Parish Sheriff’s Office. Although we’d had our differences in the past, we got along okay. He shook my hand and placed an evidence bag on Mallory’s desk. “Here’s the pistol,” he said to Mallory. “It was exactly where you said it would be.”

Mallory nodded. “Fill out a chain of custody form and sign it over to Clint.”

Doug nodded and walked out to retrieve the form. Once he’d filled it out and the black nine millimeter pistol was in my possession, I thanked them both and stepped out into the daylight. The sky was clear and it had warmed up a little, but it was still in the low forties and too cold for my blood. Tucking the evidence bag under my arm, I zipped my jacket high and walked to my Tahoe. It was warmer inside—thanks to the sun beating down on it—and I fired up the engine and headed south for Mechant Loup. It was too early to pay a visit to Old Man Pat’s, so I decided to see if Connie Taylor was home.

I called Susan as I drove and she seemed excited to hear from me.

“Hey, I think I’ve got some good news.”

“What is it?” I asked, hoping she was going to tell me she had changed her mind about having a cruise wedding. I’d never been on a cruise, and being around a boatload of drunken people didn’t seem like my idea of paradise. I certainly didn’t need the temptation, as I was determined to never have another drink as long as I lived.

“I might’ve found something—a lead.”

“On this case?” My interest was piqued. “I’d welcome anything you have.”

“No, it’s about your family. I think I may have located your sister, Crystal.”

“Really? Where is she? How’d you find her?”

“I was looking up—”

Susan stopped abruptly and I heard someone speaking to her in the background. I recognized my mom’s voice. Susan must’ve cupped her hand over the phone, because her voice was muffled when she responded to my mom. A few seconds later, she came back on the phone and said she had to go. “We can finish discussing this later. It’s no big deal.”

But it was a big deal, and we both knew it. My mom was keeping a secret and I was going to find out what it was…one way or the other. I thanked Susan and ended the call just as I was turning onto Coconut Lane. I pulled right into Connie Taylor’s driveway this time. The same truck was parked in the same spot and everything else looked unchanged.

I dropped from my Tahoe and sauntered across the yard, stopping beside the front door to knock. My fist was poised over the frame to knock when the knob turned and the door opened to the inside. A woman, who was looking down as she walked, stepped outside and ran directly into me. She let out a shrill scream and lunged violently backward. I had to lean forward and catch her so she wouldn’t fall.

“I’m Clint Wolf,” I said quickly, “with the police department.”

Connie threw a hand over her mouth and suddenly began laughing. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“I apologize.” I watched as she straightened herself and took a few calming breaths. I then asked if she was Connie Taylor, wife of Mitch Taylor.

She nodded somberly. “I heard what happened. Unfortunately, I had to hear it from his lover.”

“I’m sorry about that, ma’am. We received a welfare concern from a woman stating she was his girlfriend, so when we found him…” I frowned.

“I understand.” She stepped forward and indicated with her head toward the white rockers on either side of the doorway. “Would you like to sit? I imagine you have some questions. I would invite you inside, but my parents are here and my mother would only talk your ear off.”

It was a nice day, so I didn’t mind being outside, but I wondered if there was something—or someone—inside that she didn’t want me to see.

After giving her some of the basics concerning the circumstances surrounding her estranged husband’s death, I asked if she knew of anyone who would want to harm Mitch.

“Well, I’ve wished him dead on more than one occasion,” she said bluntly, “but, other than me, I don’t know of anyone else who would want to kill him.”

CHAPTER 18

I knew immediately that I liked Connie Taylor. This could go one of two ways; she was innocent and simply speaking candidly, or she was guilty and trying to hide in plain sight. Either way, she was cool and had a good sense of humor.

“I hear things weren’t going well between you and Mitch.”

“Things were going great until he met that little slut, Brandy Lewis. Mitch thought she loved him, or some such nonsense, but women like her don’t love anyone but themselves.” Connie crossed one slender leg over the other and rocked slowly in her chair. She wore a blue jean skirt and a red sweater that made her dark hair seem even darker. Her eyes were the color of coal and I wondered if it matched her heart.

“Brandy wanted Mitch for the bar,” Connie said. “She saw the bar, this nice home, and the Porsche that Mitch drove, and she thought he was rich. What she didn’t know was that Mitch was noted out. One wrong move, one bad summer, and it would’ve been all over for him.”

“Him?” I asked. “What about you?”

“I had nothing to do with the bar. When we met, I was receiving royalties from an oil well on a piece of property I inherited from my grandmother, and he had the bar, so we were both doing well. We ended up falling for each other and he eventually proposed to me. I accepted, but I was scared. I saw how he played loose with his money, so I didn’t want him touching mine.”

“What’d you do?” I asked when she didn’t elaborate.

“I made him think it was in his best interest to sign a prenuptial agreement—to protect his bar, you know? It worked and we agreed to keep our assets separate.” Connie paused and grunted. “That was the best decision I ever made. He squandered most of his earnings from the bar and had to keep coming to me to bail him out.”

“And did you?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Bail him out?”

I nodded.

“Every time.” She sighed. “I don’t like admitting it, but I loved him more than I loved myself. He was walking all over me and I knew it, but I thought he would eventually come around. My mom used to tell me if I loved something I should let it go, and it would come back to me.” She let out an evil laugh. “Boy, was that the worst advice ever. I let him go, just like she said, and he ran right into the arms of that little bitch.”

“Brandy said he would go back to you from time to time.”

Connie stared across the street, where some boys were playing in an empty field. After a long time, she spoke softly. “He would only come back home when Brandy would break up with him. That first time he came back, I thought God had finally answered my prayers and I thought she was out of our lives for good.” She shook her head. “But then he went right back to her. Each time he would come back around I hoped and prayed it would be the last time, but it seemed he couldn’t get her out of his system.”

Connie lowered her head and tears came to her eyes. “I didn’t know what it was about that girl—why he couldn’t walk away from her. Sure, he had cheated on me before, but he had never left me for anyone else. This Brandy bitch had some kind of spell over him and, for the life of me, I just couldn’t seem to break it.”

“Well, it seems he had the same spell on you.”

She mulled that over, then nodded her agreement. “I guess you’re right. I don’t know what it was about that big lug, but I loved him.”

I asked Connie if it was true that she had a new boyfriend, and she said it was.

“He’s such a sweetheart, too,” she said. “On our first date, we ran into Mitch and Brandy. Later that night, after he dropped me off at my house, Mitch calls crying, begging me to take him back. He said he realized what a mistake he’d made and he didn’t want to lose me. I told him I would think about it and call him back, but he appeared at my door an hour later.”

“How’d your new boyfriend take it?”

Connie shook her head hurriedly. “He wasn’t my boyfriend. We had only been on one date and there wasn’t a promise of a second.”

“Well, what’d you tell him?”

“I told him we were trying to make another go at our marriage—that Mitch said he didn’t want to lose me.” She smiled. “He’s such a class act. He told me he understood and he would be waiting if I became available again.”

Connie went on to explain that a month after Mitch left her the last time, she had finally made up her mind to end it for good and she went on that second date. “Word got around and Mitch called me crying again, but I told him to leave me alone. I told him if he called me again I would record it and send it to Brandy.”

I leaned back in my rocker and studied the woman across from me. If what she was saying was true, she didn’t want Mitch anymore. If she didn’t want him, there was no reason to kill him. Unless…

CHAPTER 19

“So,” I began, leaning closer to Connie. “Now that Mitch is dead, who gets the bar?”

“I’m his wife. Naturally, I get the bar.” She wiped her nose on a tissue she’d pulled from a pocket that was sewn into her skirt. “I deserve it, too, because I dumped so much money into saving it.”

“Would it have pissed you off to see it go to Brandy?”

She raised her eyes slowly to stare at me. “Are you insinuating that I killed him?”

“No, ma’am. I’m asking if it would piss you off to see the bar go to Brandy?”

“How would it go to Brandy?”

“If you and Mitch would’ve gotten divorced and he would’ve married Brandy, then there was a chance she could end up with it.” I paused to let that information settle. “Having dumped so much money into the place, would that have pissed you off?”

“I…I mean, I never really thought about it that way.”

“Why don’t you do me a favor and look at it from my point of view,” I suggested. “Knowing everything you know, who would be on your short list of suspects? If you were me, who would you focus on most?”

Connie stammered. Finally, she said, “I’m not some detective. I don’t know how those things work.”

“You’re right, that’s not a fair question, but earlier you said you had wished him dead on more than one occasion. You also said you didn’t know of anyone else who wanted him dead, implying that you wanted him dead.” I paused and watched for a reaction. There was none. “Do you understand how that might make me think you killed him?”

“Since you’ve got me pretending to be a detective, I can say that I wouldn’t expect a guilty person to admit to wanting the victim dead. I imagine the real suspect would pretend to like the victim to throw the detective off.”

I smiled. “Or, if she was exceptionally brilliant, she would make that statement to convince the detective she was innocent.”

Connie’s blank face broke into a knowing smile. “Or that.”

“Can you now appreciate my dilemma?”

“Detective Wolf—that is your name, right?”

“It is.”

“Trust me, I didn’t kill Mitch.”

“Can you tell me where you were Friday night?”

“What time?”

“All night, beginning with nine and ending Saturday morning at five.”

“I was here.”

“All night?”

She nodded. “All night.”

“Can anyone verify that fact?”

“Yes…I can.”

“What about your boyfriend? How does he feel about Mitch?”

“He doesn’t care about Mitch. Besides,”—she waved her hand dismissively—“he’s been offshore for two weeks. He’s due back home Tuesday.”

“Can I have his name and employment information to verify his whereabouts?”

Without hesitation, Connie provided his name, the name of the company, and the telephone number. As she watched, I stepped away from her and immediately contacted the employer. Everything checked out.

Since the killer didn’t enter the bar, it would be futile to obtain her DNA or fingerprints. My only real chance of solving this case would be through a confession or finding the pistol in the killer’s possession.

When I rejoined Connie on her patio, I asked her if she owned any guns.

“I have an old shotgun my grandma gave me when my grandpa died. Each of his grandchildren got one.”

“Any handguns?”

She shook her head. “I don’t mess with handguns.”

“Did Mitch have a life insurance policy?” Along with infidelity and revenge, greed was as strong a motive as any for murder.

“He did.”

“And the beneficiary would be…?”

She smiled and leaned her head slightly to one side. “Detective, I’m his wife, so I’m obviously the beneficiary.”

“Estranged wife,” I corrected. “What if he changed the beneficiary to Brandy Lewis when y’all split up?”

“Mitch didn’t even know about the policy. He was too self-centered to even consider what would happen to everyone else in the event of his death.”

“So, you took out a life insurance policy on Mitch?”

Connie nodded. “I didn’t want to be stuck with his debt when he died, so I got a policy to cover what I thought he owed.”

“And how much was that?”

“Half a million.”

“When did you take out the policy?” I asked, hoping for something, anything, to indicate she had done it.

“Two years ago.”

Damn! I nodded slowly as I studied Connie. She could be lying, so there was only one way to find out. “Do you mind showing me the policy?”

To my surprise, she said, “Sure.”

She disappeared inside her house and returned a few minutes later carrying a portfolio. “Sorry it took so long,” she said. “I had to dig it out of my safe.”

I flipped through the documents and sighed. She was telling the truth. Could it be that she had hatched a plan to kill him two years ago and just waited for this document to get old?

“You mentioned Mitch had cheated on you before. Was it before or after you took out this policy?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’m just curious.”

“It was before I took out the policy.” She tossed her hair back. “He was messing around with a married woman at the time, so I figured his life expectancy was a bit low and I didn’t want to be responsible for his bills.”

I stifled a grin and asked if I could search her house.

“What would you hope to find?”

“My hope would be that you’re telling the truth and I could corroborate your story by finding nothing. If you’re lying, well, then I’d hope to find evidence proving that, as well.”

“Evidence…such as a handgun?”

“Sure, that would be part of it.”

“I can save us both some time.” She flashed a coy smile. “I already told you I don’t own a handgun. I don’t even like them.”

She used a very specific word, “own”, and I wasn’t convinced.

“I understand you don’t own one, but do you mind if I look inside to see if a handgun is present anywhere in your house? Maybe Mitch had one hidden somewhere and you weren’t even aware of it? Since you don’t like them, I could find it and dispose of it for you.”

“Nice try, detective.” She flashed that smile again. “Now, if you’ll give me a list of items you hope to find, I can either assure you I don’t have it or I can bring it out to you, just as I did with the insurance policy.”

“Is that your final answer?” I asked, smiling myself.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t want you searching my house while my mom is here. That would just be embarrassing.”

I questioned her for about thirty minutes longer, pressing her a bit more on the information she’d provided, but I couldn’t detect a crack in her armor of a story. Finally, I thanked her for her time and left, wondering if she had indeed killed the man.

CHAPTER 20

I drove home for lunch, hoping to learn what information Susan had obtained about my family, but she waved me off because my mom was milling around. Susan’s mom was also there and the two mothers were hitting it off. Surprisingly, they were discussing plans for the wedding and a fistfight hadn’t broken out yet. It seemed they were all in agreement over the location, the date, the preacher, and the attendees. They also seemed to agree that I was only along for the ride. My new slogan was, “Yes, honey.”

“I’m getting spoiled,” Susan told me as I sat down to a plate of fried pork, rice, and potato salad. “Your mom insists on cooking—claims she loves it—and I can’t stop her from cleaning everything.”

“I do love it,” my mom called from the living room, where she and Susan’s mom, Lisa, were looking at wedding dresses. “I won’t want to go back home.”

“But you will,” I said under my breath.

Susan playfully socked my shoulder with her fist. “Be nice!”

As I ate, I went over the details of the case with her. “I’ve got three potential suspects—Chris Jenkins, Connie Taylor, and Brandy Lewis—but none of them stands out more than the others.”

“Didn’t y’all recover a pistol off of Chris Jenkins?”

I nodded and waited while I chewed on my food. Once I swallowed, I told her about his possible alibi. “I have to go to Old Man Pat’s this evening to see if his alibi checks out.”

“And if it does?”

I sighed. “Then the next best suspect would be Connie. She’s the only one who stood to gain something if he died, and she admitted to wanting him dead.”

“What would she get?”

“The bar and five hundred grand in life insurance money.”

Susan whistled. “That’s enough to put anyone’s life in danger.”

“Whose life is in danger?” my mom asked from the living room.

“No one.” I wanted to confront her again about my dad, but decided against it. She seemed really upset last night and I didn’t want to ruin our Thanksgiving visit.

Once I’d finished eating, I grabbed a few chunks of meat and walked out the back door, where Achilles was sitting in the shade of a tree. His ears had perked up long before he saw me and he sat at attention, watching me walk across the yard toward him. I could tell he wanted to jump up and rush over to me, but he was exercising restraint. It was almost as though he knew he would be rewarded for being patient.

“Come,” I said when I was halfway across the yard.

He yelped in excitement and rushed toward me, stopping and dropping to a seated position at my feet. I was always impressed with his stopping abilities. It often looked like he would crash right into me and knock both of us sprawling, but then he would dig in his heels and come to an abrupt stop mere inches from my legs.

I told him to shake. When he extended his paw up to my hand, I rewarded him with a piece of meat. He swallowed it without taking the time to chew it. I played with him for a few more minutes and then trudged back to the house, bummed that I couldn’t take him to work with me.

“Do you have to go back so early?” Susan asked. “It’s Sunday. You should take some time off and spend it with your mom while she’s here. Besides, Old Man Pat’s won’t be open until later.”

“I have to interview the other worker from the Corner Pub—some guy named Foster Blake—just to cover all the bases.” I shrugged. “He might know of some beef someone had with Mitch.”

“Or, he might be the killer,” my mom offered from the living room. “Why don’t you tell me about this case? I might be able to help.”

“I can’t discuss open investigations,” I explained.

“Excuse me?” She looked up from the wedding dress catalog and a frown fell across her face. “I heard you discussing it with Susan earlier.”

“She’s the chief of police,” I explained. “She gets to know everything that happens in town.”

“But what if she’s right?” Susan asked. “What if he is the killer?”

“He can’t be. His alibi is rock solid.”

“How’s that?”

“He was having an affair with the only other employee from the bar, Joyce Reynolds.”

“Maybe the dead guy was sleeping with this Joyce character, too,” my mom said. “You want to get two guys fighting, put a girl between them.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, waving. “I’ll keep that in mind as I’m questioning him.”

Susan kissed my cheek and entered the living room. “I’ll tell you about a major case we worked about a year ago,” she told my mom. “It’ll help pass the time while we look for the perfect wedding dress.”

“Just as long as it doesn’t involve you getting shot with an arrow or breaking your leg,” Lisa Wilson said from her perch next to my mom. “I don’t think I can tolerate hearing about any more violence directed toward my baby girl.”

CHAPTER 21

Lacy Court was on the western side of Main Street and a couple of miles from Paradise Place, so it didn’t take long for me to reach it. I cruised down the paved road and scanned both sides of the street, searching for the correct address. I finally found it and parked on the shoulder. The driveway was crowded and it looked as though they were also entertaining company for the Thanksgiving holidays.

I approached the two-story, barn-style home and knocked on the door. An elderly man answered and I asked if he was Foster Blake.

“No, sir, I’m Desmond.” The man stuck out a thin hand that trembled slightly. “I’m just visiting, but I can get Foster’s wife for you.”

I thanked him and waited. There was some shuffling from inside and then a woman wearing an apron over tights and a T-shirt answered the door. She glanced down at my badge and then out to my unmarked Tahoe, and her eyes widened.

“Oh, God, what is it? Is it Foster? Is he…is he okay?”

“I’m here looking to speak with him,” I said. “I have some questions about an incident down at the bar that took place Friday night.”

The woman’s shoulders drooped in relief. “Thank God! I thought something terrible had happened.”

“Why would you think that?” I asked.

“We got into an argument and he left.” She waved a wooden cooking spoon in the air. “Just regular family stuff, you know? Well, maybe not so regular, but it is what it is. Anyway, he told me he would be sleeping in a motel for a couple of days, so when I saw you, I was worried something bad had happened to him. You know how people get depressed sometimes and want to hurt themselves around the holidays.”

I nodded, remembering what Joyce had told me about them separating. “So, I take it you’re his wife?”

“Oh, yes, forgive my manners.” She switched the spoon to her left hand and held out her right one. “Pearly Blake. I am his wife.”

I was mildly curious about the family dustup that had taken place, but figured it wasn’t my business, so I didn’t ask about it.

“Would you know what motel he’s staying in?” I asked.

“No, but I can give you his cell phone number.”

I didn’t like alerting people that I was looking for them, but I took his number anyway and thanked her for her time. As I walked back to my Tahoe, I called Joyce Reynolds. When she answered, I asked for the name of the motel where she and Foster had rented a room.

“Why do you need to know that?” she asked. “Is there a problem?”

“I need to interview Foster—same as I did with you—but his wife said he’s still at the motel.”

“He stayed there?” Joyce sounded surprised. “He hasn’t been home since Friday?”

“That’s what she said. So, which motel was it?”

She gave me the name of the motel and I headed toward Magnolia Parish. I’d always operated off the belief that one witness leads to another, who leads to another, and so on, until it leads to the suspect. I sure hoped Foster Blake would be the witness who led to the suspect, because if Chris Jenkins’ gun didn’t match the bullet and casing I’d recovered, I was out of luck…and out of suspects.

As I drove, my mind wandered to the information Susan had found on my dad. We couldn’t talk about it over lunch because my mom was around, but the curiosity was killing me. I wondered how reliable it would prove to be. Would the information lead to my dad, or would it lead to a dead end like the leads in this case?

Impatient, I pulled out my cell and rang Susan’s phone. When she answered, I asked if she could talk.

“Hey, Clint, we think we found the perfect wedding dress.” I could hear my mom’s voice in the background asking if that was me on the phone. Susan said it was and then asked me what time I thought I’d be getting home this afternoon.

Grumbling to myself, I told her I didn’t know and ended the call. I was starting to consider renting a motel room for Susan and me to live in until Thanksgiving so we could have a bit of privacy. We hadn’t even been able to have sex since my mom arrived, because Susan was worried she would hear us.

I loved my mom and was happy we’d reconnected, but I was about to sit her down and interrogate her. I wanted answers and I wanted them sooner rather than later…and I also wanted to make love to my fiancée again, so Thanksgiving needed to hurry and get here.

CHAPTER 22

I found Foster Blake in Room 224, just as Joyce had described. He answered the door wearing boxers, an oversized T-shirt, and dark sunglasses. He must’ve weighed 350 pounds and was a little shorter than me. Had I not run his name earlier and learned he was forty-three, I would’ve guessed him to be in his early fifties.

I extended my hand. “Clint Wolf. I’m a detective from Mechant Loup and I’m investigating the murder of your boss, Mitch Taylor.”

Foster frowned. “Yeah, I got a call about it. That’s messed up. He was a good friend and a good employer.”

When Foster turned his head briefly, I could see around the side of his glasses and saw a bruise on his left eye. There was also an abrasion on the bridge of his nose. It looked like he’d been in a fight.

He opened the door wider. “Come on in. I’ll put on some clothes and be right out.”

While he walked toward the bathroom, I picked my way through the empty beer bottles and cardboard pizza boxes that littered the floor and took a seat in one of the chairs near a small table. I repositioned the chair to face the bathroom and I kept my gun hand near my pistol as I waited. For all I knew, he could’ve killed Mitch.

I surveyed the room while Foster bustled about the bathroom. His clothes were strewn all over the floor and the place smelled like stale sweat and vomit. I didn’t know what had happened out at his house, but it must’ve been really bad to drive him to want to stay in this depressing little dump.

I looked up when the door to the bathroom opened and carefully watched as Foster lumbered toward me. He still wore the same shirt, but he had pulled on an oversized pair of dirty sweat pants. He also removed his glasses and I whistled when I saw his raccoon eyes and the gash between them.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“A disagreement out at the house.” He waved his hand around the room. “That’s why I’m spending Thanksgiving here. It’s better than being around evil in-laws.”

“What was the disagreement about?” I asked in a matter-of-fact tone, trying not to sound as curious as I was.

“Nothing important.” He shuffled some boxes around on the table and found one with a slice of pizza still inside. He grabbed it and took a bite, then mumbled, “Want some?”

“No thanks.” I waited until he swallowed. “What can you tell me about Mitch Taylor?”

