But Not Foregone: A Clint Wolf Novel (Clint Wolf Mystery Series Book 22) Read online

  BUT NOT

  FOREGONE

  A Clint Wolf Novel

  (Book 22)

  ___________________

  BY

  BJ BOURG

  www.bjbourg.com

  BUT NOT FOREGONE

  A Clint Wolf Novel by BJ Bourg

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  Copyright © 2021 by BJ Bourg

  Cover design by Christine Savoie of Bayou Cover Designs

  PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 1

  19 Years Earlier

  Tuesday, June 11

  Mechant Loup, Louisiana

  Beaver Detiveaux sat in his unmarked black Crown Victoria and cursed the heat. Each summer in the south seemed to grow hotter and hotter, and he didn’t like it one bit. He glanced lazily at an approaching car, checked the display on his radar to confirm his estimate that the vehicle was travelling thirty-four miles per hour, and then he smiled to himself.

  “I’m getting so good at this shit that I don’t even need a radar gun anymore,” he said aloud.

  Beaver had backed his cruiser into a hiding spot along the south-bound shoulder of Main Street. It was a narrow passageway between a large mound of dirt and the metal guardrail that approached the Mechant Loup Bridge. Just wide enough to fit one car, it provided a shaded and inconspicuous location from which to bust speeders.

  It was almost noon. Traffic would grow heavier when the townsfolk headed out for lunch, and that was when he would close up shop until later in the afternoon. He tried not to prey on the locals—preferring to focus his attention on the out-of-towners instead—so he usually avoided the times when they were most active.

  During the next ten minutes, a dozen more cars drove by, but none of them were speeding, so he decided to pack it in and grab a free meal at M & P Grill. He reached for the gearshift and was about to put it in drive when his radar buzzed. He shot a glance at the screen and then at the approaching truck. It was going twenty miles over the limit, and closing the distance fast.

  “Gotcha, you little bastard!” Beaver flipped the switch on his lights and siren, gunned the engine, and whipped his vehicle around to pursue the small truck over the bridge. He grunted when he crested the bridge and saw the taillights immediately brighten. He thought he would get to chase the man for at least a few miles, but the coward had given up before the fun could even begin.

  The truck pulled to the shoulder and Beaver could see the driver lean forward to retrieve his papers—or a gun. The truck bore an out-of-state plate, and Beaver immediately called it in to Marsha, his dispatcher. Beaver knew he could never trust these strangers. Most of the locals knew him, and only a few had ever challenged him, but that had usually only been when they were drunk or high. Even then, the most they ever did was take a swing at him. A quick tap to the temple with his slap-jack named Thumper had ended most of those encounters—for good.

  The recidivism rate for resisting arrest was down to zero percent for the locals who had met Thumper. It was a stat for which he was proud, but he wasn’t about to grow complacent. The next car he stopped could be his last and, while it was possible someone in town might one day come at him with a weapon, he knew the most danger came from those he didn’t know—and he didn’t know the man before him.

  “Driver, step out of the vehicle,” Beaver hollered once he had exited his cruiser and walked to the rear of the offending truck. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  The man gingerly stepped from the small truck and lifted both hands. “Sorry if I was speeding, officer,” he said as he approached. “I didn’t see a speed limit sign or anything.”

  The man was older than Beaver. Although he appeared to be tough, he didn’t look threatening.

  “Give me your wallet and insurance card,” Beaver said, holding out a hand. The man hesitated, but when he saw the look on Beaver’s face, he handed over the wallet and walked back to the car to retrieve the insurance card. Once he’d handed it to Beaver, the chief of police asked if he was in town on business or pleasure.

  “I came here to visit family,” the man explained. “I was just heading back home. If you let me off on a warning, I’ll be very grateful and I promise I’ll never come through here again.”

  Beaver nodded and reached for the license, stealing a glance into the money compartment of the wallet as he did so. The man was in possession of a nice stack of bills.

  “Go ahead and return to your vehicle while I run you through the system,” Beaver said in a conversational tone. “If you’re clean, I’ll write you for ten miles over so I don’t have to take you to jail.”

  The man hesitated again and his face turned to stone, but he didn’t say anything. He complied with Beaver’s orders without lodging a complaint.

  When Beaver was seated in his cruiser, he pulled out the cash and counted it. The amount came to two hundred thirty-six dollars. He could’ve easily taken five twenties and the man probably wouldn’t have noticed until he was clean out of Louisiana, but there were easier ways to lift money from people.

