Sting

Chapter 3

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L ord have mercy,” Hick sighed when they alighted from the sheriff’s office patrol car and surveyed the crime scene. “Bad as I expected.”

The chopper that transported him and Joe had set down in a field which, in early fall, served as a regional fairgrounds. A deputy shuttled them from there to the site of Mickey Bolden’s murder.

Portable lights had been brought in. The ugly tavern was lit up brighter than the Las Vegas strip. The men in uniform who were milling about cast eerie shadows that stretched into the surrounding forest before being absorbed by it.

“Worse,” Joe said in response to Hick’s summation of the situation. The two of them ducked beneath the yellow band that was intended to keep people off the parking lot but had been largely ignored. However, most of the trespassers were giving wide berth to the Lexus. He and Hick made a beeline for it.

An efficient young agent named Holstrom, one of the crime scene investigators from their New Orleans office, was consulting with a man whose natty seersucker suit and elfin countenance didn’t fit here in deep bayou country, where no one had the courage to identify all the hunks of meat in the gumbo, and the mere notion of gun control laws was knee-slapping hilarious.

Joe and Hick exchanged subdued greetings with their colleague who introduced the small man he’d been talking to as Dr. Something-or-Other, the parish medical examiner. All were wearing gloves, so they didn’t shake hands, which was just as well because they would have had to reach across the gulf of chunky, congealing blood between them.

Going straight to business, the ME said, “He’s already at the morgue, but when he was identified they called me back out here to talk to y’all. I’ve got pictures of what he looked like when I arrived.”

He tapped his iPad screen and held it up so they could see. He flipped through several photos of Mickey Bolden’s sizable corpse taken from various angles and distances. None were pretty. Joe almost felt sorry for the lawless bastard.

Hick, a devout Catholic, breathed a prayer and crossed himself.

Joe, who was also Catholic but less devout, said, “No need to ask cause of death.”

“He never felt it,” the ME said with more dispassion than Joe would have expected from a man with such a benevolent face.

Joe pointed to one of the photos on the iPad, specifically to the pistol lying within inches of Mickey’s outstretched hand. “Who retrieved his weapon?”

“First responders determined that it hadn’t been recently fired,” Holstrom said, “but they left it for the homicide detective from the SO to collect.”

“Good.” Joe also noticed in the photographs that Mickey’s hands were gloved. He asked about those.

“He wore them to the morgue,” the ME said. “I bagged them. A deputy picked them up, so the sheriff’s office has them, too. Chain of possession has been recorded.”

“Thanks. We’ll want the autopsy report as soon as—”

“I know, I know. You fellas never say, ‘No rush, Doc. Whenever you can get to it will be just fine.’”

He might look like a leprechaun, but he had the disposition of a rattlesnake. Joe decided he didn’t like him. Surveying the immediate area, he noticed a pair of markers that had been left in the gravel. “What was there?”

“Ms. Bennett’s purse and key fob,” Holstrom replied. “The detective retrieved them.”

Joe looked wider afield, searching for heel skid marks that would indicate that a scuffle had taken place or that someone—Jordie Bennett—had been dragged away. But there was nothing like that. “No signs of a struggle?”

“What you see is what we’ve got. We’re searching,” Holstrom added. He pointed out a team member who was several yards away, crouched down studying the loose surface of the parking lot. “But the manager, who also tends bar, estimated that when this went down there were fifteen to twenty vehicles in the lot.”

Hick, who noted that only five remained, said, “Must’ve been quite an exodus.”

Holstrom nodded. “We’ve got dozens of crisscrossed tire tracks, only a few shoe imprints.” He raised his hands at his sides.

“No one saw a car leaving?” Hick asked.

Holstrom shook his head. “No one’s come forward yet. Someone still might, though.”

Joe said, “Yeah, and it might snow anytime now.” He pinched the fabric of his damp shirt and pulled it away from his sweating torso. Addressing Holstrom again, he asked, “Security cameras?”

The younger agent smiled without humor. “The plumbing system is as sophisticated as this place gets. And that ‘system’ is a toilet around back that doesn’t have a lid, but does have a hand-lettered sign warning that it flushes only on occasion.”

“So that’s a no to security cameras,” Joe deadpanned.

“No to security, period. Unless you count the two sawed-off shotguns kept loaded behind the bar.”

“Probably the most effective system,” Hick remarked.

