Hollow Bond (A Magnolia Parish Mystery Book 2)

by BJ Bourg

  I jotted some information in my notebook, retrieved the pictures I’d printed the night before of the ring. “Can you look at these and tell me if you recognize this ring?”

  “My eyes are blurry.” Janice wiped her face on the bed sheet and took the pictures. She flipped through them, spending a few seconds on each one, handed them back. “What’s this got to do with us?”

  “Do you recognize it?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Does the phrase, The Bomb, mean anything to you?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know anything about this. Does it have something to do with the case?”

  I sighed. “I’m not sure. I received an anonymous call from someone wanting to meet with me. He said he knew something about your husband’s murder.”

  Janice’s head jerked around. “What did he say? Did he say who did it?”

  “He wasn’t there when I arrived, but he left this ring on my windshield.” I shoved the pictures in my notebook, stood to leave. “Take care of yourself, Mrs. Prince. I’ll be in touch soon.”

  CHAPTER 29

  I called Captain Theriot before stepping out at the Magnolia Parish Substation, told him what I’d learned that morning.

  “Okay, keep at it,” came his gruff reply. “Melvin’s taking another crew of trustees out to the landfill for one last look around.”

  “If Shelby’s out there, we would’ve found her by now.”

  “Maybe.” He hung up without saying another word.

  I entered our office and looked around. Dawn wasn’t there, so I began drafting my report while I had some free time. About forty minutes later, I was elbow deep into describing the crime scene when I heard boots echoing down the hall. I leaned back and saw Dawn step through the door. She wore a red shirt that hugged her body like it was painted on her.

  She tossed her bag on a chair and sat at the corner of my desk. “Detective Tricia Clark and Janice’s family are staying at the Payneville Hotel.”

  I nodded absently, turned back to my notes.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Dawn wanted to know.

  “Getting caught up on the report.”

  “Boring!” Dawn slid off my desk and sauntered away, headed up the hall. A few moments later I heard her talking with Becky.

  Soon, their voices were but a low drone to the tapping of my fingers against the keyboard. Words jumped on the page as I detailed everything we’d found at the scene, the measurements we’d taken, the evidence we’d recovered—

  “Brandon, get in here!”

  I snapped my head up. “What?”

  “Come to the front,” Dawn called. “I think we’ve got a live one here.”

  I pushed away from my desk and hurried up the hall to where Dawn and Becky huddled in the corner of the room. Dawn pointed to the bank of police radios charging on a shelf next to them. “Listen, someone’s reporting a theft of a gray Charger.”

  After a brief wait, the radio scratched to life. “Dispatch, 111, respond to 206 Graven Street and meet with a Mrs. Sharon Harrison.”

  “Ten-four, Dispatch. En-route.”

  “We just talked to her yesterday,” Dawn said.

  I rushed down the hall toward our office to grab my keys, called over my shoulder, “Radio 111 and tell him we’ll handle it.”

  When we were in my cruiser heading to the house, Dawn looked at me and nodded. “I’m thinking grandma knows more than she was saying.”

  “We’re about to find out.” I drove to Sharon Harrison’s house in record time and came to a skidding stop in her driveway, kicking shells and dust into the air as I did so. We stepped out and paused to study the ground where we’d seen the Charger just the day before. There was no broken glass and no other evidence that would suggest the car had been stolen.

  I shook my head, walked to the door and knocked loudly. Sharon Harrison had some explaining to do.

  “Detectives,” she said when she came to the door. “I’m so glad it’s y’all. Someone stole my car last night. It was here when I went to bed and when I woke up it was gone.”

  I opened my mouth to fire a question, but Dawn put a hand on my shoulder, and asked patiently, “Was the car locked?”

  “Of course. I always lock my car.”

  “It doesn’t appear they broke any windows, because there’s no glass on the ground,” Dawn explained.

  “Oh, I would’ve heard if they broke the glass,” Sharon said. “I have an alarm on it. They must have used one of those metal things the cops have.”

