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

by Henri Jenkins

  Bo told Prescott about the typewriter. Prescott felt it spoke to possible collusion between the boys and the killers but would not provide direct evidence. The valve handle, if the lab agreed with Bo's assessment of it being from a vintage Pullman rail car, would be more substantial but would wait on the lab results to consider using it in a search warrant request.

  "This guy," Gunner pointed to the hospital room and stepped near Prescott's face. "He damn near took my head off with a shotgun. His presence there alone should be enough for a search warrant. Hell, I've gotten warrants with plenty less evidence."

  "A circuit court judge sure, especially one you're sleeping with but not a federal magistrate, it just doesn't happen."

  "Pssh!" Gunner's hand flew dismissing Prescott. He stormed off.

  "He was on the property," said Bo.

  "You said it yourself when you showed me the surveillance tracker you pulled from Blue, he followed you there so you're the only reason for him being there. At least as far as I know. And if it weren't for the tracking device, the Staties would be holding you both for questioning. Christ Bo, the guy could have been a caretaker or had permission to be there hunting. He could have been protecting himself from the likes of you two. If he wakes up, we'll talk to him to determine his involvement but my only area of interest here is the missing Presley girl. That's as far as it goes."

  Gunner returned in a huff. "Is this another one of you twos secret coded messages?"

  "Let's go," Bo said spinning Gunner on his heels. He led him toward the door.

  "It ain't right man, it ain't," Gunner said as they exited the building.

  "It's not," Bo agreed. "But he is."

  "You're on the verge of nailing these kids asses to the fucking wall and they just don't care. They just don't fucking care."

  "As you taught me, there's always more than one way to skin a cat."

  Um . . .

  To hear Becky Everett say it through a gum-smacking, youthful, and cliché tone, it went something like, “My Grandmother, Natalie Jacobs, she phoned Miranda Presley's Mother Penny who phoned the Illinois State Police Detective John Lancaster, he’s the one coming by tomorrow to show us some mug shots, well he phoned the FBI Special Agent In Charge Prescott Farber, you know the one who was on TV, and he shared my seeing Miranda at the Cleveland Yacht Club in Cleveland Ohio with his investigator friend Bo Boson, and then, everyone knew but it was all too late, which means, like, oh, my, god, that man, the one with Miranda at the marina, who she introduced as her bodyguard, Gerald, and she doesn't even have a bodyguard, and they don't think his name is really Gerald, well he, he was one of the killers and, he was buff and cute in a barbarian kind of way but a killer, can you imagine, of course I knew it, I knew there was something not quite right about him, I can always tell, it’s like a sixth sense I have or something, anyway so now I’m like, gawd I could have died, and my brother and my grandparents too, we all could have died, he could have killed us and dumped our dead bodies right there in the lake for the crabs and stuff to eat. Ew! Couldn’t you just die?” Smack. Smack. Smack.

  When left to one's thoughts, peace and quiet can be tormenting.

  Monday morning Paul was quiet with concern. His heartbeat pulsed in his forehead. It usually meant someone was dead, or about to die. Miranda attempted to reform his dread. The sting of her cheek halted any further interaction. She kept to herself and let him wallow. Every direction Paul looked, concern found him.

  He had not heard from Peter and was feeling bad for putting his safety over the risk of being recognized. Chicago was nothing like the tiny Caribbean island home he called Isla Grande where strangers stood out. He could have blended. They could have traveled separate and used multiple cars. He wanted to top off the house’s Land Rover and drive west like an OTR driver pulling a double twelve on Bennies.

  The Nosy-Nelly woman at the marina the night before worried him. He felt she sensed something was not quite right with him and Miranda. Or maybe it was something about him that was off-putting to her. Either way, if she had reached out to Miranda’s family or the police, the escape plans could be in jeopardy. He wanted to be aboard the boat skimming east with a full sheet of sail.

