However Many More

by Bo Thunboe

  However

  Many More

  A Jake Houser Mystery (Book #2)

  Bo Thunboe

  Weston Press, LLC

  Published in 2018 by Weston Press, LLC

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, organizations, places, events, or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Brian D. Moore

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design by Jeroen ten Berge

  Interior Design by Kevin G. Summers)

  ISBN: 978-1-949632-03-3

  Weston Press, LLC

  Naperville, IL

  www.thunboe.com

  For Diane

  Also by Bo Thunboe

  What Can’t Be True

  A Jake Houser Mystery (Book #1)

  Table of Contents

  Also By Bo Thunboe

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Coming Soon

  Acknowledgments And A Historical Note

  About The Author

  Prologue

  July, 1973

  Larry was a good boy who did what his momma told him to do, even though he was twenty-three years old and any normal person would have asked some serious questions about tonight’s chore.

  A mosquito flew out of the thick night air and buzzed in Larry’s ear. He swatted it away, then pulled another loaf from the double row he’d lined up along the back of the truck. The man who drove the truck had called the big silver bars ingots, but to Larry they looked like loaves of bread. When he dragged one off the stack it made a sound he’d never heard before. He decided to call it a skritch when he wrote about this in his diary.

  He hooked his fingers under the ends of the heavy chunk of metal and swung it off the truck to rest against his thighs. He’d carried enough bags of sand and cement and such to know what a thing weighed, give or take. These loaves each weighed about the same as a bag and a half of gravel. Sixty-five pounds. Half his own weight. Not bad for a little guy; that’s what Mr. Martin next door always said when Larry did heavy work over at his place.

  Larry walked his load to the back of the barn and added it to the rest. The loaves were narrower on the top than the bottom, so he flipped over every other one to fit them together and make a solid wall. The excitement of his new experience wore off as he settled into the work, his arms and shoulders loosening up, then holding strong for a long time before starting to tire and weaken.

  He took a break and walked over to the hose at the back of the house. A sudden breeze, heavy with the muddy scent of the river, pushed up over the bluff and cleared away the mosquitos. After he’d had his fill of the cold clear hose water, Larry peeked in the kitchen window. Momma was at the table playing cards with the man who drove the truck. She caught Larry looking and he dropped down. He knew the rules. Work first; play later.

  Seeing Momma made Larry remember she said this chore here was a secret business. He needed to keep that in mind when doing something secret, or he sometimes forgot. That’s how Momma figured out he’d been down in the caves. He was so proud of what he’d found that he forgot he wasn’t supposed to go down there. When he showed her the bottles, she immediately knew where he’d been and he didn’t get dessert for a week.

  He got back to work, his wandering thoughts now focusing on finishing. The muscles across his shoulders and back were sore, his grip weakening. His breathing coming in grunts and gasps.

  When he was done, Larry pulled the old tarp up over the loaves and stacked the firewood in a long row in front of them, the wood light and rough in his hands after the smooth weight of the metal. He piled the old newspapers on top of it all, turned off the barn light, and went out in the yard. Secret, secret, he reminded himself. He rang the dinner bell on the post by the back door to let them know he was done, like Momma had said.

  He stretched his shoulders and flexed his hands. The weak breeze passing through the yard wicked the sweat from his shirt and cooled him. He cupped his hands to catch the moving air and whirled his arms like a windmill. He lost himself in the motion until the back door swung open and the man came out.

  “All done?” The man walked over and looked into the back of the truck. “Your mom said you were a good worker.”

  “Yep,” Larry said. He liked the man because he was different, too. He had a big brown mark on his cheek that Momma said was an angel’s kiss. Larry rubbed his own jaw, wondering what that would feel like. Then a mosquito bit him and he slapped it away.

  The man peered into the shadowy depth of the barn, then looked at Larry and raised his eyebrows like Momma did when she wanted his secrets. But Larry kept his mouth closed.

  The man shrugged. “Your mom says those little ones are for you.” He pointed at the plastic-wrapped stack of smaller bars up by the driver’s seat. Each one was about the size of the buns Momma used for beef sandwiches. The man climbed up, ripped away the plastic, picked one up, and rubbed his palm down it like he was petting a dog. “Well, come on then,” he said to Larry. “Haul these out of here so I can get back on the road.”

  Larry jumped up into the truck. A gift just for him! He knew exactly where to put them. A place no one would even want to look for them.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Detective Jake Houser didn’t like working in a task force. Too much talk, not enough action, and too many pointing fingers. The only useful thing the task force did was share information, and it did that best by email. But Deputy Chief Braff said to go to the meeting, so Jake was driving north to the county building for another edition of the blame game.

