by BJ Bourg
“I can’t see much of anything from here,” he whispered.
When my light didn’t draw gunfire, I did a quick-peek again and then sighed. The alley looked empty. I displaced again and stopped moving when I’d reached the opposite side of the car. I held my light out to the side and turned it back on. I then rose slowly over the car and studied the opening between the buildings. I penetrated each shadow with my eyes until I was positive it was clear. I did the same to the other alley and then told Foster he could get off the ground.
“The shooter’s gone.”
Melvin joined us and then escorted Foster to the front of the bar where Susan was waiting with Joyce. She immediately got them both out of the area and transported them to the safety of our office. Melvin rejoined me behind the bar and we carefully moved into the first alley to the left and made our way to the opposite street.
A thick fog was moving in and it covered the area in a spooky glow. We kept our lights off so we wouldn’t give away our location, and our movements were painstakingly slow as we searched for the would-be killer. There was no sign of life in the alleys or on the opposite street. Whoever had fired the shot had disappeared.
“Can you keep the area secure while I process the scene?” I asked Melvin when we’d returned to the parking lot behind the Corner Pub. “I need to locate casings and whatever other evidence I can find.”
Melvin nodded and walked away to retrieve his truck. When he drove it to the back, he aimed the headlights on the alleys and grabbed his shotgun. Keeping it cradled in his arms, he rested a foot on his front bumper. “If anyone pops their head out of that alley, I’m going to take it off,” he said.
Knowing he would keep good on that promise, I grabbed my crime scene box from my Tahoe and set about processing the scene. I located eight spent shell casings—all of them were nine millimeter casings—near the entrance to the second alley. Their proximity to each other suggested the shooter fired all the shots from the same position. Whoever it was, they meant to kill Foster.
Six of the bullets had struck Foster’s car, one of them had impacted the back of the bar, and the last one had skidded across the gravel lot and lodged in a light pole. Try as I might, I wasn’t able to recover a decent projectile. I ended up with a dozen tiny pieces of lead and some copper fragments, but nothing that could be compared to the bullet from the bar shooting on Friday night.
The shell casings were a different story. They all bore the same brand name and other markings as the casing from Mitch’s murder, and I was sure they would match.
“I need to get these casings to the lab as soon as possible,” I said out loud. I wasn’t surprised when Melvin offered to deliver them first thing in the morning. He was as helpful as they came. I cocked my head to the side. “Are you sure?”
“Are you kidding me?” He cracked a huge smile. “I love riding out to the city. I stop and eat at a different restaurant each time and I treat myself to the bad foods my wife won’t let me eat every other day of my life.”
I grunted in amusement and told him I’d sign the evidence over to him at the end of his shift, which was in a couple of hours. After wrapping up the scene, I headed for the police department to interview Foster and Joyce. I needed to know who wanted Foster dead, other than the two obvious choices—his wife and Joyce’s husband.
CHAPTER 39
Tuesday, November 22
Mechant Loup Police Department
“I swear to God I don’t know who wants me dead,” Foster said when I was finally sitting alone in an interview room with him. Melvin had already clocked out and I had turned the evidence over to him for delivery to the lab.
I had already interviewed Joyce, who’d said she was positive her husband didn’t know about her affair with Foster. “We’re not even seeing each other anymore,” she had said, still shaken from the shooting. “Once you found out about us, we figured it would be best to break things off until we were both divorced.”
After taking her statement, I had interviewed her befuddled husband, who couldn’t understand why I was questioning him about his whereabouts. He didn’t look convinced when I said it was just routine police business, and he seemed suspicious of Joyce. I couldn’t very well tell him I had to eliminate him as a suspect in the attempted murder of Foster Blake, because that might get him wondering why he should want Foster dead. From that springboard, it would be easy for him to draw the correct conclusion—unless he was completely clueless—so I explained how it was routine to question a husband in the suspected attempted murder of his wife. Since his alibi was solid, I released him and he took Joyce home.
“I don’t know, Foster,” I said, leaning my elbows on the table and studying the man before me. “I’m starting to believe whoever killed Mitch actually meant to kill you.”
“That’s nonsense.” He shook his head for emphasis. “I don’t have any enemies. I get along with everyone.”
“Why didn’t you tell me Mitch covered your shift Friday night?”
The question caught him off guard. “Well…um…you never asked.”
“That’s not the kind of thing I should have to ask. It’s the kind of information a reasonable person would volunteer when the police are questioning him.”
“It never crossed my mind to mention it.”
I pursed my lips. “I’m asking where you were on Friday night because your boss was killed, and you didn’t think for a second to mention you were supposed to be working? You didn’t once wonder—even to yourself—if you were the intended target?”
“No, sir.”
“What’re you hiding, Foster?”
“I’m not hiding anything. I wanted to spend the night with Joyce, so I asked Mitch if he could catch my shift. He said he wouldn’t mind and that was the end of it. I never thought about it again. When you questioned me, I didn’t even think about it because it didn’t have nothing to do with me or my shift. I believe the person who killed Mitch was hired by Connie to do the job…” His voice trailed off and his mouth slowly fell open. “I bet Connie paid someone to kill me!”
