However Many More

by Bo Thunboe

  Because of the silver. If Mr. Fox had never found it, his dad would still just be an asshole. Now he was a killer.

  Not worth it, he thought to himself. We don’t need the silver because we have each other.

  He texted April those exact words.

  She texted him back immediately: We are enough.

  He smiled and put his phone away.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Jake sped down Jackson toward Henry’s place, eager to get his hands on the black-marbled composition books. One of those books had led Henry to the silver bars. If Jake found the right book, and the right entry, he’d find the silver hoard. Even with Henry’s murder solved, Jake still needed to find the silver. A lost hoard worth ten million dollars would only bring more men like Cole and Trane to town. That would mean trouble.

  He turned into Redhawk Court, driving too fast, the big car slewing in the ruts. He parked in Henry’s front yard, but left the engine running as he waited for the officer Erin sent with the keys. Brueder’s house to the west now blocked the setting sun, and the deep shadow in Henry’s yard felt heavy and cold.

  Jake flipped through his notebook absently, coming across the page where he’d listed his suspects: Griffin, Cole, and Trane, with Bowen penciled in at the bottom after Callie destroyed his alibi. Bowen had seemed the least likely killer among them. Jake had been so sure it was one of the Texans.

  He closed the notebook, thinking about Henry. He shouldn’t have doubted that Henry had found a hoard of five hundred giant silver bars. Henry got pumped up from finding a glass medicine bottle; a single thousand-ounce bar would have been enough for him without feeling the need to invent hundreds more. And he never lied to April, about anything. Not even Santa Claus. If Henry told April there were five hundred big bars, then there were five hundred big bars.

  Millions of dollars in silver hidden right here in Weston.

  His cell phone vibrated and he checked the screen. Coogan.

  “What do you have?”

  “The missing assets of WLB Foods.” Coogan was excited. “I don’t know how this never hit the news.”

  “Tell me.”

  Coogan had spent the day combing through bankruptcy records. With Levi’s information that WLB Foods was part of the Bunker empire, he’d finally figured out the reference to its “missing assets.” It went back to the Bunkers’ attempt to corner the silver market. The Bunkers traded silver using the GWU name—a division of WLB Foods, Inc. And when their attempt to control the silver market failed and their loans were called, the Bunkers put WLB Foods into bankruptcy. As a result, the exchange seized the silver—the brothers had given COMEX a lien on the silver in their possession—but when they did, they found the brothers a million ounces short. COMEX then tried to get the brothers indicted for criminal fraud. The FBI took a look before deciding it was a business dispute, not a criminal matter.

  “Remember Mike Johnson?” Coogan asked. “From our law school class?”

  “Sure.” Johnson had gone into the FBI.

  “I reached out to him, and he called around and found a retired agent who remembered the case. That agent told him they figured out the missing million ounces was from the silver the brothers shipped to Switzerland in 1973. Only thirty-nine million ounces made it into inventory there. They dug into the flight records and learned the cargo weight for both shipments—New York and Chicago—was light by a half million ounces each.

  “Anyway, the judge wanted to close the bankruptcy case, so he listed the missing silver as an asset in the bankruptcy, and that’s what TH Inc. bought: legal title to the missing million ounces. For one hundred thousand dollars.”

  A half million ounces was five hundred of the thousand-ounce bars. The “missing assets” were indeed the silver bars, just as they had suspected.

  Jake told Coogan about April’s bar and that Henry had told her how many he’d found. “Are the bars all subject to COMEX’s lien?” he asked.

  “Nope,” said Coog. “That was wiped off in the bankruptcy. Trane himself then bought clean title from TH Inc. for ten thousand.”

  “The Chicago half of those assets is worth over ten million dollars. That has to be enough to save Trane’s business, or he wouldn’t be here chasing it.”

  “It doesn’t look like the judge overseeing the TH bankruptcy case looked into what the asset was before selling it to Trane. Probably figured it was so old it couldn’t be worth anything.”

  The crunch and pop of tires on gravel sounded in the driveway. The officer had arrived with the keys.

  “You know, I’ve studied Weston history my entire life,” Coogan said. That was true—Coogan had spent countless hours in area archives piecing together Weston history, especially the founding families like the Bunkers and Jake’s mom’s family, the Warrens. “It’s strange that there’s not even a hint of this.”

  “I guess there’s been ten million reasons to keep it a secret,” Jake said. “Hey, I have to go—but thanks for the info.”

  “Any time.”

  The patrol car’s spotlight popped bright, shining on Henry’s front door. Jake was stepping out of his car to tell the officer to shut it down when the officer—it was Bantam—shouted. “Front door is cracked open.”

  Jake sidestepped around the back of Bantam’s car until he had a clear view of the door. The yellow tape used to seal the door was split vertically.

  “Shut down that spotlight.” Jake didn’t want to be backlit when he opened the door. “Cover the back of the house while I go in the front.”

  The spotlight winked off, dusk filling back in around them. Bantam got out of his car. “Should I call for backup first?”

  “Do it. Then go around.”

