Clint Wolf Mystery Trilogy: Boxed Set

by BJ Bourg

“Alright. Be careful.” I waved at Lindsey on the way to my office, pushed the door shut. I pulled out the Act of Sale again and studied the signature of the notary. Try as I did, I couldn’t make out a single letter. It was worse than my own handwriting. I scowled and tossed it aside. I turned to stare out the window. What does this case have to do with me?

  I knew I needed to interview Mark McNeal because he was the only other living person with a connection to the meetings. I sighed. If he refused to talk, I’d be back to square one, but I had no other choice. “It’s time to shake the murder tree.”

  I drove to Pauline Cain’s house to see if she knew anything about the plantation home. I glanced to the sky as I parked my Tahoe. At least it’s not raining today.

  Stephen Butler led me to the back of the house, where Pauline was lying on a lounge chair in a bikini that looked like it was missing some parts. Dark sunglasses covered her eyes and a straw hat shaded her face. A tall glass of some type of fruity drink—no doubt heavy on the alcohol—rested on a glass-topped table next to her.

  “Mrs. Cain,” Stephen said. “Chief Wolf is here to—”

  “Thank you, Stephen. I can see who it is.” Without moving, Pauline waved me to sit in a chair next to her. “Please, Chief, sit and join me. Would you like a drink?”

  “No, thanks. I’m here on business.”

  Pauline reached a hand to her sunglasses and pulled them down to see me more clearly. “And what business might that be?”

  I pulled the Act of Sale to the plantation home Michele had purchased without my knowledge and handed it to her. “Do you know anything about this?”

  She sat up and swung her long legs in my direction, cradling the deed in her lap. Her finger slid across the pages as she read. I knew when she reached Hays’ name because her mouth dropped. “What the hell? When did he purchase that place? Why didn’t I know anything about this? And who’s this woman? Is it another of those sluts he was—” Pauline stopped, eyes squinted. After thinking about it for a full minute, she looked up at me knowingly. “This is your wife, isn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m so sorry, Clint! May I call you Clint?”

  I waved her off. “No need to apologize. Did you know anything about this?”

  “No. I was hoping you could tell me more about it, but it looks like you were as much in the dark as I was.”

  Pauline read over the document again and huffed. “How could I not know about this? What else did he do that I didn’t know about?”

  “I know how you feel. I’ve been asking myself the same thing since I found out. I don’t know how I missed it. I don’t know when she had the opportunity to make this deal, much less how she paid for it. We never had that kind of money.”

  We both sat in silence for a while—Pauline staring at the Act of Sale and me staring at the ground, trying to keep my eyes from drifting to the vast amount of skin not covered by the tiny slivers of cloth that constituted her bikini.

  Pauline finally handed the deed back over to me and shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I have no idea what this is about. I wish I could help, I really do. It sucks losing someone who kept so many secrets from you…so many lies.” She paused to take a long drink from her sweaty glass. Frowning, she put it down. “I hope you get some resolution.”

  I thanked her and turned to walk away, but she stopped me.

  “Clint, if you find out why he died and what he was involved in, please tell me all of it—the good, the bad, and the unbearable.”

  I only nodded, returned to my Tahoe and drove to the nearest store for a bottle of ketchup. I stopped at the plantation house and walked upstairs to the meeting room. After squirting ketchup on the floor, I scrawled a name into it and let it dry for a bit. When it looked right, I took a picture with my phone. I then headed out of town.

  Mark McNeal was my last hope. If he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell me about the meetings, this case and my wife’s secret would likely die with Hays Cain and Randall Rupe.

  I walked into Platinum Star Bank in the central part of Chateau Parish and asked the teller at the counter if Mark McNeal was in. She studied the badge and gun strapped to my jeans, then glanced to her left at a woman with a nametag that read Branch Manager. I slid down the counter until I was in front of the manager. “Ma’am, I need to speak with Mr. McNeal right away. It’s urgent.”

