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

by Henri Jenkins

  Bo pulled the yellow pages from a desk drawer and looked up the number.

  A male voice answered. "Transitions Living Center, how may I direct your call?"

  "Gunner Baranski," Bo said to gauge the response.

  "One moment. I'm sorry sir, you said Gunner Baranski?"

  "Yes. It may be under Jake, Jake Baranski."

  "Is he an employee?"

  "Client," Bo said hopeful.

  "Residents are unable to take phone calls."

  "So he is a client."

  "No sir. I'm afraid you've misunderstood me. I am neither confirming or denying we have a resident by that name I was simply saying residents cannot take phone calls."

  "What about emergencies?"

  "Is this an emergency sir?"

  Bo slammed the phone down. With the bedroom empty, he poured two fingers of bourbon and grabbed a paperback from the shelf. He turned out the lights and headed to the bedroom. He undressed enough to be comfortable and climbed into the large bed alone. The serenade of Capote's bloodish prose replaced the fury.

  Outside, Patty watched the lights die within. Figuring Bo was in for the night, she drove away to her own devices. She had a late meeting.

  Admitting a problem is the final step in approaching a 3,000-foot tall sheer cliff face.

  Bo recognized the problems with his case against the boys. Still, he would continue on the mere hope satisfaction lie atop. Wednesday morning he awoke in slacks and an undershirt. Truman’s words his sandman, the Maker’s elixir a fine sleeping potion.

  He found his notepad and called the number. The contact who had seen Gunner’s car, a DuPage County Sheriff’s Deputy answered. He reported the car was still at the rehab center when he drove to work an hour earlier. Bo thanked the officer and hung up.

  He showered, dressed, and after a bakery stop headed west. Gunner sat heavy on his mind. Running late after her meeting the night before, Patty missed his departure.

  Bo shared the ride with the Rock of Chicago. Fresh stuff, I Love Rock and Roll, Centerfold, Abracadabra, Eye of the Tiger, Hard To Say I’m Sorry and the Cougar serenading the Bobby Brooks off Diane mixed with others. Bo was finding his rhythm and routine again. Flowing lyrics, beating drums and screeching guitars were as therapeutic as a long hot shower for Bo.

  The green Nova sat alone as the officer described toward the outer reaches of the lot. It appeared abandoned or parked and the occupants gone off in another vehicle. He understood why it would attract attention. Bo checked for Gunner inside. Other than the trash, it was empty. There were no signs of fowl play. He drove to a gas station five blocks away.

  Bo grabbed drinks, a bag of ice and two readymade triangle sandwiches. He returned to the rehab parking lot and waited. A few minutes after four a police cruiser stopped. Bo flashed his P.I. License and told the patrolman of his earlier conversation with the other officer.

  At six, the sun fell behind the apartment complex to the west. Its shadow crawled across the field of concrete. He wished Gunner had not returned the pager. Bo grew tired of waiting, tired of music, tired of sitting, and tired of chasing Gunner. He pulled his notepad and considered what to write.

  A hard, rapping knock on his window scared Bo. The notepad went flying. His hand went for the Colt but it was not there. The image of a face, smiling and arrogant blinked between heartbeats in the glass. Bo leaned away to focus. It was Gunner. He pulled the door open.

  “Christ man, you scared the Bejesus out of me.”

  Gunner laughed prideful of having sneaked up.

  Bo climbed out. “You better be glad I lost track of my forty-five.”

  Gunner continued to laugh. “Why? I know the first two rounds are blanks, unless you’ve changed ways.”

  Bo could not deny it. They were.

  “The sound of a gun firing makes a lasting impression, a bullet just makes a hole,” Bo would say. It most instances, the startle alone would indeed prove sufficient to the task. And Gunner knew Bo could snap off four to five rounds in the time it took most to count to one.

  Gunner inspected the passenger seat. “Been here a while I see.”

  “Waiting on you,” Bo yawned. He bent at the waist then stretched tall extending his hands.

  “So what brings you this far west?”

