But Not Forever: A Clint Wolf Novel (Clint Wolf Mystery Series Book 4)

by BJ Bourg

Once I was in my office at the police department, I called Mayor Cain and let her know everything I’d learned up to that point. She was unbothered by the progress of the case, saying she was confident I would solve it in good time, but she asked me more than once how I liked the job and if I needed anything. She seemed satisfied once I told her how fulfilling it was to be doing police work again.

  “I’m in it for the long haul,” I said, “so you’d better not go losing any elections.”

  She promised to remain mayor as long as I agreed to continue working as the town detective.

  As we spoke, I began a basic name inquiry on Fowler Underwood. By the time we’d ended the call, I was holding a printout and perusing the details. There wasn’t much to the man. He was born on Memorial Day sixty-five years ago and he lived in Birchtown, Tennessee. I’d never heard of Birchtown, so I looked it up. It was a rural community in Blackshaw County and it was such a small town it didn’t have its own police department.

  I did an Internet search for private investigators named Fowler Underwood, but there were none. Next, I accessed the Tennessee database of private investigators and ran a name inquiry on Underwood. When the search results returned, I learned that there wasn’t a Fowler Underwood with a P.I. license in any part of Tennessee. Maybe he’d let his license expire? What if he wasn’t even a real private investigator? What if he was some sort of imposter? His business card did seem homemade.

  “What the hell were you investigating, man?” I asked out loud, staring at his picture.

  I thought about calling the Blackshaw County Sheriff’s Department, but decided to map out the route instead. It was ten hours from the front door of the police department to Underwood’s address. I needed to go up there and find some answers. It was possible the killer followed him down here and then returned to Tennessee, but that would mean Troy Gandy’s murder was unrelated. I shook my head. The two cases had to be related. It was too coincidental.

  I leaned back in my chair and threw my legs up on my desk to think. What if Troy was riding down Dire Lane when the killer was leaving in Underwood’s old blue truck? The killer might’ve known the truck had been featured in the local news. If Troy saw the killer in the truck, he or she might feel compelled to get rid of Troy.

  I needed to know what Underwood knew, and that meant I needed to get to his house or office. I had to view his records. But how would I get inside his house? And what if I was wrong about Underwood being in the morgue? What if he was still alive and was the actual killer?

  I dropped my boots to the floor and conducted another inquiry, this time trying to find out if Underwood had any living relatives. It appeared his wife was deceased and he had two children; a girl named Melissa—if the information was correct—and a son who carried his name. The most recent address listed for Junior was at least five years old, and it was his dad’s house. It appeared Melissa had fallen off the face of the earth. The last time she was listed at her dad’s address, or any address, was eighteen years ago, and I couldn’t find anything else under her name.

  I called Susan to tell her I’d have to head to Tennessee.

  “Tonight?” she asked.

  “No…right now. I want to get there as soon as I can so I can be home by tomorrow.”

  “Does that mean you’re standing me up for lunch?”

  “I would never stand you up. I’ll leave after we eat.” I got on my cell phone as I walked out to the sidewalk and strode down the street to meet her. When the mayor answered, I let her know what I’d found out and told her I wanted to do some digging in Tennessee. “If I can find out what this Underwood fellow was working on, it might shed some light on my case.”

  She agreed it was the right thing to do and told me she’d have her secretary cut me a check for expenses.

  “No time for that,” I said. “I’m leaving as soon as I eat lunch with Susan.”

  “Keep your receipts,” she said as I ended the call.

  I wasn’t worried about receipts. My mind was already in Tennessee, wondering what I’d find. Truth be told, I didn’t even want to stop for lunch. I wanted to be there already.

  CHAPTER 33

  1:38 p.m.

  Chateau General Hospital

  After Clint left for Tennessee, Susan had contacted the jail to make sure Jake Boudreaux was still locked up. Once she’d received confirmation that he was, she’d picked up Sammy and headed to the hospital.

  “How’re you feeling?” Susan asked Allie, who was gingerly slipping on her sandals.