“He was a nice fellow. Such a good boss, you know? He’d let me take off whenever I wanted to and he’d still pay me my base rate. I missed out on tips, but he always made my hourly wage good.” He took another bite and continued, talking around his food. “I moved down here about five years ago and no one would give me a job. I went in the Corner Pub one day to get a drink and we got to talking and I told him I was having a hard time finding work.” He snapped his fingers. “He agreed to hire me on the spot. Told me I could start the next day.”

“Have there been any problems out at the bar lately? Drunks who had to be thrown out, fights broken up…things like that?”

He shook his head. “We’re usually busy around the holidays, but we don’t have much trouble. Everyone’s usually happy around this time of the year.”

I pointed to his nose and took a second stab at it. “Someone wasn’t happy with you.”

“That’s old news.” He swallowed the last of the pizza and searched through the pile of boxes on the table for more. Thankfully, there was none.

“What do you know about his wife, Connie?”

Foster shrugged. “She’s bossy and controlling. At least, that’s what Mitch used to say before he left her. Said she was always trying to tell him how to spend his money.”

“Has she ever threatened him?”

“I don’t know. Not in front of me.”

“Was Mitch seeing anyone else?” I asked.

“Yeah, he’s dating this girl named Brandy Lewis. They’ve been together for a couple of years now. I know they broke up a while back, but they got right back together.”

“Do you know of any reason Brandy would have for wanting him dead?”

“Oh, no, she loves him. I called her earlier today to see how she was doing and she’s still all tore up about it.”

Considering she’d only found out about Mitch’s murder yesterday morning, I would’ve expected her to still be “tore up”. Anything less would’ve raised some red flags.

I pointed at Foster. “So, what about you? Would you have any reason to want Mitch dead?”

His eyes widened. “No way! How does that saying go? That would be like shooting myself in the foot. I don’t have a job now. I don’t know how I’m going to pay my rent or buy food or pay the insurance on my truck.” He shook his head. “I’m screwed.”

“Where were you Friday?”

“I was here.”

“What time did you get here?”

“It had to be early in the afternoon.”

“Did you leave here at all Friday night or early Saturday morning?”

He shook his head. “I haven’t left since I got here. Well, except to walk to the corner to get more booze.”

“What about the pizza?”

“Delivery.”

I nodded and studied him. He seemed to be telling the truth so far, but it was time to test him. “Can anyone verify your whereabouts for Friday night and Saturday morning?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, was anyone here with you Friday night?”

He hesitated ever so slightly, then shook his head. “I was by myself.”

“All night?”

He nodded.

“Foster, did you kill Mitch Taylor?”

“No!” He shook his head violently from side to side. “I already told you I would never hurt him.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded. “Positive.”

“Are you as sure about not killing Mitch as you are about being here alone?” I raised my hand to stop him before he could speak. “Before you answer that, I want you to know that lying about one is as good as lying about the other. If you lie about being here alone, I can’t believe you didn’t kill Mitch.” I pointed to him. “Now, go…”

Foster hesitated. “I mean, someone might’ve come over to see me.”

“And who would that have been?”

“A friend.”

“Does that friend have a name?”

“I…I don’t really want to get her involved.”

“She’s already involved,” I said. “Spill it.”

He stared down at his beefy hands. “Is this confidential?”

“Sure.”

He took a labored breath and then nodded. “Okay, her name’s Joyce. Joyce Reynolds. She was with me all night.”

“What’s the nature of your relationship with Joyce?”

“We were seeing each other.” He looked up, his eyes pleading. “You won’t tell my wife, right? You said this was confidential.”

I shook my head. “I won’t tell your wife or her husband. That’s between the two of you.”

“Thank you!” He took a breath, but then froze. “Wait a minute—how’d you know she had a husband?”

“I already spoke to her.” I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms in front of my chest. This interview would lead me nowhere. I had hit a brick wall. My only hope was that we’d find a match on the pistol we recovered from Chris Jenkins. “Foster, was Mitch also sleeping with Joyce?”

“No…I mean, not that I know about.”

“If he’d been sleeping with her and you had found out about it, how would you have reacted?”

“I…I mean, I guess I wouldn’t have been happy, but I also wouldn’t go around shooting him.”

“Do you own a gun?”

“No, sir. Never.”

I nodded and stood to leave, but stopped in the doorway. “Hey, do you know Chris Jenkins?”

Foster shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

“I didn’t think so,” I mumbled, digging one of my freshly-printed business cards from my pocket. “Well, if you hear anything or think of something you didn’t tell me, I’d appreciate you calling.”

He took the card and stared down at it, as though struggling internally with something.

“What is it?” I asked. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

He lifted both hands in the air. “You have to believe me…I had nothing to do with his murder.”

“What is it, Foster? Spit it out!”

“A while back—it must’ve been six months ago—Mrs. Connie went to the bar looking for Mitch, but he wasn’t there. He was with Brandy.” Foster paused and licked his cracked lips. “Well, Mrs. Connie started bitching about Mitch and she said she knew he was with that whore Brandy—that’s what she called her.”

“Go on,” I said when he stopped talking again. “Finish telling it.”

“While she was bitching, she got real close to me and started saying things to me…” Foster sighed heavily and wiped his face.

“What kind of things?”

“Complimenting me and telling me that I was a real man and not a little punk like Mitch.” Foster was a shade whiter than earlier. “She…she asked me if I would kill Mitch for her. She said she would pay me to do it.”

CHAPTER 23

“I’m going to be late tonight,” I told Susan when she answered the phone. “I just got a break in the case.”

“What’s going on?”

When I told her, she cursed out loud and asked where I was heading.

“I’ll be at the police department in a few minutes to put Foster’s recorded statement in evidence and to type up a search warrant. If the judge signs it, I’m going straight to Connie Taylor’s house and executing the warrant.”

“I’ll meet you at the office!”

“But you’re nursing a broken—”

Click!

“Susan?” The line was dead. I shook my head and tossed my phone in the center console. I didn’t think it was a good idea for Susan to be hobbling around a crime scene on crutches, but I knew there was no talking her out of it. I just hoped things didn’t get physical, because Susan couldn’t afford to re-break that bone in her leg.

Our police department building was on Washington Avenue in the downtown district. While it was a one-story building, the one story was twelve feet off the ground to protect the building from floods, and it allowed for parking underneath. I took up one of the empty parking spots, gathered my things, and hurried up the steps. When I pushed through the doors and into the lobby, Beth Gandy buzzed me in. Susan had hired Beth to help out during the weekends and she had caught on quick. In light of what had happened to her two months ago, the poor woman needed something to keep her occupied on the weekends.

I walked into the dispatcher’s station to see how she was doing, and then hurried to my office to type up a search warrant.

I was just putting the finishing touches on the affidavit when Susan shuffled into my office. She tossed the crutches aside and plopped into a chair. “I can’t wait until this thing heals up and I can throw away these wooden sticks,” she said, resting her leg on the chair next to her. “They’re smashing the sides of my boobs and making calluses on my armpits—you’re not supposed to have calluses on your armpits!”

I nodded absently and finished detailing my probable cause. I printed the document and then handed it to Susan to proofread. When she gave it the thumbs up, I ran my finger down the list of duty judges and found the one who was catching duty today. I called to let him know I’d sent the affidavit and warrant electronically.

“I’ll call you back,” he said.

I dropped the handset to the cradle and leaned back in my chair, turning my attention to Susan. She was messing with the knobs on the crutches, adjusting the height while mumbling to herself. Her hair was down and she pushed it around an ear to get it out of her face. When she looked up, her face was flushed and she froze when she saw me staring at her. “What is it?”

“I never get tired of looking at you.”

When she smiled, her dimples pushed deep into her face and her eyes lit up. “You always make me feel beautiful, even when I’m stumbling around with a giant chunk of plaster around my leg.”

I suddenly remembered the information she said she’d obtained. “Hey, what’d you find out about my dad?”

The smile faded from her face. “You know, you could’ve let me enjoy that moment for a little longer.”

“Sorry, I just remembered. What do you have for me?”

“So, before knocking off of her shift this morning, Amy called to pass on some information from last night and we got to talking. I know she’s into all of that social media stuff, so I asked her how I could go about locating someone. I told her you were trying to find your dad and we couldn’t use state resources to do that. Well…” Susan began messing with her cell phone and she waved me over. “Have you ever heard of BudRelat?”

“No.”

“What about Facebook?”

I laughed and dragged my chair beside her. “Everyone’s heard of Facebook.”

“Well, BudRelat is basically the same thing. It’s a place where you can connect with your buddies and relatives.” She chewed on her lower lip while her thumbs danced across the keys. Finally, she nodded. “So, I created a page in your name—”

“Wait, what?” I was too old for social media and certainly didn’t have time for it. “I do not want a BudRelat page—or any other social media page, for that matter.”

“Just bear with me.” Susan pulled up the site and typed in the name Crystal Montana. “You’ve got to have a page to look up people, and I certainly don’t want a page.”

“Neither do I! Why’d you use my name? Why not use a fake name or Achilles’ name. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind being on there. He might even find a pretty German shepherd to—”

“Well, I used your first name, but I went with Montana for the last name,” she said, interrupting me. “They probably wouldn’t respond if I used Clint Wolf, so I went with Clint Montana. That way, at least it would get their attention and would lend some credence to the possibility that you’re related to them.”

She turned her phone so I could see what popped up and I leaned closer. “This is the only Crystal Montana I could find.”

The profile picture was of a fit woman surfing a huge wave in pristine water. She had long red hair and wore a yellow bikini that matched her surfboard. I pointed. “You think that’s my sister?”

“Does she look like the baby picture?”

I laughed. “Oh, she looks exactly like the baby picture. Hell, she hasn’t aged a bit.”

“Stop being sarcastic…I still look like my baby picture.” Susan pointed toward the bottom of the profile page. “Read her work history.”

I glanced where Susan pointed. Crystal’s school history was listed first and it showed that she had graduated from high school and college in Texas, and then she attended law school at J. Rueben Clark Law School at BYU. There was a long list of accomplishments. “This can’t be my sister,” I mumbled. “She’s too smart to be related to me.”

Susan shoved me playfully. “Don’t talk bad about my man.”

I just grunted and looked past Crystal’s school history. I sucked in a mouthful of air when I saw the first job listing; Montana and Daughter’s Surf Shop, Galveston, Texas.

“Do you really think this is it?”

“Click on the link to Montana and Daughter’s Surf Shop.”

I did what she said and whistled when I saw the names of the owners. It was Garvan Montana and Crystal Montana, father and daughter.

“Damn, Susan, you found them!”

She was beaming and I detected a glint of moisture in one of her eyes. “Are you happy?”

I smiled and wrapped her in my arms. “Thank you so much, Love!”

There was a coughing sound from the doorway and I quickly let go of Susan and looked up, more than a little embarrassed. Beth Gandy was standing there smiling sheepishly. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but the judge is on line one and I didn’t think you’d want to keep him waiting.”

“No, you’re right.” I thanked her and quickly snatched up the phone.

“This is weak, Clint,” came the judge’s gruff voice. “I’m going to sign it because there’s enough probable cause to believe she might’ve been involved, but I want you to be careful with this one. Don’t go kicking her door down or tearing up her place or anything like that.”

“I understand,” I said.

“I’ll be emailing the signed copy in a minute.”

Before I could thank him, he hung up the phone. I dropped the handset into the cradle and turned to Susan. Her eyebrows were raised.

“Well, are we in?”

I smiled. “We’re in.”

CHAPTER 24

It was late in the afternoon and the sun was going down when Susan and I knocked on Connie Taylor’s door. She scowled when she answered and saw me standing there.

“What now? Did I forget to pay a parking ticket?”

I frowned and handed her a copy of the search warrant. “I hate to bother you like this, but I’ve got a warrant to search your house.”

“A search warrant?” she echoed, snatching the document from my hands and scanning it quickly. “For what?”

“I’m looking for a nine millimeter pistol and—”

“I already told you I didn’t have a pistol.” She shoved both fists on her hip, the warrant crumpled in her right hand. “I was very cooperative and I gave you everything you requested, and this is how you repay me? And you don’t even have the decency to tell me that’s what you were doing? See if I ever cooperate with you again, Clint Wolf!”

“Ma’am,” Susan said, cutting in, “he had no choice. I’m the chief of police here and I want him to cover all the bases. He absolutely believes you, but the only way he’ll be able to convince the district attorney you’re cleared as a suspect is by searching your house. If he would’ve told you he was coming with a warrant, the DA could argue you got rid of the evidence before he got here.”

“Whatever—do what you have to do and get out of my house.” She turned away and disappeared into the house, leaving the door open behind her. “Mom! The cops are here and they’re going to search the house.”

“What?” cried an elderly woman’s voice. “Why on earth would they do that?”

“Because I’m a criminal, that’s why,” Connie retorted.

Working her crutches as fast as she could, Susan followed Connie into the shadows and I heard Susan ask for everyone in the house to join her in the living room. “It’s standard procedure,” she explained. “We want to keep everyone together so we can ensure everyone’s safety.”

“No one is searching this house without me,” Connie challenged. “My mom will sit in the living room, but I’m following whoever is doing the search.”

Susan glanced at me and I nodded. “That’s fine,” I said. “I don’t mind Mrs. Taylor keeping an eye on me.”

Once Connie’s mom was comfortable, I read Connie her rights and then asked her to lead me around the house.

“Am I under arrest?” she asked.

“No, ma’am.”

She stared at me for a long moment, then huffed and began leading me through the house, beginning in the living room first, the kitchen next, through each of the guest bedrooms, and then the three bathrooms. When we reached the master bedroom, I saw a large fireproof safe in the walk-in closet. I tried the handle, but it was locked.

“Can you open this for me?”

She hesitated.

“I can haul it out of here and have it cut open, but I don’t want to do that,” I said. “I just need to see what’s inside.”

Grumbling some more, Connie worked the combination dial and stepped back when it clicked to indicate that it was unlocked. I twisted the handle and pulled the heavy door until I could see inside. Considering how she’d been acting, I expected to see a nine millimeter pistol in the safe, but the only gun was an old shotgun in the far corner.

“Is that the shotgun you got from your grandmother when your grandfather died?” I asked.

She nodded and reached for the door of the safe to close it. “Like I told you, it’s the only gun I have—”

I blocked the door with my foot, cutting her off. “I’m not done.”

Connie huffed and stormed toward her bed and dropped onto it. “This is Thanksgiving week and I’ve got a lot to do,” she said, “so I’d appreciate it if you would hurry and finish this witch hunt so I can get back to work.”

I nodded and scanned the interior of the safe. There were half a dozen shelves with boxes and files stacked on them, and I hated to have to go through every one of them, but I needed to be thorough.

I began with the top shelf and started rifling through the first box I touched. Inside, there were receipts, warranty documents, and a couple of birth certificates. I replaced the lid and put it back on the shelf, and then started going through the next box.

“Can you work any slower?” Connie asked from where she sat on the bed. “At this rate, you’ll be here until Christmas.”

I continued searching the boxes on the first shelf and was about to move to the second shelf when a box on the very bottom of the safe caught my eye.

CHAPTER 25

The lid was partially off the box and I could see the corners of a thick document sticking out of it, as though it had been thrown hastily back inside. When I reached for it, I thought I heard Connie groan.

I tossed the lid aside and pulled out the document. It was the life insurance portfolio she had shown me earlier. I flipped through the pages. Everything was in order. I glanced in the bottom of the box and scrunched my brow when I saw another document.

I was about to reach for the document when Connie bolted from the bed and started pacing back and forth in the room. “Okay, look, I increased his life insurance policy, but that was only so I could cover his gambling debt. It was getting out of hand and I was worried I would lose the house if anything happened to him.”

I watched her for a few seconds and then pulled the paperwork from the box. It was an amendment to double the amount of the life insurance on Mitch, and the reason cited was an increase in annual salary. “Why didn’t you mention that in the amendment?” I asked, straightening.

“That’s not a justifiable reason,” she retorted.

I nodded and read over the form. She increased the life insurance six months ago, which was around the same time Foster said she asked him to kill Mitch. I pointed to the edge of the bed. “Ma’am, can you have a seat?”

Connie wrapped herself in a hug and plopped at the corner of the bed. “I swear it’s just a coincidence.”

I crossed my arms in front of my chest and studied her for a minute. Finally, I asked if she knew why I was able to obtain a search warrant for her house.

“Um…no, not really.”

“Would it surprise you to know that I’ve been interviewing people close to you and someone claims you asked them to kill Mitch?”

“That’s a lie! I never asked him to kill anyone!”

I saw her face drop when she realized she’d said “him”.

“Look, we both know you asked Foster Blake to kill your husband six months ago, which is around the same time you increased the amount of coverage on his life.” I paused and let that sink in. “When he turned you down, did you ask anyone else?”

A tear leaked from Connie’s right eye. She shook her head, trying to keep her trembling chin under control. “No, and I only asked in a moment of weakness. I didn’t really mean for him to kill Mitch, and Foster knew it. He knew I was fraught with grief and I didn’t mean for any harm to come to Mitch.”

“I don’t know. He seemed convinced that you wanted Mitch dead. In fact, he said you offered to pay him to kill Mitch.”

“That’s a lie!”

“Why would he lie about that?” I cocked my head. “Do you really believe someone would lie about being offered money to kill another person? What would be his motive for doing that?”

“He’s probably the one who killed Mitch and he wants to take the blame off of himself, that’s why. Did you ever think of that? Instead of harassing me and my family, maybe you should be out there investigating him.”

“If I run your name through the FBI database, will I find out that you own a nine millimeter pistol?”

She shook her head, but didn’t say anything. Her arms were folded across her chest and she was staring down at the ground.

“What about Mitch? Has he ever purchased a nine millimeter pistol? I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time a man was killed with his own pistol.” When she didn’t say anything, I repeated the question. “How about it? Did Mitch own a nine millimeter pistol?”

“No…not that I know about.”

“Let’s change gears for a second.” I pulled out my cell phone and pulled up the photo I’d taken of Chris Jenkins, the guy Mitch had testified against. I showed Connie the picture. “Do you recognize this guy?”

She squinted to see better, and then nodded. “That looks like Chris Jenkins.”

“Have you ever met him?”

“I’ve never met him, but I’ve seen him in court when Mitch had to testify at his trial.”

“Do you remember him threatening to kill Mitch for testifying against him?”

“Yes, I do remember that happening.”

“When’s the last time you spoke with Chris?”

“I’ve never spoken to the man.”

“Are you saying you never offered him money to kill your husband?”

“I’m saying I’ve never spoken to the man—ever.”

“So, if he says you paid him to kill your husband, would that be a lie?”

“Absolutely.”

“It might interest you to know we found a nine millimeter pistol in his possession and that pistol will soon be in the possession of the crime lab. If that pistol is proven to be the murder weapon, and if it’s shown that you gave Chris money to kill your husband, well…” I shook my head slowly. “That won’t bode well for you.”

“You’re not listening to me, detective…I’ve never spoken to Chris Jenkins. I don’t know the man and he doesn’t know me.”

“So, if he says you paid him to kill your husband, he would be lying just like Foster Blake?”

“That’s right.”

“The whole world’s lying and Connie’s the only one telling the truth. Is that what you want me to believe?”

“You know what? I’m done talking. I want my lawyer.” She grinned wickedly. “Oh, he’s going to have a field day with you.”

“Okay, call him up.”

“What?”

“Your lawyer, give him a call.” I pulled out my cell phone and handed it to her. “I want to keep talking to you, so call him and invite him to the party.”

Not sure what she should do, Connie dialed the number to her lawyer. When he answered, she told him what was going on and then handed me the phone. I told him who I was and explained why I was there.

“Is she under arrest?” he asked.

“Not at the moment.”

“Do you anticipate arresting her?”

I stared down at Connie and sighed. There were three things I knew for sure: first, she offered Foster money to kill her husband; second, she wanted her husband dead six months ago; and, lastly, she had increased the life insurance so she would be all set when he was gone. The problem with all of that was this: I wasn’t convinced she still wanted him killed. It seemed she had moved on with her life and had given up on Mitch. If that was true, I was running out of suspects.

“Detective? Do you anticipate arresting her?”

“No, I don’t,” I finally acknowledged. “But I’d like to talk with her some more.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t allow that.”

Although he couldn’t see me, I nodded and handed Connie the phone. “You can tell him I’m almost done here.”

CHAPTER 26

When Susan and I had finished searching Connie’s house, we got in my Tahoe and headed for Old Man Pat’s Place. It was almost nine o’clock in the evening and it was downright cold. The temperature had slid into the thirties and a fifteen-mile wind was blowing in from the north. Susan shivered as we waited for the air from the vents to warm up.

I shot a thumb over my shoulder. “I have a jacket on the back seat.”

Grateful, Susan twisted in her seat and retrieved it. After shrugging into it, she groaned in relief. “God, it feels so good, and it smells like you.”

As I drove, she began talking about the wedding and she asked me if I was okay with having it on a cruise ship. “If you don’t want to have it there, we can discuss it,” she said. “I know a lot of emphasis is always placed on the bride, but this is our wedding, and I want you to be happy with everything, too.”

“I was happy enough when you agreed to marry me.” I smiled and caught a glimpse of her face in the glow from the dash lights. “Everything else is just lagniappe.”

“So, you don’t mind going on the cruise?”

“No, Love, I don’t.”

She gave a gleeful yelp like she did when she’d found out she would be fighting Antonina Ivanov for the title. “This is so exciting! Did I tell you we found the perfect dress?”

“You did. When will I get to see it?”

“When I walk down the aisle.” She grunted. “You know the groom can’t see the bride’s dress before the wedding.”

The talk about the wedding got me thinking about my dad and Crystal again. “Hey, can you look up that Crystal Montana again? If she is my sister, I want to make contact with her and invite her and my dad to the wedding.”

“Oh, sure.” Susan fished out her phone and began working her thumbs furiously across the screen. “Let’s see…”

I kept my eyes on the dark road ahead of us, but I could see Susan working in my peripheral vision. She mumbled to herself as she searched the business page for BudRelat. “Ah,” she finally said, “here’s a phone number to the surf shop. Want me to call it?”

I glanced at the clock. Nine-fifteen. “I don’t know. Do you think it’s too late? They’re probably closed.”

“Unless the shop’s located along the pier. They might stay open as late as the bars and restaurants.”

