But Not Forgiven: A Clint Wolf Novel (Clint Wolf Mystery Series Book 2)

by BJ Bourg

  “Nah, that didn’t piss me off. I knew she was good for it, and I knew it wasn’t all for her, anyway. It was mostly for that lazy piece of shit, Pete.”

  “Tell us what happened when you went out to Betty’s house,” I said.

  J-Rock once again licked his lips and sat up in his chair. “Betty called me like she usually did, saying she needed enough to last the night. I drove over there with my boy, Neal, and I went knock on the door. Betty came out and gave me the money and I gave her the”—J-Rock glanced around, as though searching for a hidden camera—“stuff. And then, next thing I know, there’s an arrow sticking out of her chest.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis. “It happened just like that. One minute we were talking and the next minute she was shot and looking at me all weird.”

  “What’d you do next?” I asked.

  “I looked behind me to see who shot her, but I didn’t see nothing. At first, I thought it was Neal, but I knew he didn’t have no bow and arrow. After that, I just ran to the car and told Neal to get the hell out of there before we got killed, too.”

  I turned his story over in my head. Due to the slight upward angle of the arrow, it was more likely it was fired from a distance. Had he fired it from the base of the steps, the angle would’ve been sharply upward. “Do you know anyone who has a bow?”

  He shook his head.

  “We didn’t find this ‘stuff’ you mentioned in Betty’s possession,” I said. “And her cell phone was missing. Know anything about that?”

  “Yeah, I took it back. She looked dead on her feet, so I knew she wasn’t going to use it. I thought I could sell it to somebody else and make double the money.”

  “And the phone?”

  “It fell on the ground next to my feet. I knew the cops would see my number on it and use it to track me down, so I took it and threw it in a dumpster behind my house.”

  Susan pulled her phone from the left breast pocket of her uniform shirt and started texting, and I knew she was letting Trinity know where to find the phone. After talking with J-Rock for another hour, it was clear he didn’t know more than he was saying, so Susan and I left him with a deputy and met with Neal in the next room.

  I read Neal his rights and then asked him if he would be willing to talk to us about what happened out at Betty Ledet’s house. Neal was thoughtful, then pursed his lips. “Can I write something down before I answer that question?”

  “Sure.” I slid my notebook across the table and handed him an ink pen. In my peripheral vision, I saw Susan shift in her chair, and I knew she was thinking what I was—this might be a ploy to get a weapon in his hands. Although his hands were cuffed in front of him, he could still be dangerous, and I sat poised to take action should he try something. Unaware he was sitting across from two tigers that would pounce on him in a split second, he scribbled some words on my notebook and slid it back with the ink pen. His face was twisted into a smug grin, which made the patch of hair on his chin push forward like a third foot.

  I glanced down at my notes and smiled when I read what he wrote. I turned it so Susan could see. “Go to hell,” she read out loud. We both started laughing, and it seemed to confuse Neal.

  “I mean it,” he said. “Go to hell! I ain’t saying shit. I want my lawyer and I want y’all to leave me the hell alone.”

  I’d been doing police work too long to get angry over a suspect exercising his right to remain silent. “That’s fine,” I said. “Just give us a call if you change your mind.”

  Susan and I walked out, leaving Neal Barlow with a befuddled expression on his face. When we walked into the Detective Bureau, Trinity was there. She handed us a clear plastic evidence envelope that contained a cell phone. “You were right,” she said to Susan. “It was in the dumpster.”

  Trinity showed us the long list of evidence recovered from J-Rock’s house and we examined it carefully, but none of it seemed to be connected to the murder. It was mostly drugs and drug paraphernalia. After thanking her for the assistance, we drove to the police department, where we pulled on latex gloves and examined the cell phone for clues. We searched through every contact, text message, phone call, photograph, video, voice note, and social media site, but found nothing that brought us any closer to finding out who wanted her dead.