Joe pointed to a nasty-looking puddle a few feet away from the front grille of the car. “Is that vomit?”

“To be specific, a semidigested cheeseburger, chili fries, and lots of whiskey,” the ME reported.

“Who was the precious owner?” Hick asked.

“According to one of the first responders, the young man who found the body puked his guts up,” Holstrom said. “Here, then three times inside. Fortunately they keep a bucket handy for just that purpose.”

“Where’s he now?” Joe asked.

“Still in there. Being made to cool his heels till you arrived.”

“Am I done here?” the ME asked.

Joe thanked him and then, mostly out of spite, reminded him that the autopsy report was an important factor to their investigation. Huffing complaints, the pathologist stamped away.

Joe turned to Holstrom. “Nice guy.” Then, “Under the heading of ‘What the fuck happened?’ do you have anything useful to tell us?”

Holstrom absently scratched a spot on his cheek that looked like a fresh mosquito bite. “Not much, I’m afraid. The car is registered to Jordan Bennett. It was found unlocked, but all the doors were closed when first responders arrived. A deputy is going to dust it for prints, but, honestly, I don’t think she ever got in it after exiting the bar.”

Joe said, “So she left with whoever popped Mickey?” Since neither of the other two agents replied or offered a differing hypothesis, he said, “Okay then, did she leave with this unsub voluntarily or under duress?”

Agent Holstrom looked over at Hick, who shrugged.

“That makes it unanimous,” Joe said, “because I don’t know, either.” He started walking toward the bar’s entrance, saying over his shoulder to Holstrom, “Notify me immediately if you find anything.”

“Sure thing.”

“What’s the name of the detective you talked to?” Joe asked Hick as he pulled open the door into the bar.

“Cliff Morrow.”

Morrow was in his midthirties, with nothing distinguishing about him except for his attire. He had on a baseball cap, team t-shirt, coaching shorts, and dusty sneakers. Joe and Hick removed their latex gloves and shook hands with him. As they did, he explained his appearance. “I coach my daughter’s softball team. We were celebrating our win tonight at a pizza place when the call came in. I didn’t take time to change.”

He seemed competent and more than willing, perhaps even relieved, to share the investigation with them. “People around here harbor a lot of ill will against Josh Bennett,” he said. “Homegrown boy.”

“Gone bad,” Hick said.

“They’d forgive that,” the detective said. “But the way a lot of folks see it, he’s a turncoat.”

“Much worse than a crook,” Joe said.

Morrow gave a sheepish grin. “To some minds it is.”

“What about to your mind?” Hick asked him.

“I’m a peace officer. Josh Bennett broke the law.”

It was a matter-of-fact answer that Joe was glad to hear. “So, despite Bennett’s local ties, we have your full cooperation?”

“Absolutely, sir. You have the support of the entire Terrebonne Parish SO. The sheriff said to tell you so. He’s already chewed that deputy’s ass for letting Ms. Bennett elude him. He’s green. Been a deputy three whole weeks. He didn’t even know why she was being surveilled. In fact, no one’s been told why you requested surveillance on her.”

Joe pretended not to hear the implied question mark. Maybe he should have shared the reason for the surveillance with the sheriff and impressed on him its seriousness. Perhaps if he had, a more seasoned officer would have been assigned that responsibility. But it was too late now, the damage was done, and he didn’t have time to waste on second-guessing himself.

He said, “Bring me up to speed, Detective Morrow.”

“As soon as I and my partner got here, we separated them for questioning.” He referred to a handful of disreputable-looking men and women scattered around the bar.

Assessing their sullen expressions individually and collectively, Joe said, “Let me guess. Nobody knows diddly-squat.”

Morrow grinned. “Basically. But so far there’ve been no red flags to make me think otherwise. My partner is interviewing the bartender in the back room, but initial questioning indicates that he was an innocent bystander like the rest. More observant, maybe. And he’s the only one who interacted with Bolden and his companion.”

“No one has IDed the companion yet?”

“None of the locals claim to have seen him before tonight.”

“Of course not,” Joe said. “We’d never be lucky enough to get the name and address of the prime suspect. Where’s Bolden’s pistol?”

Morrow motioned them over to the bar. The pistol had been bagged and labeled. “The tool of his trade,” Joe remarked as he studied the pistol with the sound suppressor still attached.