I scoffed. “Why would Connie want you dead?”
“Because I ratted on her.” He nodded his head, confident he was on to something. “She called me out of the blue and asked me to start getting the bar ready to open. She said she didn’t want Mitch’s life’s work going to waste and she said she was going to start running the place. She said it was going to be bigger and better than ever and she was going to honor the legacy of her husband. It all sounded good, but I was beginning to wonder if she was being for real or not. Except for my wife, she was the only one who knew I was over here, so it made sense that she might’ve come after me.”
“I heard you explaining all of that to Officer Saltzman,” I said. “If everything you’re saying is true, why would Connie try to kill the one person—or two, if she was also targeting Joyce—who could help her run the bar?”
A confused expression fell across Foster’s face. “I mean…I don’t know. I just think it’s her who paid someone to try and kill me.”
“Let’s say you’re right and she wants you dead. Is it possible she’s the one who pulled the trigger?”
Foster shook his head. “No way. I saw the shadow of the person who shot at me and it didn’t look like her.”
“You saw the shooter?”
“I got a glimpse of him in the dark. I think it’s a him. I mean, it could’ve been a woman, but the person wasn’t shaped like Mrs. Connie, if you know what I mean.”
“How was the shooter shaped?”
“The person was smaller in the chest. You know, not as round.”
“What about hair style? Could you tell if the shooter’s hair was long, short, wavy—?”
“I couldn’t tell about the hair. I could only see a black shadow and some flashing lights from the gun.”
“Did the flashes light up the shooter’s face?”
He grunted. “If it did, I didn’t see it. I was too busy ducking for cover.
I heard the bullets hitting the car all around me and I heard the window bust out. I dropped to the ground and crawled behind the car, where I just played dead, hoping they would stop shooting and leave.”
Foster lifted his left arm and pointed to a tiny tear in the sleeve of his shirt. “A piece of bullet or something tore my shirt and stung my arm.”
I watched as he lifted his sleeve to show me the tiny drop of dried blood on his flesh. Something had definitely made contact with his arm and I photographed it. “I don’t think you’ll need any stitches,” I joked, studying his face closely. I could tell there was something he wasn’t telling me—some deep, dark secret that would lead me directly to the person who wanted him dead. But how would I extract that information?
“Foster, I want to know about the fight out at your house on Friday morning—the one that led to you leaving the house and renting a motel room, which also led to you calling Mitch and telling him you couldn’t work your shift.”
He shrugged, stared down at his hands. “I already told you; it was nothing.”
“Your face is saying otherwise.” I pointed to the damage that was still clearly visible. “Matthew beat your ass pretty good, so I’d say it was something.”
Foster’s head jerked up. “Did Pearly tell you that?”
I smiled inwardly. My mom had been right after all; Matthew was the one who had beaten Foster—but why? “It doesn’t matter who told me,” I said. “The only thing that matters at this point is why he did it. Was that reason good enough to want you dead?”
“I’ve never done anything that would make him want to kill me.” Foster smirked. “We just got into a normal family disagreement. Nothing more, nothing less. He’s strong-willed and so am I, and that doesn’t always go good together.”
“What was the fight about?”
“We just had a disagreement about something.”
“About what?”
“Huh?” A befuddled look appeared on his face. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t play stupid,” I said. “You know damn well what I’m asking.”
“Seriously, I don’t.”
“What was the disagreement about?” I asked my question slowly, emphasizing each word.
“To be honest, I don’t really remember.”
“Were you high?”
He shook his head. “I don’t do drugs.”
“Were you drunk?”
“Of course not. I don’t drink when I have to work.”
“Then how is it possible you don’t remember an argument that resulted in your stepson beating the piss out of you?”
“He’s not my stepson.”
“You married his mother, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t make him my stepson.” Foster spat the words. “He’s nothing to me.”
I nodded slowly and leaned back in my chair. “There’s definitely some bad blood between the two of you. If it’s so bad that he wants you dead, then I’m guessing it’s so bad that you could probably get in trouble for it.”
He shifted in his chair and shook his head. “I never did nothing to that boy. I’ve been a good father figure to him, but he never wanted anything to do with me. He was an ungrateful little brat. He was always being bad and doing things he wasn’t supposed to do; destroying other people’s property.”
“Foster…” I leaned forward. “Why don’t you stop with the crap and just tell me what it is that you did. The sooner I find out why he wants you dead, the sooner I can lock him up.”
“I already told you—I never did nothing to him, so it’s not him that wants me dead.”
“Suit yourself.” I stood and grabbed my file. “If you don’t care that someone wants you dead, why should I?”
“Wait, where are you going?”
“You’re free to go.” I opened the door and stood back to make room for him to pass. “Go on about your life. When Matthew finally catches up to you and completes his mission, maybe he’ll leave enough evidence behind so I can arrest him. If not”—I shrugged—“so be it. You had a chance to help yourself but you chose not to.”