  “You picked the wrong town to speed through, buddy,” he said when he exited his cruiser and approached the driver’s side window of the small truck. “The fine for ten miles over the limit is seven hundred and fifty dollars—and we only take cash or money orders.”

  “What?” The man bristled. “That’s insane!”

  “It’s better than twenty miles over, because I’d have to take you to jail.” Beaver smiled as he handed back the wallet and insurance card, along with a hard copy of the citation. “The paperwork won’
t be processed for at least seventy-two hours. At that time—and not before it—you’ll be able pay the fine if you choose, or you can show up in one month from today to contest it in court. Either way, you’re coming back to our beautiful town.”

  “Court appearance?” the man echoed. “Can’t I just pay it today and be done with it?”

  “No, sir.” Beaver shook his head. “Like I said, it’ll be at least seventy-two hours before it’s in the system. You can’t pay it until it’s in the system.”

  The man’s face was red and he was breathing hard. He looked like he was about to explode. Beaver smiled inwardly. It was time to strike.

  “Look, I’m real sorry and I’d like to help you out, but I’ve already filled in the ticket. Once I start writing, it’s over.” Beaver sighed. “If I void it, I’ll be the one getting in trouble, and I’m not about to lose my pension for some stranger on the side of the road.”

  “But I don’t understand why I can’t just pay it now,” the man insisted. “I’ve got cash. Isn’t there some way I can take care of it before I leave?”

  Beaver pretended to mull it over. “Do you have $750?”

  “No.” The man opened his wallet and pulled out his cash. “This is all I’ve got.”

  “Okay, look, if you can pay $200 right now, I can reduce it to five miles over the limit and give you an automatic Article 804, which will keep it off your record. I don’t like to do this, but you seem like a nice guy, so I can hold the money for seventy-two hours and then apply it toward the fine once it hits the system.”

  “Will that work?” the man asked, seemingly hesitant. “I thought you said once you started writing, it’s over?”

  Beaver reclaimed the ticket, placed the soft copies over the hard one, wrote a five over the ten, and then studied his handiwork. “There, it’s perfect. If you sign the bottom and pay the fine, that’ll be all.”

  The man exhaled a deep one and signed the ticket. Next, he counted out ten twenties and handed them to Beaver. “I really appreciate this, officer,” he said. “I’ve got to get back home and I don’t need the hassle.”

  “Just don’t speed through my town again,” Beaver cautioned. “I won’t be so nice next time.”

  The man nodded and pulled off. Beaver deftly tucked the twenties into his shirt pocket and slid the ticket to the back of his clipboard. He was about to return to his cruiser when the radio clipped to his belt screeched to life. It was Marsha.

  “Chief, can you go 10-8 from that traffic stop?”

  “Ten-four,” he said, dreading what might come next. His stomach was grumbling and he had seen Fried Chicken and Red Beans on the sign outside of M & P Grill when he’d driven by earlier. Right now, all he wanted was to rip apart some greasy chicken and shovel a spoonful of red beans and rice into his mouth. “Got something?”

  “I just received a report of a 52-F in progress,” she said. “It’s the house at the end of Gator Drive.”

  Beaver cursed under his breath. A signal 52-F was a house fire. At a minimum, it would take an hour for the fire department to extinguish the flames and make sure it wouldn’t reignite, but he was probably looking at closer to three hours. Unless he could get his sergeant to come out early and spell him, he would have to remain at the scene until the fire department was done, which meant he would most certainly miss the lunch special.

  “Ten-four,” he said begrudgingly. “I’m en route.”

  “Oh, and Chief,” Marsha said, “be advised there’s a man trapped inside.”

  “Son of a bitch!”

  CHAPTER 2

  Present Day Mechant Loup, Louisiana

  Monday, December 27

  I grumbled as I got dressed for work. Susan was still in bed wearing nothing but a thin shirt and a smile.

  “You should’ve taken another week of vacation like I did,” she teased. “I said you’d regret it, but you wouldn’t listen.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on my boots. “I didn’t want to leave Amy alone for two weeks.”

  “Amy’s a big girl,” Susan said, rolling onto her right side to face my back. “She can handle anything that comes along. Besides, things have been quiet around town for months.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at my wife and groaned outwardly. Her left, ample breast had broken containment and was staring me right in the face. She didn’t even try to hide it.

  “That’s just wrong,” I said, not averting my eyes. “It’s wrong on so many levels.”

  Her devilish smile widened and the dimple in her left cheek deepened even further. “It was wrong of you not to listen to me.”

  I couldn’t argue, so I didn’t. Instead, I fell backward softly and leaned my head against her stomach. Although she always stayed in top fighting shape, she had grown a little softer since she’d stopped fighting competitively, and I loved it.