  “Katie. She wants you to come for dinner. And not be an eight-year-old about it.”

  “That does sound like her.”

  “Are you still sleeping in your car? What’d you do with the money I paid you?” The sat on the rear bumper of the Nova.

  Gunner’s grin fell away. “I paid Georgio.”

  “All of it?”

  “Yes all of it, well all but a hundred. I didn’t trust myself to keep it so I paid ahead.”

  “Oh,” Bo said. “Good. Good for you, sorry I thought otherwise.”

  “It’s okay. To tell the truth, it was Aunt Sharon’s idea not mine.”

  “Either way, it was yours to give.”

  “Right.”

  “Maybe with the money Katie’s going to give you, you can get a steady place.”

  “I have a place for now.”

  “You do. Where?”

  “Here.”

  “I was thinking something more than a place to park.”

  “No. Here.” Gunner pointed to the building. “Aunt Sharon's letting me crash in an unoccupied room and.” Gunner fell silent.

  “And what?”

  “She gave me a hundred books to read and not good ones like yours, those damn self-help ones.”

  "Wait. I called here. They said." Bo pointed at the building. "Sharon works here?"

  "She's the Director."

  "Why didn't they put my call through?"

  "No one's supposed to know."

  “Oh. Well, that’s wonderful news. I’m glad you’ve decided to work on you.”

  “It’s not for me.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No it’s, it’s, it’s what you expect. Isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “That day, in the alley. You said I knew what you expected.”

  “Gunner I.”

  “This is it isn’t it, what you expect?” His lower jaw twisted to the right. A single tear ran down his face. “No more gambling, drinking or living in my car." Gunner wiped his cheek. "A roof over my head, help with my issues, me working on me.”

  “I wouldn’t say it’s what I expect, hoped for maybe, glad for definitely but I have no right to expect anything of you. If anything I.”

  “I know. I know. You feel responsible. It wasn’t your fault Bo. You’re not to blame for my actions. I did it. Not you.”

  “I turned you in. My own partner and I ratted you out.”

  “You didn’t Bo. You’ve never once let me down, not even when you should have. Not then, not now. You did what was right. If it hadn’t been you it would have been someone else or I’d be six feet into a dirt nap.”

  “I could have kept my mouth shut.”

  Gunner snorted a short laugh. “No you couldn’t. You never could. And I’d hate to think how it would have eaten you up inside if you had. I chose my path, and I seem to still be choosing a similar one today. The job, the drugs, Carla, prison, those things were my doing not yours.”

  “Let’s call it even.”

  “Works for me.”

  "So that's why you reacted to the green map dot?"

  "Yeah."

  Gunner stood. “As long as you’re here, want to see the room?” His head motioned toward the building.

  “It have a bathroom?”

  “We'll have to sneak in,” Gunner said and led the way.

  “Breaking and entering?”

  Gunner shook his head.

  “How many of those books have you read?”

  “Fuck you Bo.” Gunner laughed.

  Bo smiled, grabbed his friend's shoulder and walked with Gunner.

  The room was as Bo expected, small and appointed like an inexpensive but not cheap motel or a publicly fun
ded hospital room. A small bathroom with a stand up shower and an illegal hotplate and ice chest standing in for a kitchenette rounded out the amenities.

  Bo noticed the stacks of self-help books covering a short dresser and two, one sitting open, on a tiny laminated wood desk. A clear plastic sandwich bag sat atop the closed book. Bo walked over to investigate it. Inside was a small green valve handle encrusted with a blackish film.

  "What's this?" Bo asked lifting the bag to show Gunner.

  "The valve handle I found."

  "What?"

  "From the lake, you told me to keep it, to use as a fishing weight or something I believe."

  "But I," Bo scratched at his head. "I thought you gave it to Lowman?"

  "Who?"

  "Dave Lowman, the State Police Detective in Indiana. I wondered how you knew him."

  "I don't know him."

  "Then the valve he turned in the next morning wasn't your valve."

  "How could it?" Gunner said pointing at the bag.

