The chrome revolver Walter took from the older boy came forth. I aimed it at the fourth boy. He gasped and jumped into a cry. The two inside realized their position. I motioned the crying boy into the van.
After giving instructions to the boy I held, I pushed him inside. I told them to sit and be quiet. I shut the doors and ran around to the driver's door. The gas sprayed and they fell fast asleep. I started the van and drove west.
On the drive, I considered how inventive I was becoming and what a great shopper I was. At the camp, I removed them one at a time and stored them in the train. Walter had his next four meals.
Structure benefits facade far greater than the inverse.
Like F. Scott's Carraway, Bo was also within and without. Simultaneously included and excluded by the inconceivable vagaries of social society. Released the year after Bobby Frank's murder, the book’s callous realities of wealth rang truest in the Buchanan's character. Money bought power not love.
Eight hours after Bo put Patty in a taxi, an unmarked Indiana State Police car stopped in front of Bo's house. Bo raked at damp leaves beneath a rusty-red Japanese Maple. A drizzle tapped at his jacket.
Patty climbed from the passenger seat. Her tight-lipped jeans and showy shirt replaced by work attire. Her face showed the night. He leaned the tool against the tree and walked over. "Morning," he said raising a hand.
"Hey," she said in a near whisper.
"How are you?"
"Embarrassed." She rubbed at the side of her face as if it was rubber.
Dave leaned and rolled the passenger window down. "Hi Bo."
Bo waved and continued speaking with Patty. "Nothing to be embarrassed about."
"I don't fucking remember driving here."
"You were," he paused searching for the right word.
"Oh god." Her face hid behind a hand. "What the hell did I do?"
"You were fine. I put you in a cab. You went home."
Patty scratched at her head. "Sorry - if I did say or do anything."
"We've all had those nights."
Dave opened his door and stepped from the car. He walked over to join the pair. His presence appeared to repel Patty. She moved toward her car. “Pick me up at my place would you?” she said to Dave. He nodded a single nod in agreement.
Patty sat in her POS car and stared at Bo. She cranked the engine but it failed to start. On her fourth attempt, it sputtered to life. The car farted a black cloud of burnt oil. Bo’s yard smelled of a garage’s grease pit.
She turned away as if embarrassed by her impoverished lifestyle. She slid the car into reverse and inched into the street. The gears chattered as she searched for first. The engine revved in gasps.
When she managed to synchronize first gear, she popped the clutch and the tires chirped against the pavement. The engine died and the car rolled to a quiet crawl. The starter cackled like a tree monkey as the engine tried to fire again. Another fart and she was gone.
Bo wondered why Dave was not dutifully chasing her.
“I wanted to tell you. It probably doesn’t matter now but yesterday a woman from a museum called looking for you.”
“She leave a message?”
“Yes, she did.”
Bo waited.
“Oh. I wrote it down. It’s at the office but basically said she didn’t find anything on the missing items.”
“Okay. Thanks. I’ll give her a call.”
Dave's conversation turned to Patty. “She’s in a foul mood today so I’d better not keep her waiting.”
“Right.”
Dave got in the Ford and drove away. Bo went inside and phoned the museum.
“Hilda this is Bo Boson. I understand you called for me.”
“Yes I did.”
“How’s your leg Captain?”
Hilda giggled. “Oh it’s itching - healing.”
Bo laughed. “They do seem to go together.”
“I was thinking of you this morning. I was going to call but after seeing the news I wasn’t certain it mattered anymore.”
“Didn’t you leave a message yesterday?”
“I did. With a Detective Lowman I believe.”
“Did you have something else?”
“The news said the killers died in an explosion, a pair. One child killer is bad enough, but two - what is this world coming to?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Anyhoo. Ramona, she’s a research associate with a firm downtown and she’s here from time to time.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She stopped by this morning and we got to talking about the murders, the building blowing up and the news talking about the boys being rescued by three men who weren’t cops, risking their own lives to save those boys. They ought to be given medals.”