“Okay, let’s try it.”

Susan called out the number as she dialed and then she shoved the phone against my ear.

“Wait, what are you doing?” I asked, pulling my head away.

“It’s your family…you talk to them.”

I was suddenly nervous and unsure of myself as I held the phone and listened to it ringing. Scared, even. What would I say when they picked up? Who would pick up? The employment information stated that Crystal was a lawyer in Houston now, so maybe she didn’t work at the shop anymore. What if my dad answered? How was I supposed to ask why he’d abandoned me and my mom? How could I ask him why he’d never called or visited without sounding accusatory? Truth was, I didn’t really care why he’d abandoned me and my mom. I’d had a great life and Ezekiel Wolf had been an awesome father to me. I had no regrets. At this point, I simply wanted to get to know Garvan and Crystal. I was a bit curious as to why Crystal was living with him instead of my mother. Had my mom done something wrong, or had he turned Crystal against her? It was not easy for a father to get custody of a child from a mother, so that had me guessing.

The call went to a voicemail and I cocked my head sideways when I heard a female’s voice saying they were closed for the day but that I could leave a message and they would call back first thing in the morning. Was I hearing the voice of my long lost sister? She sounded different than I’d imagined. I figured she would be smart, confident, and have a Texan accent. While she did sound smart and confident, she had a bit of a Cajun accent.

I shoved the phone back to Susan when it beeped for me to leave a message. “Hang up,” I whispered.

“Closed?”

I nodded, lost in thought. I suddenly realized nothing about this man or girl would change anything. Whether I made contact with them or not my life would continue as usual, and so would theirs.

“What’s up?” Susan asked. “You’ve got this intense look about you.”

“I don’t really know how to feel about all of this. At first, it was a little disconcerting to learn that my dad isn’t really my dad, but now that the initial shock has worn off, I realize everything will go on as usual—just like when you find out Santa Claus isn’t real. It’s a real shock at first, but then you realize next Christmas will be the same as the last.”

“You mean Santa isn’t real?” Susan’s mouth dropped open in feigned disbelief. “What will I do now?”

We both laughed and then Susan turned her attention back to the phone in her lap.

“What if they stayed away for a reason?” I asked. “What if Garvan didn’t want me around? I mean, why choose to take Crystal but leave me behind?”

That brought Susan’s head up and I could see her eyes misting over in the interior lights. “Don’t even think that way. I’m positive there’s a perfectly good explanation for what happened.”

“What would be a good enough reason for a father to stay out of his future baby’s life?” I wanted to know. “Can you think of one? Because I sure can’t.”

Susan’s silence told me all I needed to know. She didn’t say another word until I pulled into the parking lot of Old Man Pat’s and shut off the engine. “Whatever the reason,” she said, “we should find out soon enough.”

“Why?” I asked. “What’d you do?”

“I left a message on her BudRelat page saying you were her brother and you wanted to speak with her and your father. I gave her your cell number.”

CHAPTER 27

12 years earlier…

Wednesday, August 25

Breechville, Kentucky

The young boy struggled against the ropes, but it was no use. Stepdad and his friend had wrestled him to the ground in the hallway and tied his hands and arms together.

“Please, just stop fighting!” mom cried from the utility room nearby. “Just apologize and it’ll all be over!”

The boy gritted his teeth and shook his head, glaring up at his captors. “I’ll never apologize.”

Stepdad ran his hand through his wet bushy hair. “You either apologize or I dunk your head in the toilet.”

“I’ll never apologize!”

Stepdad looked at his friend and nodded. “Let’s get him up.”

The friend grabbed his legs and Stepdad grabbed his arms, and the two men lifted him easily into the air. He kicked and twisted, but the boy knew he was no match for either of them one-on-one, much less two against one. He hadn’t weighed himself in a long time, but he could see his ribs and he knew he wasn’t eating enough. Stepdad would bring food into the basement two times each day and he was allowed up top for dinner, but the portions were never enough to quell the hunger pangs in his stomach. He often felt dizzy and he even passed out once. It was only for a few seconds, but he thought he was dying and it scared him.

His mom would go down into the basement several times each day to make sure he was doing his schoolwork, and she once slipped him three slices of bread and a soft drink. Later that same day, he heard angry boots pounding on the floor above him and then things started crashing to the ground. The noise was followed closely by his mom’s screams. Stepdad came stomping into the basement minutes later and took a belt to him—he didn’t use the soft end.

They were nearing the bathroom now and the boy was kicking and struggling as hard as he could. He knew it was futile to fight, but he couldn’t just lie still and take this. “Let me go, you monster!” he yelled. “When I grow up, I’m going to make you pay for this!”

Stepdad roared in laughter as they approached the hallway bathroom. The young boy had been held captive in the basement for so long that he had forgotten how small the bathroom was. The walls seemed closer together and it was hard for the two grown men to move around in the confined space.

This is my chance, the boy thought. When the bottom of his feet brushed against one of the walls, he gave a violent kick and it caused the friend to lose his balance. The boy wriggled aggressively and the friend dropped his legs, which caused Stepdad to stumble forward.

The boy landed on the ground with a thump, and Stepdad fell on top of him, smashing his ribs and forcing the wind from his lungs. As the boy fought for air, Stepdad snatched him from the ground by the hair and slapped him in the face. “You think that’s funny?” the man bellowed. “Try that again and see what happens to you! I’ll take a shit on your face, boy!”

The room spun and the boy felt his strength waning, but he gritted his teeth in defiance. Stepdad and the friend flipped him over and lifted him into the air by his feet, leaving his head to dangle a few inches off the ground. They shuffled through the crowded bathroom and the boy’s face slammed up against the cold porcelain toilet bowl and he jerked away. Panic filled his heart as he realized what was about to happen. This was real. It wasn’t a drill and it wasn’t a joke. He was about to get his head dunked in a toilet.

“Ready?” Stepdad called to his friend. “Let’s lift him higher.”

The boy felt himself being jerked high into the air. Trembling, he glanced at the toilet bowl below his head. It loomed ominously; a giant mouth waiting to swallow him alive.

“You’ve got one more chance,” Stepdad said in a strained voice as he and his friend held the boy steady. “Say you’re sorry and you can avoid this.”

“I’ll never surrender to you,” said the boy. “I’ll never give in—”

The boy was dropped violently downward and the water from the toilet bowl cut his comment short. He choked as water shot into his upward-turned nose and into his mouth.

Stepdad and his friend pulled him out of the water. “Say you’re sorry!”

Choking and gasping for air, the boy screamed, “No! Never!”

Stepdad continued to dunk his head in the toilet. Each time Stepdad pulled him out of the water, he offered the boy a chance to apologize, but the boy doggedly refused. Finally, when they were too tired to hold him up any longer, Stepdad told his friend to drop him to the ground. “That’s it…if he doesn’t apologize, I’m going to piss all over him.”

The boy lay on the ground gasping for air, struggling to keep his eyes open. He could feel himself slipping away, like he had the day he’d passed out. But before everything went black, he said softly, “I’ll never surrender to you…”

CHAPTER 28

9:47 p.m.

Old Man Pat’s Place

A cloud of cigarette smoke swirled from the doorway when Susan and I stepped into Old Man Pat’s Place. We both scrunched our noses and tried to see through the haze. What I saw up on the stage made me wish for more smoke…and maybe even some fire. Although I’d never been tempted to go to strip clubs, this was not what I would’ve envisioned as a “gentleman’s” club.

“Is that even legal?” Susan asked, pointing toward the women who were dancing in lingerie with all the pertinent pieces missing.

“I don’t know, and I’m just glad we’re out of our jurisdiction.” I led the way to the bar, where an elderly man was counting money. The place wasn’t empty, but there weren’t a lot of people inside either. The few customers they did have, though, seemed to be high-rollers. Money was scattered all over the stage. From what I could see, there were just as many hundreds as there were ones.

Old Man Pat took one look at me and Susan—who was trying to be as inconspicuous on her crutches as possible—and his face fell. “What the hell?” he bellowed over the music blaring from the speakers overhead. “It’s not enough that I’m down—now y’all want to kick me, too?”

I raised a hand and leaned across the bar so he could hear me. “We’re not here about your business,” I said. “I’m not even in my jurisdiction. I just need to know if someone was here Friday night.”

Pat sighed visibly and waved for us to follow him around the bar. I stood back and watched as Susan struggled to get through the narrow opening.

“Do you need any help getting—”

“No!” she said, cutting me off. “I’ve got it. Just leave me alone.”

I smiled to myself, appreciating how independent she was, and watched as she finally squirted through the other side and followed Pat along the length of the bar. A bartender in a bikini that was two sizes too small squeezed up against the whiskey rack to make room for us to pass. Once we were in the back room and the door was shut, Pat pulled a towel from his waistband and wiped his sweaty face.

“I’m just trying to make an honest living, you know?” he said in a hoarse voice. “It’s not that I don’t support the law—I do support you guys because you have it rough—it’s just that some people in this area are hell-bent on seeing me shut down and they’re using the sheriff’s office to do it.”

“Well, that’s not why we’re here.” I pulled out my phone and accessed the photo I’d taken of Chris Jenkins. “Do you know this guy?”

Pat took one glance at the image and grunted. “Chris-tee Jenkins…yeah, I know that little pecker head.”

“I’d like to ask some of your dancers if they recognize him and if he was in here Friday night.”

“No need for that,” Pat said, shaking a head that was topped with thick gray hair. “That little punk was banned from the premises two months ago, right when he got out of prison.”

“Why was he banned?” I asked.

“He thought it would be okay to grope one of my dancers without her permission, and we don’t stand for that here.”

I chewed on this information, but insisted on showing his dancers the photo. “I have to be sure he wasn’t here.”

Pat nodded and pulled out his work schedule for Friday night. “Give me a minute.”

He left Susan and me alone in the office and went to summon the dancers.

“If we have to spend one more minute in this place,” Susan whispered, “we’re going to need an acid bath.”

I nodded my agreement and waited impatiently for Pat to return with the dancers. He brought three girls in, one by one, and I showed each of them the picture. They all recognized him, but none of them saw him Friday night—or any other night since he’d been banned from the place.

Susan and I traded glances when the last dancer left. I looked back at Pat. “What about the bartender?”

Pat opened the door and hollered at the bartender in the tiny bikini and asked her to look at the picture. She shook her head and glanced in Pat’s direction. “I haven’t seen him since you kicked him out on his ass back in September.”

“Was anyone else working Friday night?” I asked.

Pat shook his head. “That’s all of them, and they all know not to let him back in my place. When you get banned, you’re banned for life.”

We thanked Pat and waded through the smoke until we finally reached the cold fresh air outside. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “It feels so good to breathe again!”

“Well, Chris is still in play as a suspect,” Susan said as we entered my Tahoe. “If the gun’s a match, that’s his ass.”

I nodded, thoughtful. “I wonder if Connie directed him toward Mitch. Chris seems too dumb to figure out when and where Mitch was working, and he’s not motivated enough to make his way down to Mechant Loup on a bicycle.”

“Maybe she gave him a ride?”

That was possible, as was anything, but I didn’t need possibilities—I needed evidence. Chris lied about being in the club Friday night, and I could use that against him, but it didn’t mean he killed Mitch. His gun had to match the bullet and the casing from the murder scene or I would find myself back at the starting line. If that happened, it would be a long week for me and I would probably be missing Thanksgiving lunch.

“Hey, you got a message on your BudRelat page!” Susan said, holding up her phone. “Do you want to read it or do you want me to do the honors?”

“You go ahead,” I said, surprised that my heart had begun to race a little as she logged in and opened the message. She groaned and I slowed the Tahoe and turned to look at her. “What is it?”

“It’s from Crystal Montana. She…she says she doesn’t have a brother and her dad doesn’t have a son.” Susan held up the phone and frowned. “And she blocked you.”

CHAPTER 29

Monday, November 21

La Mort Police Department Crime Lab

After turning all of my evidence over to the intake officer at the La Mort Crime Lab, I asked if they could expedite the testing. “These are for an active homicide investigation and I need to know if this pistol is the murder weapon,” I said. “The killer is still at large, so it’s critical that I get this back as soon as possible.”

The intake officer nodded her head. “As are all of your cases, Chief Wolf.”

“I’m no longer the chief of police in Mechant Loup.”

“I know, but it’ll take me a while to get used to your new title—just like it takes me until February of every year to get used to writing the current year.” She smiled. “But don’t worry; I’ll put a rush on everything. You should hear back from the firearms examiner later today and the fingerprint expert tomorrow or Wednesday.”

I thanked her and walked out of the building. I checked my phone. It was nine o’clock. I knew I should head back to Chateau Parish to file a return on the search warrant of Connie Taylor’s house, but I wanted to speak with my grandmother. Susan had located an address through some website on her laptop, and she was pretty certain it was accurate. She had also run an Internet search and found Garvan Montana’s name on his father’s obituary in a newspaper from La Mort, and we were able to ascertain that his mother—my grandmother—was named Hazel Montana.

I scrolled through the last few text messages Susan had sent and I found the address. Having spent two years working as a patrol cop and ten years as a homicide detective with the La Mort Police Department, I was very familiar with the streets and neighborhoods in the city. Of course, it had been four years since I’d traveled throughout the area and things looked a bit different than they did back then. It was remarkable what four years could do to a place. A few buildings I used to know had been torn down and new ones had sprung up, and some streets had seen improvements while others had gotten worse.

The address was at the corner of Meg and Seventh—thirty minutes away on a good day, but on a busy Monday, it would take me forty-five minutes if I was lucky. I was tempted to just drive away, to head back to Mechant Loup, but I needed to know why my mom didn’t want me to meet this woman. I also wanted to know why Garvan Montana had abandoned my mom and me and taken my sister away. Had my mom cheated on him? Perhaps I was the product of an adulterous relationship. She claimed she met Ezekiel after becoming pregnant with me, but what if it was for someone other than Garvan? It hurt my head to try and figure it all out. There were so many possibilities and only one truth. Unfortunately for me, I’d probably have to work hard to learn the truth.

Many questions swirled through my mind as I drove. I finally reached the interstate and found myself in bumper-to-bumper traffic. I groaned and wondered how I’d gotten anything done when I lived out here. I definitely remembered spending most of my life in a car, waiting for the roads to clear. It seemed like such a waste.

When I finally reached the exit to get onto Meg, I eased to the shoulder and took the ramp. It was a short drive to Seventh from there and, thankfully, the traffic was much lighter. I got stuck at the light, but soon found myself on Seventh.

The street was narrow and bumpy and it only got worse as I drove farther toward the back. The houses were so close together that I didn’t know how anyone who suffered from claustrophobia could live there. I’d never realized how cramped these city streets were until I moved to the expansive swamplands to the south.

When I finally saw the number I was looking for on one of the houses, I pulled to the curb and took in the area. It was a blue two-story duplex and, according to the number, hers was the one on the left. In a city of steel, asphalt, and concrete, there were only a few strips of natural greenery between the sidewalks up and down Seventh Street, and it appeared Hazel Montana had created her own little jungle out here. Various types of plants were growing in small pots and lined the concrete steps. There were also a few pots hanging from the roof of the porch.

I texted Susan to let her know I was fixing to make contact with my newfound grandmother, and then I removed my gun and badge before exiting my Tahoe. I didn’t want to scare her or make her think I was there on official business.

Wiping the sweat from my hands and clearing my throat, I crossed the small patch of land between the street and the house and ascended the flight of steps. There was a screen door in front of the main door and I reached for it so I could knock. It was locked, so I pounded on the white doorframe. Cursing myself for feeling so nervous about meeting long lost family members, I stepped to the side—out of force of habit, and not because I thought she would shoot through the door—and waited for someone to answer.

When no one came to the door, I knocked a second time, but harder. I leaned against the metal railing and glanced along the side of the house. There was a small white car parked near a green garbage can. Under the overhang of the porch, a broom was leaning against the wall, some Crocs were positioned next to the door, and the plants appeared healthy and well-watered.

I lifted my hand to knock again, but stopped when I heard feet shuffling from inside. There were clattering sounds as multiple latches and locks were apparently being dismantled. Finally, the old fashioned door handle turned and the door creaked open just a crack. I could see that a chain was still attached and an elderly woman stood on the other side, squinting through black-rimmed glasses. She appeared to be in her early to mid-seventies and she wore brown polyester pants and a checkered apron. The tantalizing smell of fried shrimp escaped through the partially opened door and my stomach growled.

“Hello, ma’am,” I greeted, flashing a friendly smile. “I was wondering if I could have a word with—”

“Garvan? Is that you?” the woman opened the door wider and stepped forward, peering through the screen. “I thought you weren’t coming down until Wednesday.”

CHAPTER 30

“I’m Clint, ma’am…Clint Wolf,” I said to the woman. “Are you Hazel Montana?”

The woman pulled off her glasses and wiped them with the front of the apron that hung around her neck. When she shoved them back on her face, she moved closer to me and peered up into my face. “Dear Lord, you look just like my Garvan did when he was a young man. What did you say your name was again?”

“I’m Clint Wolf.” I swallowed and took a deep breath. “I’m your grandson.”

The woman studied me for a moment, but then shook her head “I’m sorry, but I only have one grandchild, and she’s a girl. And I’m not kin to any Wolfs.”

“Would that grandchild be Crystal Montana?”

The woman nodded. “She’s the only grandchild I have. You must have me confused with somebody else.”

“No ma’am, I don’t. Crystal is my sister and Garvan is my dad. My mom’s Nancy Montana—she’s a Wolf now. She and Garvan were married for—”

“You don’t need to tell me about Nancy.” Hazel’s top lip curled up into a sneer. “The best thing that ever happened to Garvan was when he left that she-devil. Pardon me for speaking ill of your mother. I don’t mean to; it’s just that she really did a number on my boy.”

Hazel could’ve pushed me over with her pinky finger. When I was growing up my mom was a bit strict with me and she was abrasive with other people from time to time, but I’d never heard someone describe her as a “she-devil”. When I recovered from my shock, I asked if we could sit down and talk.

Hazel looked me up and down. “You don’t look like some killer, so I guess it’s okay for you to come inside. I’ve got food on the stove, so we can talk in the kitchen. I have to warn you, though, if you try to rob me or anything, my neighbors will come running—and God help you if you get crossways with them.”

“You’ll get no trouble from me.” I smiled and followed Hazel through her narrow home, stopping once we reached the kitchen. It was small and simple. There were two pots and a pan on top of a gas stove, and one of them contained rice. I pointed to it. “My mom still cooks rice on the stovetop. She taught me how to do it.”

“It’s a lost art, thanks to those rice cookers and instant microwave packets that have been popping up everywhere, but they’re not the same. Some people say they can’t tell the difference between rice cooked on the stove and rice that’s been cooked in a microwave. To those people, I say they never tried real rice on the stove.”

I couldn’t argue. My mom’s rice was some of the best I’d ever tasted—well, other than my own. The secret was in measuring the water, and she’d taught me how to use my fingers to do it where it would come out the same each and every time; no matter how much I cooked and regardless of the size of the pot.

“I have to agree with you, ma’am,” I said, taking the chair she’d pointed out. “The only way my mom cooks rice is on the stove, and she taught me how to do it the old fashioned way.”

“Hold on to that skill and pass it on to the next generation,” she warned. “If you don’t, this will be a lost art and everyone will be eating instant rice that taste likes cardboard.”

Just when I thought she would talk about rice all day, she finally put down her spoon and turned the fire down on the pan of fried shrimp. “Where’d you say you were from again?”

“I’m living in Mechant Loup, but I’m originally from here, in the city. I graduated from La Mort High and I joined the police force straight out of school. After doing two years as a patrol cop, I became a detective and did that for ten and a half years before…”

“Before what?” Hazel asked.

“Um, before I ended up in Mechant Loup,” I explained quickly, not wanting to talk about Michele and Abigail. “I’ve been there about two years now. It’s really different in a small town. Things are slower and quieter. I like it.”

“When I was a little girl, La Mort was a small town, so I know what you mean.” After turning down the fire on her pots, Hazel took a seat across from me and placed her hands on the table. “Well, young man, you didn’t come here to talk about rice and small towns, so let’s get down to it. You believe Garvan is your father. Why do you think this is the case?”

“I found a picture of my mom with him and Crystal from a long time ago, and my mom told me he was my dad. She told me his name was Garvan and that she wasn’t sure what had become of him. She said he always dreamed of owning a surf shop. I’m fixing to get married and I wanted to meet him and see if he would attend the wedding, along with Crystal.”

“I see. If she didn’t know what had become of Garvan, how was it that you found me?”

“My fiancée located an obituary for your husband—my grandfather—and she tracked you down from there.”

Hazel frowned. “I’m so sorry you came all this way thinking you would find your family, but I’m afraid your mother lied to you. Garvan doesn’t have a son. He only has the one child—a daughter—and her name is Crystal.”

CHAPTER 31

I had to figure out a way to convince this woman I was her grandson. Sure, the evidence was weak. Hell, if this would be a criminal case, I wouldn’t have enough probable cause for a warrant, but there had to be a way…

“When you first came to the door,” I said after a moment, “you thought I was Garvan, so I must look like him. That has to mean something.”

She waved me off. “My glasses were smudged from cooking all morning. When they get all smudged up and blurry, every man with brown hair and brown eyes looks like my boy.”

“But my mom said he was my dad. She gave birth to me, so she would know best who my father is.”

“Garvan’s my son, so I think I would know better than your mother how many children he has. As far as I know, your mother hasn’t spoken to him in over thirty years. I don’t know why she lied to you, but she did.”

I thought about what I would say next. Should I be delicate and diplomatic, or should I simply be blunt? I decided on a combination of both; diplomatic bluntness. “Do you know how many mothers have sworn to me over the years that their sons were innocent, only to find out later they were dead wrong? Look, I understand there are three sides to every story—her side, his side, and the whole truth—and I would just like to hear his side.”

“What’s her side of the story?”

“She said he abandoned us when she was pregnant with me and that he’s never tried to visit me or have anything to do with me. He never supported her in any way. In fact, another man had to adopt me and be a real dad to me because Garvan was nowhere to be found.”

Hazel’s eyes narrowed. “She said that, did she? Did you ever wonder why Crystal lived with Garvan? Did you ever ask yourself what it would take for a judge to award custody to a father over a mother? Did you ever wonder why your mother hasn’t spoken to Crystal or tried to visit with her in over thirty years?”