  As he crossed Butterfield Road, his phone vibrated with an incoming call. Braff.

  “You’re catching and
we got a case,” Braff said. “A body on Redhawk Court.”

  There was only one house on Redhawk Court, and Jake’s lifelong friend, Henry Fox, lived there alone.

  A coldness gripped Jake’s chest, and he pressed the phone tighter to his ear. “Can you repeat that?”

  “Body. House at the end of Redhawk Court.” Braff’s big voice roared from the phone. “You good to take this, Houser? You sound funny. I can make Diggs primary instead of taking the task force meeting for you.”

  “No-o.” Jake’s voice broke. He cleared his throat. “Who’s on scene?”

  “Grady. He went out there on a well-being check.”

  “Good.” Grady understood the job and what doing it right meant to the community, to the force, and to himself. “Any details?”

  “Said it was a BFT. That’s it so far.”

  Blunt force trauma. Murder. Jesus! Jake squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m on my way, boss.”

  “I’ll have Diggs join you when she gets out of the meeting.”

  Jake put his phone away. His hands slipped on the steering wheel as he pulled a U-turn on Winfield Road. He wiped them on his pants then rolled the front windows down. The cold fall air whisked away his sudden sweat.

  It couldn’t be Henry, Jake thought. But he knew it could. In ten years patrolling Chicago’s streets and a decade back home investigating Weston’s major crimes, he’d seen time and again that sudden violence could strike anywhere, and anyone. His pulse pounded against his temples and his breathing became fast and shallow. He forced himself to take long, slow breaths until his breathing smoothed out and the pounding subsided.

  He turned west on Jackson and slowed the Crown Vic as he entered Henry’s riverside neighborhood. Most of the original homes had been replaced during a teardown craze where giant new homes were crammed onto the small city lots. He slowed further as he turned down Redhawk Court, a narrow gravel road that threaded between two of the new mini-mansions before spreading out into an ill-defined circle of weed-choked gravel in front of Henry’s single-story house. A Weston police cruiser sat with its light bar flashing red and blue against the thinning fall foliage.

  Jake parked next to the cruiser, put his hand on the door handle, then released it as a memory pushed into his mind. Two years earlier, an officer had caught Henry’s daughter, April, naked in the back seat of the high school quarterback’s car. April dropped Jake’s name to the officer, and Jake talked him out of charging her. He then brought April here to her dad’s house, where they sat for a long, silent minute, both reluctant to deliver the news that would forever change the way Henry saw his daughter.

  He felt a similar reluctance today. What he saw inside would be more than a new memory; it would be a filter through which he’d see all his other memories of Henry.

  That’s how it was with Jake’s memories of his own wife. When she was murdered, he was first on the scene—and ever since then, every memory he had of her was interrupted by an image of her face going pale as blood pumped from a gash on her neck.

  That image filled his mind again now.

  He clenched his teeth and got moving.

  Leaves carpeted the yard, and Jake waded through them toward the familiar bright-red front door. Painting that door “Redhawk Red” had been the first improvement Henry made when he inherited the place from his uncle. Jake had helped with that, and with many other projects to rehab the house. He puffed his cheeks to stretch the grief off his face.

  The door opened. “I heard you coming.” Officer Grady stepped onto the front stoop and pulled the door closed behind him before noting Jake’s arrival on his clipboard. “Detective Houser. Three seventeen p.m.”

  “Hey, Grady.” Jake managed a smile. He was glad protocol gave him another few minutes before he went inside. “What do you have so far?”

  “When I got here I found both doors, front and back, were unlocked, and all the lights were on. I confirmed the victim was dead, cleared the building, and secured the scene.” Securing the scene included ensuring no condition existed that could compromise the scene or the time of death determination: no stove on, no window open, no loose pets.

  “Who called it in?”

  “Mrs. Brueder.” Grady jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the house on Jackson to the west. “Said she was up several times in the night and saw all the lights on over here. When she didn’t see Mr. Fox this morning—she apparently keeps a close eye on him—she got worried and finally called it in at 2:43 this afternoon.” Grady wiped a hand over his forehead, and his voice dropped as if he was telling a secret. “No one answered the door, but it was unlocked, like I said, so I went in. I found him right away. It looks like he was…” Grady’s voice caught, and he ended his report there with a tight shake of his head, his eyes pulling away from Jake’s.