  Allie clutched at her side with one hand and straightened over the crutches once her sandals were strapped in place. “It still hurts, but at least I can move around now.”

  Sammy stood near Allie and his face was scrunched up as he watched his mom. “Mommy, do you want me to carry you?”

  Susan and Allie laughed, but Allie stopped abruptly. “It hurts to laugh.” Balancing on the crutches, she patted Sammy’s head. “No, my little tiger…Mommy can walk.”

  A nurse walked in with the discharge papers and handed them to Allie. “Okay, you’re free to leave. I already went over your home care instructions, but they’re written on this form in case you forget.”

  Allie took the forms and tucked them under her arm while Susan gathered up her bags of clothes.

  “What about all of the stuff I have at home?” Allie asked. “Everything I own is in that house.”

  “We’ll stop by and get as much of your personal items as possible,” Susan promised. “After the trial and once we find you a permanent residence, we’ll help you get everything out.”

  “What if Jake gets out of jail first and destroys all my stuff?”

  Susan waved her hand. “He’s not getting out. His bond’s half a million dollars. And even if he did post bail, the detention center would notify us in advance and we’d be able to get a U-haul truck out there and pick up everything before he gets back home.”

  “Good. I hope he rots in jail.” She patted Sammy’s head. “Are you ready to move into our new temporary home?”

  “What about my toys?” he asked. “Will I get to play with them again?”

  “Once we stop at the house, you can pick out five of your favorite ones to bring with us,” Allie said. That seemed to satisfy Sammy and he strolled along beside Allie.

  Susan followed them down the hall. She was smiling on the inside. This was what she’d always wanted to do—help women get out of abusive relationships—and, thanks to Clint and a few unfortunate circumstances, she was realizing that dream.

  Once everyone had piled into Susan’s Tahoe, she paused to check her phone, hoping Clint had contacted her. She frowned when he hadn’t. This would be her first night apart from him since they’d moved in together, and it made her a little sad.

  After a quick stop at Allie’s house for more clothes and Sammy’s toys, Susan drove them to the shelter at the end of Paradise Place.

  “Do you live in the house at the beginning of the street?” Allie asked, pointing to it when they passed.

  Susan nodded. “If you need anything at all, just give me a call. All of my contact information is written on the peg board in the kitchen.”

  Susan and Clint had talked about installing a gate at the entrance to Paradise Place, and she made a mental note to get working on it. It would be another layer of security and it wouldn’t hurt.

  “Wow! It’s so big!” Sammy said when he stepped out the back of the Tahoe and stared up at the old plantation home. “Is this our new house, Mommy?”

  “No, sweetie, we’re just staying here for a little bit until it’s safe to go back home.”

  “I want to stay forever!” Sammy ran over and lumbered up the steps and onto the porch. He ran back and forth along the length of the porch, laughing at the sounds his shoes made on the hollow wood.

  Susan smiled. “He’s precious.”

  “He’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “Clint thinks he’s awesome.” The corner of Susan’s m
outh curled downward, thoughtfully. “I saw the way Clint looked at him, as though he wished for a child again.”

  “What do you mean, again?”

  Susan told Allie what had happened with Abigail, watching as Allie’s eyes widened in horror.

  “Dear Lord, that’s horrible!” Allie said.

  Susan nodded. “He doesn’t talk about it much, but I can still see the pain in his eyes sometimes. It’s like he’s looking at me but not even seeing me. And then he’ll snap out of it and get embarrassed for not hearing what I was saying.”

  “I bet he was an amazing father. He was so good with Sammy…unlike that piece of shit, Jake.” Tears formed in Allie’s eyes. “The sad thing is that Sammy loves his dad so much. He doesn’t know what a bad man he is and I’m afraid it’ll break his little heart when he realizes he won’t be seeing Jake anymore.”

  “Let’s not dwell on that now.” Susan said, putting a hand around Allie’s back and helping guide her up the steps. “Let’s just focus on getting you better.”