  Dawn and I looked at each other.

  “Ma’am,” Dawn said, “your alarm would’ve gone off even if they would’ve used the slide bar. The only way your alarm won’t sound is if the thief had the key.”

  Sharon Harrison’s brows furrowed. “Then how did they take it?”

  “They must’ve had a key,” Dawn repeated slowly.

  Sharon shook her head positively. “I have the only keys. They’re both on the same key ring.”

  “Can we see them?” I asked.

  “Are you calling me a liar?” Sharon’s eyes narrowed. “I never did like you, not from the moment I saw you, and now I know I’m—”

  “Ma’am,” Dawn said reassuringly. “It’s okay. He’s just doing his job the way he was trained. He doesn’t know how to talk to a woman yet. Look, I need to get the product code off of the keyless remote so we can know what frequency to use to track down your car.”

  Sharon glared at me. “Why didn’t he just say so?”

  I stifled a grin, nodded my apology. I stepped aside so Dawn could enter the house first. We followed Mrs. Harrison to the counter. She opened the cabinet above the stove and felt around with her hand. “I keep them up here, but now that he’s seen it,” she indicated with her head toward me, “I’ll have to hide it someplace—”

  Sharon Harrison froze, turned to Dawn, her mouth wide. “They’re gone!”

  “Who else knew they were there?” Dawn asked.

  “Only Martin, but he always asks before he uses my car.”

  Dawn turned to me. “Let’s go.”

  We hurried out the house and I raced toward East Bayou Lane. I was still halfway up the street when Dawn pointed. “I see the Charger...it’s in Martin’s driveway.”

  I parked behind the Charger and jumped out. “I’ll get the back!”

  I jogged around to the back of the modest Victorian-style home. I heard Dawn rapping loudly on the front door. Snatching my Beretta from its holster, I tiptoed quickly up the wooden steps, across the back porch, and planted myself beside the French doors. There were yellow curtains across the windows, but I’d noticed a large separation in the middle. I planted my feet and was preparing to move when I heard what sounded like a branch snapping in the trees behind the house. I spun around and aimed my pistol in the direction of the noise, watched for any hint of movement in the shadows of the trees. The wind blew through and gently caressed the tall grass and rustled the leaves on the trees, but those were the only movements I saw.

  After a long and tense moment of nothing happening, I sighed, realizing it must’ve been a critter. I turned my attention back to the door. I wanted to look through the window, so I took a deep breath, then quickly moved out from behind cover and peeked through the opening in the curtain for a brief moment. I then jerked back to my original position, squatted against the wall. I sat there breathing heavy, trying to process what I’d seen. I shook my head. I needed to be sure. I took another deep breath, did a second quick-peek.

  “Dawn!” I hollered. “Get here quick!”

  CHAPTER 30

  Using the tire tool from the trunk of my cruiser, I pried open the French doors to Martin Harrison’s home. Once inside the dimly lit house, I palmed my Beretta and, with Dawn covering me, carefully approached the body that slouched in the recliner. I was still several feet from it when I saw the gun in the man’s limp left hand, resting in his lap. It was a large revolver, six-inch barrel, Smith and Wesson. There was a dime-siz
ed hole in the man’s left temple and his head was slumped forward. Blood traced down his face and pooled in his lap. The smell of gunpowder still clung to the air in the room.

  I felt Dawn in my back pocket, turned my face to the side and whispered, “This scene’s fresh.”

  I moved closer and noticed something dangling in front of the man’s face, but his head was down and I couldn’t be sure what it was. Dawn fanned out to my left, her gun sweeping the room. Together, we quietly surveyed our surroundings. Everything seemed secure in the living room. Using hand signals, we made our way quietly throughout the house, checking one room and then another, until we were sure the house was empty. The only other exterior door was positioned off of the laundry room. It was closed and the doorknob locked.

  When we returned to the living room, we holstered our guns and went outside to call it in. I spoke to Captain Theriot while Dawn broke out her laptop to apply for an electronic search warrant.