  It was almost four in the morning when we decided to call it a night. Before parting ways, Susan and I studied the photographs, evidence sheet, and notes Melvin had left on my desk from the autopsy. There were no surprises—Betty Ledet had been shot through the heart with an arrow and the manner of death was homicide. The big question was, “Now what?”

  Susan had learned from Peter that Betty worked at M & P Grill. Since her family was out of the picture, her job was our next best lead. Maybe the other waitresses knew something about her habits. Her supervisor could probably tell us about any problems with other employees or customers. Hell, even some of her regular customers might know a thing or two that could prove helpful.

  “Let’s meet at M & P Grill first thing in the morning,” I said. “We need to learn all we can about Betty, and her co-workers probably know the most about her at this point.”

  Susan nodded in agreement and I waved goodbye. As I watched her walk to her Charger, I couldn’t help but wonder what she might be thinking. We’d been busy and that kept our minds occupied, but I knew she would now be alone with her thoughts and I was sure they would turn to the hearings and what would become of her career…or even her freedom.

  I had a lot on my own mind as I turned into my driveway and walked toward my house. In addition to being worried sick about Susan, I couldn’t stop wondering what kind of person would put an arrow through another human’s heart. Whoever it was, they definitely wanted Betty Ledet dead. If not J-Rock, then who could it be? Had she ripped off some other drug dealer? According to Peter, J-Rock was their only supplier, but what if Peter was lying to protect someone he feared more than J-Rock? From everything we’d gathered Betty had been eking out a meager existence since losing Landon. Her family had disowned her when they learned she’d turned to alcohol and drugs to cope with her depression. According to Peter, she didn’t have any friends. But what about enemies? Was it possible for her to make enemies when she didn’t even have friends? What if she was messing around with a married man? They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and it would take a hell of a lot of scorn to send an arrow through a person, so a jealous wife was certainly a possibility. I had to figure this thing out and do it soon before—

  “It’s about time you get home.”

  I nearly jumped out of my skin when the voice came from out of the darkness to my right. I squinted to improve my night vision and saw Chloe crouched on the porch, her arms wrapped around her knees.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, confused. “Have you been out here all night? I thought you went home when I left.”

  She looked up, the dim glow from the distant streetlight catching on her face, and I gasped when I saw streaks of tears running down her cheeks.

  CHAPTER 14

  I dropped beside Chloe and took her in my arms. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m terrified, Clint.”

  Had something happened? Had someone threatened her? I knew she had been busy trying to develop a story she was working on, but things weren’t working out like she’d hoped. Was her job in jeopardy? What if someone associated with the story came after her?

  “What happened? Did someone do something to you?” I looked toward my house. Achilles had the tendency to play rough. “Is it Achilles? Did he bite you?”

  “No, no…none of that.” Chloe shook her head from side to side, and took a deep breath to calm herself. “It’s you.”

  My heart fell and my chest ached. It was in that moment I realized I had strong feelings for Chloe Rushing. Michele used to ask me how I knew I loved her and I could never answer the question to her liking—that is, until Abigail was born. Every time Abigail used to laugh, my heart would swell with joy, and
every time she’d cry, my heart would break.

  I took Chloe’s face in my hands and eased her lips to mine. I tasted the salt from her tears as we kissed. When I pulled away from her, I looked into the shadows that were her eyes and said, “I love you, too, Chloe.”

  I saw her expression change. “I don’t want you to say it just because I said it.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then why’d you hesitate earlier? You just stared at me, not saying anything.” She shuddered. “That was the scariest moment of my life. I thought I’d pushed you away. And then you left and were gone forever. You didn’t answer my calls, didn’t call back, didn’t respond to my text. I thought it was over between us.”

  “I’m sorry. I was busy.”

  Chloe seemed to be thinking. After a long moment, she said, “If you really love me, you would’ve said it right away. There wouldn’t have been any doubt.”

  “Look, I’m not good at these kinds of things, but I know I love you.”

  Chloe’s face looked ghostly in the dim glow from the streetlight as she peered up at me. “How do you know you love me?”