“Right.” Bo yawned and checked his watch.
“Anyhoo. When I got to the part about trying to help you find the missing typewriter and paper, Ramona said she knew who took them.”
Bo gasped. “Who?” he barked into the phone.
“Abigail’s boy - Jay.”
Bo’s arm clinched into a fist and pumped at the air. “Is she certain?”
“The boy pesters her every time he sees her. I don’t see how any of this matters now.”
“And she distinctly recalls him having the typewriter and paper?”
“The typewriter more so than the paper. She saw him carry it to his car. She assumed he was taking it for Abigail or with her permission. The Fitzgeralds do own many of the items.”
“When was this, that she saw him? Does she remember a date?”
“She said it was the last time she was here. She thought it was around the fourteenth of September. I could check the log if you – does it still matter Mr. Boson? Is Jay Fitzgerald somehow involved in all this?”
Bo needed to handle this information with extreme care and consideration. If it did tie Jay Fitzgerald to the Harold's murder, the Ramona woman and Hilda could both be in grave danger.
“Mr. Boson?”
“Sorry. Sorry. I am a thorough type of guy, dot my t’s and cross my i’s as it were. It doesn’t seem like this typewriter has anything to do with the killers. Still, I may have a police officer take statements from you and Ramona, for the record.”
“Sure. Whatever I can do to help. I appreciate thoroughness and to that end I will pull the log and have an exact date for you should you call again.”
“Thank you Hilda. And I hope your leg stops itching real soon.”
Bo hung up. A desire to dance overtook him. He suspected the typewriter, more valuable than gold, was likely resting on the murky bottom of Wolf Lake.
Hope is immeasurable, you either have it or not, making half-hope a falsehood of desire.
Bo hoped to link the Fitzgerald and Freeman boys to the murder of Harold Haverly. The case material scattered across his office. He grabbed a working man's lunch and combed through. With a renewed vigor, he revisited everything.
The gear sat close and would find his fingers as he thought and considered. Long after the Moon Pies and R.C. Cola were gone, he worked.
With the photocopy of the Leopold & Loeb ransom note in one hand, he sifted and found the Haverly version. In comparing the two, he found three differences. Two in punctuation, and someone change the original word “throw“ to “toss” in the Haverly version.
Bo rifled through the collection twice before he found Harold’s History report. The typed reproduction in the report matched the Haverly ransom note. Bo felt certain Harold’s killer had read the report. He relaxed into the comfort of the high back office chair and worked his gear.
The realization sank in. The State Police would have no interest in reopening the case. The FBI could not force them. Having mailed the bill, any continued participation was no longer billable. There were other projects waiting for his attention. Grayson was home safe. He could put it behind him and move on.
If he were anyone else, he would have.
He stared at the wall wit
h photos of the boys push-pinned to the sheetrock. Harold’s photo to the left, Grayson held the right. Harold got him on the case to even be in a position to save Grayson. He owed Harold for that.
Bo drove to the Haverly's hoping they may know who had seen the report. They remained mournful of Harold and bitter about the death of his killers. Though Illinois had not used the electric chair since 1962, Horatio considered himself cheated in not being able to "pull the switch" as he put it. They had no interest in hearing Bo's theories of ransom note discrepancies.
As Bo walked to his car, Walter Freeman III drove past at a crawl. Bo stared thinking of the satisfaction he would find in seeing the boys charged with Harold's murder.
Bo thought of Cory Walker who had first told them of the report. He made it no farther than the porch. The Walkers also had little interest in putting Cory through additional pain.
"Harold was not killed by those men, I'm convinced of it," he protested. "You're letting his killers go free."
Cory stepped near and assured his father. "It's okay, I'll speak with him." He walked out and sat on the swing. "How can I help?"
"Do you know if Harold may have shown or given a copy of the History report to anyone else at school?"
"Not that I can think of. Why?"
"Harold's version of the Leopold and Loeb ransom note had one word that was different from the original. The note given to Mr. Haverly matched Harold's version not the original."