  Allie nodded and did her best not to lose her balance. “It’s so hard to walk on crutches. I feel like such a spaz with these things.”

  Susan nodded her understanding and let go of Allie when she made it to the landing. She then unloaded all of their things and placed them in the room Allie had selected. When they were done in there, Susan showed her around the rest of the first level of the shelter. “I’ll show you the upstairs once your leg is healed.”

  “I appreciate that,” Allie said. “I had a hard enough time making it up the steps. I couldn’t imagine going way up there.”

  “Well,” Susan said after a bit, “I have to get back to work. Call if you need anything.”

  She ambled back to her Tahoe and stopped to check her email account from her phone. She’d received messages from half a dozen police social service officers congratulating and thanking her for what she was doing. She smiled and tossed her phone on the console. The sense of accomplishment she felt was like none other. “When I die,” she said aloud to no one, “I want to be remembered for helping women and children in need.”

  As though in response to her statement, the police radio scratched to life and Lindsey’s voice boomed through the speakers. Susan jerked at the unexpected noise and laughed at herself, but stopped suddenly when Lindsey told Takecia to respond to North Project Road.

  “A farmer located a blue truck on the property,” Lindsey said. “He thinks it’s the one from the news.”

  Susan fired up her engine and smashed the accelerator, racing up Paradise Place and then north on Main. Without taking her eyes off the road, she grabbed her phone and called Clint. He answered on the first ring.

  “Where are you?” she asked, glancing at the clock on the dash. Clint had left at twelve-thirty and it was now a little after two.

  “Just getting into Mississippi.” Clint must’ve had his radio on, because he asked if she was heading to North Project Road.

  “Yeah, I’m just down the highway. Do you want me to process it, or wait until you get back?” she asked.

  Clint hesitated. “Do you think I should come back? I can make this trip later in the week.”

  “No,” Susan said quickly. “You have to find out what Underwood was investigating. I’ll process the area where the truck was located and then secure it in the sally port. I can work it up if you like, or I can just lock it down for when you get back.”

  “No, you can work it if you want. I wonder how long it’s been back there.”

  “It couldn’t have been before Wednesday, because we would’ve seen it on the tape from Mr. Pellegrin.”

  “That’s true.” Clint hesitated again, then finally sighed. “Okay, just be careful. We don’t know who the killer is and—”

  “And what? Are you worried about me?”

  “I’m always worried about you.”

  “That’s so flattering”—Susan slowed as she approached the intersection to North Project Road—“but you don’t need to worry about me. You need to worry about whoever crosses me.”

  Clint chuckled. “Still, be careful.”

  “I will.” The phone bounced against her ear as the Tahoe jostled over the uneven surface. She saw a tractor on the northern shoulder of the road just ahead and she told Clint she’d have to go. “I’m pulling up to the farmer who called it in, so I’ve got to get out.”

  “Let me know what you find…and be safe.”

  She hung up and saw movement in her rearview mirror. Squinting to see through the cloud of dust she’d left in her wake, she recognized Takecia’s patrol cruiser flying up behind her.

  CHAPTER 34

  The farmer was an old wiry guy with a bent back. He had to lean to the side and push his straw hat high on his head to look up at Susan. Lindsey had told Susan his name was Chet Robichaux, which meant he was related to half the townspeople, as Robichaux was a common name in these parts.

  “How are you, Mr. Robichaux?” Susan smiled warmly at the old man. “I bet you’ve had better days.”

  “Chief,” he said simply, nodding his head in greeting and his agreement.

  Susan glanced at the farm tractor with the large bush hog attached to the back of it. A wide path had been cut right down the middle of the field and it disappeared in the tall grass to the right. “Where’d you find the truck?”

  He pointed northward across the field. “Somebody drove it right across the field and crashed it into the canal that borders our property to the right. I almost didn’t see it.”

  Takecia walked up to Susan. “Chief, do you want me out here or you want me watching the town? There are two calls pending—a civil dispute and a lock-job.”