  “Because I’m happy when you’re happy and I hurt when you hurt.”

  She seemed to be considering this. “Don’t you feel bad for strangers when bad things happen to them?”

  “Sure, I feel bad for them, but I don’t hurt inside. I don’t lose sleep over it.” I ran a finger down the side of her neck to her chest. “When you’re upset, it ruins my day.”

  This seemed to satisfy her. She threw her arms around my neck and squeezed harder than I thought she could. “It feels so good to get that out of the way.” Her voice was somewhat muffled by my shoulder.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve wanted to tell you for a couple of months now, but couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

  Curious, I asked, “When did you know?”

  “Last year…when I thought you were dead.” She reached up and scrubbed at the tears spilling from her face. “I felt like my life was over. I didn’t think I could survive the day. That’s when I knew.”

  We stayed in that position until I couldn’t feel my legs anymore. All of a sudden, I was aware of mosquitoes buzzing around my ear. They’d found us. Although the town had an aggressive mosquito abatement program, it was no match for the Louisiana state bird. I helped Chloe to her feet and we walked inside. Achilles bounded across the living room floor and shoved his cool snout against my hand, his tail wagging a greeting.

  “I fed him and let him out about an hour ago,” Chloe said, as she walked to the bedroom.

  I let him out again and watched him patrol the back yard, my thoughts turning back to the murder investigation. First on my to-do list was the restaurant. I was hoping it would lead in other directions and eventually lead to the murderer—if it was a murder. What if this was nothing but a tragic hunting accident?

  When Achilles was done marking his territory, we went back inside and I gasped when I saw Chloe standing in the kitchen wearing nothing but one of my white muscle shirts. It was too big for her and the neckline hung low on her breasts.

  “I take it you’re sleeping over?” I asked.

  “Is that okay?”

  I smiled and took in all of her beauty. I was tired, but never too tired to be with her. My smile faded when I saw her frown and adjust my shirt. “What is it?” I asked.

  “For tonight…um, I just want to be held.”

  I nodded my understanding. It had been an emotional night for her. I took her hand and led her to my room, where we both got ready for bed in the master bathroom—the only bathroom. Afterwards, we slipped under the sheets and she placed her head on my chest. Soon, her breathing changed and I knew she was asleep. My eyes dragged shut and I started to doze off, my thoughts on the future of us and contemplating if it was possible to love two women. Had Michele still been alive, I wouldn’t be here. I would’ve never met Chloe or been interested in her—or any other woman. Michele was everything to me until Abigail came along—

  I jerked awake as images of Abigail’s face popped into my mind’s eye. Chloe stirred beside me, but turned over and continued sleeping. I tried to sleep, but every time I dozed off, those horrific images from three years ago kept flooding back. Finally, and taking great care not to disturb Chloe, I eased out of bed and tiptoed to the kitchen. I knelt and opened the cabinet under the sink, wincing when the hinges squeaked. I paused, but didn’t hear any movement from my room. When I knew it was safe, I reached behind the garbage can and pulled out the bottle of vodka that was hidden there. I twisted off the cap and put it to my lips, scowled when only a drop came out.

  Remembering the bottles I’d purchased the day before, I grabbed my Tahoe keys and headed out the front door. With Achilles at my heels, I picked my way through the damp grass and retrieved one of the vodka bottles from the back of my Tahoe. I then settled on the front porch to consume it. I sighed as the liquid slid down my throat and wrapped its warm arms around my insides. I wondered if I’d ever be able to sleep without it.

  Right after Michele and Abigail were murdered, I started drinking a few shots before bed and that would help, but, eventually, it wasn’t enough. Before long, I upgraded to a glass. When that didn’t help anymore, I started downing a bottle a night. I often wondered what I’d do if it ever wore off.

