by BJ Bourg
I was mildly curious about the family dustup that had taken place, but figured it wasn’t my business, so I didn’t ask about it.
“Would you know what motel he’s staying in?” I asked.
“No, but I can give you his cell phone number.”
I didn’t like alerting people that I was looking for them, but I took his number anyway and thanked her for her time. As I walked back to my Tahoe, I called Joyce Reynolds. When she answered, I asked for the name of the motel where she and Foster had rented a room.
“Why do you need to know that?” she asked. “Is there a problem?”
“I need to interview Foster—same as I did with you—but his wife said he’s still at the motel.”
“He stayed there?” Joyce sounded surprised. “He hasn’t been home since Friday?”
“That’s what she said. So, which motel was it?”
She gave me the name of the motel and I headed toward Magnolia Parish. I’d always operated off the belief that one witness leads to another, who leads to another, and so on, until it leads to the suspect. I sure hoped Foster Blake would be the witness who led to the suspect, because if Chris Jenkins’ gun didn’t match the bullet and casing I’d recovered, I was out of luck…and out of suspects.
As I drove, my mind wandered to the information Susan had found on my dad. We couldn’t talk about it over lunch because my mom was around, but the curiosity was killing me. I wondered how reliable it would prove to be. Would the information lead to my dad, or would it lead to a dead end like the leads in this case?
Impatient, I pulled out my cell and rang Susan’s phone. When she answered, I asked if she could talk.
“Hey, Clint, we think we found the perfect wedding dress.” I could hear my mom’s voice in the background asking if that was me on the phone. Susan said it was and then asked me what time I thought I’d be getting home this afternoon.
Grumbling to myself, I told her I didn’t know and ended the call. I was starting to consider renting a motel room for Susan and me to live in until Thanksgiving so we could have a bit of privacy. We hadn’t even been able to have sex since my mom arrived, because Susan was worried she would hear us.
I loved my mom and was happy we’d reconnected, but I was about to sit her down and interrogate her. I wanted answers and I wanted them sooner rather than later…and I also wanted to make love to my fiancée again, so Thanksgiving needed to hurry and get here.
CHAPTER 22
I found Foster Blake in Room 224, just as Joyce had described. He answered the door wearing boxers, an oversized T-shirt, and dark sunglasses. He must’ve weighed 350 pounds and was a little shorter than me. Had I not run his name earlier and learned he was forty-three, I would’ve guessed him to be in his early fifties.
I extended my hand. “Clint Wolf. I’m a detective from Mechant Loup and I’m investigating the murder of your boss, Mitch Taylor.”
Foster frowned. “Yeah, I got a call about it. That’s messed up. He was a good friend and a good employer.”
When Foster turned his head briefly, I could see around the side of his glasses and saw a bruise on his left eye. There was also an abrasion on the bridge of his nose. It looked like he’d been in a fight.
He opened the door wider. “Come on in. I’ll put on some clothes and be right out.”
While he walked toward the bathroom, I picked my way through the empty beer bottles and cardboard pizza boxes that littered the floor and took a seat in one of the chairs near a small table. I repositioned the chair to face the bathroom and I kept my gun hand near my pistol as I waited. For all I knew, he could’ve killed Mitch.
I surveyed the room while Foster bustled about the bathroom. His clothes were strewn all over the floor and the place smelled like stale sweat and vomit. I didn’t know what had happened out at his house, but it must’ve been really bad to drive him to want to stay in this depressing little dump.
I looked up when the door to the bathroom opened and carefully watched as Foster lumbered toward me. He still wore the same shirt, but he had pulled on an oversized pair of dirty sweat pants. He also removed his glasses and I whistled when I saw his raccoon eyes and the gash between them.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“A disagreement out at the house.” He waved his hand around the room. “That’s why I’m spending Thanksgiving here. It’s better than being around evil in-laws.”
“What was the disagreement about?” I asked in a matter-of-fact tone, trying not to sound as curious as I was.
“Nothing important.” He shuffled some boxes around on the table and found one with a slice of pizza still inside. He grabbed it and took a bite, then mumbled, “Want some?”
“No thanks.” I waited until he swallowed. “What can you tell me about Mitch Taylor?”
“He was a nice fellow. Such a good boss, you know? He’d let me take off whenever I wanted to and he’d still pay me my base rate. I missed out on tips, but he always made my hourly wage good.” He took another bite and continued, talking around his food. “I moved down here about five years ago and no one would give me a job. I went in the Corner Pub one day to get a drink and we got to talking and I told him I was having a hard time finding work.” He snapped his fingers. “He agreed to hire me on the spot. Told me I could start the next day.”
“Have there been any problems out at the bar lately? Drunks who had to be thrown out, fights broken up…things like that?”
He shook his head. “We’re usually busy around the holidays, but we don’t have much trouble. Everyone’s usually happy around this time of the year.”
I pointed to his nose and took a second stab at it. “Someone wasn’t happy with you.”
“That’s old news.” He swallowed the last of the pizza and searched through the pile of boxes on the table for more. Thankfully, there was none.