"Hmm. Maybe those two men read Harold's report after they took him."
"Maybe. Did you have a copy?"
Cory pulled away. His face turned cold and his eyes steeled. "No."
"I'm sorry," Bo said in diffusing the concern. "I'm not accusing you. If you have a copy, I wondered if anyone saw it."
"I don't have a copy."
"Okay. Good. Can you think of anyone from school he may have given a copy?"
Cory thought about it and said, "No. I can't."
"Had Harold made any new friends, talked about someone for the first time or more than he had in the past? Think hard, it could be really important."
"No," Cory shook his head. "Yes." A finger raised.
"Who?"
His face pulled into a frown. "There was someone but he wouldn't tell me who."
"He told you about a new friend but wouldn't say who it was?"
"Right. At the time I thought maybe he had been tapped?"
"Tapped?"
"Tapped. You know, chosen for membership in a secret society."
"Oh right."
"Are there secret societies in high school?"
"Sure, but they're all, you know."
"Secret," Bo finished and nodded. "Okay anything else, anything at all a place, new movie, hobby, anything?"
Cory scratched at his head as he gave it more thought. "The book," he said.
"Book? What book?" It was as if Bo was fishing and Cory kept nibbling at his line with interest.
"The Great Gatsby, he was enamored with it. It was all he talked about in the last," Cory turned sad and wiped at his eyes.
Bo sat next to the boy and rubbed his back.
"The last two days he was alive," Cory cried.
"Had he just read it for the first time?"
"No."
"Anything particular part of the book he talked about?"
"No. He was all about it and said I should read it. He even gave me his copy the day he was kidnapped. I told him I had my own copy, a first edition. He said he wanted me to hold onto his copy."
"You still have it?"
"It's in my room."
"Let's go have a look at it."
Cory led Bo inside and to his room. He pulled Harold's copy from the bookshelf. "I haven't read it. I think it would be too hard right now but one day I will. I promised him I would read it again."
Bo flipped through the pages of the book hoping to find something written inside. What he found was a piece of paper stuffed between pages like a pressed flower. A photocopy cutout of a high school yearbook photo. "Jay Fitzgerald's middle name is Gatsby?" he asked turning the photo to Cory.
"It is. I'd forgotten about that. I guess his mother had a thing for F. Scott. Do you think Jay is Harold's Gatsby?"
Bo realized the bottom of the photo copy had been folded. Beneath the flap he found a notation handwritten in pencil. Bo read it aloud, "Meridian and Park 9/15 8pm."
Corey seemed confused.
"That was around the time and area Harold went missing," Bo said.
"You think Jay Fitzgerald had something to do with Harold's death?"
"Hard to say." Bo smiled at the boy to gain his confidence. "It's likely another dead end," he added in deflection. "Do me a favor, don't say anything about our conversation to anyone. Okay? We can't be making unfounded accusations."
"I understand," Cory said.
"Good. Thanks for talking to me. I'm determined to find whoever killed Harold."
"Killers. Right?"
"What do you mean?"
"It's what you said when you were talking to my father, you said he was letting Harold's killers go free. Killers. Plural."
"Hmm. Did I? Well it quite well could be more than one."
"You're thinking hazing accident. Harold died in some initiation ritual gone wrong."
"Since you first mentioned it, it has crossed my mind, yes."
"I miss him."
Bo put his hand on Cory's shoulder. "It's gets easier with time but it never goes away completely. You remember the good things."
"My parents baby me. Thank you for not doing that Mr. Boson."
"Call me Bo." He reached for Cory's hand to shake it. Bo turned to walk out taking the book and picture of Jay Fitzgerald with him.
"Can I have it?" Cory asked.
Bo turned back.
"The book." Cory pointed. "When I can bring myself to do so, I'd like to read his copy."
Bo considered the book. "Sure." He handed it to Cory and watched the boy return it like a treasure to the bookshelf next to his own copy.