  “Yeah, handle those two complaints. I’ve got this.” Susan turned back to Mr. Robichaux. “Can I drive my Tahoe across the field?”

  He nodded. “It’s bone dry. We haven’t had rain in weeks. Follow me.”

  The old man climbed up on the tractor and fired it up. With the bush hog suspended in the air, he lumbered across the field and Susan followed him. They traveled along the path Robichaux had cut through the field, and the surrounding weeds swallowed them up. They made a left through the maze of thick grass and then veered slightly toward the right. After traveling about two hundred yards, the mower path reached the very edge of the canal and Mr. Robichaux stopped his tractor.

  Susan craned her neck to see over the grass that grew at the edge of the canal as she dismounted, but it wasn’t until she walked around the front of her Tahoe that she saw taillights peeking up out of the thick weeds. She could see the back of the truck well enough to notice the license plate had been removed.

  She squatted and studied the ground directly behind the truck where Mr. Robichaux had already passed the bush hog. It was so dry and packed that there wasn’t even a hint of a trail. She looked toward the tall weeds from which the truck must have travelled, but she couldn’t discern a pathway.

  “You mind if I keep cutting?” the old man asked. “I’ve got to get this field cleaned before the sun goes down.”

  Standing to her feet, Susan nodded and thanked him for his time. She then drew her expandable baton and shook it out. She whacked at the weeds along the edge of the canal and cleared a path to the driver’s door. Once she was beside it, she pulled some latex gloves from her shirt pocket and reached up to carefully open the door.

  The ditch was deep and she had to push off of the front tire to climb into the cab. Once there, she pulled out her flashlight and shined it around the interior. It was empty. There wasn’t a piece of paper or a receipt or any other item in the cab. It had been cleaned out. The windshield on the driver’s side had been busted, but there wasn’t any glass on the hood, which made it look like an old break. She slid her hand toward the crack in the dashboard where the VIN plate would be, but felt a mangled mess of metal and plastic.

  “What the hell?” Retrieving her phone, she stretched out her arm and took a picture of the area. She then studied the image—it had b
een ripped out. “Someone doesn’t want us to know who this truck belongs to.”

  Pushing against the steering wheel with her left hand, she crawled across the front seat and opened the glove box. It was empty. She pulled down the visors, checked the cracks in the seat, maneuvered her way to the narrow back area, and checked under the seats. Nothing.

  After working her way out of the cab, she scrambled up the bank of the canal and lifted the back hatch of the camper shell and, taking a deep breath and holding it, slid belly-down into the bed of the truck. It was also empty.

  After dropping back to the ground, she made a thorough search of the area surrounding the truck and began taking photographs, but she was unable to locate anything of evidentiary value. Everything was so dry that the person who crashed the truck had been able to walk away without leaving a trace.

  Wiping sweat from her forehead, Susan called Lindsey and asked her to have a wrecker proceed to her location. A cool breeze began to blow and it felt good against her skin. She was shoving her radio into her belt clip when the rustling weeds parted for a split second and sunlight glinted off of something deep in the canal. It was off to the right of the truck, about forty feet away.

  Susan walked along the canal—pushing thick clumps of weeds down with her boots as she proceeded forward—and curiosity mounted as more sunlight flickered through the foliage. When she was standing directly over the object, she took a careful step into the canal and pushed some of the heavier bushes to the side. When it came into view, she grunted. It was a black and silver bicycle—Troy’s bike.

  “The same person who killed Fowler Underwood definitely killed Troy Gandy,” Susan told Clint when he answered her call.

  “How do you know that?” Clint asked.

  “The killer dumped Troy’s bicycle forty feet from where Fowler’s truck was crashed in the canal.”

  “So, it’s not a coincidence.”

  “I’m afraid not.” Susan slid the rest of the way to the bottom of the canal, but managed to stay upright. She gave Clint a detailed description of the bicycle as she visually examined it. She pushed more weeds down with her foot when she saw something silver against the ground. She sat on her heels and moved the individual blades of grass aside. “Damn, this might be the murder weapon.”