by BJ Bourg
Burton was relaxed now. The tension had left his face and he was breathing normally. It was my guess he was finally being truthful. “Any idea what could’ve happened to Troy?”
“I don’t know about Troy, but Kegan and Paulie and I were talking about the floating man yesterday at school.” He looked up. “You know, trying to figure out what happened to him.”
Sometimes clues came from the damnedest places. “Well, what’d y’all come up with?”
He hesitated and licked his lips. He opened his mouth to speak, but then stopped. I knew something was on his mind.
“What is it, Burt?” I used the nickname his mom had used, trying to make him feel at ease with me. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“It was Kegan’s idea, but Paulie and I were against it from the beginning.” Burton took a deep breath and exhaled. “We—well, me and Paulie—think it had something to do with the phone call.”
“What phone call?” I glanced sideways at Susan. She was leaning forward in her chair and her expression appeared as curious as I felt.
“Back in August, right before school started, Paulie and his family went on vacation to Gatlinburg, Tennessee,” Burton explained. “Paulie got a gift for Kegan and a gift for me. Well, his mom and dad paid for Kegan’s gift, but mine didn’t cost anything. Kegan got this cool tomahawk, but I got a piece of paper. It was some kind of missing person poster or something. There was a woman and a boy on it and they had disappeared or something. They were endangered, I think.” He paused and thought back. He nodded his head. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it said they were in some kind of danger.
“Anyhow, when Paulie saw the missing person poster on the wall by this shop, he thought the boy looked like me and the lady looked like my mom, so he swiped it.”
Burton paused again and I frowned, wondering where he was going with this story. What did a flyer in Gatlinburg have to do with a man floating in Westway Canal?
“Paulie’s mom had to go to Mechant Groceries later that day, so we all tagged along. We waited in the car at first, but then we saw a payphone and Kegan thought it would be funny to call the number on the poster. We tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted on doing it, so we walked to the payphone with him and watched him make the call.”
I scowled, disappointed. I had been expecting more from his story. “Is that it?”
“He called the number on the poster and said he knew where the missing family was and that he wanted a reward or they’d never find them. The next thing we know, there’s a dead guy in the canal behind our house.” Burton blinked. “I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”
I ran through a number of scenarios in my head, none of which made sense. “I don’t know, Burt. Why would someone come all the way out here to kill somebody just because of a phone call?”
“I don’t know,” Burton said, “but they did.”
I was thoughtful. I glanced over at Susan and she only shrugged. “Where’s the poster?” I asked.
“It was hanging on the refrigerator by a magnet but I can’t find it. I think Cindy threw it away. She’s always messing with my stuff. I looked everywhere, but I haven’t been able to locate it.”
“Do you remember the number Kegan called?”
Burton shook his head. “We didn’t want to call on our cell phones, because we thought we’d get in trouble for making a prank call. That’s why we used the payphone.”
I smiled wryly. “So, you admit that you went along with it?”
“Huh?”
“Earlier you said you and Paulie tried to talk Kegan out of doing it, but you just acknowledged having a part in it.”
He sighed again. “Okay, you got me. We thought it would be funny at first, but that man turned up dead and then we saw the picture of the truck in the newspaper. We figured out it all had to be connected. It scared the crap out of us.”
I drummed my fingers on the desk for about a minute. Finally, I asked if he remembered anything at all about the poster. “Names, dates, locations, descriptions…anything at all?”
He shook his head. “I just remember thinking the boy didn’t look like me at all. Paulie and Kegan thought so, but I didn’t.”
“What did they look like, the woman and boy?”
“They both had brown hair and brown eyes and their complexion was light, but that’s about as close as they came to looking like me and my mom.”
“What day did the phone call happen?”
Burton scowled. “I don’t really remember. You’d have to ask Paulie’s mom.”
It was my turn to sigh. “Okay, if you remember anything—anything at all—you let me know.”
Susan and I stood and walked him to the lobby and told Judith they were free to go.
“We would like to search your back yard and the area around your garage,” I said, indicating with my head toward Cindy. “Just in case Troy made it to your house and hid his bicycle in the back of the garage.”
“Sure…no problem.” Judith looked at Burton and then at Susan and me. “Is Burt in any trouble?”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “He might’ve actually helped us out again.”
“Are you kidding me?” Cindy panted in exasperation, her eyes still swollen from crying. “How does he keep getting away with everything?”
CHAPTER 24
Susan rode with me as we followed Judith Vincent and her children to Dire Lane. After making contact with Rick at his house, we obtained permission to search his back yard and, flashlights in hand, headed for the garage. Rick turned on a bank of floodlights that hung from the soffit along the western side of the house. “Feel free to search inside the garage, too,” he called from the back porch, “just in case Troy hid his bicycle in there.”
I waved my thanks and we searched the back of the detached garage first. The siding on the garage didn’t match the siding on the house and neither did the roof. “I guess this was an aftermarket garage,” I said.
Susan only nodded, as she shined her light behind the two drums positioned along the back side of the garage. They were exactly where Cindy said they would be, but there was no bicycle. I shined my light around the yard. Four chairs were situated around a fire pit at the center of the back yard, a swing stood alone in the far corner, and an aboveground swimming pool was set up near the house. Nothing appeared disturbed.