  I’d once confided in Chloe that I needed vodka to sleep, but never admitted to how much. She started pressing me to get help—to see a psychologist and talk about my feelings—but I was having none of it. When it started to feel like she was nagging, I told her I was better and I didn’t need it to sleep anymore. It was easier to live with the guilt of hiding my problem than to be constantly reminded that something was wrong with me and I needed fixing.

  I stared down at the empty bottle. My lips were numb, my chest warm. It had done its job. I’d now be able to get a good night’s sleep and I’d be better in the morning. No need to talk about my feelings and hear how messed up I was and be offered some multi-step program that would help me get better. Nope, this was a miracle in a bottle, and it was all I needed to get through my nights. As I tossed the bottle under my house, I wondered what Chloe would do if she found out I was still drinking.

  CHAPTER 15

  Isaac Edwards dropped his tired legs to the floor beside his bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The red digits on the clock were blurry, but he could tell it was six-thirty. Too damn early to be up on a Saturday, he thought.

  Wearing nothing but his plaid boxer shorts and his white night shirt, Isaac walked to the bathroom to relieve himself—cursing the slow stream that flowed from his member—and then stopped in front of the mirror to wash his hands. He splashed some of the cold water on his face. It shocked him at first, but it felt good. He rubbed the water into his salt-and-pepper hair in a futile attempt to flatten the unruly tuft sticking out like a unicorn’s horn on the left side. He finally gave up, started to turn away from the mirror when something caught his attention. He leaned closer, but had to back off so the blemish could come into focus. It was another pesky skin tag and it hung under his right eye like a third ear.

  “You’re like an old beat up truck with rust spots and fading headlights,” he said to his reflection in the mirror, taking note of his grayish eyes—eyes that had once been bright blue and sparkling. His mom had often said his eyes were too pretty to be on a boy. He grunted. “Nowadays, that’d be no problem. There’s a surgery for everything.”

  Isaac padded to the front door in his bare feet and stepped onto the porch to retrieve his newspaper. Some kid—a sandy-haired boy with mischief written all over his dirty face—whisked by on a skateboard and jerked his head around when he saw Isaac standing there in his boxers.

  “Put some clothes on, you old goat!” the boy shouted, shaking his head and lurching forward as though he were vomiting.

  Isaac only smiled and returned to the kitchen to make coffee and enjoy what was left of the printed paper. It had been gett
ing thinner and thinner over the years, as people like him slowly died off to make room for a younger generation who preferred their news on rectangular-shaped intelligent phones that did all but scratch their asses. He only hoped he would die before the newspaper did, because he would certainly miss it more than it’d miss him.

  After drinking a tall cup of coffee and reading about some drug dealer who’d been killed in the northern part of the parish—“Good riddance,” he thought—he made his way back to the master bathroom to change into his running shorts and shoes. His back hurt a little more than it used to as he bent to lace up his shoes, and he had to keep reminding himself why he was doing it. He stood and tested his legs. The shoes he’d just bought were lighter than the last pair and seemed easier on his old legs. He was approaching seventy at breakneck speed and after running nineteen marathons over the years, he didn’t think there was anything left to learn. But when he’d started experiencing new pains in his ankles and knees and his doctor’s only advice was to stop running, he’d gone to the Chateau Parish Library and researched some alternative methods—something to take the pressure off of the joints just long enough to run this last marathon for Stella. In this one book about running, the author claimed if he ran on the balls of his feet it would relieve the pressure in his ankles and knees. He was doubtful, but had tried it anyway. Three miles later, he had been pain-free and running strong, while cursing himself for wasting money on the doctor visit.

  Isaac walked outside to begin the last run of his fifth week of training. He and Stella—his wife of forty years—had signed up for the event six months ahead of time, as they had every alternating year for the past forty years, and were set to accomplish Stella’s goal of completing twenty marathons before reaching seventy. But when Stella was hit by a car two weeks earlier during a late night run and hospitalized in critical condition, she’d made him promise to complete the race without her—to do it for her. She insisted he wear one of those camera helmet gadgets that everyone was wearing these days so she could experience the training and the event with him.