“What do you know about his wife, Connie?”
Foster shrugged. “She’s bossy and controlling. At least, that’s what Mitch used to say before he left her. Said she was always trying to tell him how to spend his money.”
“Has she ever threatened him?”
“I don’t know. Not in front of me.”
“Was Mitch seeing anyone else?” I asked.
“Yeah, he’s dating this girl named Brandy Lewis. They’ve been together for a couple of years now. I know they broke up a while back, but they got right back together.”
“Do you know of any reason Brandy would have for wanting him dead?”
“Oh, no, she loves him. I called her earlier today to see how she was doing and she’s still all tore up about it.”
Considering she’d only found out about Mitch’s murder yesterday morning, I would’ve expected her to still be “tore up”. Anything less would’ve raised some red flags.
I pointed at Foster. “So, what about you? Would you have any reason to want Mitch dead?”
His eyes widened. “No way! How does that saying go? That would be like shooting myself in the foot. I don’t have a job now. I don’t know how I’m going to pay my rent or buy food or pay the insurance on my truck.” He shook his head. “I’m screwed.”
“Where were you Friday?”
“I was here.”
“What time did you get here?”
“It had to be early in the afternoon.”
“Did you leave here at all Friday night or early Saturday morning?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t left since I got here. Well, except to walk to the corner to get more booze.”
“What about the pizza?”
“Delivery.”
I nodded and studied him. He seemed to be telling the truth so far, but it was time to test him. “Can anyone verify your whereabouts for Friday night and Saturday morning?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, was anyone here with you Friday night?”
He hesitated ever so slightly, then shook his head. “I was by myself.”
“All night?”
He nodded.
“Foster, did you kill Mitch Taylor?”
“No!” He shook his head violently from side to side. “I already told you I would never hurt him.”
“Are you sure?”
He nodded. “Positive.”
“Are you as sure about not killing Mitch as you are about being here alone?” I raised my hand to stop him before he could speak. “Before you answer that, I want you to know that lying about one is as good as lying about the other. If you lie about being here alone, I can’t believe you didn’t kill Mitch.” I pointed to him. “Now, go…”
Foster hesitated. “I mean, someone might’ve come over to see me.”
“And who would that have been?”
“A friend.”
“Does that friend have a name?”
“I…I don’t really want to get her involved.”
“She’s already involved,” I said. “Spill it.”
He stared down at his beefy hands. “Is this confidential?”
“Sure.”
He took a labored breath and then nodded. “Okay, her name’s Joyce. Joyce Reynolds. She was with me all night.”
“What’s the nature of your relationship with Joyce?”
“We were seeing each other.” He looked up, his eyes pleading. “You won’t tell my wife, right? You said this was confidential.”
I shook my head. “I won’t tell your wife or her husband. That’s between the two of you.”
“Thank you!” He took a breath, but then froze. “Wait a minute—how’d you know she had a husband?”
“I already spoke to her.” I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms in front of my chest. This interview would lead me nowhere. I had hit a brick wall. My only hope was that we’d find a match on the pistol we recovered from Chris Jenkins. “Foster, was Mitch also sleeping with Joyce?”
“No…I mean, not that I know about.”
“If he’d been sleeping with her and you had found out about it, how would you have reacted?”
“I…I mean, I guess I wouldn’t have been happy, but I also wouldn’t go around shooting him.”
“Do you own a gun?”
“No, sir. Never.”
I nodded and stood to leave, but stopped in the doorway. “Hey, do you know Chris Jenkins?”
Foster shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
“I didn’t think so,” I mumbled, digging one of my freshly-printed business cards from my pocket. “Well, if you hear anything or think of something you didn’t tell me, I’d appreciate you calling.”
He took the card and stared down at it, as though struggling internally with something.
“What is it?” I asked. “Is there something you need to tell me?”
He lifted both hands in the air. “You have to believe me…I had nothing to do with his murder.”
“What is it, Foster? Spit it out!”
“A while back—it must’ve been six months ago—Mrs. Connie went to the bar looking for Mitch, but he wasn’t there. He was with Brandy.” Foster paused and licked his cracked lips. “Well, Mrs. Connie started bitching about Mitch and she said she knew he was with that whore Brandy—that’s what she called her.”
“Go on,” I said when he stopped talking again. “Finish telling it.”
“While she was bitching, she got real close to me and started saying things to me…” Foster sighed heavily and wiped his face.
“What kind of things?”
“Complimenting me and telling me that I was a real man and not a little punk like Mitch.” Foster was a shade whiter than earlier. “She…she asked me if I would kill Mitch for her. She said she would pay me to do it.”
CHAPTER 23
“I’m going to be late tonight,” I told Susan when she answered the phone. “I just got a break in the case.”
“What’s going on?”
When I told her, she cursed out loud and asked where I was heading.
“I’ll be at the police department in a few minutes to put Foster’s recorded statement in evidence and to type up a search warrant. If the judge signs it, I’m going straight to Connie Taylor’s house and executing the warrant.”