“He didn’t fire it tonight,” Morrow said. “Full cartridge except for the bullet in the chamber.”

Joe picked up the evidence bag containing a small red purse. There was nothing special about it except that it looked expensive. He hoped Marsha never got a hankering to have one like it.

Also on the bar, separately bagged, were the key fob to Jordie Bennett’s car, a tube of lip gloss called Gossamer Wings, a credit card, a twenty-dollar bill, and a Louisiana driver’s license.

“The lady was traveling light,” Morrow said, as Joe and Hick studied the items individually.

Conspicuously absent was a cell phone, and Hick remarked on it.

“I picked up on that, too,” Morrow said. “The clasp of her purse was open when it was found. I’m guessing he took her phone from it.”

“But left the twenty and her credit card,” Hick said.

“This wasn’t about stealing,” Joe said around a sigh. “It’s about who she is, who she knows, and what she knows.” He turned to Morrow. “Did you grow up here in Tobias?”

“Since I was eight.”

“How well do you know the Bennetts?”

“To speak to and ask after each other’s health. Like that. Josh was in my class, but we didn’t hang out together. Jordie was a couple grades ahead of us.”

“Any sibling rivalry between them?” Joe asked.

“Nothing cutthroat. Not that I’m aware of, anyway. Both were smart and made good grades. She ran with the popular crowd.”

“Josh didn’t?”

“He was several levels down from popular and didn’t really run with anybody. He was a geek, and I don’t mean that unkindly. Into video games and such.”

“She was social, he was brainy. Fair to say?”

Morrow considered Hick’s question and nodded. “Fair to say. But, as brothers and sisters go, they were close.”

Joe perked up. “Oh?”

“You know what happened to Josh when he was little?”

Both Joe and Hickam nodded.

“Well, I guess because of that, Jordie was always protective of him.” When he paused, Joe motioned for him to continue. “Her senior year, she was with this guy, a superjock. A meathead, but, you know, coveted. One day after classes, Jordie was sitting with this guy in his car out on the school parking lot.

“Rumor had it that they were quarreling. In any case, Josh rode up on his scooter. Not a Harley, nothing with that kind of muscle. He and the meathead exchanged words through the driver’s window, and Josh, whether accidentally or on purpose—accounts varied—bumped the fender of the meathead’s car with his front tire.

“Didn’t even make a dent, but the guy was pissed. He got out of his car and threatened to tear Josh’s head off. He was yelling, trying to shove Josh off his scooter, calling him every name in the book. Josh didn’t—or couldn’t—counterattack.

“But Jordie did. She flew out of the car and got right in this jock’s face. Now he probably outweighed her by a hundred pounds or more, but she had him backing down in no time flat. Then she climbed onto the back of Josh’s scooter and off they went. That was the end of her romance with the meathead. She dumped him and to my knowledge never spoke to him again.”

Joe mulled over the story, then gave Morrow a long look, gauging his trustworthiness. “You wondered why surveillance on Jordie Bennett was requested earlier this week? Well, here’s why.”

The detective’s intelligent eyes registered the significance of what Joe told him. He whistled softly. “You—the FBI, I mean—have kept a lid on it.”

“We have,” Joe said. “And it does not—and I mean does not —go public until the Bureau is ready for it to.”

“Because of what Billy Panella might do if he gets wind of it.”

Hick nodded. “Exactly. What has us worried is that the news has already reached Panella, wherever in the world he’s holed up. Or else why was Mickey Bolden here tonight? He was Panella’s hired gun.”

“It doesn’t sadden me in the slightest that Mickey is no longer a worry,” Joe said. “But there’s this other guy, who apparently isn’t the least bit gun-shy. He remains unknown and at large.”

“And Jordie Bennett went missing at the same time.” Grasping the gravity of the situation, Morrow removed his baseball cap and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “We didn’t obtain her cell phone number until about ten minutes ago. This is Friday night. Everybody’s out. But we finally reached her office manager. She gave us Ms. Bennett’s number and we’ve been calling it.”

“Let me guess,” Hick said. “Nothing.”

“Not even voice mail.”

“Our unsub would be smart enough to take the battery out so it couldn’t be tracked,” Joe said. “Did you find a phone on Mickey?”

“Negative,” Morrow said.

“No doubt he lifted that, too.” Joe put his hands on his hips and swore softly. “This unidentified companion of Mickey’s is beginning to worry me.”