The Wolf Lake Murders (A Bo Boson Adventure Book 1)

by Henri Jenkins

  "Okay. Gotta run."

  "And Bo."

  "Yes."

  "We found the pickup at the executive airport."

  "The two-toned one?"

  "Yes and there was an empty wooden crate in the back. What'd you think it means?"

  "Not sure. Wish there had been enough left to ID the bodies."

  "Me too. I'd imagine there are other detectives hoping to close some files."

  "Wasn't their first rodeo."

  "At least it was their last."

  "Right."

  "And Bo."

  Bo waited.

  "Thanks."

  "Thank you."

  Bo hung up and headed off to meet Katherine.

  Bourbon, beer, broads, and boobs - so many fun things begin with, "B.".

  He arrived early, chatted with the bartender and ordered the first round. A small group of men resembling the Bear's defensive line announced her entrance. She walked in. An $8,000 dress, $1,200 heels and the crown jewels of a small country, she bounced like a teenager walking across campus in jean shorts and a bikini top, tossing a Frisbee on her way to give out free beer.

  She was ravishing. Her smile had its happiness returned the night before. It looked great on her. On the right side of her neck, two inches above her collarbone a scar, thin as it was, remained. So pale from time, most people failed to see it for a scar. It made Katherine’s left side, her best side. Bo could not not see it. Every time he saw her, he recognized his handiwork.

  Bo stood to hug her. She always had been one - a hugger. Katherine pulled him in and squeezed nearly as tight as she had when she arrived at St. James. She smelled like home. A home he did not get to visit often enough. They sat at a tall table - her preference. "A bar for two," she would always say, "Two people or two couples, never for strangers."

  "How's Grayson?"

  "Good." Katherine squeezed Bo's hand. A tear blinked across her right eye. Fingers rubbed at her nose. She smiled at Bo through closed lips. "He's improving. Eating everything anyone sneaks in." She giggled.

  The way her face lit up speaking about Grayson warmed Bo's heart.

  Katherine took a long swig of a $12 martini. She rubbed her chest and sighed. "So what's up? You said I might be able to help you."

  "Do you know Walter Freeman and Edgar Fitzgerald?"

  "Sure." She sipped her drink then flagged a waitress. "What you hunting?"

  The waitress stepped close.

  "Can we get some snacks?" Katherine asked the girl. "I haven't eaten and I don't want to go to the hospital fit-shaced," she said to Bo.

  "Anything in particular?" the girl asked.

  "Mmm, your five best appetizers."

  The girl's eyes bounced between the two. She walked away.

  "So." Her attention returned to Bo.

  "What can you tell me about them in general?"

  "In general, hmm. Well. Edgar's a peach, way too good for that witch of a wife he has."

  "Abigail?"

  "Oh my god yes, she's a horrible, horrible woman, worse than most of the asshole men I've had to deal with." She turned her glass up. "But you know them. You did that deal with them on one of your machines."

  "True, but it was my only encounter with them."

  "Well if you'd join the club you would know them a lot better."

  "Any skeletons?"

  "Every rich family has skeletons Bo, you know that. The skeletons are typically as old as the money."

  The waitress delivered a second round of drinks. Bo was only half way through his first bourbon and seven, heavy on the seven.

  "The Fitzgeralds are old money. There was an aunt who was put away for being crazy. Come to think of it I think it may have been Abigail's twin sister." Katherine snickered.

  Bo shook his head. "How about the Freemans?"

  "Oh they're even older money. Lots of skeletons there. If the rumors are true, that's one screwed up family."

  "Like what?"

  The waitress delivered an order of spinach and artichoke dip with chips.

  "Yum," said Katherine.

  "What kind of skeletons?"

  "If you're writing a book or something you cannot credit me with this information. That witch Abigail will cast a spell on me."

  "Katie."

  "I don't know Bo. There are rumors about the Baron having killed people, people killed, swindled people, had his own personal gang of strongarmed men, the typical robberbaron kind of thing. Junior's wife poisoned him for years after discovering he was having an affair."