  That was fine with Jake. He preferred to make his own observations and draw his own conclusions. “Have you identified the victim?”

  “I didn’t search the… uh, body, you know, for a wallet.”

  “Coroner and forensic team on the way?”

  “Yes. And I set up the booties and gloves.” Grady pointed at two cardboard boxes sitting on the concrete by the front door.

  “Good work.” Jake stepped onto the stoop and began pulling on a pair of booties. “Call out another patrol unit to guard the back yard and the barn.”

  “Will do.” Grady smiled; it looked like his natural energy was returning. “Mrs. Brueder says she saw Mr. Fox come home around nine thirty last night.”

  “Good.” Post-mortem analysis rarely established time of death on its own. Concurrent information like a witness seeing the victim alive was a big help. “She say anything else?”

  “I didn’t question her. She just came over when I pulled up. I sent her home before I went inside. Just in case.”

  “That was the right way to handle it.” Jake pulled on a pair of latex gloves, then put his hand on the doorknob. His stomach quivered, and he rubbed it with the other hand. He reminded himself that whatever he was about to see, he’d seen worse. Lived through worse.

  He eased the door open. “I’m going in.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was warm and still inside the house, with the faint scent of a citrus air freshener. Jake didn’t smell death—no coppery blood, no pungent stench of decomposing flesh, no evacuated bowels.

  He paused in the entryway, a pulsing gloom filling him, his limbs suddenly heavy and his mouth dry. He flexed his hands and rolled his shoulders. Maybe he should let Callie Diggs take the case after all. A quick phone call and he could walk out the door and avoid the memory he was about to create.

  He took a step back, but he was too close to the door and his shoulders and back hit the door with a thud.

  “You okay in there, Detective?”

  “Fine,” Jake said, standing up straight and taking a deep breath. He could, and should, investigate Henry’s murder. And the victim might not even be Henry—and it might not be a murder. A houseguest might have collapsed from a heart attack and hit his head as he fell.

  Holding on to that slim possibility, Jake got to work, sweeping his gaze across the space. The front room spanned the entire width of the house, and Henry had divided it into two functional areas. To the right, bookshelves boxed in small windows bright with sunlight that lit on dust motes floating in the still air. A glass-topped coffee table sat before Henry’s reading chair in the far front corner. To the left, a pair of leather couches angled around a giant television. Behind them, a low wall separated the front room from the dining room and kitchen. In the center of the back wall, a hallway led past a pair of bedrooms and a bathroom, ending at the kitchen.

  Jake had spent enough time here watching games and drinking beer to immediately see that nothing was out of place.

  Jake edged past the couches. A pair of feet came into view in the opening to the dining room—toes
up, gray socks. A slipper on the right foot, another slipper upside down against the baseboard. Jake’s pulse ticked up and he fought off a churning wave of nausea. He suppressed an urge to rush forward. If he couldn’t do his job the way it deserved to be done, he needed to turn around and leave this to Callie. He took a few slow breaths, and his nerves steadied.

  With another two steps, the entire body came into view. A man, on his back, sprawled among a scattering of large sheets of paper, his right arm flung above his head and his left at his side. A flannel shirt in blues and blacks under brown bib overalls. Henry’s standard work outfit. A small puddle of blood spread across the worn oak floor from the victim’s head. One paper sheet had touched the pool and drawn the blood up in a bright red arc.

  Jake stepped through the opening and into the dining room. He made sure the floor was clear, then squatted next to the body, finally letting his eyes rise to the face and confirm what he already knew: it was Henry. His friend’s always-smiling face was now frozen in a grimace, teeth clenched.

  And there it was. The image that would haunt Jake whenever he thought of his old friend.

  Jake’s hand went to his chest. It took a moment before the sharp edges of his cross registered on his fingertips. A gift from Mary before their wedding. He’d always touched the cross when he prayed, but after Mary died, that practice had faded, along with his faith. Now he pressed the cross into his chest as memories of Henry swirled: the two of them as boys, then as young men, then as couples with their wives… then as men without women once more.

  Jake’s stomach twisted. As primary on the case, he was responsible for notifying Henry’s next of kin. He’d known Lynn, Henry’s ex-wife, for forty years. He’d known April her entire life. He was even her godfather. The notification would be… difficult.

  Because you’re biased, Houser. And shouldn’t be on the case.

  Technically. But technicalities were for bureaucrats. Jake had been close to investigations before; he knew he could handle the mental gymnastics needed to do it right. He would just lock down his emotions. He had the rest of his life to deal with Henry’s murder. Right now he needed to avenge it.