“I’ll meet you at the office!”
“But you’re nursing a broken—”
Click!
“Susan?” The line was dead. I shook my head and tossed my phone in the center console. I didn’t think it was a good idea for Susan to be hobbling around a crime scene on crutches, but I knew there was no talking her out of it. I just hoped things didn’t get physical, because Susan couldn’t afford to re-break that bone in her leg.
Our police department building was on Washington Avenue in the downtown district. While it was a one-story building, the one story was twelve feet off the ground to protect the building from floods, and it allowed for parking underneath. I took up one of the empty parking spots, gathered my things, and hurried up the steps. When I pushed through the doors and into the lobby, Beth Gandy buzzed me in. Susan had hired Beth to help out during the weekends and she had caught on quick. In light of what had happened to her two months ago, the poor woman needed something to keep her occupied on the weekends.
I walked into the dispatcher’s station to see how she was doing, and then hurried to my office to type up a search warrant.
I was just putting the finishing touches on the affidavit when Susan shuffled into my office. She tossed the crutches aside and plopped into a chair. “I can’t wait until this thing heals up and I can throw away these wooden sticks,” she said, resting her leg on the chair next to her. “They’re smashing the sides of my boobs and making calluses on my armpits—you’re not supposed to have calluses on your armpits!”
I nodded absently and finished detailing my probable cause. I printed the document and then handed it to Susan to proofread. When she gave it the thumbs up, I ran my finger down the list of duty judges and found the one who was catching duty today. I called to let him know I’d sent the affidavit and warrant electronically.
“I’ll call you back,” he said.
I dropped the handset to the cradle and leaned back in my chair, turning my attention to Susan. She was messing with the knobs on the crutches, adjusting the height while mumbling to herself. Her hair was down and she pushed it around an ear to get it out of her face. When she looked up, her face was flushed and she froze when she saw me staring at her. “What is it?”
“I never get tired of looking at you.”
When she smiled, her dimples pushed deep into her face and her eyes lit up. “You always make me feel beautiful, even when I’m stumbling around with a giant chunk of plaster around my leg.”
I suddenly remembered the information she said she’d obtained. “Hey, what’d you find out about my dad?”
The smile faded from her face. “You know, you could’ve let me enjoy that moment for a little longer.”
“Sorry, I just remembered. What do you have for me?”
“So, before knocking off of her shift this morning, Amy called to pass on some information from last night and we got to talking. I know she’s into all of that social media stuff, so I asked her how I could go about locating someone. I told her you were trying to find your dad and we couldn’t use state resources to do that. Well…” Susan began messing with her cell phone and she waved me over. “Have you ever heard of BudRelat?”
“No.”
“What about Facebook?”
I laughed and dragged my chair beside her. “Everyone’s heard of Facebook.”
“Well, BudRelat is basically the same thing. It’s a place where you can connect with your buddies and relatives.” She chewed on her lower lip while her thumbs danced across the keys. Finally, she nodded. “So, I created a page in your name—”
“Wait, what?” I was too old for social media and certainly didn’t have time for it. “I do not want a BudRelat page—or any other social media page, for that matter.”
“Just bear with me.” Susan pulled up th
e site and typed in the name Crystal Montana. “You’ve got to have a page to look up people, and I certainly don’t want a page.”
“Neither do I! Why’d you use my name? Why not use a fake name or Achilles’ name. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind being on there. He might even find a pretty German shepherd to—”
“Well, I used your first name, but I went with Montana for the last name,” she said, interrupting me. “They probably wouldn’t respond if I used Clint Wolf, so I went with Clint Montana. That way, at least it would get their attention and would lend some credence to the possibility that you’re related to them.”
She turned her phone so I could see what popped up and I leaned closer. “This is the only Crystal Montana I could find.”
The profile picture was of a fit woman surfing a huge wave in pristine water. She had long red hair and wore a yellow bikini that matched her surfboard. I pointed. “You think that’s my sister?”
“Does she look like the baby picture?”
I laughed. “Oh, she looks exactly like the baby picture. Hell, she hasn’t aged a bit.”
“Stop being sarcastic…I still look like my baby picture.” Susan pointed toward the bottom of the profile page. “Read her work history.”
I glanced where Susan pointed. Crystal’s school history was listed first and it showed that she had graduated from high school and college in Texas, and then she attended law school at J. Rueben Clark Law School at BYU. There was a long list of accomplishments. “This can’t be my sister,” I mumbled. “She’s too smart to be related to me.”
Susan shoved me playfully. “Don’t talk bad about my man.”
I just grunted and looked past Crystal’s school history. I sucked in a mouthful of air when I saw the first job listing; Montana and Daughter’s Surf Shop, Galveston, Texas.
“Do you really think this is it?”
“Click on the link to Montana and Daughter’s Surf Shop.”
I did what she said and whistled when I saw the names of the owners. It was Garvan Montana and Crystal Montana, father and daughter.
“Damn, Susan, you found them!”