I hadn’t considered any of those points, so I shook my head slowly from side to side.

Hazel continued speaking, but her tone was softer. “Garvan would never abandon a child of his. I don’t know why your mother lied to you, but you’re not Garvan’s son. If you were his offspring, you would be living with him in—”

She caught herself, but I smiled and said, “It’s okay. I know he lives in Galveston and owns a surf shop.”

I leaned back in my chair and slowly folded my arms across my chest. If what Hazel said was true, it was very possible I was Garvan’s son and he didn’t even know I existed. If he didn’t know about me, that would mean my mom was lying—yet again. If I really wasn’t his son, I would be an army without a country…a ship without a flag. I remembered thinking the same thing about a young boy not so long ago, and I suddenly knew how he felt to find out his father wasn’t the man he’d grown up thinking he was.

“Are you okay, son?” Hazel asked.

I nodded and unfolded my arms. “I guess it’s time for my mom and me to have a long conversation.”

“Look, I know I’ve characterized your mother as a liar and a she-devil…” Hazel sighed. “Although the Lord wants us to forgive those who transgress against us, I still harbor some resentment toward your mother, but those are issues I have to work out with my Maker. As for you, before you judge your mom too harshly, just remember that people change over time, and all of this took place a very long time ago, back when she was a young girl herself. I can assure you she is not the same person she was back then—none of us are.”

“What did happen between my mom and Garvan?”

“Back when Garvan and your mom separated, it was because of the way your mom treated Crystal.” Hazel paused and took a breath, as though trying to decide how much she should tell. “You see, your mom always had anger issues, but she started getting worse as time went on. Before long, the smallest thing would set her off and she became increasingly more violent. She’d break things and throw things and she even put a knife to Garvan’s throat once and threatened to kill him.”

“Wait a minute…” My jaw must’ve been dragging the table. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same woman?”

“I’m afraid so, young man. I haven’t seen your mother in decades, but, judging by your reaction, she is a different woman now, and you should judge her based on who she is today, not who she was back then. Everyone grows up eventually. Maybe she finally sought help.”

I was silent for a moment, and then asked if Garvan left her when she put the knife to his throat.

Hazel shook her head. “No, he loved her too much to leave her. He allowed her to abuse him on a regular basis and he never once lifted a hand to stop her, nor did he ever consider leaving her. Now, he never spoke about these things while they were together. The only reason I knew anything was taking place was because I witnessed her punch him in the back of the head at Crystal’s first birthday party.”

I couldn’t wrap my mind around what I was hearing. I’d never seen my mom ball up her fist, much less punch someone. “My mom punched him in the head?”

“Yes, she did. She hurt her hand and, instead of being angry at her, he took her to the emergency room. When the doctor asked how it happened, Garvan lied to keep her from getting in trouble.”

“Well, if he loved her so much and would cover for her, why’d he divorce her?”

“Oh, they never got divorced.”

“Never? But she’s a Wolf now. She shares the same last name with my dad—the man who raised me.”

“If she did remarry, it’s a crime.”

What else didn’t I know about my mom? “Are you saying my mom is still married to Garvan Montana?”

“That’s right. Garvan was never able to remarry because of your mom. He tried having her served with divorce papers many years ago when he met a nice girl in Texas, but your mom had moved and didn’t leave a forwarding address. His lawyer hired some investigators and they thought they found her house once, but every time they tried to serve her a man answered the door and said he never heard of her.”

“I remember that!” I blurted. I was about ten years old when my dad had mentioned that there were two private investigators at the door to serve my mom with papers. At the time, I thought she was in trouble and would be taken away, but I overheard him telling her he would never let those investigators talk to her.

“Oh, Garvan was so angry. That nice girl eventually left him because she had dreams of getting married and having kids with him, but they couldn’t get married until he got divorced from his first wife. She hung around for a year or two, but she finally just faded away.”

I tried to remind myself what Hazel had mentioned earlier about it being many years ago and my mom being a different person now. “So, why did Garvan eventually leave my mom? If he loved her so much that he’d let her beat on him, why would he leave? What could be worse than getting beat on?”

“What could be worse than getting beat on is watching someone you love getting beat.” She scowled. “Garvan left your mom because she hit the one person he loved as much as he loved her—and that was Crystal.”

CHAPTER 32

A million thoughts swirled around in my head, and none of them had anything to do with the murder case I was investigating. My mom had spanked me as a kid, but I always deserved it and she never hit me in anger—that I could remember. Knowing what I knew about her, I found it hard to believe this story about Garvan leaving her for beating on Crystal.

I didn’t know how I felt about this revelation. I also didn’t know how I felt about my mom. I loved her, but if this information were true, I’d be very disappointed in her. What would cause her to beat a young child—her own daughter? What if she was lying about Garvan being my dad? Apparently, she had told more than a couple lies, so it wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibilities. And what kind of person was she back in her earlier days? What other skeletons were hiding in her closet?

As I turned onto the interstate to leave the city and head back to Mechant Loup, I remembered what Hazel Montana had said about my mom not being the same person today as she was when she was a young girl. I was smart enough to know everyone makes mistakes from time to time. Hell, I’d certainly made more than my share. By comparison, my mother was an angel. At least she’d never killed anyone in cold blood. Although those men deserved it and I was cleared of any legal wrongdoing, it was still morally wrong of me.

I once again found myself wishing I could return to that moment in time and make a better decision. How different would things have been had I spared their lives? It would’ve taken at least a year—probably much longer—for the case to make it to trial, and there would’ve been that slim chance they would’ve gotten off on a technicality…again. I sighed and begrudgingly acknowledged I’d done what was best for the case, the citizens of Mechant Loup, and the world in general.

Upon reaching Central Chateau, I stopped for food and ate while I drove. It took me twenty minutes more to reach the police department in Mechant Loup. Once I parked under the building, I slowly stepped from my Tahoe—taking my trash with me—and lumbered up the stairs. It was almost three o’clock when I finally entered my office and sat wearily in my chair. I was mentally exhausted. I’d gone over the conversation I wanted to have with my mom repeatedly in my head, but it never came out the way I liked and it sounded different each time I rehearsed it.

I could hear Susan’s voice emitting from her office, and it sounded like she was on the phone. I was sure she’d heard me say hello to the dispatcher, and my thoughts were confirmed when her head appeared in my doorway ten minutes later. I was busy catching up on my report and didn’t hear her until she faked a cough.

I looked up and smiled, happy to see her face. She limped toward my desk and sat in the chair across from me.

“Where are your crutches?” I asked. “I thought you were supposed to use them for six weeks?”

“I’m halfway there and it feels fine. Other than it itching and me nearly falling every time I put weight on those crutches, I wouldn’t even remember it was broken.” She rested her elbows on the desk. “So, how’d it go?”

“I haven’t heard back from the examiner yet.” I glanced at the clock on the bottom corner of my computer monitor. “I should be getting a call anytime with some of the results.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

I leaned back in my chair. “I met Hazel Montana and had a long conversation with her. She says Garvan’s not my dad.”

Susan reached across the desk and gently touched my hand. “When you didn’t call, I figured it was bad news.”

“And get this; Hazel says my mom beat Crystal when she was real young and that’s why Garvan took her away.”

Susan’s eyes widened. “Are you serious? Your mom beat a child?”

“That’s what Hazel says.” After saving the document on my computer, I told Susan how my mom used to spank me when I was a kid. “I was a bad boy,” I explained, “and I deserved to be spanked. Maybe Garvan didn’t agree with parents spanking their children.”

“How would she spank you?” Susan asked. “Did she use her hand?”

“She used a belt mostly.”

Susan chewed on her bottom lip. “Your mom doesn’t strike me as the abusive type.”

“She’s not—I mean, not that I ever knew. Hazel did say people grow up and they change, so perhaps she was different before I was born. Whatever the case, I’ll interrogate her and learn everything I need to know.”

“Clint, don’t you dare interrogate your mother!” Susan’s head was shaking from side to side, causing her ponytail to flop around behind her head. “Especially not just before Thanksgiving. It just wouldn’t be the right time.”

“There’ll never be a right time. I’m going to find out what she knows and I’m going to find out tonight.” My mind made up, I stood and held out my hand to help her to her feet. “If you don’t want to hear the commotion, then you might want to go for a drive around five o’clock—and you might want to take your mom with you.”

Shaking her head, she hobbled out of my office and called over her shoulder, “I guess that’s the last we’ll taste of her cooking.”

I was about to tell her I loved our cooking just fine, but the dispatcher buzzed my phone and told me she was putting the crime lab tech through. I hurried to the phone and answered when it buzzed.

“What’s the verdict?” I asked eagerly.

“What do you want first?” she asked. “Prints, residue, or firearm?”

“Surprise me.”

“Oh, you will be surprised.” There was a pause and I could hear paper shuffling. Finally, she spoke again. “Okay, so, the prints from the table and the cash register all came from the same person, this Jack Billiot character.”

Since Jack said he had been sleeping at the table and he’d already admitted to stealing from the register, this didn’t surprise me. “Next?”

“We don’t have an answer yet on the gunshot residue. I have an analyst working on it, but you know how time consuming it is to process the stubs. I should know something by tomorrow.” There was another slight pause, and then she asked if I was ready for the results on the spent shell casing and bullet.

“No, I’ll call back tomorrow for those results,” I joked, and then quickly said, “Of course I’m ready!”

“The gun you recovered from Chris Jenkins was not a match to the bullet or the shell casing.”

I had already opened my mouth to celebrate when my brain processed what she’d said. “Wait—what? It doesn’t match?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Then who the hell killed my victim?”

“That, I’m afraid, is something you’re going to have to figure out yourself,” she said. “But I’m happy to process any other evidence you might collect.”

I mumbled a “thanks” and hung up the phone. Where was I supposed to go from here? I already knew Jack didn’t do it, but now that I had to cross Chris off of my list of suspects, that only left Connie Taylor.

I stared at the report that was still displayed on my computer monitor and one name popped out on the electronic page—Foster Blake. I leaned close to the screen and squinted in thought. Sure, he had an alibi in Joyce Reynolds, but what if they were lying for each other? They were cheaters, so that meant they were already liars. But what would be his motive for wanting his boss dead?

CHAPTER 33

When I got home from work, I stopped to play with Achilles before walking inside. I asked him if I should confront my mom, but all he did was cock his head to the side and allow his big ears to droop. “Thanks a lot, buddy.”

I made sure his food bowl was full and that he had water and then entered through the back door. My mom was sitting in the living room watching some game show. I looked around. “Where’s Mrs. Wilson?”

“Oh, she and Susan went downtown. Shopping, I think.” She searched my eyes with her own. “Oh, I know that expression. Something’s on your mind.”

I took a seat on the recliner next to her and nodded. “I want to talk about Garvan Montana.”

Her shoulders drooped. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“No, you know I’m not. In fact, I’ve done some digging and I located Hazel Montana. She had quite a story to tell.”

“I bet she did. That woman never did like me.” Mom huffed. “She never thought I was good enough for Garvan. Claimed I was holding him back.”

“Well, I’m more interested in knowing if Garvan Montana really is my dad. According to Hazel, Garvan didn’t know he had a son. She said if he did, he would’ve never abandoned me. She said the reason he left you was because…” I paused and studied her face. It was a shade lighter than usual and her skin was tight around the eyes. “She said Garvan left you because you hit Crystal.”

My mom just hung her head. Tears welled up in her eyes and dripped straight down into her lap. She looked tired. I asked her if what Hazel said was true, and she just sat there crying. I moved closer and sat on the arm of the recliner she was in and put an arm around her shoulders. “It’s okay, Mom…it was a long time ago. I just want to know what happened and if Garvan’s really my dad. We don’t have to get into the particulars if you don’t want to. I just want to know where I came from.”

“Why does it matter so much now?” she asked, tears spraying from her lips as she spoke. “Why, after all these years, do you care who your father is? Can’t you just accept that Ezekiel is your dad and we can drop this whole thing?”

“That’s kind of obvious, don’t you think? It’s because I just found out about him. Now that I know Ezekiel isn’t my biological father, I want to know who is, and I want to know everything I can about him. And look, I don’t care how bad the truth is—I want it all. The past is the past and you’ve got nothing to be ashamed about and you don’t have to apologize for anything. I’d just like to hear the truth about my past.” After watching her sob for a minute or so, I asked if Garvan was really my dad.

“Yes, he’s your father.”

“Are you sure?”

She sighed. “I’m positive.”

I nodded and moved back to the recliner I’d been sitting in earlier. “Is it true that you used to beat on Garvan?”

“Yeah, it’s true.” She was defeated now. Her shoulders drooped so low that I thought they would touch her knees. “I had some anger issues growing up and it spilled over into our marriage. I know it was wrong of me, but I’d just get so angry that I couldn’t help myself. When I’d calm down I’d feel so horrible about what I’d done. I was sure he would leave me someday, but he never did. He stuck it out for many years until…”

“Until what?”

“I was disciplining Crystal one day and he just freaked out. He started telling me that he might put up with me hitting him but he would never stand idly by while I beat on any child of his.” She wiped her nose on her shoulder. “It was the one time I was afraid of him. He actually threatened to physically throw me out of the house and call the cops to have me arrested. He said he was leaving and I begged him to reconsider. I offered to go to marriage counseling, to get help for my anger, but it was no use.”

“What happened next?”

“A couple of days later he and Crystal were just gone. I came home and found the house empty. Later that same day I was served with a restraining order. The cops told me if I came within so many feet of him or Crystal I’d be arrested.” She shook her head. “Without me knowing, he had been secretly photographing his bruises and cuts from when I’d hit him. He had even hid a recorder in his pocket a few times when I was screaming at him and threatening to kill him and he saved it as evidence. He gave it all to the cops.

“I had to show up in court a few weeks later and he put on quite a show.” She paused and took a quivering breath. “It was so horrible to sit there and listen to someone recounting all the bad things you’d ever done in your life and not being able to defend yourself. My lawyer tried to argue in my favor, but the judge awarded Garvan full custody and told me I’d be arrested if I went anywhere near my baby girl.”

My mom wiped her swollen eyes. “The last time I saw her was when Hazel was walking her out of the courtroom that day.”

“Did you ever get help for your anger?”

She was crying uncontrollably, but she nodded her head and said that she had started seeing a therapist a few months before I was born.

I gave her some time to collect her thoughts and then asked if she and Ezekiel had ever gotten married. I held my breath as she answered, hoping she hadn’t committed bigamy.

“No, we couldn’t get married because I was never formally divorced from Garvan.”

“Why didn’t you just agree to the divorce? Hazel said Garvan’s lawyer tried to find you to serve you with divorce papers, but you hid from them and they were never able to serve you.”

“Is that why they were looking for me?” She seemed surprised.

“That’s what Hazel said.”

“Then why’d he wait so long to file? Those detectives showed up at the house ten years after he left with Crystal. Once he was awarded custody, they moved out of Louisiana and I never heard from him again. He never completed the divorce proceedings and I didn’t have the money to pursue it, so I just let it go.”

I’d heard of people being separated for years and never legally divorcing, but I never dreamed my mother was in that number. I’d always assumed she and Ezekiel were married. She’d always introduced herself as “Nancy Wolf” and people would address her as Ezekiel’s wife and him as Nancy’s husband.

And since she was surprised to learn why the investigators were searching for her, it left me wondering if she was involved in some other dirty business. What else wasn’t she telling me?

“Why’d you hide from those investigators?” I asked. “Serving you with divorce papers would’ve paved the way for you to marry Ezekiel, so I don’t know why you would’ve avoided them.”

“I thought Garvan had found out about you.”

“Found out what about me?”

She hung her head again and I saw her leg start to shake. “You know how I told you Garvan had abandoned us?”

I nodded.

“That’s not entirely true. You see, your father, Garvan…he never even knew about you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I never told him I was pregnant,” she admitted softly. “I was afraid he’d take you away from me like he took Crystal, so I kept you a secret. When those investigators showed up, I thought they’d found out about you and that Garvan was there to take me to court and get custody over you.”

I pondered this information. “Is that why you gave me Ezekiel’s last name—to conceal my true identity?”

“Not exactly. Even before you were born Ezekiel told me he would give you his last name and raise you as his own. It wasn’t until those investigators started snooping around that I realized it had been a great idea.” She smiled warmly through the tears. “And he’s been such a good father and husband.”

CHAPTER 34

My mom and I were still talking when Susan and her mom arrived home. While my mom’s eyes were still bloodshot and swollen, she wasn’t crying anymore and her voice was stronger. She and Lisa began talking about the wedding, so Susan and I walked out to the back yard, where Achilles was marching around with a dead opossum clasped between his teeth.

“Not again,” Susan said. “If he doesn’t start eating what he kills, we’re going to have to charge him with a wildlife violation.”

I laughed and told her about the conversation I’d had with my mom. “I’m glad I know what went on,” I said, “but I do feel bad for her. It was a painful conversation for her to have and she looks mentally drained.”

“I’m sure she didn’t want the mistakes of her past dredged up, but it’s a good thing she cleared it all up for you.” After a brief silence between us, Susan continued. “Did she admit to beating on Crystal?”

“Yeah, she said she had anger issues, but she saw a psychiatrist and they put her on medication.” I explained how I’d never seen her hit Ezekiel and she never appeared angry when she disciplined me. “I guess it helped.”

Susan only nodded, and I knew she was wondering if we could trust my mom to babysit our future baby. She wasn’t alone. After we spent an hour alone in the back yard, we returned inside and I took my case file to the master bedroom upstairs. Susan and her mom had already eaten in town and my mom was having cereal, so I brought a sandwich with me and ate while Susan took a careful bath.

Once I’d finished eating, I pulled out the packet of crime scene photos I’d printed at the office and spread them across the bed. I retrieved my notepad and scribbled the names of each of my potential suspects, beginning with the most likely to the least likely—Connie Taylor, Brandy Lewis, Foster Blake, Joyce Reynolds, Jack Billiot, and Chris Jenkins.

Foster, Joyce and Jack had moved higher on the list with the revelation about Chris. I was still waiting on the gunshot residue results from Jack and Brandy. If they came back negative, it either meant they’d washed their hands, they had been wearing gloves, or it wasn’t them. Basically, a negative result would leave me with more questions than answers, and I was starting to think I needed to take another crack at Brandy. Maybe I’d missed something in the first interview.

I was jotting down details from each of their statements when Susan came out wearing nothing but her robe. Although her belt was tied in place, the top of the robe was open down the center, exposing her ample cleavage. Although a cast took up the bottom portion of her right leg and she was balancing on crutches, she was still as beautiful and sexy as ever.

She noticed me staring and grinned, her face turning a darker shade of red. I liked that she still reacted to my outward display of appreciation for her beauty.

“How am I supposed to work with you walking around dressed like that?” I complained playfully. “You know how much of a distraction you are to me.”

She reached for the top of her robe and smiled slyly. “Maybe I’ll just take the whole thing off—”

“My work here is done!” I slammed my notepad shut and started to gather up the pictures, but she stopped me.

“We can’t make love while our mothers are downstairs,” she whispered. “I would be mortified at the thought of them hearing us.”

I grumbled and reopened my notepad. “This is the very definition of cruel and unusual punishment.”

She laughed and hobbled to the bed, where she sat beside me. “What’re you trying to figure out?”

“I’m going through each suspect and trying to guess who has the strongest motive for killing Mitch. Try as I might, I can’t get Connie to move down the list of suspects. I think she’s our best candidate.”

“Why are Foster and Joyce higher on the list than Jack?” she asked. “Jack was at the scene, so he had opportunity. We already know he stole money, so he’s got motive. If you ask me, he should be number one on that list for now—at least until you get the GSR results back. If he’s clean, then I’d drop him to the bottom.”

“I just don’t think he’s got the stones to commit a murder. Plus”—I pulled out a picture showing the floor of the crime scene—“the floor was bone dry. If Jack would’ve shot him from outside and then entered to steal the money, there would be water marks on the floor.”

Susan cocked her head to the side and nodded. “That’s true.”

She asked if either Foster or Joyce had said anything to make me suspicious of them, but I shook my head. “They each provided an alibi defense for the other, so they’d both have to be lying.”

“By the very nature of their cheating ways, they’re already liars,” Susan said.

“Correct.”

While I went over my notes from Foster’s statement, Susan began studying the crime scene photographs, picking them up one at a time and holding them up to the light. She even got up and retrieved a magnifying glass from her nightstand and went back to studying the pictures.

“All of the pictures are on my laptop,” I offered. “You can enlarge them and zoom in better on the screen. The printed copies are a little grainy.”

Instead of making her struggle across the room, I got my laptop and handed it to her. I rubbed my tired eyes and offered to fix her a cup of hot cocoa. It was feeling seasonal outside—after a long warm spell—and hot chocolate was usually a winter favorite of hers.

“With tiny marshmallows?”

“With tiny marshmallows.” I smiled and leaned over to kiss her forehead. “Is there any other way?”

While she continued to study the photographs, I lumbered down the stairs in my bare feet and found my mom and Lisa Wilson sitting at the kitchen table. I overheard my mom discussing our earlier conversation and her voice was laced with sorrow. She looked up at me and smiled when she saw me. “Son, I’m so sorry again for everything I’ve done.”

I walked over and put an arm around her shoulders. “You don’t have to apologize anymore, Mom. It’s all in the past now.”

“But now I wonder how different your life might’ve been had I been honest with you and Garvan. Maybe you would’ve had better opportunities if your real father had been in your life. Maybe you could’ve become a doctor or a lawyer or—”

“Hold the phone,” I said, interrupting her. “What makes you think I’d ever want to be a doctor or a lawyer?”

“I don’t know. Most kids want to be doctors or lawyers or super heroes. They make lots of money, and I figured everyone wants a job where there’s a potential to be rich. I mean, who doesn’t like money?”

“I have a job where I have the distinct privilege of saving lives and bringing bad people to justice.” I pursed my lips and nodded solemnly. “Sure, I could’ve become a doctor or lawyer or CEO of a large company, but that’s not who I am—it’s not what I want to do. There’s no greater calling and nothing I’d rather be doing with my life than what I’m doing right now.”

“Amen to that,” Lisa said. “I’m scared to death every time I think about Susan being out there facing those bad people, but I am so proud of my baby girl. To me, she is a superhero and I wouldn’t want her—”

“Clint, get up here!” Susan called. “I’ve got something!”