  Miranda concerned him as well. Her eager crush was penetrating his battle-hardened shell. His own Patty Hearst doll squeezing her tight little ass into his heart. He could see them flying south together lazing through hot afternoons swimming and sunbathing naked at his beachfront villa. A shack really but the world to him.

  Or he could leave it all behind, walk away from everything and head north to Canada and new adventures in the wild. There would always be people who needed killing and those willing to pay someone for the task. It was a growth industry within a global economy.

  One thing life had taught him was you could no more live in yesterday than for tomorrow but only in the present.

  He went to Miranda in the kitchen as she tried to appear womanly preparing lunch for the two of them. Paul took her reddened cheek in his hand as if trying to draw her pain away. He leaned and turned her head to the side, softly kissing her injured skin. Miranda stepped back and gazed into his eyes.

  The kitchen exploded as a hard slap rattled his jaw. Her eyes grew wide in warning. Paul sucked down the pain he felt appropriate and continued in her attention. He shifted his head exposing his other cheek and she met his offer with a second thunderous clap.

  Miranda turned to the sink and slapped her hands together as if clearing flour. Paul held her waist soft in his hands and looked to the roses climbing a trellis outside. He left the room. She too stared out the window.

  Paul left her alone to search the house again. He found the title to the ABBA Gale and worked on forging a bill of sale after lunch. Between the six and eleven p.m. news broadcasts, Paul snuck the ABBA Gale from her berth to a repair yard for a safety inspection and name change.

  The eleven o'clock news provided no relief. His night was restless, police kept swarming his dreams.

  Listen up - the universe speaks in song.

  Dennis sang of sailing away and Paul took heed. When Peter failed to phone Sunday, Paul's feet began to itch. With no word on Monday, the itching turned to sweat. By Tuesday morning, sweat became motion. He wanted out. The never leave a man behind mantra best served a force of numbers. Paul cried the lone wolf creed of every man for himself.

  The Army of one was in full retreat. The hell with Walter Freeman. The hell with the rest of the money. The hell with Peter. Each affirmation stung harder but none more so than the last. Peter was not only a friend, he was Paul's best friend. The boat could as easily sail west as north or east.

  With the dawn peeking over his shoulder, Paul packed the Rover. Decisions bounced, muddling his thoughts until a woman approached. She attracted his full attention. Paul rested his thumb on the cap of the knife handle.

  A bebop hat sat atop a short auburn brown bob, huge hide-behind glasses and fire engine red lips. Vibrant and vivid as an abstract painting, a scarf assaulted her neck as if strangling her. Shouting hints of the black bra within, a white silk blouse exposed ample cleavage and a dainty white-gold cross on a box chain. A wide leather stamped belt with painted flowers and a large, silver peace sign buckle hugged a tight waist. Faded blue bell-bottoms hid four-inch tan cork clogs.

  The woman strolled right up to Paul. "Where we off to?" she asked.

  Paul blinked and scanned the image again. His fingertips caressed the dimpled rubber knife handle.

  Her bright lips stretched into a broad smile. She dropped her chin and slid the glasses down the bridge of her nose. "How's the disguise?"

  "Uh. Um," Paul looked again.

  Miranda clogged around in a circle. Gold, silver, and turquoise bangles dangled from each wrist. "The pants are really tight," she said rubbing her right cheek.

  "Ah yeah, yeah, I see."

  "You do?" She stuck her ass out and shot a lip-biting smile over her shoulder. Miranda slapped her own cheek. "You don't want to know wh
ere I found the pants."

  "No, no I don't think I do." He continued taking in the view.

  She turned back. "So where we going?"

  "I'm leaving."

  "You're - leaving?"

  "I figured you'd be wanting to go home."

  Red lips found a pout. "Don't you like me?" Miranda stepped close and took one of his shirt buttons in her hand rubbing at it. "I-I like you." Wanton puppy-dog eyes stared up at him.

  "And I can remember a time not long ago where you hated me."

  "I just didn't know you then," she said through a long, slow shrug.

  "And what would I do with you when you change your mind again?"