“It doesn’t look like he made it here,” Susan said as we opened the side door to the garage and stepped inside. There was nothing but a red Ford Mustang in the garage, along with some tools, a riding mower, a push mower, and other miscellaneous items.
I suddenly remembered Mr. Pellegrin and his cameras at the front of the street. I snapped my fingers. “First thing tomorrow morning I’m going to check with Mr. Pellegrin and view his cameras. If Troy rode his bike down this street, we’ll definitely know it.”
Susan and I closed up the garage and thanked Rick Vincent. Next, we made contact with Kegan Davis and his parents, and then Paul Rupe and his parents. Both boys verified what Burton had said, and neither of them remembered anything about the missing person poster other than what we already knew. Paul’s mom remembered it being Saturday, August 6 when they went to Mechant Groceries.
“We got home from vacation on Friday night,” she said, “and I went to the store the next morning. I remembered them hanging out by the payphone, but I had no idea what they were up to.”
“What time did y’all go to the store?” I asked.
She was thoughtful. “It had to be nine or ten, because I started cooking lunch when I got back home.”
Paul remembered stripping the poster from the wall outside of a candy apple store on the strip in Gatlinburg, but he couldn’t remember anything more.
“The people on it just looked a lot like Burton and his mom, so I took it and gave it to him,” Paul said. “I didn’t read it or anything.” After hesitating briefly, he said, “I hope I’m not in any trouble. I mean, it’s not like I stole something. It was just a piece of paper.�
�
I let him know he wasn’t in trouble and, after asking a few more questions, Susan and I left. I dropped Susan off at the police department so she could get her Tahoe, and then followed her home. Damian Conner’s truck was parked in front of the gym and he was sitting on his tailgate. In the glow from the streetlight overhead, I could see that his arms were folded and his jaw was set.
“Looks like you’re in trouble,” I told Susan when I stepped out of my truck and met her in the driveway. Damian had scooted off the tailgate and was heading our way. “Do you think he’ll make you run laps?”
Ignoring my comments, Susan gave a cheerful wave. “Hey, Uncle D, how’s it going?”
“Considering I’ve been waiting here since six…” He stopped when he reached us and shoved his fists against his hips. His left eyelid usually drooped low—no doubt a byproduct of being punched in the face too many times—but it was opened wide at the moment. “You owe me two hours of hard work before you get to have some sleep.”
I chuckled inwardly, turning slowly toward Susan. This’ll be good.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “I’ll get dressed and be out in a minute.”
I did a double-take and watched her turn abruptly and walk to the house. My mouth must’ve been hanging open, because Damian laughed. “What’s the matter, son? She doesn’t listen to you like that?”
“If I ever spoke to her like that, she would probably do a flying arm-bar and snap my elbow in half.”
“Well,” said the man of few words. “It was good chatting, but I need to open the gym.”
I glanced at my phone. It was nine o’clock. Instead of sticking around to watch Susan train, I decided to head to the shelter and finish up what little work was left to be done. Susan was hoping for an October opening, and I wanted to make sure she got it.
We passed each other in the hall and I told her I was heading to the shelter. “I’ll see you when I get back.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “He looks pissed, so I might not make it.”
We both laughed and I quickly dressed into some old shorts and a T-shirt. I called for Achilles to jump in the front seat of my truck and we headed for the back of the property. There was no moon shining overhead and everything was cloaked in utter darkness, save for my stabbing headlights.
When I broke free from the rows of sugarcane that lined either side of the road, I parked in front of the shelter and shut off my engine. I stepped out of the truck and held the door for Achilles. As soon as he hit the ground, he was off. Something had attracted his attention—probably a rabbit or an armadillo—and he was on a search-and-destroy mission.
As I walked up the steps, I considered this place and suddenly remembered Allie Boudreaux and her little boy, Sammy. I pulled out my phone and called Melvin.
“What’s up, Chief?” he asked cheerfully.
“You have to stop calling me that, Melvin.”
“It’s habit.”
“Well, it makes Susan uncomfortable,” I lied, knowing that would get his attention.
“What? Really?” He began stammering. “Gee, look, please tell her I’m sorry. I had no idea. I won’t do it again.”
I broke out laughing and he cursed.
“Are you messing with me?” he asked.
“That’s for you to figure out,” I said, then sobered up. “Look, I’m calling to see if you found Jake Boudreaux yet.”
“No.” Melvin sighed. “I’ve looked everywhere. I think he left town. I put out a BOLO to the sheriff’s office in case they run across him.”
“How’s Allie?”
“Last I heard, she was doing better. Still in a lot of pain, but better.”
I thanked him and ended the call, wondering if she and Sammy might become Susan’s first clients.
CHAPTER 25
Saturday, October 1
I was up bright and early in the morning and drove straight to the Pellegrin residence. I’d spent most of the night cleaning up the shelter, arranging furniture, and installing switch and receptacle wall plates. Things were looking good. Susan had met me at the shelter after her training and, although she was tired, had moved from bedroom to bedroom putting bright new sheets on the beds. We left the place at two in the morning and I’d gotten a little more than three hours of sleep before my alarm went off.