CHAPTER 35

I rushed to the sound of Susan’s voice and could hear Lisa and my mom following up the stairs. Lisa was fretting out loud, asking if Susan was okay or if she’d fallen. I called over my shoulder that Susan was fine and entered the bedroom to see her bent over my laptop screen.

“Mitch wasn’t the target!” She stabbed my laptop screen with her index finger and waved me over. “Look at this photo.”

I moved up behind her. “What are we looking at?”

Before Susan could explain, my mom and Lisa bumped into me and I nearly fell forward.

“What is it?” my mom asked. “Did you solve the case for Clint?”

“That’s my girl,” Lisa said, reaching around me and patting Susan on the back. “I knew you could do it.”

Susan lifted a hand. “If you’re not law enforcement, raise your hand before you speak. Clint, check out the piece of paper taped on the wall at the back of the bar.”

I put a hand on her shoulder and leaned closer to the screen. I nodded. “That’s the work schedule. I took a picture of it while I was out at the scene.”

“Look who was slated to work Friday night.”

I squinted. There, in the box for the Friday evening shift, was Foster Blake’s name. “What the hell?”

“Yeah, Foster Blake isn’t a suspect—he was the target.”

I mulled this over. Susan was definitely on to something. First, if someone knew Foster was supposed to be working that night, they could’ve easily mistaken Mitch for him in the heavy rain. Second, as I’d been investigating possible motives someone might have had for killing Mitch, I’d uncovered one reason someone might want Foster dead, and I already had two suspects.

“I think you’re right about this,” I told Susan, still trying to put the pieces together in my head. “The killer had to know Foster was supposed to be working that night, but they didn’t know he got Mitch to cover his shift. The killer then heads out to the bar under the cover of darkness and heavy rain and shot who they thought was Foster through the screen door. I wonder what they did when they realized they got the wrong man?”

Susan was chewing on her lower lip. “We have to start from scratch now and figure out who had a motive to kill Foster.”

“Oh, I already have two good suspects…” I let my voice trail off as another theory entered my mind. “Wait a minute, what if this is a switcheroo?”

“How so?”

“What if Foster asked Mitch to cover his shift so he could kill Mitch and then make us think someone wanted him dead?”

“You just made my head hurt.” Susan shook her head to clear it. “You think Foster got Mitch to cover his shift so he could kill Mitch?”

“It’s possible.”

“Why would he want Mitch dead?”

“I’m still working on that,” I admitted. “Of course, I do have a better reason for wanting Foster dead, and I have two possible suspects to go along with that theory.”

“I’m all ears.” Susan turned away from the laptop and stared up at me. “Lay your theory on me.”

Out of the corner of my eyes, I could tell my mom and Lisa were “all ears” too, as they leaned forward and hung on our every word. I thought about asking them to leave, but I figured they wouldn’t cause any harm. “Foster left his house earlier in the day and rented a motel room in Magnolia Parish, where Joyce Reynolds meets him for their little rendezvous. Only the people familiar with the bar and its employees would know who worked what shifts, and that would certainly include Joyce’s husband and Foster’s wife. If Joyce’s husband somehow found out about the affair, he could’ve snuck out there in the rain and killed off the competition.”

“Or Foster’s wife could’ve found out about it and put him down herself.”

“Right, you are.” I nodded. “When I went over to Foster’s house to look for him, the first thing his wife asked was if he was okay. At the time I didn’t think anything of it, but now I think it was a slip of the tongue.”

Susan scrunched her face. “I guess it would be a normal reaction for this woman—what’s her name?”

“Pearly Blake.”

“I guess it would be normal for her to think something bad had happened when a cop showed up at her door. Did she mention if he had to work that night?”

“Nah, she just said he’d gotten into an argument with the family and left. She said he was staying at a motel for a few days while their family was in town.” I paused, scratched my face. “Hmm, there was the issue of his face.”

“His face? What about it?”

“It looked like most of your opponents do after you finish kicking their asses—the furniture in front was all rearranged. He’d obviously been in some sort of fight and his nose looked broken. When I asked him about it, he said there’d been a disagreement out at the house. Pearly had characterized it as an argument. What if the injuries didn’t come from the house?”

“What are you getting at?”

“What if Foster got into a fight with Mitch?” I said. “I hadn’t noticed any obvious marks on Mitch’s knuckles when I bagged his hands, but it’s possible he beat the crap out of Foster without injuring his fists. If they got into a fistfight—no matter the reason—Foster would have a good reason for coming back and shooting him.”

“Ah, that makes sense! If they got into an altercation that led to blows, Mitch probably fired Foster. Once he fired Foster, he had to cover Foster’s shift, which opened the door for him to be killed.”

“And Foster could’ve very well been the only person who knew Mitch was working that night.” I drummed my fingers against my leg. “I need to establish an exact timeline of events to nail down Foster’s whereabouts and try to figure out when this fight could’ve—”

Movement from my left caught my eye and interrupted me. I looked to see my mom with her right hand high in the air. She was squirming like a kid who knew the answer to a question and was waiting for the teacher to call on her.

“What’re you doing?” I asked.

“Susan said we need to raise our hand before we speak if we’re not law enforcement, so I’m raising my hand.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Foster Blake didn’t kill Mitch Taylor, but I know who did.”

CHAPTER 36

Susan and I traded glances and I almost started laughing at my mom’s comment, but didn’t. I put on a serious face and asked her who killed Mitch Taylor.

“It’s a young man named Matthew Bernard.”

“Matthew Bernard?” I scowled. “Who the hell is Matthew Bernard? That name hasn’t come up once during this investigation.”

“Matthew is the young man who was on the swamp tour Friday morning. Don’t you remember?” She shoved both fists against her hips. “What kind of investigator are you? He was in the military and he came down to visit his sick mother for Thanksgiving. His wife’s name is Jill and they were living in Hawaii—”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I remember now, but how do you know he’s connected to this case?”

“Well, I heard you mention the name Pearly Blake.” She adjusted the front of her collar. “When I asked Matthew who his momma was, he said it was Pearly Blake. I can’t imagine there’re two women named Pearly Blake in this small town.”

I studied my mom’s face. She was positive she was onto something, but I didn’t share her optimism. “Just because his mom is Pearly Blake doesn’t mean he’s a killer,” I said.

“No,” she acknowledged, “but you mentioned that there was a fight out at the family home. Well, Matthew’s knuckles were skinned up.” She pointed toward Susan’s fists, which were still damaged from her bare-knuckle workout Friday night. “They looked like her knuckles, and I know she’s a fighter, so I figured he’d gotten into a fight. I heard you say yourself that a fistfight would be motive enough for someone to shoot this man through the screen, but that was back when you were thinking Mitch beat up Foster. In light of this new evidence, we now know Matthew beat up Foster earlier on Friday. Foster was supposed to go to work, but he cancelled his shift and spent the night with that harlot—Joyce something-or-other—instead. Everyone at the house knew Foster was supposed to work that night, so Matthew went out in the rain and shot the man he thought was Foster through the screen door, but he ended up killing an innocent man.”

She provided more information from her conversation with Matthew and his wife, Jill, and we all just sat there listening. I didn’t want to encourage this type of behavior from my mom, so I simply nodded thoughtfully, but I was thoroughly impressed. She recognized the look of approval on my face and was beaming. It was as though she felt all had been forgiven and things were right between us; although I hadn’t been angry to start with.

I turned to Susan. “I guess I should have a conversation with Foster.”

“Don’t you need to interrogate Matthew?” my mom asked. “He’s the real suspect.”

“You never go directly at the suspect if you can help it,” I explained. “Before sitting down and visiting with him, I’ll want to be armed with as much information as possible about him and the case. If anyone knows who might want Foster Blake dead, I’m thinking it would be Foster Blake.”

“I guess that makes sense.” Still beaming, she turned to walk out the bedroom door, calling over her shoulder, “Now that my work is done here, I’ll let you kids get back to doing whatever it was y’all were doing before I stepped in and saved the day.”

I smirked playfully and Susan laughed.

“I wouldn’t laugh,” Lisa said. “From what I just witnessed, she singlehandedly solved this case.”

“I love you, Mom.” Susan leaned over and planted a kiss on her mom’s forehead. “Now, can you leave us to finish planning our strategy?”

Lisa grunted, but she left and caught up to my mom downstairs. As their voices faded in the distance, Susan and I began making preparations for tomorrow. I was going to head to the motel and meet with Foster, while she would run the criminal histories of Matthew Bernard, Foster Blake, and Pearly Blake to see what she could find.

“Your mom said Matthew and his wife were visiting Pearly for Thanksgiving and that Pearly had some kind of medical issues and needed a new kidney, but where were they from? Did they say?”

“I remember hearing one of them say something about New York and Hawaii.” While I hadn’t been listening to most of what was said between my mom and the guests on the swamp tour, I’d recalled bits and pieces of the conversation. “I think it was his wife who said Matthew was originally stationed in Hawaii, but they now live in New York.”

Susan nodded and scribbled down the information. “I’ll run a criminal history check on both of them in both states. Did you already run Foster?”

I nodded. “He’s got no record in Louisiana, but I guess I need to find out if he’s lived elsewhere and I need to find out what’s going on with his family.”

“Good idea.” Susan was heading for the bathroom and I was almost finished packing up the case file when I received a text message from Melvin, who was working the night shift, asking that I call him. It was almost ten o’clock and I wondered what was so pressing that he would need me to call him.

“Who’s texting at this hour?” Susan asked. “If it’s work it can’t be good.”

“It’s Melvin.” I dialed the number and put the phone to my ear. “He only calls when it’s important.”

“Hey, Clint, it’s me,” he said when he answered. He was panting as though he’d been running. “I was in the office writing a report when we got a phone call from someone saying the lights are on in Mitch Taylor’s Corner Pub. I’m heading there to check it out, but I thought you’d want to know.”

“For sure.” I heard a door slam in the background and his truck engine fired to life. “I’ll meet you down there in a jiffy.”

When I told Susan what was going on, she hobbled to the dresser and snatched a pair of jeans from inside. “I’m going with you.”

CHAPTER 37

When Susan and I pulled up to the curb near the Corner Pub, Melvin was standing in the doorway speaking with Foster. His right hand was resting near his pistol and he was pointing the index finger of his opposite hand up at Foster. I waited for Susan to catch up with me and we approached the two men. I overheard Foster explaining his reason for being there.

“Mrs. Taylor—Connie—called me and told me to have the bar ready to open up tomorrow. She said she was not going to see her husband’s hard work go down the drain. She said the business was going to be bigger and better than ever and she wanted to hire two more people to work extra shifts so we could be open longer hours.”

I stepped up beside Melvin and nodded toward Foster. “How’s it going?”

He shrugged. “As well as can be expected.”

“Anyone inside with you?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Joyce is cleaning up the kitchen.”

Melvin’s radio scratched to life and he stepped away from us to answer the dispatcher, who said she needed him to respond to a prowler complaint on the other side of town. He looked over at me and I let him know I’d handle this call. I turned back to Foster as Melvin walked away.

“I’m going to need you to follow me to the office,” I said. “You can bring Joyce with you.”

“Why?” Foster glanced from me to Susan and then back at me. “What’s going on?”

“I’d rather talk about it at the station.”

He frowned, but nodded after a long moment. “Let me get Joyce and lock up the place.”

I stopped him. “Aren’t you worried your wife will come by and catch you with Joyce?”

He stole a cautious glance at Susan. “Um, what do you mean? We work together.”

“It’s okay…Chief Wilson’s cool and she won’t tell your wife,” I said. “It just seems pretty brazen of you to bring her here out in the open and all. What if her husband shows up?”

“We came in separate cars,” he explained. “And it’s not unusual for us to be working in the bar together. In fact, her husband even knows she’s—”

“Hey, what’s going on out here?” called a female’s voice from deeper inside the bar. I recognized it to be Joyce. When she drew nearer, I explained that I needed to see both of them in my office.

“I’d like y’all to follow us down to the station so we can interview y’all about this case.”

“But we already gave an interview,” Joyce said. “I don’t understand why we need to give another one.”

“There’ve been some new developments,” I explained. “Some pretty significant developments that need our immediate attention.”

Joyce searched Foster’s eyes. He only frowned and shrugged. “I guess we have no choice. If they want to talk to us, we should talk to them.”

“What about Connie?” she asked. “Won’t she be mad that we’re not finished?”

“It shouldn’t take too long,” I assured her. “You can come back and finish cleaning when we’re done.”

That seemed to satisfy Joyce and she grabbed her purse from behind the bar. She stepped out onto the sidewalk and glanced down at Susan’s cast. “What happened to you?”

“I kicked a Russian in the head,” Susan said simply. “She had a hard head.”

Joyce’s eyes grew wide. “Seriously?”

Susan winked. “I’d never joke about kicking someone in the head.”

There was admiration in Joyce’s eyes as she watched Susan walk toward my Tahoe. “I like her,” she told me when Susan was out of earshot, “but I’m afraid of her.”

“If you don’t do anything wrong, there’s no need to fear her. She’s as nice as they come.” I waited while Foster locked the door and then glanced around. “Where’s your car?”

“It’s parked around back.” Foster shot a thumb over his shoulder. “Joyce’s car is back there, too.”

I told him I’d wait for them in my Tahoe and I reached it just as they disappeared into the darkness alongside the building. After helping Susan inside, I opened my door and slipped behind the steering wheel.

“Do you think they’ll try to run?” Susan asked.

I pointed to the alley that served as a driveway to the back of the bar. “There’s only one way in or out of the back of the—”

My voice was cut off by popping sounds echoing from the back of the building.

“Were those gunshots?” Susan asked, jerking her head around.

CHAPTER 38

After snatching up my flashlight and radio, I jumped out of my Tahoe and shoved the radio in my back pocket. Several more gunshots erupted from the back of bar. I glanced quickly at Susan, who was struggling to get out of her seat, and hesitated.

“Just go!” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

I pushed my door shut and sprinted down the alley, where I could hear a woman screaming. Her voice was getting closer to me and I caught a glimpse of her in the dim lights from the parking lot behind the bar. It was Joyce and she was running as though her life depended on it. I reached out and caught her in mid-run, pulling her against the building and forcing her to crouch down.

“What happened?” With my pistol in hand, I peered around the rear corner of the building. I could see two vehicles in the back parking lot, and it looked like the side window on one of the vehicles was blown out. I detected a dark figure lying flat on the ground near the back of one of the vehicles. It looked like the right shape to be Foster, and he wasn’t moving.

Joyce’s breath was coming in gasps and I could feel her body trembling beside me. “I…I don’t know what happened,” she said. “We were walking to our cars and then…um, someone just started shooting. I…I think they got Foster. I saw him go down and I started running as fast as I could. I swear, I felt a bullet pass right next to my face. I think it took some skin off my cheek.”

Keeping my eyes on the back of the parking lot, I told Joyce to stay close to the side of the building and make her way to the front. “Chief Wilson’s in the front of the bar. She’ll take you to safety.”

I didn’t look behind me, but could hear the gravel rolling under her feet as she scrambled toward Washington Avenue. I was about to step out into the open when I heard another set of feet behind me. I turned to see Melvin skid to a stop and fall against the building.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “I got a call that shots were fired out here and Chief Wilson told me to come back you up.”

I nodded toward the shadowy figure on the ground beside the vehicle. “I think that’s Foster. I can’t tell if he’s hit, but I’m about to run out there to see about him.”

“Is the shooter still on scene?”

I scanned the buildings that lined the opposite side of the narrow parking area. There were two alleys that disappeared into the darkness and I couldn’t see down either one of them. While there had been no signs of life other than Joyce when I arrived, it didn’t mean the killer wasn’t still out there waiting to pop off more shots. “I don’t know,” I admitted, “but I need to check on Foster.”

“Okay…I’ll cover you.”

I told Melvin I was going on three. After a brief countdown, I lunged off the ground and sprinted across the open space as fast as my legs could carry me. My heart pounded in my ears as I ran, and it felt like I was moving in slow motion. When I neared the back of the car I dove forward and rolled to a rough stop beside Foster, smashing violently into his side. I heard him grunt and knew he was still alive.

Squatting with my back to the vehicle, I kept my pistol ready for action and looked back toward Melvin’s location. I could only see a shadow, but I saw his thumb shoot upward to let me know everything was okay from his point of view.

“Foster, can you hear me?” I whispered.

“Yes, sir.” His voice quivered.

“Are you hit?”

“No, sir.”

“Can you move?”

“I ain’t going nowhere until that killer is gone.”

I opened my mouth a little—as though it would help me hear better—but I didn’t hear a peep from the two alleys in front of me. I eased my police radio from my back pocket and whispered into it, calling for Melvin to keep his pistol trained on the openings between the buildings. “I’m going to shine my light in that direction,” I said. “Be ready to open fire.”

When he acknowledged he’d heard me, I grounded my radio and lifted the light over my head with my left hand. Keeping my pistol ready, I flipped the light on and held my breath. Nothing happened.

I did a quick peek over the top of the car, but there was nothing in the first alley to the left. I dropped back down and scooted toward my right. After taking a few deep breaths and letting Melvin know I was about to shine my light again, I flipped the switch and aimed it in the direction of the second alley. I heard Melvin’s voice over the radio.

“I can’t see much of anything from here,” he whispered.

When my light didn’t draw gunfire, I did a quick-peek again and then sighed. The alley looked empty. I displaced again and stopped moving when I’d reached the opposite side of the car. I held my light out to the side and turned it back on. I then rose slowly over the car and studied the opening between the buildings. I penetrated each shadow with my eyes until I was positive it was clear. I did the same to the other alley and then told Foster he could get off the ground.

“The shooter’s gone.”

Melvin joined us and then escorted Foster to the front of the bar where Susan was waiting with Joyce. She immediately got them both out of the area and transported them to the safety of our office. Melvin rejoined me behind the bar and we carefully moved into the first alley to the left and made our way to the opposite street.

A thick fog was moving in and it covered the area in a spooky glow. We kept our lights off so we wouldn’t give away our location, and our movements were painstakingly slow as we searched for the would-be killer. There was no sign of life in the alleys or on the opposite street. Whoever had fired the shot had disappeared.

“Can you keep the area secure while I process the scene?” I asked Melvin when we’d returned to the parking lot behind the Corner Pub. “I need to locate casings and whatever other evidence I can find.”

Melvin nodded and walked away to retrieve his truck. When he drove it to the back, he aimed the headlights on the alleys and grabbed his shotgun. Keeping it cradled in his arms, he rested a foot on his front bumper. “If anyone pops their head out of that alley, I’m going to take it off,” he said.

Knowing he would keep good on that promise, I grabbed my crime scene box from my Tahoe and set about processing the scene. I located eight spent shell casings—all of them were nine millimeter casings—near the entrance to the second alley. Their proximity to each other suggested the shooter fired all the shots from the same position. Whoever it was, they meant to kill Foster.

Six of the bullets had struck Foster’s car, one of them had impacted the back of the bar, and the last one had skidded across the gravel lot and lodged in a light pole. Try as I might, I wasn’t able to recover a decent projectile. I ended up with a dozen tiny pieces of lead and some copper fragments, but nothing that could be compared to the bullet from the bar shooting on Friday night.

The shell casings were a different story. They all bore the same brand name and other markings as the casing from Mitch’s murder, and I was sure they would match.

“I need to get these casings to the lab as soon as possible,” I said out loud. I wasn’t surprised when Melvin offered to deliver them first thing in the morning. He was as helpful as they came. I cocked my head to the side. “Are you sure?”

“Are you kidding me?” He cracked a huge smile. “I love riding out to the city. I stop and eat at a different restaurant each time and I treat myself to the bad foods my wife won’t let me eat every other day of my life.”

I grunted in amusement and told him I’d sign the evidence over to him at the end of his shift, which was in a couple of hours. After wrapping up the scene, I headed for the police department to interview Foster and Joyce. I needed to know who wanted Foster dead, other than the two obvious choices—his wife and Joyce’s husband.

CHAPTER 39

Tuesday, November 22

Mechant Loup Police Department

“I swear to God I don’t know who wants me dead,” Foster said when I was finally sitting alone in an interview room with him. Melvin had already clocked out and I had turned the evidence over to him for delivery to the lab.

I had already interviewed Joyce, who’d said she was positive her husband didn’t know about her affair with Foster. “We’re not even seeing each other anymore,” she had said, still shaken from the shooting. “Once you found out about us, we figured it would be best to break things off until we were both divorced.”

After taking her statement, I had interviewed her befuddled husband, who couldn’t understand why I was questioning him about his whereabouts. He didn’t look convinced when I said it was just routine police business, and he seemed suspicious of Joyce. I couldn’t very well tell him I had to eliminate him as a suspect in the attempted murder of Foster Blake, because that might get him wondering why he should want Foster dead. From that springboard, it would be easy for him to draw the correct conclusion—unless he was completely clueless—so I explained how it was routine to question a husband in the suspected attempted murder of his wife. Since his alibi was solid, I released him and he took Joyce home.

“I don’t know, Foster,” I said, leaning my elbows on the table and studying the man before me. “I’m starting to believe whoever killed Mitch actually meant to kill you.”

“That’s nonsense.” He shook his head for emphasis. “I don’t have any enemies. I get along with everyone.”

“Why didn’t you tell me Mitch covered your shift Friday night?”

The question caught him off guard. “Well…um…you never asked.”

“That’s not the kind of thing I should have to ask. It’s the kind of information a reasonable person would volunteer when the police are questioning him.”

“It never crossed my mind to mention it.”

I pursed my lips. “I’m asking where you were on Friday night because your boss was killed, and you didn’t think for a second to mention you were supposed to be working? You didn’t once wonder—even to yourself—if you were the intended target?”

“No, sir.”

“What’re you hiding, Foster?”

“I’m not hiding anything. I wanted to spend the night with Joyce, so I asked Mitch if he could catch my shift. He said he wouldn’t mind and that was the end of it. I never thought about it again. When you questioned me, I didn’t even think about it because it didn’t have nothing to do with me or my shift. I believe the person who killed Mitch was hired by Connie to do the job…” His voice trailed off and his mouth slowly fell open. “I bet Connie paid someone to kill me!”

I scoffed. “Why would Connie want you dead?”