  "I won't." She forced a whimper. "I promise."

  "You're sixteen. You should finish high school, marry some other rich kid and have an easy life."

  "I'll be seventeen in three weeks and maybe I don't want easy," she accused. "I'd rather hard - if it included you."

  "Why don't I drop you near a police station and I'll call you in a year and three weeks to see how you feel?"

  "How about you take me with you? Get me a new ID, your wife, sister, or something and if I'm unhappy in a month you can drop me anywhere you like?"

  "Miranda." Paul sighed.

  Her voice turned injured. "I can't go back there and I-I don't want to. I was responsible for that boy's death, how am I supposed to cope with that there?"

  Paul took her by the shoulders. "Now you listen to me. That was not your doing.” He found her eyes. “I used it to shut you up, to control you, and that's on me not you. That boy was going to die whether you tried to escape or not. I took advantage of the situation."

  Miranda blinked away building tears. "Don't you like what I did for you?” Her hand brushed her hair and showcased her disguise. “So no one else would recognize me and put you in danger. I did this for you."

  "Well that's sweet and all but."

  "But nothing. Think before you piss me off.” Her finger warned. “I know your plans, I went with you to the yacht club remember?"

  "Never said I was taking the boat, just considering it. After running into your friend it could be a dangerous move."

  "Paul!" Her finger fell away. She stamped a clogged foot. "Please." The prominent bottom lip returned.

  "Let me think about it."

  "You do that and I'm going to sit in that seat right there and I don't plan on getting out until you get to wherever you're going. If you want me out before then you'll, you'll, you know what you'll have to do."

  Miranda climbed into the Rover, buckled her seatbelt and pulled it tight. She bounced one large nod in certainty of her decision. “Hmph,” she exclaimed.

  Paul shook his head and returned to packing.

  Two loads later, Miranda ran into the house. "Okay I have to pee, and then I'm not getting out again till." The bathroom door swung closed.

  Paul realized his opportunity to run, to make a clean break. He snuck away to the Rover. He closed the passenger and rear doors softly and climbed behind the wheel. Looking back to the door, he cranked the key. The engine roared to life.

  Perspective and ingenuity provide interesting problem resolution.

  After spending Monday reviewing organizational charts, determining surveillance opportunities and writing outlines to information gathering scripts for his new corporate espionage gig, Tuesday found Bo hungry to speak with Prescott.

  He had already learned that Prescott had spoken with the head of the Indiana State Police Internal Affairs Division. Patty, as it turned out, had been too smart for her own good.

  The preliminary investigation uncovered a history of gambling debts, questionable sideline acts and two thick bricks of cash well beyond her pay grade in her condo. The ease in which they found the money left Bo suspicious.

  Internal Affaris operated under the assumption she was blackmailing one or more parties. Having decided enough was enough, someone made their final payment in jacketed brass. The preliminaries and search of Dave's life showed no collusion or knowledge of Patty's digressions.

  The man Bo shot in the woods remained in a coma. The van had failed to provide much, if anything, toward the collusion theory. Rented from a lot near the executive airport by one Peter Kruger, identification collected by hospital admissions matched.

  The medic field bags met the descriptions of the items supplied by Tony Denuto but were general field packs. The pistol and shotgun both had the serial numbers removed. The electronic tracking device was homemade and untraceable.

  Peter Kruger's fingerprints matched a Department of Defense record for Peter Bantham, a former Navy Seal who had left the service on a family medical deferment. Last known address was in southeastern Michigan. Those interviewed by the FBI said he had not been in the area for several years.

  No one, including family admitted to having spoken to him for some time. When asked, most placed him somewhere in the Caribbean or a Venezuelan seaboard town. Immigration and Naturalization were researching the passport activity of both Peters.

  When Bo phoned Prescott's office, he was not there. He asked the secretary to have Prescott call him. While waiting he reached out to Detective Lancaster who offered no help toward seizing the typewriter.

  Bo paced the office and fiddled with other work for two hours before Prescott phoned.