  Bo pulled the bag to his face for a closer examination. "That looks like blood."

  "I know it’s why I brought it back from the lake."

  "And it's been sitting here the whole time?"

  Gunner's voice started to rise. "You told me to keep my nose out of your investigation."

  "I know but."

  "But nothing you ass."

  Bo broke into a laugh. "I'm sorry, you're absolutely right. I was an ass about it."

  "You were."

  Gunner offered Bo a bottled water from the ice chest. Gunner sat on the bed and Bo at the desk. He turned on the lamp and examined the handle.

  "What'd you reckon it's from?" Bo asked.

  "A small valve, low volume."

  "It looks old."

  "Yeah I thought so too."

  "Patinaed copper or paint?"

  "Paint I think but in that color."

  "It's an interesting design, the reliefs are beautiful."

  "Too pretty for anything recent."

  "I'd swear I've seen a valve like this before."

  "Where?"

  "That's the part I can't figure out. It'll come to me."

  "So after you told me to fuck off, you thought I gave the handle to a cop?"

  "You have to admit it's an incredible coincidence."

  "Bo you saved my life like a week before that. Do you really think I'd go behind your back?"

  "I'm sorry. I thought wrong."

  "Boy I'll say you did. Besides if I was going to have someone pass something off, I'd give it to that woman cop."

  "Patty?"

  "Yeah her."

  "Why would you give it to her?"

  "She fits the bill better. Her partner's too much like you, a boy scout, he never would have said he found it."

  "Well see now, I didn't peg him for that either. It threw me."

  "She'd do it in a heartbeat, especially if there were any brownie points to gain."

  "I didn't see that in her."

  "You're too close. And I think I've seen her out before."

  "Out?"

  "The track, barroom, backroom card game, those places where people may or may not wager on cock fights, rat races, cocks fighting. She looks familiar."

  "Hmm," Bo thought of Patty Cakes' nipples and ass.

  "I tell you those prim and proper clothes are a disguise for what’s hiding underneath. Like the nun, wearing a corset and g-string under her robe or the librarian who changes personalities when she removes her glasses and picks up a leather crop. That wide belt of hers is holding back a ton of freaky deaky."

  Bo chuckled.

  "Get some liquor in her and step back. You'll see."

  Bo had seen. "On that thought I think I'll head east." Bo patted the open book. "You have homework to finish."

  "Ass."

  Bo smiled. "What do I tell Katie?"

  Gunner sighed and rubbed at his rough chin. "I'll be there."

  "Alright." Bo held the bag up again. "Taking your paperweight."

  "Sure. Good luck fishing."

  Bo snuck out and headed home. As he drove up his street he thought he saw Patty's junker ahead. He tried to catch the car but it evaded him. He went home and examined the valve handle.

  If you want something done right, hire a seasoned professional.

  The day Patty and Dave chased the medical supply delivery van into Indiana she wondered if the white Mercedes acted as a blocker for the van's getaway.

  She chose to not share her thought with Dave. She memorized the Mercedes' license plate and later traced it to Walter. In her spare time, she followed him. He took her to Jay, the van, the cap and glasses, and more.

  Intent on blackmailing them, she wound up working for Walter. She provided information and protection for what must have seemed a meager wage. He dangled an incredible fortune in the form of a completion bonus. The prospect of personal wealth hypnotized her into submission. Patty took another sick day.

  Saturday evening, she picked up a van and drove to the Chicago Executive Airport. Patty met the Freeman Wholesale Seafood plane. She took the flight crew, Peter and Paul, to the building across the street from the one the killers had used as a hideout.

  In her meeting with Walter the night before, they had devised a plan to lure Bo to the building. Patty would get him there. The two men would put an end to Bo's private investigation and get payback for having saved the boys.

  At 8:02 p.m. she called Bo's pager service and left a number for him to call as soon as he could. He was in the middle of Katherine's celebration dinner. Everyone was there including Jake, Wilbur, Marge, and her cohorts from the Sanitation Department.