“Because I ratted on her.” He nodded his head, confident he was on to something. “She called me out of the blue and asked me to start getting the bar ready to open. She said she didn’t want Mitch’s life’s work going to waste and she said she was going to start running the place. She said it was going to be bigger and better than ever and she was going to honor the legacy of her husband. It all sounded good, but I was beginning to wonder if she was being for real or not. Except for my wife, she was the only one who knew I was over here, so it made sense that she might’ve come after me.”

“I heard you explaining all of that to Officer Saltzman,” I said. “If everything you’re saying is true, why would Connie try to kill the one person—or two, if she was also targeting Joyce—who could help her run the bar?”

A confused expression fell across Foster’s face. “I mean…I don’t know. I just think it’s her who paid someone to try and kill me.”

“Let’s say you’re right and she wants you dead. Is it possible she’s the one who pulled the trigger?”

Foster shook his head. “No way. I saw the shadow of the person who shot at me and it didn’t look like her.”

“You saw the shooter?”

“I got a glimpse of him in the dark. I think it’s a him. I mean, it could’ve been a woman, but the person wasn’t shaped like Mrs. Connie, if you know what I mean.”

“How was the shooter shaped?”

“The person was smaller in the chest. You know, not as round.”

“What about hair style? Could you tell if the shooter’s hair was long, short, wavy—?”

“I couldn’t tell about the hair. I could only see a black shadow and some flashing lights from the gun.”

“Did the flashes light up the shooter’s face?”

He grunted. “If it did, I didn’t see it. I was too busy ducking for cover. I heard the bullets hitting the car all around me and I heard the window bust out. I dropped to the ground and crawled behind the car, where I just played dead, hoping they would stop shooting and leave.”

Foster lifted his left arm and pointed to a tiny tear in the sleeve of his shirt. “A piece of bullet or something tore my shirt and stung my arm.”

I watched as he lifted his sleeve to show me the tiny drop of dried blood on his flesh. Something had definitely made contact with his arm and I photographed it. “I don’t think you’ll need any stitches,” I joked, studying his face closely. I could tell there was something he wasn’t telling me—some deep, dark secret that would lead me directly to the person who wanted him dead. But how would I extract that information?

“Foster, I want to know about the fight out at your house on Friday morning—the one that led to you leaving the house and renting a motel room, which also led to you calling Mitch and telling him you couldn’t work your shift.”

He shrugged, stared down at his hands. “I already told you; it was nothing.”

“Your face is saying otherwise.” I pointed to the damage that was still clearly visible. “Matthew beat your ass pretty good, so I’d say it was something.”

Foster’s head jerked up. “Did Pearly tell you that?”

I smiled inwardly. My mom had been right after all; Matthew was the one who had beaten Foster—but why? “It doesn’t matter who told me,” I said. “The only thing that matters at this point is why he did it. Was that reason good enough to want you dead?”

“I’ve never done anything that would make him want to kill me.” Foster smirked. “We just got into a normal family disagreement. Nothing more, nothing less. He’s strong-willed and so am I, and that doesn’t always go good together.”

“What was the fight about?”

“We just had a disagreement about something.”

“About what?”

“Huh?” A befuddled look appeared on his face. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play stupid,” I said. “You know damn well what I’m asking.”

“Seriously, I don’t.”

“What was the disagreement about?” I asked my question slowly, emphasizing each word.

“To be honest, I don’t really remember.”

“Were you high?”

He shook his head. “I don’t do drugs.”

“Were you drunk?”

“Of course not. I don’t drink when I have to work.”

“Then how is it possible you don’t remember an argument that resulted in your stepson beating the piss out of you?”

“He’s not my stepson.”

“You married his mother, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t make him my stepson.” Foster spat the words. “He’s nothing to me.”

I nodded slowly and leaned back in my chair. “There’s definitely some bad blood between the two of you. If it’s so bad that he wants you dead, then I’m guessing it’s so bad that you could probably get in trouble for it.”

He shifted in his chair and shook his head. “I never did nothing to that boy. I’ve been a good father figure to him, but he never wanted anything to do with me. He was an ungrateful little brat. He was always being bad and doing things he wasn’t supposed to do; destroying other people’s property.”

“Foster…” I leaned forward. “Why don’t you stop with the crap and just tell me what it is that you did. The sooner I find out why he wants you dead, the sooner I can lock him up.”

“I already told you—I never did nothing to him, so it’s not him that wants me dead.”

“Suit yourself.” I stood and grabbed my file. “If you don’t care that someone wants you dead, why should I?”

“Wait, where are you going?”

“You’re free to go.” I opened the door and stood back to make room for him to pass. “Go on about your life. When Matthew finally catches up to you and completes his mission, maybe he’ll leave enough evidence behind so I can arrest him. If not”—I shrugged—“so be it. You had a chance to help yourself but you chose not to.”

Foster didn’t move from his chair. “You can’t make me go out there. Somebody wants me dead.”

“You can’t stay here.”

He stared up at me for a long moment. His shoulders finally fell. “Okay, I’ll tell you what happened, if you think it’ll help, but I don’t believe it had nothing to do with somebody trying to kill me.”

CHAPTER 40

4 days earlier…

Friday, November 18

Mechant Loup, Louisiana

The young boy, who wasn’t so young anymore, pulled into the driveway of his mother’s home in southeastern Louisiana. It was four-thirty in the morning and the headlights from his truck splashed across the front of the two-story, barn-style house. It looked too nice to be his mother’s, so he pulled out his phone and checked the address again. It was correct.

He glanced at his wife, who sat beside him, and whistled. “It seems she’s done well for herself.”

His wife only nodded. Her eyes were red and tired, and he knew she needed sleep. He glanced in the rearview mirror at his grandfather and then over to his special needs sister, Kimberly. Kimberly had been wheelchair-bound ever since an incident occurred when she was a little girl. She had been sent away to live with their grandpa on their father’s side, and the young boy hadn’t seen her for years.

In fact, it wasn’t until he’d run away from his stepdad’s dungeon and joined the military that he first learned Sissy was still alive. He had reconnected with her and his dad’s side of the family, but he lost touch with his mother and her controlling and abusive husband—that is, until a month ago when she made contact with him through his grandpa and requested they come visit for Thanksgiving. She told him she was in poor health and would like to see them before she passed away.

“Matthew, are we sleeping out here in the car?” asked his grandpa. “Or do you plan on letting us out?”

“You know how to use the door handle,” Matthew muttered, watching as the front porch light came on and the door opened. He wasn’t sure how he would feel about seeing his mother again after so long, but he knew for sure how he felt about seeing his stepdad. He’d made a promise to himself, and he intended to keep that promise.

“I’m getting out,” said his wife, Jill, as a woman stepped onto the concrete porch. “I’m guessing that’s your mom. I’m going meet her and I’m going find someplace to crash. I don’t even care if it’s on the floor.”

Pearly Bernard Blake let out a screech when she saw Matthew step out of the truck. Before going to say hello, he opened the back door and helped Grandpa Desmond get Kimberly into her wheelchair. He then stood back while Desmond pushed Kimberly toward the front door. His mom bent forward and threw her arms around Kimberly and held her tight, weeping uncontrollably. Between sobs, she said how good it was to see Kimberly again, and then turned her attention to him.

“Oh, my, you have grown up so much—”

“Where is he?”

Pearly’s face fell. “Please, son, he’s changed. He’s a different man now. All those things he did back then, it was in his youth. He didn’t know how to be a stepdad. He was a kid himself.”

Matthew looked toward the house. “Is he here?”

“Yes.” Pearly’s voice was low. “Please don’t cause a scene. It’s almost Thanksgiving and I haven’t seen you guys in ages. I’d like to have a quiet—”

“Mom, where is he?” Matthew’s voice was firm. “Either you tell me or I’ll tear the place up looking for him.”

Pearly sighed heavily. “He’s in the back yard, sitting by the fire pit having his coffee.”

Matthew didn’t even bother walking inside. Instead, he went around the side of the house and stopped when he saw Foster sitting there with a thick branch in his hand, stoking the fire.

“Hey, asshole, you remember me?”

Foster’s hand froze and he looked up slowly. “Matthew. How are you, son?”

“I’m not your son.”

“Fair enough.” Foster stood slowly to his feet. “How’ve you been?”

“Remember what I said to you before you pissed in my face?”

“You still mad about that?” Foster spat in the fire. “When are you going to man up and get over that trivial shit?”

Matthew moved closer to him, stopping only when there were several feet separating them. “I told you I was going to make you pay for what you did.”

Foster shifted his strong leg back a little. “Oh, yeah, and you plan to do that now?”

“I’ve thought about it,” Matthew said, “thought about it for a long time. I told myself I’d kill you when I saw you again.”

“Yeah, I remember you saying that when you were knee-high to a short alligator.” Foster chuckled. “I remember laughing my ass off at you.”

Matthew felt his blood boiling, but he took a few slow breaths to remain calm. “Lucky for you, my mom wants to have a nice peaceful Thanksgiving. Otherwise, I’d make good on my promise.”

“A peaceful Thanksgiving?” Foster let out a guttural laugh. “Your mom doesn’t care about Thanksgiving, boy. She called you here to see if either you or your sister is a donor match. She doesn’t want your company—she wants your kidney.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your mom’s as selfish as they come, and it’s time you found that out. The only reason she called you and your sister was to have you come down here so she could pull at your heart strings.” Foster leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Can you imagine how evil a person has to be to try and take a kidney from her handicapped daughter? Kimberly can’t even make a sentence and your mom wants to take the poor girl’s organ.”

Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “You know, I never did tell anyone what really happened that day. Well, I tried, but no one would listen. But that was then, and this is now. When I talk, people tend to take heed nowadays.”

“Watch your mouth, boy. You’d better not go around spreading any lies about me. There’re consequences for that kind of thing.”

“Oh, they’re not lies. Everyone thinks Kimberly fell, but you and I both know you pushed her.”

“I did no such thing. She slipped and fell and hit her head. I didn’t do nothing to her. You were too young to even know what was going on.”

“Yeah, that’s what you were counting on, but you’d be surprised what kids can remember.” Matthew stepped closer. “And I’m not a kid anymore.”

“So…what? Are you going to tell your mommy on me?” Foster let out a guttural laugh. “She won’t believe a damn thing you say. I’ve got total control over her and she trusts everything I tell her. I could punch her right in the face and make her apologize to my fist.”

Matthew felt his blood boiling, but he tried to remind himself to remain calm. “I want you to apologize for what you did to Sissy, and I want you to apologize for all the things you did to me. If you do that, I won’t hurt you.”

Foster laughed again. “You…hurt me? Now, that’s a good one. As I recall, you’re only good at one thing, and that’s getting your ass beat. I don’t care how long you spent in the military. The military don’t make real men—real men are born.”

“You’re right about one thing; the military didn’t make a man out of me—I was a man before I went in. Those beatings were not for naught, that’s for sure. It taught me some things about me and it taught me some things about you.”

“Oh, yeah, what’s that?”

“It taught me that you’re a coward and you prey on young children and women who are helpless and won’t fight back.” Matthew clenched his fists. “It also taught me that I can take everything you’ve got and still keep going.”

“If you think you’ve seen all I’ve got, then you’re dumber than you look. You ain’t never seen the devil come out of me, boy, but if you keep walking toward me, you will—” Foster stopped talking and, in one swift motion, swung the tree branch he’d been holding directly toward Matthew’s temple.

Matthew quickly brought his left arm up and the branch crashed harmlessly into his elbow, sending speckles of dead bark and wood raining down over him. Before Foster could rear back with his hand to strike again, Matthew kicked him in the groin. Foster dropped heavily to his knees, clutching at the front of his pants. Moving deliberately, Matthew stepped forward and grabbed a handful of Foster’s hair. Jerking his face upward, Matthew smashed his fist into Foster’s nose. The older man cried out in pain and collapsed in a heap to the ground.

“How’s that feel, you old bastard?” Matthew asked. Foster just lay there groaning. Matthew leaned over and jerked him back to his knees by the hair. “This is for Sissy…” Matthew punched him as hard as he could in the left temple, knocking him unconscious.

Matthew straightened and stared down at the man he had dreamed of killing for many years. Suddenly, Foster didn’t seem worth the effort. Matthew turned when a soft voice called his name. It was his mother.

“Is it true? About Sissy?”

Matthew nodded. The sun was just starting to rise and he could see tears streaming down her face.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t strong enough to leave,” she said. “I’m so sorry for all you went through. The torture, the hate. It’s all my fault.”

“No, mom, it’s okay. He didn’t break me; he just showed me how strong and determined I truly am.” Matthew turned back toward Foster. “I’m going to need you to go inside now,” he told his mother. “You’re not going to want to see this.”

“Please don’t kill him…he’s not worth it.”

“I’m not going to kill him,” he promised, “but you will not want to see this.”

When his mom was gone, he unzipped his pants. “If you pee on me, I pee on you—that’s the law. It’s right there in the rule book of life, page three, section eight…”

CHAPTER 41

Mechant Loup Police Department

It was twenty after eight when Foster finished telling the story about Matthew beating him up and urinating on him. He said Matthew had barreled his way into the back yard immediately after driving up to the house and attacked him without provocation. He said the younger man hit him when he wasn’t expecting it and beat him while he was down.

“And then he pissed all over me while I was unconscious.” Foster shook his head. “That’s no way to greet someone after going years without seeing them.”

It was obvious Foster didn’t want me to know why Matthew beat him up. “Damn,” I said as convincing as I could muster, “Matthew sure sounds like a hothead.”

“He is!”

“And a bit psychotic. I mean, who goes around peeing on people?”

“That’s what I thought, but then Pearly gets all mad at me and makes me leave the house. Tells me she doesn’t want to see me again until her children leave. She didn’t even let me get cleaned up first. I had to walk into the hotel lobby smelling like piss.”

I could’ve challenged him on his earlier lie about leaving the house on his own accord, but I decided to keep pressing him about the reason for the beating.

“Well, Matthew’s obviously crazy and I’m sure it doesn’t make any sense, but why’d he want to fight with you? He must’ve said something while he was attacking you.”

Foster was quiet for a long moment. When he didn’t answer right away, I told him I could ask Pearly and the others at the house. “I’m sure someone overheard what was being said between y’all,” I said. “If you don’t remember, I can head out to the house right now and interview everyone.”

“I mean, I remember some of it,” he finally said. “You’re right, it didn’t make sense. He was babbling about Kimberly’s accident and trying to accuse me of pushing her.”

“Kimberly?”

“She’s his sister. She fell and hit her head when she was a little girl. She had severe brain damage and has been in a wheelchair ever since. Pearly had a job and couldn’t care for Kimberly like she needed to, so Kimberly was sent to live with her grandparents on her dad’s side.”

“Who’s their father?”

“Some guy named Willis Bernard. I’ve never met him.” Foster shrugged. “As far as I know, he’s never been a part of their lives. I know he’s never paid child support and he’s never visited the kids. I think that’s why Matthew turned out bad. You know what they say about boys who grow up without their dad.”

After momentarily wondering about my own biological father and whether or not he’d be willing to meet with me, I studied Foster, trying to imagine him pushing a little girl. I could actually envision him doing it. “So, if I understand you correctly, Matthew thinks you pushed his little sister and that’s why he attacked you?”

“Yeah, that’s the gist of it. Crazy, isn’t it?”

“I have to ask; did you push her?”

Foster acted offended. “I’d never intentionally hurt a little girl.”

Based on his answer, which wasn’t actually a denial, I was certain he’d pushed the little girl. “When I sit down and visit with Matthew, what’s he going to say is the reason he peed on you?”

“He’ll probably try to say I pissed on him when he was younger, but that’s a lie. I never did nothing like that to no one.”

“Would he say you abused him in any other way?”

Foster squirmed in his chair and hesitated before shaking his head. “No, he…he wouldn’t say anything more than that, and I don’t believe he’s got a reason to want me dead.”

“He attacked you and knocked you unconscious, Foster, so I’d say he’s mad about something. If it’s not about him, it must be about his sister.” I squinted. “When Matthew was beating you, did he say anything else? Anything at all?”

Foster was thoughtful. After a minute, he raised an eyebrow. “He did! He was demanding that I apologize for something.”

“For what?”

“The…the thing with Kimberly. He said I should apologize for what I did to Kimberly and to him.”

“Did you apologize?”

Foster shook his head.

“Then you need to apologize, and it’ll all be over”—I snapped my fingers—“just like that. My guess is he really believes you hurt his sister and he’s not going to stop until you pay for your sins or you make it right by apologizing.”

“For what? I didn’t do nothing.”

“Tell me about the accident. How’d it happen?”

“It was a long time ago…”

“It might have been a long time ago, but that kind of thing is hard to forget.” I placed my forearms on the desk and leaned close. “Where did it happen?”

“At our house, back when we lived in Breechville, Kentucky.”

“Where at your house—did it happen indoors or outdoors?”

“It was outside, near my old truck. She slipped and fell on the sidewalk, hit her head on the ground.” He frowned. “It was really scary.”

“Where was Matthew when it happened?”

“He was also on the sidewalk. They had just got through playing with some paint or something. I’m actually not sure what they were doing, but she fell and hit her head. Matthew might have even pushed her, and that might be why he’s blaming me now.”

“Where were you when she fell? I mean, if you were close to Kimberly, maybe you were obscuring Matthew’s view and he didn’t actually see what happened. And if you were close to Kimberly that might explain why Matthew mistakenly thinks you pushed her. If we could somehow convince him that it was an accident, he might feel bad for trying to kill you and he might admit what he did.”

“I…I really think it’s Connie who paid somebody to kill me, so it’s probably better if you just talked to her. I don’t think Matthew knows anything.”

“Why don’t you let me worry about who knows what, okay? Now, let’s get back to Kimberly…where were you when she fell?”

“I…I was too far to push her.”

“You know, a simple fall wouldn’t produce the kind of brain injury Kimberly sustained. Kids fall all the time and they bounce right back up and keep going.” I paused to let him think about it. “She must’ve hit the ground with some degree of force—the kind of force that would come from a push.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You need to find out who Connie paid, because he’s still out there somewhere. I mean, I don’t even know who to watch out for. It could be anybody.”

“Foster, if you pushed Kimberly, you need to tell me, and you need to apologize, so I can let Matthew know I’m taking care of things. Once he thinks justice is being served and that you’ve apologized, he might lay down his sword. It might convince him to confess to what he did.”

“You mean, if I tell you I pushed Kimberly and say I’m sorry, you think it might make Matthew admit to killing Mitch and then trying to kill me?”

“It’s worth a try. After all, he was trying to get you to do that while he was beating on you.”

Foster nodded his head slowly. “Okay, you can tell him I admitted to pushing Kimberly, but only if it’ll help clear this up.”

“It has to be believable, so you need to give me some details that’ll ring true with him.”

“Um, you can tell him that he spilled paint all over my truck and I was fussing him when Kimberly ran up to attack me.” Foster paused and swallowed. “You can tell him…you can say that I pushed Kimberly off of me without realizing it and she fell backward and hit her head.”

“Should I tell him you were angry when you pushed her?”

“If you think it’ll help.”

“Should I also tell him you apologized for peeing on him?”

Foster hesitated. “I…I guess so.”

“What should I say was the reason you peed on him? You know, to convince him you’re sincere?”

“You can just say it was because he refused to apologize for trying to escape.”

“Escape?” I echoed. “From where?”

Foster clamped his mouth shut. It appeared he knew he’d said too much.

I crossed my arms and shook my head. “It’s no wonder this kid wants you dead. It sounds like you were a real asshole.”

CHAPTER 42

It was two more hours before I wrapped up Foster’s statement. As bad as I wanted to arrest him for injuring Kimberly Bernard, the incident had occurred outside of my jurisdiction and eighteen years ago, so the best I could do was forward the information to the appropriate police department in Kentucky.

Susan and I dropped Foster off at the Corner Pub and then we followed him to the motel. Once he was safely inside, we left and were heading to speak with Matthew when Melvin called.

“Preach to me,” I said. “I need some good news.”

“The spent casings from the shooting last night matched the casings from the murder,” he said, “and Jack and Brandy’s hands came back clean—there was no gunshot residue on either of them.”

I wasn’t surprised. “We’ve got a new suspect. Where are you?”

He told me he was ten minutes from town, so I gave him Pearly Blake’s address and told him what we’d learned. “I’m going to need you out at the house in case things get ugly. I don’t think he knows we’re looking at him, so there shouldn’t be any trouble, but you never know.”

Melvin said he’d be there in a few minutes and we waited for him at the beginning of Lacy Court. When I saw his truck approaching, I turned in front of him and led the way down the street. I slowed when we arrived at Pearly’s house. There weren’t as many cars in the driveway as the first time I’d visited, and I wondered if Matthew was there.

Melvin slipped out of his truck and made his way around to the back of the two-story, barn-style home. I glanced at Susan and she eased out of the Tahoe and stood in the open doorway. She nodded toward the AR-15 that was in the back seat. “I know my mobility’s an issue, but I can cover you from here with the rifle,” she offered. “I’ll keep it low unless a threat presents itself.”

I nodded and waited until Melvin’s voice came over the radio to let me know he was in position. I then strode across the front yard and rapped on the door. Pearly answered my knock and cocked her head to the side as she stared at me through the glass of the storm door. She was wearing tights and a tank top—as though she thought she was twenty years younger—and she asked if there was something wrong.

I glanced past her and saw a wheelchair parked at the end of a long sofa. A girl was sitting in it. On the sofa next to her was the elderly man who had answered the door the last time I’d been here. His name was Desmond. When I had earlier asked Foster to name everyone in the house, he had mentioned that the man’s last name was Lemon and Foster said he was Kimberly’s grandfather.

“Can I help you?” Pearly asked when I didn’t answer her first question.

“I’d like to speak with Matthew,” I said. “Is he home?”

“I’m afraid not. He went to the store, but he should be back later. I think he might be doing some early Christmas shopping.”

I stole another glance at Kimberly and frowned. “How’s she doing?”

Pearly turned to view her daughter, and then opened the storm door to slip outside. When she spoke, her voice was low. “She’s never been the same since the incident.”

“I noticed you didn’t call it an accident.”

“That’s because it wasn’t an accident.”

“How do you know that?”

“I didn’t know until Matthew confronted Foster about it when they arrived here Friday night.” Pearly lowered her sickly eyes. “He tried telling me when he was younger, but I wouldn’t listen. I didn’t want to believe Foster was capable of hurting Kimberly.”