  Bantam grabbed his shoulder mic, made the request, then darted across the yard in a half crouch, his gun drawn and his feet kicking through the thick leaf cover with a loud rustle.

  Jake drew his gun and held it down along his leg. He stepped up on the concrete stoop and flattened against the wall on the knob side of the door. He leaned his head around the jamb. A crescent-shaped dent next to the doorknob showed where a heel had struck the door and driven it inward. Massive splinters from the shattered wood around the lock prevented the door from closing all the way.

  He put his left palm on the door and pushed. The wood shards groaned and squeaked against each other before the door released with a sudden rip. Someone had worked hard to close the door. No burglar would do that while he was still inside. Which meant Jake wouldn’t need the gun. But he kept in in his hand.

  Just in case.

  He stepped inside, gun leading the way. The fading afternoon sun did a poor job lighting the room, but it was enough to see the place was a disaster. Every stick of furniture had been moved, every knick-knack and souvenir thrown to the floor.

  Jake cleared the house room by room. Henry’s office in particular was a paper tornado, files pulled and flung across the space. But there was no one here.

  He took the basement steps slowly and found the lights on. Cabinets had been flung open and even the detergent boxes emptied. But behind the canvas curtain, everything looked untouched. The search must have ended before it got here. Which meant either the searcher found what he was looking for… or he was interrupted.

  Jake climbed the stairs two at a time, ducking his head to avoid getting brained by the low ceiling, then bee-lined to the front room and the stack of journals by Henry’s reading chair.

  A pair of feet protruded from behind an avalanche of books.

  Grady!

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Jake scrambled to the body, pawing away books and magazines.

  It wasn’t Grady.

  It was Titus Cole.

  “Thank God,” Jake said. He pushed back on his heels and wiped sweat from his face. Grady was still missing, but at least this wasn’t him.

 
Jake pulled a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and struggled into them. He scooted forward and knelt next to the body. Cole lay on his back with his arms flung out. Jake checked for a pulse on Cole’s neck, then at his wrist: nothing. He pulled his flashlight out of the inner pocket of his jacket and shined it on Cole. His face was swollen and red from a beating, one eyebrow split. His corduroy coat gaped open and his shirt reflected a dark, shiny red in the light’s beam.

  Jake stood and straddled the body, lifting the coat aside to get a better look. Four—no, five slits stabbed through Cole’s denim shirt, blood pooled in each. He put his palm on Cole’s face; his flesh was still warm. According to the algor mortis tables—on body cooling—a dead body held its temperature for up to five hours.

  He pushed back one of Cole’s eyelids with a knuckle. It resisted—rigor mortis had set in. Although rigor develops in all muscles simultaneously, the smaller muscles are fully involved much more quickly. He next tried the progressively larger muscles, working Cole’s jaw and his neck. Both were already stiff. But his limbs were still pliable, only the smallest finger joints stiffening. Cole hadn’t been dead long; maybe an hour. The coroner’s interior temperature would give a more accurate estimate. But the hour made sense—the house had been guarded by a patrol cop until a little over two hours before.

  He scanned the scene. When Cole visited Lawrence Bristol this morning, he must have seen Bristol’s current journal and made the same leap Jake had: that Henry had found one that showed the way to the silver. So Cole came here—but the killer got here before him.

  Cole would likely have ignored the busted door and ransacked house—he was a tough guy and had spent a career handling people. And maybe he thought the burglar was gone. But by the way the search had been interrupted in the basement, Jake knew the killer had been here when Cole entered. The killer would have heard the footsteps overhead just like Jake had when the forensic team came in while he’d been in the basement. So the killer came upstairs, overwhelmed Cole, and beat him for the secret of the journal.

  Then killed him.

  Jake used his flashlight to probe the mess for the journals, shuffling the spread of books with his free hand. He found eleven journals, each with a date range on the front. But the journal covering July of 1973, when the silver was moved, was missing.

  He called Callie Diggs.

  “You find the silver?” she asked before he got a word out.

  “I found Titus Cole beaten and stabbed to death in Henry’s front room. How long has Bowen been with you?”

  “Three hours, going on four. How long your guy been dead?”

  “No more than two hours. An officer was guarding the door until then.”

  “So it wasn’t Bowen.”

  “I doubt we have two killers,” Jake said. Both victims were chasing the silver hoard and were killed in the same place, both violently, within a few days of each other.

  “Which would mean Bowen was framed?” Her voice held a cop’s skepticism. “I think you’re taking that too far. At most you can say there’s only one motive.”

  “I have to go,” Jake said. He ended the call, then dialed Erin. “I need you to switch the BOLO on Trane to an APB.”

  “You want him picked up?”

  “Immediately!” He rubbed his face. “I’ve got Titus Cole dead over here at Henry’s and Trane in the wind. And I can’t get ahold of Grady. Bowen’s been with Callie Diggs all afternoon, so this wasn’t him. And tell Deputy Chief Braff I want more uniforms on this search. Call in the next shift early. Call in everybody.” He’d put Grady in harm’s way; he was responsible for him.

  “As soon as backup’s here I’m going to—”

  Erin cut in. “Bantam can hold the scene, Jake. I’ll call forensics and the coroner’s office. You go find Grady.”