  "Where are you?" asked Bo.

  "Cleveland."

  "What are you doing there?"

  "Chasing a lead on the girl."

  "The girl as in the missing Presley girl?"

  "Yes."

  "So Peter Peter woke up?"

  "No. The mother of one of Miranda's classmates called Mrs. Presley. The woman said she was happy to hear Miranda was safe."

  "What?"

  "The woman who called had heard from her mother, the classmate's grandmother, of them bumping into Miranda at the Yacht Club marina Saturday night."

  "No way."

  "Get this. The grandmother said Miranda was with, as she put it, an agitated and burly man who Miranda, herself, introduced as her quote unquote bodyguard."

  "Introduced? So they spoke to Miranda and this man?"

  "They did, yes. The grandmother said the man seemed quite anxious to end the conversation and be on their way."

  "You get a description?"

  "No it's my first day on the job and I completely forgot to."

  "Sorry. What'd the guy look like?"

  "Sounds like the one who made a Voodoo doll of Gunner."

  "You're in a mood today."

  Prescott sighed. "Been a long day. Twenty minutes with the grandmother and more than two hours with the girl, Becky, who recorded every thought and action since birth. We could barely shut her up long enough to change tapes. I think she's powered by uranium enriched bubble gum."

  "Oh man I am sorry."

  "If I could have decided who best to shoot, me or her, I think I would have."

  Bo laughed.

  "So what can I do for you?"

  "I was calling about the valve handle. Any news?"

  "Yes. It is blood and it matches Harold Haverly's type. There were no usable fingerprints and the lab boys agree with your assessment of it being from a vintage Pullman style train car."

  "Doesn't sound like you're convinced enough to seek a search warrant."

  "Right now it's a bird in the hand kind of thing.

  "Sure sure, a live girl is more important than a dead boy. I get it."

  "Right. There is no statue of limitation on murder."

  "True but if the typewriter and paper are connected to Harold's death, they likely have a finite lifespan."

  "If those boys had anything to do with Harold's death, they have to be thinking they got away with it at this point."

  "True so there'd be no need to destroy evidence."

  "Right. I need to get over to the marina and poke around. See if anyone else saw the pair, if any boats are missing and to get a surveillance team setup in case they are using a boat as a hideaway."r />
  "Okay."

  "Maybe we'll get lucky and find the girl so we can talk more about the typewriter."

  "I'd like that. I still think it's the key."

  "Hmph," said Prescott, smirking through the phone. "The key."

  Bo realized he needed a different perspective and more ingenuity.

  The worst of religion makes us each our own God.

  I drove to the camp on Fox River late Tuesday afternoon. A solo jaunt to water the mutts. A bottle of Mother's Bombay and a cigar from the old man's humidor, I figured the day could be more than a chore.

  After losing the meat when the dumbass cops trailed us, I made some modifications. I considered asking Walter but ultimately decided to move ahead on my own. In each of the two water tanks I drilled a hole at the top of the tank and attached a hose as an overflow drain.

  With a splitter from the hardware store I was able to leave a hose dripping into the tanks without fear of them overfilling. My intellect in mechanics at least equaled that of the psychological. Walter and I were the Ubermensch Nathan and Dickie had only aspired to be.

  After the tasks were complete, I stripped naked then put on a pair of pretty panties. Of all the things I had stolen in my life I think I treasured the lingerie the most. Even more than the boys.

  Panties were such an intimate item, really the most intimate if you thought about it. Men's underwear were like rags, to be worn and discarded but women's were like fancy wrapping for their most prized possession. I just liked the paper.

  I pulled the gold Zippo lighter Walter kept in the junk drawer and carried my goodies outside. The air tickled my skin into goosebumps. I shivered but pushed on. Working the lid from the gin bottle, I took a long swig. The burn felt wonderful.

  I inched my bare skin into an Adirondack chair and overlooked my kingdom from my throne. I bit the cigar clean and fired up the lighter. Huge puffs of smoke signalled my success.