I detected movement behind Pearly and noticed Desmond Lemon had moved from where he was sitting and now stood just on the other side of the glass listening intently to our conversation. Pearly hadn’t seen him and I kept my eyes off of him so as not to alert her. If the man wanted to hear what she said, who was I to deny him?

CHAPTER 43

“Didn’t Foster beat Matthew?” I asked Pearly. “Back when he was a little boy?”

“He disciplined him, but he never beat him. I mean, I wouldn’t call it a beating.”

“We’ll just agree to disagree on that point. If Foster was capable of beating Matthew, then you had to know he was capable of harming Kimberly.”

“Like I said, he only disciplined Matthew.”

“I see. Did he ever urinate on Matthew and dunk his head in a toilet?”

That got Pearly’s attention. “Where’d you hear that?”

“From Foster.”

“He admitted doing that?”

“If I heard it from him, I guess he did admit it, right?”

She sighed. “He only did it because Matthew refused to apologize. He was trying to teach Matthew a lesson.”

“Why was Matthew supposed to apologize?”

“He tried to run away from home.”

“Run away or escape?” I asked, remembering what Foster had said. “I have reason to believe Foster was keeping Matthew locked up against his will.”

“Only for his own good.”

I leaned back and studied Pearly’s face. I’d heard that love was blind, but how on earth could this woman have been so utterly and completely blind? What type of woman would take the side of her “man” over her own child?

“Where was Matthew being locked up?” I asked. “Was he locked in his room or a closet or what?”

“In the, um, he was living in the basement.”

“Was he free to come and go as he pleased?”

“He was a child—of course he couldn’t come and go as he pleased. There were rules and he had to abide by them.”

“Was the door to the basement locked?”

She hesitated. “Only after he tried to escape.”

“When was that?”

“Before the toilet incident.”

“If the door was kept locked, how’d Matthew eat or use the bathroom?”

“There was a bathroom area down there.”

“And how did he eat?”

“We would bring him food.”

“What about school?”

“Oh, Foster enrolled him in a home-school program. He thought it would be easier for him to stay on the right track that way. You know, so we could keep an eye on him.”

“How’d he graduate?”

“I…I don’t really know if he did. He escaped—um, ran away—from home when he turned eighteen and I haven’t seen him until he came back to visit.” Her eyes misted over. “I missed him and Kimberly so much. It killed me not to have them home every day and not to be able to watch them grow up.”

“It seems you have Foster to blame for your kids not being with you. First, he injures Kimberly and she goes off to live with your father-in-law, and then Matthew leaves because of the way Foster treated him.” I nodded. “That’s reason enough for any respectable woman to want him dead.”

“I don’t want Foster dead. I might get mad at him from time to time and we might argue, but we do love each other.”

I wanted to ask her how Foster could cheat on her if he loved her, but I didn’t. Instead, I asked if she had tried to shoot him Friday night and then again last night.

“Dear Lord, no. I could never kill a person. I’ve gotten so mad that I wanted to divorce him before, but I never contemplated killing him—or anyone else, for that matter.” She grunted. “I can’t even kill a roach—and I hate the little bastards.”

“What about Matthew? He’s obviously been harboring ill feelings toward Foster. Do you think he attempted to kill Foster?”

She didn’t answer immediately. I could tell she was thinking, and I knew she believed her son was capable of killing Foster.

“Has Matthew ever threatened to kill Foster?” I pressed.

She finally nodded her head in slow motion, as though hating to admit it. “But that was back when he was younger. He’s been through the military since then and he’s a different kind of person now.”

“Well, he did beat the tar out of Foster and then urinated on him, so I’m willing to bet there’s at least some residual animus still present.” When she again remained silent, I asked about her kidney. “Is it true you need a kidney transplant?”

“No…who told you that?”

“Matthew mentioned it on the swamp tour.”

“Oh, yeah, they did go do the swamp tour after Foster left.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I might need one eventually, but my doctors believe it won’t be for many years.”

“Then why’d you tell Matthew you needed one?”

She lowered her eyes in embarrassment. “It was the only way I could get them to come down and see me. I knew how much they hated Foster and I didn’t think they’d come, so I told them I was sicker than I am.” She lifted her head and I could see her face light up. “Something good did come out of it, though, because we now know the truth about what happened to Kimberly.”

“How’s that a good thing?”

“It helped to clear the air and get everything out in the open. We can move on now and—”

“Ma’am, I don’t know if you fully understand the gravity of the situation, but Matthew’s a suspect in one murder and two attempted murders. If he’s arrested and then later convicted, he’ll spend the rest of his life in prison. He’ll never be a free man again.”

“I really don’t believe he did what you’re saying he—”

A car rumbled down the street and Pearly stopped to look toward the sound. I turned and saw a vehicle roll by my Tahoe and park in the driveway. Foster was driving and he didn’t waste any time getting out of the car. He looked from me to Pearly as he approached.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought you were staying at the motel until Matthew and all left.”

“I asked him to come back home,” Pearly said. “He apologized on the phone earlier and I forgave him. I just want us all to be a family again—to let bygones be bygones.”

Foster nodded. “I’m ready to be the father my kids never had. Last night made me realize what’s important in life. I’m going to give Matthew what he wants—I’m going to apologize to him and he’ll forgive me.”

I couldn’t hide the contempt I felt. “Are you serious right now, Pearly? You’re really going to let this asshole near your daughter?” When she lowered her head and remained silent, I turned to Foster. “And how do you know Matthew will forgive you? For all you know, he’ll shoot you on sight.”

Before he could answer, another car turned into the driveway. It was Matthew and he pulled up aggressively. I suddenly wondered if he’d been following Foster. His eyes were locked on his stepdad and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I eased my hand next to my pistol. It looked like things were about to turn ugly.

“Is it true?” Matthew asked as he stepped from his car and stormed toward Pearly and Foster. I relaxed a little when I saw his empty hands. “Jill called and said you were letting him back in the house. Is it true? After everything he did to Kimberly and me you’re going to let him back in the house?”

“He apologized,” Pearly said weakly. “He apologized for what he did to Kimberly—just like you wanted him to.”

“I don’t give a shit about his lame apology. It’s too little, too late. He has to pay for what he did to my sister and he has to pay for what he did to—”

The storm door suddenly burst open behind me. Before I could turn around, gunshots exploded in my ears.

CHAPTER 44

“Get down!” I hollered, dropping low and jerking my pistol from my holster while pulling Pearly toward me and onto the ground. Several more gunshots erupted. Although they were loud enough to make my ears ring, I could tell they were from a handgun. Almost immediately after the initial shots, I heard the report of an AR-15 in the distance that was followed by exploding glass. Susan was returning fire!

I turned toward the initial gunshots and broken glass, but I was too late to the party—Desmond Lemon was already on the ground and he was bleeding from several wounds, the most serious of which was to his right shoulder. I quickly moved in on him and stepped on his outstretched hand. A semi-automatic pistol—a black Glock that was chambered in nine millimeter—was still clutched firmly in his grasp and he was trying to bring it up.

Aiming my own pistol at Desmond’s face, I ordered him to release his grip on the weapon.

With a sigh, he opened his hand and I bent over to recover the Glock. Through clenched teeth, he asked, “Did I get the bastard?”

I glanced toward where Foster had been standing a few seconds earlier, but he was no longer there. He was now crouched behind a small sapling that grew in the front yard and—other than being pale and trembling—he appeared to be unscathed.

“Are you okay?” I asked, not really caring.

Foster just nodded, and I could read from his expression that he was tired of being shot at. My chest fell when I scanned the front yard and saw Matthew lying on his face a few feet from his car. He had turned to run for cover and it appeared he’d been hit at least a couple of times in the back. Melvin materialized from the back yard with his gun in his hand and I directed him toward Matthew.

“Can you check on him?” I tossed Desmond’s Glock a few feet away in the grass and dropped to my knees to handcuff him. Once he was secure, I began rendering aid to the old man. “You have the right to remain silent,” I cited as I worked, ripping the front of his shirt off and bundling it to place against his shoulder wound. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

Desmond just groaned in pain as I finished reading his rights, but he was in no danger of dying. I looked up and my eyes locked on Melvin’s. “Well?” I asked. “How is he?”

“He’s hit bad.”

“Who’s hit bad?” Desmond asked, trying to sit up but failing. “Did I get the bastard?”

“No,” I said sternly. “You shot Matthew. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Desmond groaned and I didn’t know if it was because he was in pain or because he was angry at himself for not killing Foster. He stared wildly at the sky above, a look of despair spreading across his face.

I shook my head as I examined his other wounds and wondered why I hadn’t considered him a suspect before today. The gunshot that killed Mitch had been an easy one to make. The shooter had only been a few feet away and Mitch was sitting still. Hell, a blind man could’ve hit him. But the distance from the doorway to Foster was too great for Desmond’s trembling hands. Anyone who knows anything about marksmanship knows it takes a steady hand to shoot accurately.

“Don’t bother trying to save me,” Desmond said through the pain. Tears filled the man’s eyes and spilled down the sides of his face. “I don’t deserve to live for what I’ve done. Just go tend to Matthew. Please make sure he recovers. For the love of God, please help him!”

I glanced to where Susan was standing over Matthew and Melvin, balancing on one crutch. She was on the police radio and I could hear her relaying information to our dispatcher. In the distance I heard sirens and I knew an ambulance was en route.

Melvin had retrieved his first aid kit from his truck and was applying pressure to one of the wounds in Matthew’s lower back. I heard shoes crunching on broken glass to my left and turned to see Jill Bernard ducking under the frame of the busted out storm door. She wore a loose-fitting shirt and tights and it looked as though she’d been napping.

“Matthew!” she cried, breaking into a run. “Matthew! What’s wrong?”

Melvin peeled away from Matthew and caught Jill before she could reach her husband. She tried to wrestle herself away from Melvin, but his thick arms had a death grip on her and he wasn’t letting go. He began speaking softly to her, trying to calm her down, but it was no use.

“Medics are on the way,” he said. “If you want to be helpful, just stand to the side and give us some room to work.”

“Why isn’t he getting up? Is he going to be okay?” She fired off at least a dozen more questions and Melvin continued speaking softly to her. Susan had finished reporting the shooting and she limped closer to Jill.

“I’m fine,” Matthew mumbled, turning his head to see his wife. “Just do what they say.”

“Yeah, why don’t you wait over here by me?” Susan offered. She had locked the AR-15 in my Tahoe and was leaning into her crutches a few feet away from where Matthew lay injured on the ground. “We’ll be out of the way, but close enough where you can see what’s going on.”

Jill gave a reluctant nod and moved beside Susan, who wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “It’s going to be okay.”

CHAPTER 45

Desmond was still crying. Although he didn’t appear to be in any danger of dying, I wanted to take his statement in case he did—or in case he’d decide to get a lawyer later. Keeping one hand on his wound and wiping blood from my other hand, I dug out my phone and activated the recording feature.

“Mr. Lemon, why’d you shoot Matthew?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I…I wasn’t trying to shoot Matthew. I wanted to kill that prick, Foster Blake. He…it wasn’t an accident what happened to Kimberly all those years ago. Foster intentionally hurt Kimberly. Matthew saw it himself and told us the other night. Had I known about this shit years ago, I would’ve buried him back then, when I was younger and had a steadier hand.” Desmond opened his bloodshot eyes and stared up at me in desperation. “Please, officer, you’ve got to do something to him. At least lock him up for hurting Kimberly. Please, I’m begging you! He can’t get away with this.”

“How many attempts have you made on Foster’s life?”

The old man was thoughtful. “At least three times. I tried to take that son of a bitch out Friday night—the night we got here. Pearly and him got in a fight over this business with Kimberly and he high-tailed it out of here.”

“How’d you know where to find him?”

“I…well, Pearly said he worked over at the bar in town down the street from the police department.”

“What made you think Foster was working that night?”

“Pearly said so.”

“Do you realize you killed an innocent man?”

Desmond closed his eyes again and turned his head, wincing in pain. When he spoke, his voice was strained. “I heard about it on the news. I’m real sorry about that and I’ll take whatever punishment I’ve got coming to me, if only you punish Foster.”

“You’re going to get what’s coming to you no matter what happens to Foster.” I glanced over at the Glock. “Is that the gun you used to shoot Mitch Taylor?”

“I was trying to shoot Foster.”

“Is that the gun you used?”

He sighed. “It is.”

“Who does it belong to?”

“Me…it’s mine.”

“Did you also take some shots at Foster last night?”

“I…I did. I tried three times to kill that bastard, but he just won’t die. He’s like a cockroach.”

“I understand your hatred for Foster, I really do, but the problem is you killed an innocent man and you shot your grandson. You see, it’s dangerous to go off—” I was about to lecture him on vigilante justice, but suddenly clamped my mouth shut, realizing I didn’t have the moral high ground on that issue. Instead, I told him I’d have to arrest him for the murder of Mitch Taylor, the attempted murder of Foster Blake, and the attempted murder of Matthew Bernard.

“Do whatever you’ve got to do. I don’t care. Just don’t let Foster near Kimberly.”

I surveyed the front yard. Pearly was holding Foster and they were both crying. I didn’t like that she stood behind her man even though she knew what he’d done to Kimberly. Melvin had thrown a blanket over Matthew and was trying to keep him from moving. Susan and Jill were standing near my Tahoe and they were facing the front of the street, where a fire rescue vehicle was approaching rapidly. I heard more sirens in the distance.

“He gets help first,” I said, pointing to Matthew when the rescue vehicle had pulled into the driveway and the two volunteer firemen had hurried toward us. “He’s an innocent victim.”

Melvin stepped back and allowed the firemen to get close and do their jobs. Matthew craned his neck and froze when his eyes locked on mine. “Don’t arrest my grandfather,” he said through clenched teeth, obviously trying to fight through the pain. “It was an accident and I’m not pressing charges.”

We were only about a dozen feet apart, but it was hard to make out what Matthew was saying. His words rolled out like grunts and I had to focus on reading his lips. I scowled when I realized what he’d said. The firemen were strapping him to a spine board, but he wasn’t paying attention to them. He was focused like a laser on me. When I didn’t respond, he spoke again. “Please don’t arrest my grandfather. He can’t handle prison.”

I could tell he loved his grandfather and I felt bad for him, but I shook my head slowly. “Sorry, but he confessed to killing an innocent man, so he’s going to have to get used to prison life.”

“Confessed?” Matthew twisted around to look in the direction of Desmond. Matthew’s face was pale and it appeared he was growing weaker. “He would never kill an innocent person. Hell, he…he never hurt anyone in his life.”

“His intent was to kill Foster, but he accidentally killed Foster’s boss instead—a man named Mitch Taylor.”

Matthew started to respond, but cried out in pain when the firemen moved him toward the ambulance that had just arrived. His eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out from the pain of his injuries. That brought a reaction from Jill, and Susan had to grab her arm to hold her back. “It’s okay, he’s in good hands. He simply fainted. Look at his chest, he’s still breathing.”

Jill wrung her hands and nodded, but the worry lines in her face were deep.

When a second ambulance arrived, I helped them load Desmond into the back of the unit and asked Melvin to follow it to the hospital.

“Want me to get with the sheriff’s office to set up round-the-clock guard duty?” he asked.

I nodded. “Let them know he’ll be arrested once he’s released.”

Melvin spun and jumped in his truck to follow the ambulance. I felt someone moving beside me and turned to see Susan. I asked if she was okay and she nodded.

“I feel bad about shooting that old man, especially since he was going after Foster. I know he’s wrong for the shooting, but I feel Foster would deserve some bad karma for what he did to that poor girl.”

I nodded my agreement, wondering if we’d be able to exact some form of justice for Kimberly.

CHAPTER 46

It was three hours later and Doug Cagle—who, at my request, had been assigned to handle the shooting—and I had just finished interviewing Pearly and Jill at the police department when Melvin called me.

“He didn’t make it,” Melvin said.

“Matthew?”

“No, the old man.”

“What do you mean?” I glanced at Susan. She had just walked into my office as Pearly and Jill were leaving, and I wondered how she’d take the news.

“He coded on the operating table during surgery. They weren’t able to revive him. The doctor said he suffered a massive heart attack.”

“So, it wasn’t the gunshot wounds that did him in?” I was speaking low enough so Pearly and Jill couldn’t hear, but Susan’s head snapped around.

“What’s going on?” she asked as she closed the door behind the two women.

I held up a hand as I finished my conversation with Melvin. Once I ended the call, I shook my head. “He didn’t make it.”

“Desmond Lemon?” Doug asked.

I nodded, studying Susan’s face. “You okay?” I asked after a moment of silence. “With the shooting, I mean?”

“Yeah, I know it was justified. I don’t like that he was an elderly man who was doing what he thought he had to do to avenge his granddaughter, but he endangered all of our lives. It was unavoidable.”

I wasn’t surprised Susan was handling it well. She was as mentally prepared to do this job as anyone I knew. Doug shot a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll head to the hospital to process the body. Afterward, I’ll get the evidence packaged and have it sent up to the state lab first thing in the morning. We should have the results back by the end of the week and my report will be on the DA’s desk by Monday morning.”

Stifling the trepidation I momentarily felt at the thought of Susan enduring another grand jury hearing, I thanked Cagle and gave him the name of my contact at the crime lab in La Mort. “I’ll need them to compare the casings from the Taylor murder to Desmond’s pistol.”

“I thought Desmond confessed to the murder.”

“He did, but I want to confirm it’s the same weapon. Have it scrubbed for DNA, too, if you don’t mind. I want this case nice and tidy.”

Cagle nodded and walked away, leaving Susan and me alone in my office. I dropped to my chair and sighed heavily. Now that the case was over, I could turn my attention back to the turmoil in my personal life. I wanted to meet my biological father, but I also wanted to speak to the man I’d called “Dad” all my life. Susan watched as I called Ezekiel Wolf’s phone again. I was in luck this time.

After the third ring, I heard the smooth voice of Ezekiel Wolf on the other end.

“Dad, it’s me, Clint.” Although I now knew he wasn’t my biological father, I couldn’t call him anything but Dad. “I know it’s been too long, but I thought I’d call and catch up.”

Susan quietly stood to her feet and waved goodbye as she let herself out of my office. She closed the door behind her and I settled in to speak with him. After answering a dozen of his questions and updating him on my life and letting him know that Mom was staying over, a long and awkward silence fell between us. I didn’t know how to broach the subject of my real dad.

CHAPTER 47

“Dad,” I finally said after a long moment, “Mom told me you weren’t my biological father.” I heard him suck in his breath, but I continued speaking. “She said she met you after she was already pregnant with me. According to her, my real dad is a man named Garvan Montana.”

“She told you that?” There was a sigh and a long pause on the other end of the phone. Finally, he spoke but his voice was so low I could barely hear him. “I am your dad, Clint. Sure, I might not be your biological father, but I will always claim you as my son and I sure hope you will always claim me as your dad.”

I bit down hard, remembering all of the good times we’d shared over the years. I had never suspected I was adopted. He’d never made me feel like anything except his own flesh and blood. “You’re right…you are my real dad.” I rubbed my face with a tired hand. “I just don’t understand why y’all never told me. I think I had a right to know.”

“It’s not the kind of thing you tell a youngster—you wait until the child is old enough to process the information and accept it. We did intend on telling you when you reached adulthood, but your mother insisted on waiting even after you turned eighteen. For what, I don’t know, but she wanted to keep waiting. We had planned to tell you and then you announced you were getting married, so she said we should wait some more. And then Abby was born, and then…and then…” His voice trailed off. “After what happened with Abby and Michele…well, there never seemed to be a right moment.”

“How’d it go down between you and Mom? When you first met her, I mean.”

Ezekiel went on to explain how my mom was pregnant and separated, but still married, when he first met her. He fell head-over-heels in love with her and would’ve done anything for her. He allowed her to put his name on my birth certificate and he raised me as his own blood. “To be honest,” he said, “a red flag went up when I found out she had a daughter who never called or visited. I’d often ask what had happened between the two of them, but her responses were always vague. After you turned two, I began to realize what had happened.”

He stopped speaking for a long moment and I had to ask if he was still there. Instead of answering me, he continued his story.

“You were a little terror, that’s for sure. You got into everything and it drove your mom crazy. One day, you had managed to break through the plastic lock she’d placed on the kitchen cabinets and you scattered the pots and pans everywhere. That really set her off. It was the first time she hit you. It shocked the life out of me. I’d never seen that side of her before and I let her know how much I disapproved. It was our first real fight. Unfortunately, it was the first of many—until she got some help.”

“I remember her spanking me,” I said, “but I always figured I deserved the whippings I got. I was a bad kid.”

“You weren’t a bad kid, you were just all boy. I kept your mom off of you when she’d get angry, but I finally told her I’d take you and leave if she didn’t get help. That really freaked her out and she made an appointment with a psychiatrist that very day. They put her on medication and she’s been a different woman ever since.”

“I never knew.”

“It’s not something she wants to relive. The biggest hurdle was admitting she needed help. After that, it was all sunshine and rainbows. Well, there were some storm clouds at times, but she weathered them okay.”

“What do you mean?”

“You certainly tested her last nerve.” He stopped and chuckled. “You were a handful, that’s for sure. While I was home it wasn’t so bad, but she’d often call me when I was offshore and beg me to cut my hitch short.”

“I was a handful. I remember throwing a rock through the kitchen window just to see if it would break. I thought she would kill me right then and there, but she didn’t.”

“I think the worst was when you tied one end of a rope to the rear bumper of her car and the other end to the oak tree in the yard.”

“Yeah, that was bad.” I lowered my head. “She nearly ripped her bumper off. I can’t believe how clueless I was as a kid.”

“When your mom sank to the ground and cried instead of beating you with a baseball bat, I knew the change was real.”

I was thoughtful for a while and neither of us spoke for a long moment. Finally, I asked if he knew why Garvan had taken Crystal and run.

“Yeah, she eventually told me everything, but it wasn’t until after she finally decided to get help—after I threatened to leave her if she ever hit you in anger again.”

“Would you have really taken me and left her had she hit me again?”

“Absolutely.”

After another long moment of silence, I asked, “Would it bother you if I made contact with Garvan Montana?”

“Not as long as you always remember I’m your real dad.”

CHAPTER 48

Saturday, November 26

Galveston, Texas

It was almost noon when Susan and I pulled into the sandy parking lot of Montana and Daughter’s Surf Shop. I stepped out of my old pickup truck and watched as Susan walked to where I stood near the front bumper. It was a little north of seventy degrees and the wind that blew in from the Gulf of Mexico caressed her hair like soft fingers, making single strands dance across the sides of her face.