  “Maybe I’ll call in sick,” I said, reaching up to glide my fingers across her face. “We can stay in bed all day and—”

  “When have you ever called in sick?” She scoffed. “Stop teasing me.”

  I sighed. “Okay, but you’re all mine when I get home.”

  “Unless Gracie says otherwise,” she said. “She’s been getting used to me being home and she loves it.”

  Susan had taken two weeks of vacation for Christmas and New Years, while I had elected to only take off for Christmas. Melvin Saltzman, who was Susan’s most senior police officer on the force, had stepped in as the acting chief of police for Susan, and he had encouraged her to take as long as she liked. With four officers at his disposal, he could cover the town with relative ease. On the other hand, Amy Cooke—the one detective under my command—had to single-handedly investigate every criminal case that came in while I was gone.

  We hadn’t had a murder case in months and I feared we were due for one, so I had found myself holding my breath for most of my vacation, knowing it could be cut short at any second. Luckily, things had remained quiet through the Christmas week and it looked like we would finish out the year on a peaceful note.

  As though she’d heard her name, Grace pounded on the door to our bedroom.

  “Ho, ho, ho, let me in!” she demanded. “I got a hair on my chinny, chin-chin!”

  Our daughter would be four in May and she was quite capable of opening doors, so we had made it a habit to keep the knob on our bedroom locked when we were dressing. And although our two German shepherds had access to the downstairs portion of the house and we knew they would give their lives protecting her, we had also put a child gate at the head of the stairs to limit her movements during the night. With the gate in place, she only had access to her bedroom, the upstairs bathroom, and our room. We had other rooms upstairs, but we kept them locked.

  I stood and made my way to the door. When I opened it, I glanced down to see our little red-head clutching a teddy bear to her chest. She looked up with a pout, and I immediately scooped her up in my arms.

  “What’s wrong, Pumpkin Seed?” I asked. “Why the long face?”

  “I had a bad dream. I dreamed a bad man put me in a box that moved like a seesaw. It was dark and I was scared.” She wrapped her arms around my neck. “Why you didn’t come check on me while I was in my nightmare, Daddy?”

  I frowned and held her tight. “I’m sorry, Pumpkin. You’re safe now.”

  I glanced toward Susan, who had fixed her shirt and lost her smile. We both knew Grace was dreaming about a time when she had been kidnapped, and it troubled us. We had spoken with a child psychologist after the incident, and she had told us that Grace was so young when it happened that she may never remember it. However, she had warned that fragments of the traumatic experience might come back to haunt our daughter, and that we’d need to be mindful of any warning signs.

  I gave Susan a knowing look and she nodded her understanding. She quickly jumped from bed and headed for her closet.

  “Hey, Gracie, how about you and me go visit a friend today?” she said as she dug for some clothes
. “It’s the nice lady you talked to before—the one with the toys in her office.”

  “Yay!” Grace tucked the stuffed animal under her chin and clapped her hands together.

  I glanced at the clock on the dresser. It was almost eight o’clock. I told Grace that I had to go to work, kissed her on the forehead, and then asked if she was ready to fly. When she nodded, I sent her sailing through the air toward our bed. She landed on the soft mattress with a joyful screech. I laughed. She loved it when I did that.

  I hurried into Susan’s closet and kissed her goodbye. I then made my way downstairs and headed out the door. Achilles and Coco, our two dogs, had treed a squirrel, but they whipped around when they heard me. I stopped to rub their eager heads. Coco was a saddleback shepherd of normal build and she was hyper, while Achilles was solid black and weighed in just north of 100 pounds. While his demeanor was calm, he was ferocious when it came to protecting those he loved.

  After giving them the attention they desired, I apologized for not being able to take them to work, and then headed for my black Tahoe. It was a little over fifty degrees outside, and I was grateful it wasn’t colder. I preferred the warmer weather, and was already missing summer.

  CHAPTER 3

  When I arrived at the police department and walked into the dispatcher’s station, Lindsey Welch looked up from the latest book she’d been reading. Her face lit up. I’d never seen her without a book, and I wondered if she could survive in a world without books.

  Amy had once asked Lindsey why she didn’t have a Kindle or some other kind of e-reader, considering the devices were capable of holding hundreds of books that she could have at her disposal at all times. She had responded by shoving her nose deep into the inner hinge of the book she was reading and then looking up to declare, “Because no man can ever smell as good as a print book.”

  I never knew what happened next, because I had promptly left the room and never asked about it.