  The woman lifted the phone and dialed an extension. “Mark, there’s a man here with a gun and badge, but no uniform, who says he needs to speak with you. Should I call the sheriff’s office?”

  My blood pressure started to rise, but I only smiled. “Do whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

  Although Mark McNeal couldn’t see her, the woman nodded and hung up. She pointed across the spacious lobby to a door centered on the wall to my left. “Mr. McNeal said he’ll see you.”

  Mark McNeal was not what I’d expected a bank owner to look like. While he was dressed in a spiffy suit, his face was weathered and his hands hard. He definitely spent a lot more time outdoors than he did behind his desk. I couldn’t help but notice the giant canvas on the wall behind him. The gold nameplate tacked to the lower arm of the frame read, Gina Rochelle McNeal, 20, KIA.

  I extended my hand. “Clint Wolf, chief of police in Mechant Loup.”

  “Nice to meet you, Clint.” He took my hand and squeezed—a little too hard, as though he were trying to gain some psychological edge. I didn’t care and didn’t squeeze back. When he let my hand go, he waved me to the chair across from him. “Please, sit down.”

  I took a seat and made a casual scan of his desktop, but froze when my eyes came upon a five-by-seven picture frame containing a photo of five men dressed in BDU pants—only one wore a shirt, and he was positioned on the right. I pointed to it. “I’ve seen that picture before.”

  “I’m sure you have,” Mark said in a casual tone. “You work for Malcolm.”

  “Malcolm’s in here?” I studied the picture more closely. “None of them resemble him at all. Which one is he?”

  “None of those kids resemble any of us anymore. That was a lifetime ago.” Mark tilted the frame so he could see, stabbed the young man in the middle with a finger. “That was Malcolm back in the day.”

  “Shit, he’s gained two people since then. He was a skinny kid, wasn’t he?”

  “We all were.” Mark leaned back and the flaps of his jacket fell open, exposing a belly that tested the thread holding the buttons in place. “I’ve gained at least a hundred pounds since my days in the service.”

  “I graduated from the police academy at one-sixty, so I get it.”

  “You can’t be more than—what?—one-ninety?”

  “I’m one eighty-five.” I turned my attention back to the picture on the desk. “Who are the others?”

  “From left to right it’s Randall Rupe, Daniel Blackley, Malcolm, me and Hays.”

  I leaned close to the picture, squinted. “What’s Daniel Blackley holding?”

  “TNT. He was always playing with explosives.” Mark nodded. “Best explosives technician I ever met.”

  I nodded to indicate the picture on the wall behind Mark McNeal. “Is that your daughter?”

  Mark turned his chair to stare up at the picture frame. “My oldest. When she died, the rest of us died with her. It’s difficult to pull yourself together and go on after that happens. My other daughters and my wife were so lost. They still haven’t recovered.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  Mark eyed me, but said nothing.

  Something suddenly occurred to me. “I don’t know if you know why I’m here today…”

  I waited to see how Mark would respond. He only shrugged, while he stared coolly at me. I held the silence, waiting to see if Mark would feel the need to say something—anything. He didn’t, and I realized I was dealing with a crafty one. I’d have to bullshit him a bit.

  “You’re aware that Hays Cain and Randall Rupe are dead, correct?”

  “They were
good friends of mine. Of course I’m aware they’re dead. I was at their funerals.”

  “Are you aware that Hays Cain’s murder was part of a larger plot?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Randall spoke to me before he died.” I paused. I thought I saw Mark’s complexion fade just a little, but his face was like stone. “Randall told me Hays’ murder had something to do with the meetings y’all were having about a secret operation.”

  “What meetings?” Mark seemed bored. “What secret operation?”

  “The meetings that took place at the end of Paradise Place—at my house.” I paused to let that information sink in. It was time to gamble. “He told me y’all were responsible for the murders of Hays Cain and Kelly Dykes and the kidnapping of two kids to protect the operation—to keep the secret. He also told me Hays was killed at my house.”