  "Really?"

  "Yes and what do you think she used?"

  "No clue. There's so many things."

  "To posion a rich person, you use gold."

  "Gold?"

  "She put gold flake in most everything he ate."

  "How strange, though it is a heavy metal."

  "Never mess with a scorned woman."

  Bo laughed. "How about Walter III?"

  "There's talk, nothing confirmed."

  "What kind of talk?"

  "The kind you don't want to spread without knowing for sure. The kind that can ruin a man in our social circles."

  The dip was empty when the waitress brought potato skins and crab cakes. "Thank you," Katherine said as the girl walked away.

  "He has a mean streak a mile wide from what I hear."

  "Walter III?"

  "I haven't seen it myself but that's what I've heard."

  "What else?"

  "I," she paused and found Bo's eyes. "I don't know that I can say."

  "Because it's a rumor?"

  "Yes." Her head bobbed around. "And no." Her face scrunched in the least favorable way. "If I knew it mattered to what you're after, I would tell you in a heartbeat. What are you after?"

  "See now that's something I'd rather not give away."

  "Well there you go." Her fingers tapped at the table. Her head leaned left and her right eye closed like she was thinking real hard about something. "Wait." She looked up. "Does this have anything to do with Grayson? And the other boys?"

  "Why would you ask that?"

  "I heard something somewhere during the night that the Fitzgerald family owned the building. Is that why you're asking?"

  "Something along those lines yes."

  "Patrick said it was over, they're closing the case."

  "Patrick? Patrick Carlton, the Illinois State Police Commander?"

  "Brock knows him."

  "I see."

  "Bo, I owe you my life. You know I would not have been able to go on without Grayson. He is my happiness, always has been. So if you must know, I will tell you and not only because of Grayson but because I know you to be one of the most honest and forthright people I've ever known. I trust you implicitly. If you need to know, say so."

  "Any way you can confirm or deny?"

  "It's not something you can go around asking about. It would require some tact and secrecy. But I'll see what I can do."

  "Okay deal. I'll dig deeper on my end and see what I can uncover myself."

  "Uncover." Katherine snorted a laugh and covered her mouth embarrassed.

  Bo's eyes questioned the suspiciousness of her humor. "And if I feel I need to know, I'll contact you."

  "Fair enough. See, most people would have said they needed to know."

  The waitress delivered a pair of personal flatbread pizzas and a basket of Buffalo chicken wings.

  "I'm sorry. Do you eat these?" Katherine asked the waitress about the latest appetizers.

  "Um. Yeah."

  "You have them then. Share with the others."

  The girl gave Katherine a bewildered stare.

  "I have to run. Will this cover everything," she waved a hand over the table, "and you?" Katherine asked flashing a hundred dollar bill creased lengthwise.

  "Sure, and then some."

  Katherine read the girl's chest. "Thank you Billie," she said.

  "You sure you don't want change back?"

  "It's yours dear, you
were excellent."

  "Thank you. Thank you ma'am." The girl carried the apps away with a bright smile.

  Katherine stood and wavered on her toned legs. She leaned and kissed Bo on the cheek. "I'm going to have the sanitation people to the house to meet Grayson. You should come," she said. "And drag Jake along."

  "Kicking and screaming?"

  Katherine laughed. "He really is an eight-year-old."

  "Yes he is."

  Katherine nodded. She took Bo's hand. "See ya." She winked. "I'll love you forever Bo Boson." She pulled away. Their arms stretched the distance separating at the fingertips. In a burst of sunlight, she was gone.

  Bo retrieved the gear he had returned to his pocket that morning. He ordered a double bourbon neat, fingered the gear, and picked at the appetizers.

  Most people neither know nor care what the difference between ignorance and apathy is, they only want to know where they can buy free government cheese.

  Bo believed caring mattered more than anything else. The village idiot, he thought, may not understand that an object in motion tended to stay in motion he only cared to not be in the path of a charging elephant. Though Bo both knew and cared, he too must sometime face the elephant in the room.

