Goodbye Foxbridge Lane

GOODBYE FOXBRIDGE LANE ANNE SHILLOLO Copyright © 2021 by Anne Shillolo All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This novel, in its entirety, is a work of fiction. The characters, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Created with Vellum CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 About Anne Shillolo 1 I looked down at the ground. In front of me was the crumpled body of Chaz Carriere. The man wasn’t even 30, but he was already notorious. A wife beater. A murderer. A kidnapper. But the only thought going through my head was, ‘Oh, no!’ Three other officers were standing in a semi-circle around Chaz, and they all muttered the same thing I was thinking. But out loud. With profanity. We’d been called out shortly after 7 a.m., and at least it got me out of the morning meeting. The less I had to see of our sergeant, Lew Lacoste, the happier I would be. But this was a nightmare on another scale. “Now what?” asked Detective Constable Danny Cavallo, who was in charge of the scene for the moment. He’d been my best friend in our patrol unit until his promotion last year to the Criminal Investigation Unit. CIU was now my goal as well. The case involving Chaz had been nasty and frustrating, but it had already helped me figure out my future in the Port Alma Police Department. No one answered Cavallo. An anonymous caller had let the 911 operator know that there was a dead man in the gutter on Belvedere Avenue, near the corner of Petrie Street. Port Alma had a small club district, and it consisted of a couple of blocks along Belvedere. Even so, it had been months since we’d had a suspicious death on our hands. Here, or anywhere else. And now, of all people, Chaz Carriere. It certainly looked like a hit-and-run. If I had to guess, I’d say that the cause of death was a head injury, but his black jeans and v-neck black t-shirt were torn, and the skin on his arms was deeply scraped. He was lying on his side and one arm was flung out as if it could protect him from a high-speed impact with the asphalt surface of the road. We already knew everything there was to know about Chaz. Everyone from the lowliest patrol constable, like yours truly, to the higher-ups in PD command could have recited chapter and verse about the dead man. It was a toss-up as to whether Chaz had met his death by accident or by criminal intent. He was widely loathed. And no one would miss him, except us. We hated the guy with a passion. But to us, in addition to all his other qualifications? He was the last known link to the whereabouts of Buddy Norris. Buddy was nine years old. He’d been missing for two days, and counting. And witnesses reported a man loosely matching Chaz’s description forcing a boy, who sort of looked like Buddy, into a broken-down silver minivan. Not a lot to go on. Chaz didn’t even have a driver’s license and certainly didn’t own a van. The whole thing could have meant absolutely nothing, but we had pinned our hopes on interrogating Chaz and then tailing him. First, we couldn’t find him, and now when we had, he wasn’t saying much. Chaz had led a charmed life until last night. Criminal, but lucky. He was on everyone’s radar for narcotics trafficking, bootleg cigarettes, and the occasional car theft. And while he’d gone his whole life with a terrible reputation, he had no convictions. His girlfriend was a young woman named Chrissy Norris, and yes, she was Buddy’s mother. Calls from neighbors in the apartment building they shared were a regular occurrence, and we all dreaded responding. Domestics made me nervous to start with, and Chaz made the situation even worse. He was one of those men who acted out with thoughtless violence. It was like breathing to him. I’d read about a biological phenomenon where expressing anger made people feel good. And you could tell Chaz had been born with it. Unfortunately, all the cops ever witnessed was yelling, wall-pounding, chair-kicking, and bottle-smashing. Scary enough for anyone nearby, but not something we could arrest him for. If we met up with Chrissy sporting fresh bruises, they were always explained away by the usual excuses. I’m so clumsy. I closed the door on my hand by mistake. I hit my head on a shelf. She would never press charges, and we could never catch him in the act. And look where that had gotten us. Chrissy had been murdered a week ago. Buddy was missing. And Chaz was laid out on the road in front of us. Cavallo said, “This is the worst possible news. I never thought you’d ever hear me say I wanted a chat with Chaz Carriere, but I wish this deadbeat would just sit up and tell us where Buddy is.” “Yeah,” Brian Ryker agreed. “We gotta find that kid,” added Max Beaton. He and Brian were patrol constables along with me, in the Downtown Division. The three of us had been told to meet up with Cavallo at the scene and make ourselves useful. I pulled my black knitted watch cap down over my ears and zipped my jacket up as I shivered. Sometimes, March in Port Alma meant warm, spring weather. This was not one of those years. The temperature was slightly above freezing, with a stiff breeze coming in off the lake. On the plus side, our snow was gone. It was just unbelievably cold.