  “That’s a good story, but I’ve never murdered or kidnapped anyone.”

  “You didn’t get your hands dirty, of course, but your DNA is all over my house, making you an accomplice to everything that happened as a result of those meetings.”

  Mark McNeal—great poker player though he might have been—stumbled ever so slightly as his left eye twitched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  So, you were a part of the meetings, and those meetings had something to do with Cain, Dykes, and the McKenzie boys—but what was that larger scheme Randall told Chloe about?

  I leaned forward. “Look, Mark, I know you didn’t want any of this to happen. I know you didn’t want your friend to die and I know you wouldn’t hurt innocent kids, but those things happened and you’re a part of it now—like it or not.”

  “You can’t prove a thing.” Mark’s eyes shifted around the room, as though he were looking for an escape route, a place to hide. “That’s conjecture, and you have no evidence to support any of it. My DNA could’ve been planted at the house. Hell, Randall, Hays and I were always together. If my DNA is really in that house, it could’ve been transferred from them.” Mark’s eyes were sparkling now. He was in charge again. “I suspect you are aware of cases where DNA has been deposited at crime scenes due to the transfer of trace evidence?”

  “I am aware.”

  “Well, then you know these horrible events had nothing to do with me.” Mark stood to end the meeting. “I wish you well in your investigation, but you are—as they say—barking up the wrong tree, Chief.”

  “Then how do you explain this?” I dug my phone out of my back pocket and accessed the last picture I’d taken, turned it up so Mark McNeal could see.

  Mark tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Finally, he managed, “I…I didn’t do that!”

  CHAPTER 45

  I returned my phone to my pocket before Mark McNeal had time to realize his name was actually scrawled in ketchup and not blood. Although I had intentionally taken a grainy picture to help disguise the fact it was ketchup, I didn’t want to give him time to recover and get his confidence back. “Why then would a murder victim—your friend!—use his dying moments to write your name in his own blood?”

  Mark sank to his chair, the life drained out of him. “It— I swear, it wasn’t me. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  “Look, it’s not too late for you. Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll talk to the district attorney for you—get you a reduced sentence.”

  Mark suddenly pursed his lips and shook his head. “Sorry, Chief, but I want my lawyer. I’m not talking today and I’m not talking ever.”

  Shit!

  Although I was breaking dishes on the inside, I remained unmoved on the outside. “Have it your way, Mr. McNeal. When the house comes crashing down, you’ll be buried under all the rubble.” I pointed a finger at him. “And I’m going to enjoy watching your spineless ass be put to death for the murder of your friend—a man who served with you and who would’ve given his life for you.”

  Mark gritted his teeth, face red. “You won’t be alive long enough to see it.”

  I stood and met his cold gaze with one of my own. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Just exercising my right to free speech is all. No offense meant.”

  I nodded, flashed a disarming smile and leaned over, extending my hand to shake his. “No worries, sir, and no hard feelings. I’m just doing my job.”

  Mark hesitated, but finally sighed and reached up with his hand. We shook and, as he relaxed his hand to let go, I raked my fingernails roughly against the inside of his wrist and palm. He jerked his hand back. “Hey! You scratched me!”

  “I’m sorry…just exercising my right to collect DNA from you.”

  “Wait— What did you say?” Mark leaped to his feet. “You can’t do that!”

  He continued to protest, but I walked out, allowing his threats of a lawsuit to fall on empty air.

  I took great care to do everything with my left hand—open the bank door, fish out my keys, open the Tahoe door, remove a paper bag from my crime scene kit, carefully place the bag over my right hand, and use a rubber band to hold it in place. I then drove to the coroner’s office and found Doctor Louise Wong leaning over the body of an elderly lady who had died of natural causes. Doctor Wong looked up, her face covered with a mask and shield.

  I smiled, approached her. “I need you to scrape my fingernails.”

  “Excuse me?” she asked, her bloody gloved hands suspended above the body in front of her. “You want me to scrape your fingernails?”