Foster didn’t move from his chair. “You can’t make me go out there. Somebody wants me dead.”
“You can’t stay here.”
He stared up at me for a long moment. His shoulders finally fell. “Okay, I’ll tell you what happened, if you think it’ll help, but I don’t believe it had nothing to do with somebody trying to kill me.”
CHAPTER 40
4 days earlier…
Friday, November 18
Mechant Loup, Louisiana
The young boy, who wasn’t so young anymore, pulled into the driveway of his mother’s home in southeastern Louisiana. It was four-thirty in the morning and the headlights from his truck splashed across the front of the two-story, barn-style house. It looked too nice to be his mother’s, so he pulled out his phone and checked the address again. It was correct.
He glanced at his wife, who sat beside him, and whistled. “It seems she’s done well for herself.”
His wife only nodded. Her eyes were red and tired, and he knew she needed sleep. He glanced in the rearview mirror at his grandfather and then over to his special needs sister, Kimberly. Kimberly had been wheelchair-bound ever since an incident occurred when she was a little girl. She had been sent away to live with their grandpa on their father’s side, and the young boy hadn’t seen her for years.
In fact, it wasn’t until he’d run away from his stepdad’s dungeon and joined the military that he first learned Sissy was still alive. He had reconnected with her and his dad’s side of the family, but he lost touch with his mother and her controlling and abusive husband—that is, until a month ago when she made contact with him through his grandpa and requested they come visit for Thanksgiving. She told him she was in poor health and would like to see them before she passed away.
“Matthew, are we sleeping out here in the car?” asked his grandpa. “Or do you plan on letting us out?”
“You know how to use the door handle,” Matthew muttered, watching as the front porch light came on and the door opened. He wasn’t sure how he would feel about seeing his mother again after so long, but he knew for sure how he felt about seeing his stepdad. He’d made a promise to himself, and he intended to keep that promise.
“I’m getting out,” said his wife, Jill, as a woman stepped onto the concrete porch. “I’m guessing that’s your mom. I’m going meet her and I’m going find someplace to crash. I don’t even care if it’s on the floor.”
Pearly Bernard Blake let out a screech when she saw Matthew step out of the truck. Before going to say hello, he opened the back door and helped Grandpa Desmond get Kimberly into her wheelchair. He then stood back while Desmond pushed Kimberly toward the front door. His mom bent forward and threw her arms around Kimberly and held her tight, weeping uncontrollably. Between sobs, she said how good it was to see Kimberly again, and then turned her attention to him.
“Oh, my, you have grown up so much—”
“Where is he?”
Pearly’s face fell. “Please, son, he’s changed. He’s a different man now. All those things he did back then, it was in his youth. He didn’t know how to be a stepdad. He was a kid himself.”
Matthew looked toward the house. “Is he here?”
“Yes.” Pearly’s voice was low. “Please don’t cause a scene. It’s almost Thanksgiving and I haven’t seen you guys in ages. I’d like to have a quiet—”
“Mom, where is he?” Matthew’s voice was firm. “Either you tell me or I’ll tear the place up looking for him.”
Pearly sighed heavily. “He’s in the back yard, sitting by the fire pit having his coffee.”
Matthew didn’t even bother walking inside. Instead, he went around the side of the house and stopped when he saw Foster sitting there with a thick branch in his hand, stoking the fire.
“Hey, asshole, you remember me?”
Foster’s hand froze and he looked up slowly. “M
atthew. How are you, son?”
“I’m not your son.”
“Fair enough.” Foster stood slowly to his feet. “How’ve you been?”
“Remember what I said to you before you pissed in my face?”
“You still mad about that?” Foster spat in the fire. “When are you going to man up and get over that trivial shit?”
Matthew moved closer to him, stopping only when there were several feet separating them. “I told you I was going to make you pay for what you did.”
Foster shifted his strong leg back a little. “Oh, yeah, and you plan to do that now?”
“I’ve thought about it,” Matthew said, “thought about it for a long time. I told myself I’d kill you when I saw you again.”
“Yeah, I remember you saying that when you were knee-high to a short alligator.” Foster chuckled. “I remember laughing my ass off at you.”
Matthew felt his blood boiling, but he took a few slow breaths to remain calm. “Lucky for you, my mom wants to have a nice peaceful Thanksgiving. Otherwise, I’d make good on my promise.”
“A peaceful Thanksgiving?” Foster let out a guttural laugh. “Your mom doesn’t care about Thanksgiving, boy. She called you here to see if either you or your sister is a donor match. She doesn’t want your company—she wants your kidney.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your mom’s as selfish as they come, and it’s time you found that out. The only reason she called you and your sister was to have you come down here so she could pull at your heart strings.” Foster leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Can you imagine how evil a person has to be to try and take a kidney from her handicapped daughter? Kimberly can’t even make a sentence and your mom wants to take the poor girl’s organ.”
Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “You know, I never did tell anyone what really happened that day. Well, I tried, but no one would listen. But that was then, and this is now. When I talk, people tend to take heed nowadays.”