  Erin was right. He ended the call and called Bantam inside. Bantam’s face drained white when Jake told him about the body, but the man would do his job. Jake got in his car and got moving.

  As he cleared the driveway the first screaming siren turned onto Jackson.

  * * *

  Jake sped down the short stretch of Jackson to the Bristol Yard. The gate was open, and he rolled down the rutted gravel drive and into the open space in front of the garages. It was nearly full dark, and the gravel expanse was a ghostly white in the gloom. No Jetta. No pickup.

  George came out of the garage, and Jake spun his car in a tight circle to bring his window to the man, lowering it as he went.

  “Did that big man come back here this afternoon?”

  “No.” The yard light went on over George’s head. and he flinched. “What’s going on?”

  “How about a thirtyish guy in a white Jetta?”

  George started shaking his head before Jake finished his question. “I haven’t seen anyone since the gravel guy dumped a load an hour ago.” He pointed to a load of crushed stone at the far end of the lot.

  “The gate’s open.”

  “I guess I didn’t close it after.”

  Jake pulled a card from his shirt pocket. “My cell number’s on the back of this. Call me if the big man or the Jetta come in here.”

  “I was just about to leave.”

  “Now you’re staying. Think about the overtime.” Jake gassed it and spun gravel as he fishtailed his way back onto Jackson.

  He cut through the VFW parking lot to the long narrow curve of parking lot stretching along the river from the Bristol Yard to the big lot at Centennial Beach, the swimming facility built into an old limestone quarry. With the pool closed and the baseball season long over there were only a few cars clustered near the skateboard park.

  No Jetta. No truck.

  Jake gripped the wheel tight. Where are you, Grady? He wove through downtown toward Lanigan House. Traffic was building into the after-work rush hour, and he had to wait five cars deep at most stop signs. Neither vehicle was at the B&B.

  He swung his car around and started a concentric sweep, edging a block out on each pass. He saw multiple Jettas, but no white ones. Multiple trucks, but not Trane’s.

  He pulled into the library parking lot and called Erin.

  “Have the communications division look at the downtown video for the last two hours.” There were cameras all through downtown. If they caught Trane driving through it might give him a clue where to look.

  “DC Braff put them on it a few minutes ago. He also called Sheriff Warren, and she put it out as high priority to her patrols and sent three cars to cruise our streets.”

  An excited commotion broke out on Erin’s end of the line.

  “What’s going on?” Jake asked.

  “Hang on. They might have something.”

  Jake couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was frantic.

  Erin came back on the line. “A patrol unit found Grady’s car where Webster dead ends at the tracks.”

  “And Grady?”

  “Just his car.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  “What about Trane? Or his truck?” Jake asked.

  “Neither. And Jake? There’s blood.”

  Shit!

  Jake ended the call and got moving. He pulled out of the library parking lot and shot east on Jefferson to Webster, then fought traffic for two blocks. It thinned out as he left the shopping district. Ahead, the red and blue of squad car lights strobed down the tunnel of trees hanging over the road.

  His phone vibrated with another call. He answered without looking.

  “Have we found him?”

  “Mr. Houser?”

  Shit—it was April. He should have checked the screen. He pulled to the curb and tried to focus. “Hello, April.”

  “I just saw a tweet that said you found a body at Dad’s house. I was there yesterday!”

  “It happened today,” he said quickly. How the hell did t
his information get out so fast? “Just a few hours ago.”

  “Who is it? Do you know who did it? I know Mr. Bowen didn’t do it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He’s been with that other detective all afternoon.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “His son. Conner. We’re, uh, friends.”

  More than friends, by the hesitation. He thought back. He was sure the boy she’d been caught with hadn’t been Conner Bowen. That kid had been thick and hard like a linebacker. Bowen was a whip-thin artsy type. “You never mentioned that.”

  “I guess it never came up, but we’re together. He came home from Northwestern to be with me because of… what happened.”

  “April, I’m sorry, but I need—”

  “If there’s a killer still out there, are my mom and—”

  “We’ll talk later, okay? I’ll come over.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes.” He needed to get off the phone. “I promise.”

  “Okay.”

  Jake looked at his phone for several hard seconds. Conner and April. He’d missed it. But did it matter? All signs pointed at Trane, and that needed to be his focus. He’d stop by to talk to April later tonight as he’d promised. Then he could drill her about Conner and about the big silver bar under her bed.

  He pushed the phone into his pocket and got the cruiser moving again.

  * * *

  Webster ran straight into the circular driveway of a townhouse development that spread along the railroad tracks. The patrol unit with the flashing cherries sat in the right hand of the circle with its headlights blazing on Grady’s Jetta. Jake circled around to the left and added his lights to the brilliance, then levered himself out of the car.

  A uniformed officer scanning the pavement around the Jetta swung his flashlight beam up into Jake’s eyes.

  Jake held up his badge. “Lower the light, officer.”

  “Sorry, Detective.”

  The light pulled away, and Jake joined the officer in the wash of headlight glare, blinking away the afterimages from the flashlight. “Wallace, right?” he asked the officer.