  The lady from the museum phoned Bo's desk at the State Police office. Dave Lowman, waiting on Patty, answered.

  He took a message that said Hilda Orgeron had spoken with everyone who worked the day and time recorded on the asset card. No one took responsibility for removing the items. She also researched the Franks and Beans company referenced and found no matching information in their files. Dave read the message to Patty and they agreed they had no clue.

  Bo stopped in at the office he kept near the city. The Michigan Avenue address impressed a business card. South of Grant Park it provided excellent walking opportunities and a straight shot into downtown. A public place to meet clients rather than having them at the house.

  It was a tiny but capable space. An outer and two inner offices, one he used for a quaint conference room. When he purchased the building he had hoped Gunner would occupy the second office. Gunner's temporary move to Joliet changed that plan, and more.

  The office smelled of food and herbs from Mr. Wong's Chinese Emporium, the first floor tenant. He swept the pile of mail with the door bearing his hand painted name and the title "Investigative Consultant" and entered.

  The title sounded good. "Private Detective" would have him chasing loose legged women and the married men who chased them. Though he did not advertise the fact, he did carry a Private Investigator's license because it provided a concealed carry permit.

  Most of the work asked of him, he would pass on but the occasional curiosity intrigued him. When a higher billing client called, he would meet them at their office or rent a meeting room in the city. There was no need to drag the precocious elite to Mr. Wong's attic. Bo scooped the collection of ads, bills and credit offerings into his arms and dropped them onto the unoccupied secretarial desk. He sat and sorted.

  The dead occupied his mind like squatters refusing to vacate. Harold Haverly held the most space.

  With serial killings, the first often held the most importance. Of all the victims, they would be the closest to the killer or most like the vision of perfection. With the two military types being from out of town, Bo had difficulty establishing the motive as anything serial. It seemed far more likely the two were distracting the police for Harold's killer.

  Bo pulled a log sheet from his wallet. He had been hand tracking his hours. He flipped on the printing calculator and ran through the numbers. He ran the numbers a second time from bottom to top and verified the two figures matched.

  He rolled a sheet of letterhead into the blue IBM Selectric II. He thought of the Underwood used to make Harold's ransom note. It had not been found at the hideout.

  Bo addressed an envelope to Commander Milton Long, Indiana State Police in the typewriter and applied a 20 cent first class stamp. He rubber-stamped the face of the envelope with "PRIVATE" in bold red ink. He collected the bills and receivables and headed for the bank then home.

  After dinner, he sat at his home office desk writing checks for bills. His doorbell rang. Checking his watch he saw it was after one. "Gunner," he thought shaking his head as he walked. He doubted the pantied blonde was with him. Bo pulled the bedroom door shut as he passed. He flipped on the front light and opened the door.

  Patty Jameson slurred, "Hey," and waved into a stumble.

  She was in cameltoe-tight jeans and braless in the fifty-something degree night air. Patty had larger nipples than expected, tall and skinny like the head of a pushpin.

  Bo stepped out pulling the door closed behind him.

  "Patty - what brings you out this way on a Tuesday?"

  "Oh you know playing the old gray mare."

  "The old gray mare?"

  "Looking to be rode hard and put away wet." She snorted into a laugh.

  "I don't think those go together."

  "They do for me."

  His attention turned to the driveway. Patty's car sat two-thirds on the blacktop and one-third in the grass. The rear bumper hung in the street. "Patty, your ass is sticking out," he said.

  Patty spun around several times, chasing her tail like a dog. It made her dizzy. She wobbled but did not fall down.

  The jeans, sliced to appear worn and sexy, provided an opening on each cheek. The white skin of her ass peeked through. That ass was sticking out as well.

  "Your car Patty, the ass end of your car is sticking in the street."

  Patty checked. "Oh! Fuck it." She excused with a hand.

  "How do you know where I live?"

  Patty leaned close and tapped her right temple with a finger. "I'm a detective."

