by BJ Bourg
“I’m going to need you to follow me to the office,” I said. “You can bring Joyce with you.”
“Why?” Foster glanced from me to Susan and then back at me. “What’s going on?”
“I’d rather talk about it at the station.”
He frowned, but nodded after a long moment. “Let me get Joyce and lock up the place.”
I stopped him. “Aren’t you worried your wife will come by and catch you with Joyce?”
He stole a cautious glance at Susan. “Um, what do you mean? We work together.”
“It’s okay…Chief Wilson’s cool and she won’t tell your wife,” I said. “It just seems pretty brazen of you to bring her here out in the open and all. What if her husband shows up?”
“We came in separate cars,” he explained. “And it’s not unusual for us to be working in the bar together. In fact, her husband even knows she’s—”
“Hey, what’s going on out here?” called a female’s voice from deeper inside the bar. I recognized it to be Joyce. When she drew nearer, I explained that I needed to see both of them in my office.
“I’d like y’all to follow us down to the station so we can interview y’all about this case.”
“But we already gave an interview,” Joyce said. “I don’t understand why we need to give another one.”
“There’ve been some new developments,” I explained. “Some pretty significant developments that need our immediate attention.”
Joyce searched Foster’s eyes. He only frowned and shrugged. “I guess we have no choice. If they want to talk to us, we should talk to them.”
“What about Connie?” she asked. “Won’t she be mad that we’re not finished?”
“It shouldn’t take too long,” I assured her. “You can come back and finish cleaning when we’re done.”
That seemed to satisfy Joyce and she grabbed her purse from behind the bar. She stepped out onto the sidewalk and glanced down at Susan’s cast. “What happened to you?”
“I kicked a Russian in the head,” Susan said simply. “She had a hard head.”
Joyce’s eyes grew wide. “Seriously?”
Susan winked. “I’d never joke about kicking someone in the head.”
There was admiration in Joyce’s eyes as she watched Susan walk toward my Tahoe. “I like her,” she told me when Susan was out of earshot, “but I’m afraid of her.”
“If you don’t do anything wrong, there’s no need to fear her. She’s as nice as they come.” I waited while Foster locked the door and then glanced around. “Where’s your car?”
“It’s parked around back.” Foster shot a thumb over his shoulder. “Joyce’s car is back there, too.”
I told him I’d wait for them in my Tahoe and I reached it just as they disappeared into the darkness alongside the building. After helping Susan inside, I opened my door and slipped behind the steering wheel.
“Do you think they’ll try to run?” Susan asked.
I pointed to the alley that served as a driveway to the back of the bar. “There’s only one way in or out of the back of the—”
My voice was cut off by popping sounds echoing from the back of the building.
“Were those gunshots?” Susan asked, jerking her head around.
CHAPTER 38
After snatching up my flashlight and radio, I jumped out of my Tahoe and shoved the radio in my back pocket. Several more gunshots erupted from the back of bar. I glanced quickly at Susan, who was struggling to get out of her seat, and hesitated.
“Just go!” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
I pushed my door shut and sprinted down the alley, where I could hear a woman screaming. Her voice was getting closer to me and I caught a glimpse of her in the dim lights from the parking lot behind the bar. It was Joyce and she was running as though her life depended on it. I reached out and caught her in mid-run, pulling her against the building and forcing her to crouch down.
“What happened?” With my pistol in hand, I peered around the rear corner of the building. I could see two vehicles in the back parking lot, and it looked like the side window on one of the vehicles was blown out. I detected a dark figure lying flat on the ground near the back of one of the vehicles. It looked like the right shape to be Foster, and he wasn’t moving.
Joyce’s breath was coming in gasps and I could feel her body trembling beside me. “I…I don’t know what happened,” she said. “We were walking to our cars and then…um, someone just started shooting. I…I think they got Foster. I saw him go down and I started running as fast as I could. I swear, I felt a bullet pass right next to my face. I think it took some skin off my cheek.”
Keeping my eyes on the back of the parking lot, I told Joyce to stay close to the side of the building and make her way to the front. “Chief Wilson’s in the front of the bar. She’ll take you to safety.”
I didn’t look behind me, but could hear the gravel rolling under her feet as she scrambled toward Washington Avenue. I was about to step out into the open when I heard another set of feet behind me. I turned to see Melvin skid to a stop and fall against the building.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “I got a call that shots were fired out here and Chief Wilson told me to come back you up.”
I nodded toward the shadowy figure on the ground beside the vehicle. “I think that’s Foster. I can’t tell if he’s hit, but I’m about to run out there to see about him.”
“Is the shooter still on scene?”
I scanned the buildings that lined the opposite side of the narrow parking area. There were two alleys that disappeared into the darkness and I couldn’t see down either one of them. While there had been no signs of life other than Joyce when I arrived, it didn’t mean the killer wasn’t still out there waiting to pop off more shots. “I don’t know,” I admitted, “but I need to check on Foster.”
“Okay…I’ll cover you.”
I told Melvin I was going on three. After a brief countdown, I lunged off the ground and sprinted across the open space as fast as my legs could carry me. My heart pounded in my ears as I ran, and it felt like I was moving in slow motion. When I neared the back of the car I dove forward and rolled to a rough stop beside Foster, smashing violently into his side. I heard him grunt and knew he was still alive.
Squatting with my back to the vehicle, I kept my pistol ready for action and looked back toward Melvin’s location. I could only see a shadow, but I saw his thumb shoot upward to let me know everything was okay from his point of view.
“Foster, can you hear me?” I whispered.
“Yes, sir.” His voice quivered.
“Are you hit?”
“No, sir.”
“Can you move?”
“I ain’t going nowhere until that killer is gone.”
I opened my mouth a little—as though it would help me hear better—but I didn’t hear a peep from the two alleys in front of me. I eased my police radio from my back pocket and whispered into it, calling for Melvin to keep his pistol trained on the openings between the buildings. “I’m going to shine my light in that direction,” I said. “Be ready to open fire.”
When he acknowledged he’d heard me, I grounded my radio and lifted the light over my head with my left hand. Keeping my pistol ready, I flipped the light on and held my breath. Nothing happened.
I did a quick peek over the top of the car, but there was nothing in the first alley to the left. I dropped back down and scooted toward my right. After taking a few deep breaths and letting Melvin know I was about to shine my light again, I flipped the switch and aimed it in the direction of the second alley. I heard Melvin’s voice over the radio.
“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 s
tudied 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.”
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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.”