  “Is this tied to the murder?” Captain Theriot wanted to know.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “At first blush, it looks like a contact gunshot wound to the head.”

  “Suicide?”

  “Looks that way from here, but we’ll have to dig around to make sure. I don’t know how or if this connects to the case. I’ll call when we know more.”

  “Okay. Do you want me to send more detectives your way?”

  “No, we’re good. I think Karla and Dudley are in the area. We’ll call them if we need anything.” Without waiting for a response, I hung up and leaned against my cruiser, thought better of it. The beating sun had cooked the metal to the point that it was quite possible to fry an egg on the surface.

  About ten minutes after I ended the call, Dawn gave the thumbs up that the search warrant had been signed.

  I retrieved my camera from the trunk of my unmarked cruiser, handed it to Dawn.

  “Why me?” she asked in a playful tone. “Why don’t you call Jill from the hospital to come and take your pictures? She can have my job, remember?”

  “You know you’re the best,” I said. “I just told her that to make her feel good.”

  When Dawn had taken a series of photographs in the living room and I had made notes about the condition of the scene, I flipped on the light switch and moved to the body for a closer examination. Upon easing the head up, I realized what had been dangling in front of the man’s face...his eyeballs.

  Dawn walked over and took a picture of the front of his face. “That’s a new one for me. It looks like he’s wearing circus eyes.”

  “The pressure from the gunshot popped them right out.” I allowed the victim’s head to rock forward to its original position. I looked around the room and noticed a white sheet of paper on a coffee table. I walked over and saw that there was a typed-written message on it. “Did you get a picture of this?”

  “I got an overall, but not a close-up.” Dawn joined me, bent to shoot it. She straightened when she was done. “It’s got today’s date on it.”

  With a gloved hand, I lifted the note and read it aloud.

  “June 21...I’m sorry mamma. I love you. Marty.” I returned to the body and leaned close to his face, tried to imagine what he looked like with his eyeballs in the correct place. “Marty...I think I know this kid.”

  “How?”

  “He goes to the same boxing gym I go to. I talked to him yesterday.” My mind raced, as questions zipped in and out of my thoughts. How does he factor into the case? Did he have anything to do with the beating death of Bill Prince, the attack on Janice, and kidnapping Baby Shelby? If so, why kill himself now? And where’s the baby? What if the gray Charger was just a coincidence and he killed himself for some other reason?

  “How well did you know him?” Dawn asked. “Do you think it’s possible he was involved in the murder?”

  “I only talked to him briefly, but I knew him well enough to know he’s no brutal killer. Any coward can shoot someone, but beating a person to death”—I shook my head—“that requires commitment. Marty didn’t possess the type of brutal staying power that’s necessary to pummel the heartbeat out of someone. He was just some kid interested in boxing.”

  “You don’t think he killed Bill Prince?”

  “At this point, we don’t even know if his mom’s Charger is connected to the case at all.”

  “I don’t know,” Dawn said. “It seems mighty coincidental that we’re looking for a gray Charger involved in a murder and when we find the gray Charger, the driver is dead. If he had nothing to do with it, why kill himself?”

  “His mom must’ve told him we were looking for the car. Maybe he freaked out.”

  “About what?” Dawn asked. “If I heard you were looking for my car and I knew I was innocent, I certainly wouldn’t go blowing my eyeballs out. Now, if I had something to do with the murder and the cops were closing in on me, then I might freak out and do something stupid like press a hand cannon to my temple and pull the trigger. So, if he had nothing to do with it, why’s he sitting there with his eyeballs on his cheeks?”

  “I have no idea, Dawn. I really don’t.” I glanced around. “Let’s toss this place and see if we can’t find some answers.”

  I walked with Dawn down the hallway, looking for Martin’s bedroom. I pointed when we reached the room at the end of the hall. It was the only messy one. “I think this one’s his.”

  She nodded. “You know how boys can’t pick up after themselves.”