“Are you ready for this?” she asked.

I took a breath and nodded. I was a grown man and I couldn’t believe how nervous I felt about meeting my biological father. I’d spent a few restless nights going over in my head exactly what I would say to Garvan and Crystal Montana once we met. I hadn’t reached out to them again since Crystal had blocked me on BudRelat, so this visit would probably come as a surprise to them.

“Do you think your sister will be mad to see you?” Susan asked. She cast a curious glance in the direction of the surf shop, which was elevated on thick wooden creosote posts. Three teenage boys were hurrying out of the shop carrying surf boards and we stepped out of the way to let them pass.

Without answering Susan, I headed up the wide concrete steps toward the front of the shop, smiling as I walked. This was my kind of place—seventies and short sleeves in November. I wondered if it stayed this way all winter as I pushed my way into the crowded business. I turned sideways and squeezed by a few tourists who were taking pictures of a large shark mounted high on the wall. I had just squirted through to the other side of the group when Susan grabbed my arm.

“There,” she hissed, “that’s your sister.”

My eyes followed her gaze and I saw a lady who was unmistakably my sister. She was folding T-shirts in front of a round table near the back of the room. Her cut off blue jean shorts were stylish and she wore a white T-shirt that bore the logo of the surf shop. I noticed Susan ambling away from me and I knew she was giving me space to introduce myself.

I moved closer to the table and took a breath when Crystal looked up. She asked if she could help me. I found myself stammering. I cursed silently, wondering how it was that I could stare death right in the face without flinching, yet here I was scared to death to meet my long lost sister.

“Is something wrong?” Crystal set down the shirt she had been folding. “You look like you need some air.”

“I’m fine,” I said quickly. “Is Garvan Montana here?”

Crystal tossed her head to indicate toward the back of the shop. “He took a group out to the beach for surfing lessons. They should be coming in at any time—it ended at noon.”

I nodded and stood there staring at her.

“Is there something else?” Her tone was no-nonsense and I liked it.

“Actually, there is.” I stepped forward and handed her the picture I’d been holding. It was of her, our mom, and our dad. “Do you recognize this picture?”

Crystal leaned in and her brow furrowed as she studied the photograph. “What…who…how’d you get this?”

“I got it from your mother—our mother.”

Her face turned as pale as the shirt she wore. She turned her eyes up at me. “You…are you the one who contacted me on BudRelat?”

I shot a thumb toward Susan, who was making a show of sifting through the swimsuits. “My fiancée contacted you on my behalf. I don’t really know how to use those social media websites. I’m too busy spending time in the real world to waste time on social media.”

“Don’t start knocking what you don’t understand.”

“I’m not.” I grinned, then frowned. “I’m sorry to just drop in like this, but I had to meet you and Garvan. I wanted to see what y’all were like and hopefully get to do some catching up.”

Crystal fingered the picture in her hand. “How, um…how is she?”

“She’s doing well. She’s house-sitting as we speak.”

“Is she still mean?”

I frowned. “Was she that bad?”

“She was horrible. She’d fly off the handle in the blink of an eye. My grandmother thought she was possessed by demons, but Dad figured she was just mean.”

“Is that why he took you and left?”

“It only took once for Dad to see her hit me. He called the cops and they hauled her off to jail. While she was locked up, he packed our things and we went to live with my grandmother in La Mort until the court hearing. Once he was granted custody, we moved here and he got a job in the oilfield. He eventually filed for divorce, but he was never able to get her served. He’s never been able to move on with his life, thanks to her, and I hate the bitch for it.”

I shifted my feet. “Well, I can help you get her served. I mean, if it’ll help Garvan—our dad—move on with his life, I’ll be happy to do it. She’s certainly moved on with her life. She’s been with the same man since before I was born.”

Crystal studied my face for a long moment. “We might have the same mother, but there’s no way my dad is your dad.”

“I’m afraid he is. You see, my mom was pregnant when y’all left, but she never told our dad because she was afraid he’d take me away from her—just like he took you away from her.”

“That’s not possible,” said a smooth voice from behind me.

I whirled and locked eyes with the tall wiry man who stood in board shorts and a tank-top. He was dark from too many hours in the sun and his light brown hair appeared bleached. While we looked very different, our eyes were identical. He noticed, too, and his face lost a shade of bronze.

“There’s one way to find out for sure,” I offered slowly.

“DNA?”

I nodded. “I’ve got connections at the lab. We could have the results in a few days.”

Garvan Montana’s face softened. “We can go through the motions, but I can’t deny you. You look too damn much like me not to be my son, and it’s just like Nancy to pull some shit like this.” His eyes softened and he moved closer to me. “I overheard you say you could help me get her served with divorce papers.”

“Yeah, she’s staying at my house at the moment.”

“If you do that for me, I’ll claim you as my son even if the DNA results are negative. I’ve never been able to move on with my life because of her, and that would be a huge help.”

I was about to respond when Susan suddenly appeared beside me, her phone pressed to her ear. “We’ve got to go,” she said. “The lab results are in—Desmond Lemon can’t be our killer.”

CHAPTER 49

After trading contact information and a promise to keep in touch, I bid Garvan and Crystal goodbye and rushed outside with Susan. She tossed me her phone as I fired up the engine in my old truck and backed out of the driveway.

“What’s the verdict?” I asked Melvin, taking a quick glance over my shoulder before merging onto the highway. “Susan says Desmond Lemon took the fall for someone.”

“Yeah, that’s the gist of it.” Melvin paused and I could hear him take a breath before continuing. “The gun’s registered to Desmond and his fingerprints are on the frame, but the lab found an unidentified print on the magazine and two partial prints on the bullets that definitely don’t belong to him. He might’ve fired the pistol and accidentally shot Matthew, but he didn’t load the magazine.”

I pondered this as I drove, the needle on my speedometer pushing closer to the one hundred mark. I needed to get back to town, and quick!

“Is Matthew still in the hospital?” I asked. “It’s got to be him. Once they release him from the hospital, he’s hauling ass back to New York.”

“According to the hospital, he’ll be in for at least another week.”

“Great! Get a search warrant for his body and recover his fingerprints, then have them compared to the print you lifted on the magazine.”

“Will do.” Before hanging up, Melvin asked if I wanted him to have a guard stationed outside of Matthew’s hospital room.

“Yeah, and put a car outside of Foster’s house,” I said. “While there’s a good chance Matthew’s our killer, we still need to be prepared in case we’ve overlooked someone.”

I glanced at the dash clock when I hung up the phone. It was a little after one o’clock. Even if we drove straight through, we wouldn’t make it back to Mechant Loup until at least seven. But we’d have to stop for gas and—since neither of us had eaten since early morning—lunch, so it would be a bit closer to eight.

Lunch traffic on the island was still heavy and it took longer than I’d expected to tank up, grab burgers to go, and reach the interstate. Susan unpeeled the wrapper on my burger and fed me while I drove. It was a clumsy effort and some of the condiments ended up on my shirt, but it was fun. We had traveled about twenty miles in the bright sunshine by the time I’d finished, and I decided to call Foster and tell him the news. He didn’t take it well.

After a profanity-laden tirade, there was a long pause on the other end of the phone. Foster’s breathing was heavy and I could almost feel his jaw trembling. “Are you saying…um…is my life in danger?”

“We think Matthew’s the real suspect and he’s still hospitalized, so you should be okay.”

“I should be okay? Is that the best you can do?”

“We’ll put a car outside your house until we make it back to town. Who’s in the house with you?”

“It’s me and, um, Pearly, and Kimberly.”

“What about Jill?”

“She’s been staying at the hospital. She hasn’t been back since that bastard father-in-law of hers tried to assassinate me.”

My phone buzzed in my ear and I pulled it away to see who was calling. It was Melvin.

“Foster, I have to take this call. Stay inside, lock your doors, and don’t let anyone inside.”

Before he could answer, I took the call from Melvin. “Did you get the prints?”

“The judge won’t sign a warrant.” He sounded discouraged. “He said every newspaper in the parish has already named Desmond Lemon as the killer. He said we’ll need more evidence before we can force Matthew to surrender his prints.”

“What more does he want? We’ve got unidentified prints on the gun that Desmond fired at Foster, and Matthew has every reason to want Foster dead.”

“The judge said Desmond also shot Matthew with that same pistol, so…”

Melvin allowed his voice to trail off and I sat there pondering everything we knew to that point. A car slowed in front of me and I switched lanes to zip by, leaving the waters of West Bay in my rearview mirror. The road up ahead was wide open, so I smashed the accelerator. I needed to make up for lost time and I needed to get back to Mechant Loup before someone else got shot. I was about to tell Melvin I’d talk to him later when it occurred to me.

“Force!”

“What’s that?” Melvin asked.

“The judge said we don’t have enough evidence to force Matthew to give up his prints, but there’s no law saying we can’t ask him for his prints.”

Melvin clucked loudly. “Then I’ll ask him very nicely for his prints.”

“Let me know what he says.”

After hanging up, Susan and I made small talk for what seemed like a couple of hours. She kept turning the conversation back to the wedding. While I looked forward to marrying her, the planning was turning out to be as painful as watching her shop for clothes. She asked about the color of my tuxedo, the type of filling in the wedding cake, the number of guests, and who I wanted as my best man.

“It doesn’t really matter,” I said patiently. “Whatever you choose is fine with me.”

My response brought a stern look from her. “I feel like you’re not participating in the process,” she said. “It’s as though you don’t want to do this.”

“I do want to marry you,” I insisted. “I just don’t care about the small details. Whatever you decide is fine with me.”

“I can’t make every decision.” She twisted in her seat and folded her arms across her chest. “I need you to dial in. I need answers and I need them now.”

“Fine…red, chocolate, five, Melvin.”

“You’re not wearing a red tuxedo, I already told you we’re not going to have anything chocolate on our cake, and the guest list is already over eighty.”

“Then why’d you ask what I wanted?” I shook my head in exasperation. “Why don’t you just tell me what I’m wearing and what we’re eating?”

She settled back into her seat. “Melvin’s a good choice.”

I began laughing and she glanced sideways at me before cracking a smile of her own. “I’ll meet you halfway—if you wear a white tuxedo, we can have chocolate filling.”

“Done!” I turned up the radio and whispered, “Now, that’s how you negotiate.”

“What’d you say?” she asked suspiciously.

I ignored the question and began singing along with an old country song that talked about a lady leaving her teardrops on the jukebox.

CHAPTER 50

Foster Blake’s Residence

Mechant Loup, Louisiana

I killed the headlights and nodded as I pulled up to the Magnolia Parish Sheriff’s Office patrol car stationed outside of Foster Blake’s house. It was a young deputy I didn’t recognize.

“Any movement from inside?” I asked.

The deputy shook his head. “The living room lights went out at nine, right about the same time the back bedroom lights came on. Those lights went dark a half hour ago.”

I heard the quiet hum of an engine behind me and glanced in my side mirror. Melvin was cruising up behind us with his truck blacked out.

Melvin had called us two hours ago to say Matthew had eventually allowed him to roll his prints, but none were a match to the prints found on the murder weapon. Befuddled, I began to wonder if Foster had murdered Mitch after all, and decided it was time to bring him in once again. I hadn’t wanted to take any chances, so I had called Melvin thirty minutes ago and asked him to meet us at the Blake residence.

When Melvin reached the back of my Tahoe, he shut off the engine, stepped out, and squeezed between my truck and the patrol car. He said hello to the deputy, whom he addressed as Juan, then turned to me.

“Want me and Juan to take the back door?”

I nodded and slipped out of my truck. Susan left her crutches behind and limped toward the driver’s side. I started to suggest that she stay with the truck, but realized it would be futile.

All was still except for a cool breeze that was blowing in from the north. Stars sparkled in the clear sky above us and lit our way as Susan and I approached the front door. Melvin signaled on the radio when he and Juan had reached the back. I glanced at Susan. She had placed most of her weight on her left leg and wrapped her fingers around her pistol.

Putting my own hand on my pistol, I stood to the left side of the door and was about to rap loudly on the frame when I thought I heard a scream from inside.

“Was that—?” I began to ask when Susan reached forward and jerked the storm door open, sending the locking mechanism flying across the porch. A second scream sounded from inside and I immediately stepped back and shot a kick toward the wooden door. It wasn’t as pretty or as technically perfect as one of Susan’s push kicks, but it got the job done and the door went crashing inward.

Palming my pistol, I rushed through the doorway before the last slivers of splintered doorframe could hit the ground. A quick glance around the dimly lit living room revealed nothing of interest. Susan had just caught up to me when a bloodcurdling scream sounded to my right from somewhere deep in the house. I headed in that direction. A faint glow of light emitting from an open door toward the end of a narrow hallway guided my steps. As I drew closer, I could hear a gurgling noise and it also sounded as though someone or something were thrashing about on a plastic surface.

Taking a breath and lifting my pistol higher, I rounded the corner and stepped into the room. I gasped out loud at the scene before me. In the corner of the room directly to my left, Pearly Blake was crouched on the floor. Her eyes were wide with terror and she was fixated on the bed, where a woman stood over the bloodied body of Foster Blake.

I turned in that direction and saw a familiar woman holding a large kitchen knife high in the air. My jaw dropped and I had to blink to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. The woman was about to bring the knife down into Foster’s chest, so I quickly recovered and hollered for her to stop what she was doing.

She paused and turned her eyes toward me. They were hollow and evil. Her face split into a wicked grin. My finger tightened on the trigger.

“I mean it—drop the knife or I’m going to shoot you.”

The woman hesitated for a moment as she glanced down at Foster, who was struggling for air. His hands clutched wildly at the mattress as he stared wildly about. He twisted in pain and desperation, fighting to stay alive, but I knew it was no use. He had already lost too much blood.

Satisfied that Foster was taking his last few breaths, Kimberly Bernard sighed and dropped the knife. She turned toward me—her face speckled with blood—and smiled. “Now, after all these years, I’m finally safe.”

Susan stumbled to a halt behind me and cursed out loud when she saw Kimberly standing over Foster, covered in blood. “What the hell is she doing out of her wheel chair?”

CHAPTER 51

Two hours later…

I stepped into the interview room at the police department and glanced down at Kimberly. She wore a red prison jumpsuit and her head was resting on the hard desktop. She didn’t move when I closed the door and walked around the desk. I kept a wary eye on her, knowing she’d played the part of a helpless woman quite well. After I was seated, I knocked sharply on the desk.

Kimberly stirred and pushed to an upward position. Her eyes opened slowly and she squinted up at me. “What’s going on? Why am I here? Foster tried to kill me, so what I did was justified.”

“Nice try, but that won’t work.” I leaned back in my chair and studied the woman before me. “You killed an innocent man, Kimberly.”

“Foster wasn’t innocent!” The words spat from her mouth. “He was an evil man. Didn’t you hear what he did to Matthew?”

“I did, but he still didn’t deserve to die—and neither did Mitch Taylor, who’s the innocent man I’m talking about.”

She frowned and brushed at her hair with a left hand that was folded forward. “I didn’t mean to kill that poor man. I thought he was Foster.”

I had noticed she walked with a bit of a limp when I was leading her to my car, so she hadn’t been completely faking. I pointed to her hand. “Is that a result of Foster pushing you?”

She nodded and raised her right hand. “It took me five years to be able to use this hand again, and over seven to walk without assistance. Foster stole my life from me. We each only get one life to live, and he robbed me of mine. I had dreams when I was a little girl. There were things I wanted to do with my life, but he stole it all from me.”

“If you could walk again, why’d you pretend not to have the ability?”

“We were afraid of what he’d do to me if he knew I’d recovered.”

“Who’s we?” I asked.

“My grandpa and me.” A tear slid down her face. “When we found out my mother was sick and wanted us to come visit, my grandpa told me it would be best if I let on like I did when I first got injured. He said Foster would try to finish the job if he knew I could tell people what really happened.”

“So, he knew all along?”

Kimberly nodded and brushed at the tears that rolled steadily down her cheeks. “I saw him pack his pistol and bullets and I knew he was going to try to harm Foster. I didn’t want him getting in trouble and I…well, I wanted to get my own revenge, so I stole his pistol and tried to shoot Foster myself. I figured my grandpa would have a solid alibi and no one would suspect a girl who was wheelchair-bound.” She frowned. “It sounded like the perfect plan, but then Foster had to switch shifts with that man.”

“Desmond knew you could walk,” I said. “Didn’t you think he would suspect you if Foster turned up dead?”

“He didn’t think I had it in me. No one did.” She shrugged. “I just wanted to stop Foster from ever hurting anyone else, and I wanted him to pay for what he’d done to me.”

“Well, now he has, but your grandpa’s dead, your brother’s in the hospital, and an innocent man is also dead.”

Kimberly began sobbing. “I’m so sorry for all the pain I’ve caused. I just wanted to make everything right. Foster was such a mean man, and I just knew he was still hitting my mom. I thought if he disappeared then we could all become a family again. I just wanted us all to be together without having to worry about him hurting one of us.”

“Did Matthew know you could walk?”

She shook her head. “Grandpa didn’t want anyone to know. And I didn’t even know Matthew saw everything.” She paused and frowned. “Well, if I did know it at one time, I forgot. My memory has played tricks on me from time to time, and I still have tingling and numbness in my left arm and leg.”

I glanced down at the notebook in front of me. I needed to know she was telling me the truth. “How’d you get to the bar on the night you shot Mitch Taylor?”

“I took Matthew’s car. Everyone had gone to bed early and they were all exhausted from the long drive, and my mom was stressed out because of the fight with Matthew and Foster.”

“Where were you when you shot him?”

“I was standing out in the rain. I had stepped in this puddle of water and my shoes got all wet. I remembered worrying that everyone would see my wet clothes and know I had done something wrong.”

“What’d you do about the clothes?”

“I tossed them in the dryer when I got back to the house, and then I slid back onto the sofa bed in the living room. When everyone woke up in the morning they didn’t notice anything was wrong.”

“You said you thought the man was Foster,” I said slowly, trying to trick her. “But he must’ve turned around when you entered the bar, so you had to know you had the wrong guy.”

“No, I didn’t go inside. I shot him through the screen. He never turned around. He just ran deeper into the place.”

I smiled inwardly. She was telling the truth. “What’d you do when he ran off?”

“I started to follow him so I could make sure he was dead, but then a man sat up in one of the booths. I didn’t think anyone was inside and it scared me. I left in a hurry—before he or that man could call nine-one-one. I found out later on the news that I’d shot the wrong man.” She lowered her head. “I feel terrible about what happened. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone else.”

“What about the shooting behind the bar? Did you do that, too?”

She shook her head. “Grandpa noticed his gun was missing and sixteen bullets had been removed from his box of ammunition. When he started looking for it, the first place he checked was in my bags. He then checked under me in my wheelchair and found it. He demanded to know what I’d done. I didn’t want to tell him, but he was so mad and I got really scared. When I told him what had happened, he said he’d have to make it look like someone else had done it.”

“Is that when he went out and took some shots at Foster Blake and Joyce Reynolds?”

“I don’t know. He told me the less I knew the better.”

I pondered this information. Finally, I asked if she had loaded all sixteen cartridges in the magazine.

“Yes, sir.”

I asked a few more questions and then stood to leave.

“Wait,” she said, reaching out with her hand, “what will happen to me?”

“I’m afraid you’re going to jail.”

“But he would’ve killed me as soon as he found out that I could talk—that I could tell everyone what he did. Now that my grandpa is gone I was going to have to stay with him and my mom, and there’s no way I could fake it for long. I did what I had to do to save my life. It was self-defense.”

“While I think he got what he deserved, there’s no possible way you could know for sure that he would kill you, and we can’t go around preemptively murdering people.”

“But what will happen to me? I mean, what’s next?”

“You’ll be booked into the parish jail and a bond will be set. If you can’t post bond, you’ll sit in jail until your trial date.”

“And then?” Kimberly’s face had turned to ash. “What’ll happen at the trial?”

“You can hope the jury will feel sorry for you and go for a lesser charge.” I shrugged. “Considering the circumstances, you might have a shot.”

After gathering up my notebook and file, I stepped out into the hallway and made my way to the dispatcher’s station, where Susan was sitting in a chair typing the arrest warrant. She looked up when I walked in. “Well? Did she confess?”

I nodded. “I feel bad for her.”

“Yeah, I do, too.” Susan shot her thumb toward the waiting area, where Pearly was waiting to be interviewed. “But I feel worse for Pearly. She just watched her daughter—who she thought was bound to a wheelchair—stab her abusive husband to death. The poor woman doesn’t know whether to be excited or depressed.”

“Well, I’m excited that this case is solved.” I gently squeezed Susan’s shoulder as I walked toward the waiting area to finish up. “Once all the paperwork is done, I’ve got to plan myself a wedding.”

NOVELS BY BJ BOURG

Clint Wolf Mysteries

But Not Forgotten

But Not Forgiven

But Not Forsaken

But Not Forever

But Not For Naught

But Not Forbidden (May/June 2018)

Magnolia Parish Mysteries

Hollow Crib

Hollow Bond

London Carter Mysteries

James 516

Proving Grounds

Silent Trigger

Bullet Drop

Elevation

Blood Rise

Stand-Alone YA Mystery

The Seventh Taking

About the Author

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BJ Bourg is an award-winning mystery writer and former professional boxer who hails from the swamps of Louisiana. Dubbed the "real deal" by other mystery writers, he has spent his entire adult life solving crimes as a patrol cop, detective sergeant, and chief investigator for a district attorney's office. Not only does he know his way around crime scenes, interrogations, and courtrooms, but he also served as a police sniper commander (earning the title of "Top Shooter" at an FBI sniper school) and a police academy instructor.

Bourg’s debut novel, JAMES 516, won the 2016 EPIC eBook Award for Best Mystery, and BUT NOT FORGOTTEN was a finalist for the same award in 2017. Dozens of his articles and stories have been published in national magazines such as Woman's World, Boys' Life, and Writer's Digest. He is a regular contributor to two of the nation's leading law enforcement magazines, Law and Order and Tactical Response, and he has taught at conferences for law enforcement officers, tactical police officers, and writers. Above all else, he is a father and husband, and the highlight of his life is spending time with his beautiful wife and wonderful children.

http://www.bjbourg.com