I didn’t drink coffee often, but figured I’d need one today, so I bought a cup on my way to the Pellegrin residence. I took a long swig before stepping out of my Tahoe. I winced as the steaming liquid hit the back of my throat and seemed to burn a hole right through it.
“That’ll leave a mark,” I said out loud, my voice sounding hoarse. I grabbed my notepad and strode quickly up the driveway. While it was clear outside and the sun was just starting to rise, it had to be less than sixty degrees. There wasn’t much of a breeze, but when the wind did stir, it was cool and felt good against my face. I wondered if this meant we were finally going to experience fall-like weather.
I knocked on the door and Mr. Pellegrin answered wearing the same pajamas he’d worn on the first night I met him. Had I not seen him on his way to work that one morning, I’d be convinced these pajamas were all he wore.
“Mr. Pellegrin, how are you?” I smiled wide. “I told you I’d be back for more footage, and here I am.”
“Well, come on in then,” he said, pulling the door wider to make room for me to enter. He began complaining about the approaching Presidential election as we walked to his bedroom. He led the way to a cluttered room and, while things were strewn all about, it was hard to miss the pump-action shotgun leaning in the corner near the head of the bed. “I keep the system in here,” he explained, “because a criminal would have to come through me to get to it, and”—he shoved his thumb in the direction of the shotgun—“that won’t happen.”
He walked to a roll-top desk opposite the bed and shoved the top up, exposing a monitor and hard drive.
“Nice.” I whistled in appreciation, making a mental note to talk to Susan about setting up high-quality cameras around the shelter. “This is a great setup.”
Mr. Pellegrin nodded and pointed to a stool that was propped against the wall. “Drag that over here and have a seat while I pull up the footage. What days and times are we looking at?”
Troy Gandy had left his house around ten o’clock on Thursday night, but I asked Mr. Pellegrin to start at nine o’clock.
The elderly man’s movements were measured, but it seemed as though he knew what he was doing. In one of the split screens to the left, I could see my Tahoe parked in his driveway. He clicked something and all of the screens went blank. I heard a little grunt and I looked up at his face. His busy white eyebrows came together above the bridge of his nose. “That’s strange,” he mumbled to himself.
“What’s strange?” I asked, not liking the way he was acting.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he kept moving the cursor around with the mouse and clicking different features. He clicked a button that read, Playback, and then a calendar appeared at the bottom right of the screen. He clicked on Thursday’s date, but an error message appeared stating that the playback failed and no records matched his request.
“This doesn’t make sense.”
I began to sweat as he maneuvered the cursor around the screen and clicked on the live view. He then grunted and his shoulders fell. “Damn it! I forgot to set it back to record.”
My own shoulders fell. “What? It wasn’t recording?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, detective, but I forgot to set it back to record when I made the copies for you.”
I wanted to groan out loud, but I resisted the urge. After all, it wasn’t his job to catch a killer for me.
He clicked on the record button and said, “Okay, now they’re recording. If you need any more footage, I’ll have it.”
I needed Thursday night’s footage! I wanted to scream, but didn’t. I thanked him and trudged out into the cool morning air. I walked to the edge of his driveway and l
ooked up and down Dire Lane. Troy Gandy might’ve ridden his bicycle right in front of this house—but I’d never know it.
CHAPTER 26
After leaving Mr. Pellegrin’s house, I drove to Mechant Groceries. It was a newer building that had gone up at the corner of a large sugarcane field. The concrete parking area and the foundation upon which the store was built took up about 200,000 square feet of land. More and more, it seemed progress was pushing the cane farmers onto smaller and smaller tracts of land, and I wondered what would happen if they were someday pushed out of existence. I certainly wouldn’t be happy, because thick cane syrup was my favorite pancake topping.
I got a parking spot close to the store and walked inside, making a mental note of the location of the payphone and the surveillance camera as I walked by. It wasn’t very busy at that time of the morning. I hooked a left and stopped at the service desk.
“Can I help you?” asked a young girl who appeared to be a high school student.
I smiled. “Yes, ma’am. I need to speak with a manager.”
She lifted a handset from its cradle and dialed a four-digit number. “Miss Cassandra, there’s a detective asking for you.” She quickly shook her head. “No, not by name—he’s just asking to speak with a manager.”
When the girl returned the handset to the cradle, she smiled and said the manager would be right down. Before the words left her mouth, there was movement from an elevated office behind the counter. On my side of the wall to the office and just behind the young cashier, there were five shelves extending from one end to the other, left to right, and they were filled with every kind of liquor one could imagine. I saw a variety of vodka bottles and felt an urging in my gut to have a drink.
Blinking quickly, I turned away and focused my attention above the top of the wall, where a short stocky girl was lumbering down the stairs. She disappeared for a brief moment and then reappeared around the corner to the left. She stopped when she reached the young girl. Her shirt had the name Cassandra and the title Weekend Manager embroidered on it.