  Bo stretched away from the tequila perfume.

  "It wasn't that hard. Ha, hard.” She snorted again. “You're in the book."

  "How much have you had to drink?"

  "Not enough. Hey. Hey. Stop." She threw her hands up. "Why are you always the one asking the fucking questions. I don't have to answer any goddamn questions without my lawyer present."

  "Hmm."

  "You on the other hand, you know what I'd like to do to you?"

  "Not a clue," said Bo.

  "I'd like. I'd like to tie you to a chair and make you tell me all your truths," her hand flapped brushing her words away, "secrets. All your secrets."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah." She snickered. "And maybe, just maybe now, I'd be naked. No wait, you, you'd be naked. Yeah you. Then I'd really know all your." Her eyes grew large and her head bobbed. "Secrets." She fell into an evil laugh.

  Bo had no reply.

  "Or you could strip me naked and cuff me. I'd tell you my secrets."

  "I bet you would."

  "You'd like my secrets." Patty licked at her upper lip.

  "Would I now?"

  "Yeah. Why are you still chasing this shit? The case is closed. You should fucking leave it alone."

  "I know."

  "You'll live longer."

  "Oh look," Bo said and motioned to the street with his head.

  Patty turned to find a fat yellow car stopping in front of the house. "What the fuck?" She staggered back to Bo.

  "Your ride is here."

  "I didn't call a cab."

  "Still, there it is. Must be a sign."

  "I'm an Aries." She giggled.

  Bo took Patty's arm and turned her toward the car. He walked her and helped her into the backseat. He pulled a fold of bills from his pocket and leaned to the front passenger window. "She's in Indiana, East side of Hammond." He handed the driver several bills. "Will that cover it?"

  The man took the money and spread it, "Should."

  Bo surveyed the backseat.

  Patty nodded aimlessly, humming and singing in drunken English.

  "What's your address?"

  "Number 12, 2341 Windsor Court Hammond Indiana 46320," she recited without opening her eyes. "I'm in
the book too." Patty giggled again.

  "You have that?" Bo asked and realized the man was writing it down. He peeled another bill from the fold and handed it to the man.

  The man held it and showed it back to Bo.

  "For your troubles."

  "Thank you Mister."

  Bo tapped the heavy door and the cab pulled away.

  He moved the Camaro to the street to block anyone from hitting Patty's beater. He went in the house and flipped the light out. Walking past the bedroom he opened the door. "Thank you," he said to the dark. He continued on to the office, finished the bills, and lifted the box of case information to his desk. Piece by piece, he started going through it again.

  Hunger has consequences.

  Walter had promised me his need would end once he had his fill. It was as if he had a tapeworm robbing him of the nourishment he so desperately needed. After the debacle with the three older boys, I had hand selected three prime cuts, tender as veal. He found tremendous satisfaction in them and rewarded me in kind.

  Walter was again growing famished. I had to stock up to anticipate his need. As such, I neglected my museum duties and went on a shopping spree in Hammond.

  Driving the area, I came across two boys kicking a soccer ball around a basketball court. It gave me an idea. I drove to the local donation thrift store and bought sporting goods. I also grabbed some boxes and tape. In the parking lot I assembled the boxes and taped them together and shut. I left two boxes open and filled them with various items.

  I drove back to where I had seen the two boys. There were now four. I parked the van close to the blacktop. At the side of the van, I opened the door and pulled a football out. I tossed it to one of the boys. He caught it and threw it right back. I threw it again.

  "Keep it," I said.

  "Really?" he asked.

  "Sure, I'm supposed to throw it away."

  "Why would you get rid of a perfectly good football?"

  "That's what I thought too, but my boss he said I should toss all this stuff in a dumpster." I motioned to the van.

  "What else you got?" Another boy asked.

  All four ran to the van. One climbed in and started digging through the open boxes. I helped a second boy in to assist the first. They were eating it up. I grabbed the boy closest to me and pulled him into a headlock.