  Bo's pager beeped. He excused himself and walked to the living room. He phoned the service then Patty at a payphone near the corner of 119th and Tillerson.

  Patty answered in a frantic tone. "Bo?"

  "Patty what's going on?"

  "Are you busy?"

  "I'm at a dinner, what's going on?"

  She whispered, "I'm at the building on Tillerson, where the boys were being held."

  "Okay."

  "I think I may have found something, a clue to where the missing girl is."

  "What is it?"

  "It's something you need to see. You would understand it better than anyone. I'm not sure I understand it. Can you get here?"

  "Can I come by tomorrow?"

  "I'm not sure it'll still be here. I think someone may be following me. There were a couple of times I thought someone else was there - in the dark - watching me."

  "Well I."

  "Oh Bo please come. Please. I need you here."

  "I'll be there as soon as I can."

  "Oh thank you Bo, thank you, please hurry. Come in the back door by the gravel lot. It's open. I'll be on the roof keeping an eye on what I found."

  Bo hung up and turned for the dining room. Gunner leaned against the cased opening. "Did you setup a fake escape call?"

  "What?"

  "A red-headed emergency?"

  "You're crazy."

  "And you called me an eight-year-old."

  "It's not like that Gunner."

  "Yeah who was on the phone?"

  "Patty Jameson."

  "Detective Freaky Deaky?"

  "Patty Cakes,” slipped from Bo's mouth.

  Gunner’s attention peaked in his face. “What?”

  "Detective Jameson,” Bo said.

  "And what does, Patty Cakes did you say, need from you at eight o'clock at night? Help with her belt?"

  Bo's face scrunched. "No," he said. "She thinks she's found something at the building on Tillerson - a clue to where the missing girl may be."

  "Oh yeah, what'd she find that the bomb squad, State Police and FBI search teams missed?"

  "I don't know. She said it's something I have to see."

  "She wants to show you what she's got all right."

  "Gunner stop."

  "I'll call her tomorrow and suggest she pick up some red hair dye."
r />   "You better not."

  Gunner laughed. "Can I tag along? I promise I won’t be a third wheel. I'll get lost when we get there."

  "No. My leaving is bad enough. If you go, Bang-Bang will want to leave too. I'm not doing that to Katie. She worked hard putting this together. I'll be back as quick as I can."

  "A quickie? You should take your time, get your money's worth."

  "I swear I'm going to punch you square in the mouth."

  "On Katherine's white carpet?" Gunner made kissing motions.

  Bo pushed past Gunner and apologized for having to leave. He said it was a possible clue in the case of the missing girl.

  "I didn't realize you were still on with the State Police," Katie said.

  "I'm not actually. One of the detectives wants my opinion on something they hope is a clue."

  "What?" she asked.

  "I can't really say but the sooner I get there the sooner I'll be back."

  "So you're coming back?"

  "Before dessert with any luck."

  "Okay," she considered. "I know you wouldn't leave if it weren't important."

  "Right."

  "Be safe and I'll have the kitchen keep things warm."

  "Thank you." Bo left.

  Five minutes later Gunner spoke up. "Katie, can I borrow a car?"

  "Whatever for Jake?"

  "Can I?"

  She stared at him. "You have your keys dear?" she asked Brock.

  He pulled a set from his pocket and showed them to Katherine.

  "Give them to Jake."

  He took the keys and turned for the door.

  "The red BMW," said Brock.

  Gunner fired up the redhead, dropped her into first and stomped the gas clutching from gear to gear. He raced to catch Bo.

  I got nothing.

  Having run Blue as hard as Gunner chased in the Beamer, Bo arrived first. The fat tires on the Camaro struggled to stop in the loose gravel. It was the same lot filled with junk for the rescue. The owners hauled everything away after the explosion.

  The building was dark and quiet. Bo climbed from the car and squinted at the roof. He noticed Patty’s sad excuse of a tan Corolla in the back corner. Bo considered how it appeared more authoritarian Eastern European than free-spirited American. He found the rear door unlocked as Patty said.