  I only grunted, pushed open the door. The room was more than messy—it was disgusting. Several half filled glasses of milk sat on a nightstand to the left of the bed and a bunch of cookie wrappers were on the floor. Dawn moved to the opposite side of the room and started digging around.

  “I guess he loved his cookies and milk in bed,” I said, leaning to smell the milk. Sour. “A few days old, by the taste of it.”

  Dawn’s head jerked around. “Did you really drink it?”

  I laughed. “Of course not. I don’t have cookies to go with it.”

  She laughed, bent over her side of the bed and reached an arm under it. I almost asked what she’d found, but she came up carrying a shoebox. “I think I’ve got something.”

  I made my way to where she was and watched as her latex-covered hands set the box on the bed like it was a bomb. She slowly removed the top. We both gasped when we saw the contents.

  “Jesus Christ!” she said.

  CHAPTER 31

  I reached my hand over Dawn’s shoulder and counted with my finger. There were six stacks of one-hundred dollar bills lined side-by-side in the box, individually wrapped with rubber bands. I whistled. “How much do you think is in there?”

  “Each stack has to be at least a thousand dollars.” Dawn flipped through one of the stacks. “It’s hard to count money with gloves on.”

  “What’s this kid doing with that much cash hidden under his bed?” I asked. “And what made you think to look there?”

  “It’s where I hid my diary,” she explained. “In a shoe box under my bed with the pair of shoes on top of it.”

  “Who were you hiding it from? Your parents?”

  “My sister.” Dawn went out to my cruiser and brought back a case filled with evidence bags, shoved the shoebox in one of them. We searched the rest of the room, inch-by-inch, and when we were satisfied there were no other items of evidentiary value, we set out to process the scene where the body was located. Once we were done, we swabbed Martin’s hands as part of a presumptive gunshot residue kit. I nodded when the test indicated the presence of nitrates on his left hand.

  “He definitely fired this gun,” I called over my shoulder to Dawn, who was labeling a firearm evidence box.

  “What gave that away, Einstein?” she asked. “The large revolver still in his hand?”

  When I was out of the way, she carefully removed the revolver from Marty’s hand and examined it. When she was done, she secured the evidence in the trunk of my cruiser.

  We then searched the r
emainder of the house, beginning with the living room. On a mantle above a stone fireplace, I found a large photograph of Sharon Harrison with her son, Martin Harrison. I nodded. “Yep, it is Marty from the gym.”

  I remained there, studied Marty’s face as though I expected some vital bit of information to suddenly leap off the picture.

  Dawn scooted beside me. “Why do you think this kid shot himself?”

  I rubbed the stubble of growth on my chin. It was way past time for a shave. “Not sure, but if we can figure out what was going through his head before he pulled the trigger, we might find out if he’s involved with our murder case.”

  She grunted. “I can tell you what went through his head after he pulled the trigger.”

  I stifled a laugh and whipped my head around when an obnoxious ring-tone blared from somewhere close by. Dawn and I looked at each other, scrambled to try and find the source of the ring. The tone was loudest in the living room and it became clear the sound originated under Marty’s body.

  I clutched at Marty’s shoulders and prepared to pull. “I’ll raise him, you fish for the phone.”

  I gave a careful heave and Marty’s body separated from the recliner. Dawn quickly shoved her hands behind him and felt in his back pockets. It only took a second for her to come out with an iPhone. I allowed Marty to fall into his resting position and turned to her. She was examining the phone. “It says Mom,” she said.

  I sighed when I thought of Marty’s mom. “You’re telling her.”

  “Nah, I’ll put Dudley and Karla on it,” Dawn said absently, focused on the phone. Her lips suddenly puckered. “What time did you get that call last night?”

  “I think it was at around ten to nine. Why?”

  She turned the screen so I could see. “That’s your number.”

  “He’s the anonymous caller?” I suddenly remembered giving Marty my business card that had the contact number to dispatch, and then the conversation from the previous night came back to me. My knees felt weak. “Dawn...”