  “I scratched a murder suspect and have his DNA under my fingernails.”

  Doctor Wong quickly removed her gloves and washed her hands and arms. She removed a sex crimes kit from a top cabinet and ushered me onto a stool. She plopped into a saddle chair and wheeled up directly in front of me, then paused to look into my eyes. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

  I endured the process. Once she had packaged the cuttings and scrapings and sealed it as evidence, I signed the chain of custody form.

  After thanking her and being forced to listen to her bitch about how little her husband did around the house, I drove to the office and filled out a crime lab submittal form for the clippings and scrapings Doctor Wong had recovered from my nails. As I wrote the information on the forms, the sensitive skin under my nails smarted from where she had rubbed the tip of the implement. I paused to stare down at my fingers, wondering if they would produce the results I suspected.

  When I had finished filling out the form, I left it on Jack’s desk, along with a note for him to drop the sex crimes kit off at the lab. On my way out, I stopped to check on Lindsey. “Anything going on today?”

  “Nothing since this morning.” Lindsey wrung her hands. “Chief, do I need to be worried? You know, I live alone with my little girl and my mom, and we don’t even have a gun. Do we have to worry someone will come into our house and kill us, too? Like what happened to Kelly Dykes?”

  “No, it’s nothing you need to worry about. These killings were targeted—meaning, Hays Cain and Kelly Dykes were killed for a very specific reason. It wasn’t random.”

  “What was the reason?”

  I sighed. “I wish I knew.”

  “Then how can you say it was a targeted killing?”

  I smiled and put my hand on her shoulder. “I promise…you don’t have to worry.”

  I turned away from Lindsey’s desk and walked outside to my Tahoe. I pursed my lips as I drove away. “It’s got to be you, Mark McNeal…you’re acting too guilty. Besides, an innocent man doesn’t lawyer up.”

  I stopped at the town hall and met with Mayor Landry. He wasn’t happy about my meeting with McNeal.

  “Damn it, Clint, he’s an important man in these parts. You can’t just go accusing him of murder.”

  “He’s acting like a guilty man.”

  “It doesn’t matter how he’s acting…you can’t go scratching people to get their DNA. That’s got to be illegal.”

  I shook my head. “It doesn’t violate any rule
s of evidence or any of his rights. It’s no different than if I had offered him a soda and then recovered the can for his fingerprints.”

  Mayor Landry sat with arms folded in front of his belly, a scowl cutting deep lines into his mug. “You really think he’s involved?”

  “He knows something. If he didn’t kill them himself, he knows who did.”

  “Okay, but don’t go near him again unless you have real evidence. We don’t need a costly lawsuit during an election year.”

  I nodded my understanding. I glanced around the office. “Where’s your picture?”

  “What picture?”

  I described the picture in Mark McNeal’s office. “He said y’all served in the military together.”

  “We did.”

  “Hays Cain had that same picture in his office. Where’s yours?”

  “I don’t keep that kind of stuff around. Those are days I’d rather forget. We can’t talk about what we did, so I’d just as soon not have a conversation piece hanging around that might illicit questions I can’t answer.”

  I nodded, staring at him as I sat deep in thought.

  “What is it?” he wanted to know.

  “I’m starting to wonder if that picture has something to do with this case.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something’s going on in this town, and so far, I know for a fact it involves three men—and all three of those men served together in the military. Now, two of them are dead and one’s not talking, so that just leaves you and Daniel Blackley unaccounted for.” I let that sink in. “Did something happen out there that would warrant these killings?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Let’s say y’all did something while y’all were in the service that could land one—or all—of y’all in jail and y’all swore each other to secrecy. Let’s imagine that later in life, Hays doesn’t want to keep the secret any longer. Call it a guilty conscience, a change of heart, whatever. He decides he’s coming clean, but some of y’all don’t like it…and enough to kill Hays.”

  “You’ve got a hell of an imagination, I give you that.” Mayor Landry laughed. “No, Clint, none of us did anything wrong out there.”