Cory stayed in his room and shut the door behind Bo. Walking out, Bo could not believe Harold had named his killer from the grave. There could be but one explanation why he asked Cory to hold the book - Harold wanted someone to know if anything went wrong.
Bo considered it could still be a hazing with Harold as the victim and the others paying the ultimate price for their mistake. He considered whether Grayson could be involved in such a thing.
Whatever the reason, it could not have gone more wrong for Harold. Bo considered every possible scenario. With an appointment looming, he drove home for a quick shower, a business suit, and his briefcase.
Friends, like lovers, can begin in hope and end in horror.
To Bo, Patty Jameson would be nothing more than a professional acquaintance. Her intelligence provided an opportunity for more but her attitude destroyed all hope. The drunken alter ego he named “Patty Cakes” obviously desired something entirely different.
Bo had to switch hats for a late afternoon meeting with a potential corporate client north of the river. A big money, internal investigation of corporate espionage with possible undercover assignments. Three months of solid work with a team of billable line items. Looking forward to the prospect, a tail was the last thing on his mind.
The night before, Patty had shown up on Bo's porch hoping to fuck him. And fuck him she did. Prior to ringing the doorbell, she placed a low-power radio transmitter on the Camaro. It allowed her to track Blue within a ten-mile radius. Unaccustomed to wet work, alcohol provided her the balls to complete the task. Sex would had been an interesting bonus.
Patty gave Dave the slip when he followed her home. A story of hangovers and not wanting to be seen in such a state provided her reasoning. She missed Bo's early trip to the Haverly and Walker homes but tagged along on his jaunt into the city.
Her beater, an eyesore in Hammond, Indiana was an abomination in the ritzy financial district of downtown Chicago. People wore cloth
es and jewelry worth more. With the transmitter she could remain well outside his notice. Sucking down Pepsi and chain smoking Marlboros, Patty matched his every move.
Bo parked and walked from a multistory bookshelf of a garage. His pager chirped as he crossed the street. A quick look at his watch, he stopped at a curbside phone booth to call the service. There was a message about someone spotting Gunner's car at the Transitions Living Center in a southwest suburb. It included a local contact.
With his back to the street, Patty's car passed. There was something about the name of the center but it would have to wait until he was home.
Bo went inside for his meeting. Sitting in the forty-third floor lobby, he played with his gear, thought of Gunner and his troubles. He wished Gunner were at rehab getting help with his issues, to find his way again. There was so much ability, so much knowledge, so much worth saving in Gunner.
It was as if he were afraid of being successful again. Sparks of hope, like finding the hideout, were always offset with gambling debts and gun-toting mobsters, enraged husbands, or similar. For every step forward, Gunner consistently fell back at least one in response. Yet he beat on ceaselessly, a boat against the tide rowing ever unto the morrow.
A short haired blonde in a formfitting knee-length black skirt interrupted. Bo's daydream drained away. He put Gunner from his mind and followed the clack of her heels to the Board Room. Patty waited around the block, hoping her smokes and meter money would last.
After ninety-four minutes and with no definitive answer, Bo drove home. Patty sat at a gas station four blocks away watching the receiver like a video game on pause. The sun set within minutes of his arrival providing her a closer perch.
Inside he went straight for his office. A quick survey found the asset listings for the Fitzgerald and Freeman family members. His finger traced the entries and stopped at the one he sought, Transitions Living Center, Addison Illinois, owned by Edgar Fitzgerald.
The coincidences were becoming unbearable. He became concerned for Gunner's safety.
Despite Prescott's refusal, the rescuer's names leaked to the press. Everyone in Chicago knew their names, including Wilbur "Bang-Bang" Jones and Jake "Gunner" Baranski. If the Fitzgerald and Freeman boys had been involved in Harold Haverly's murder, the three of them could be in danger. Having the older Freeman see him at the Haverly house did not make Bo feel warm and fuzzy. His concern grew.
The Wolf Lake Murders (A Bo Boson Adventure Book 1) Page 21
