The Trailer Park Murder, page 1
The Trailer Park Murder
The Woodhead & Becker Mysteries
Book III
Paul Austin Ardoin
THE TRAILER PARK MURDER
Copyright © 2023 by Paul Austin Ardoin
Published by Pax Ardsen Books
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN 978-1-949082-49-4
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For information please visit:
www.paulaustinardoin.com
Cover design by Ziad Ezzat of Feral Creative Colony: feralcreativecolony.com
Edited by Max Christian Hansen
In memory of Marci, who brought the story to me
and
In memory of Mike, who still deserves justice
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
Cast of Characters
More by Paul Austin Ardoin
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Slow, measured breathing.
Bernadette Becker stared straight ahead. The silhouette of a torso on the standard QIT-99 target, twenty-five yards from the white line at her feet.
She drew the gun from her holster, raised it, and squeezed the trigger four times. Dropped to one knee, took aim, and fired four more rounds.
She got to her feet and clicked the switch on the separator next to her. The QIT-99 target zipped toward her. As the paper target got closer, Bernadette smiled: two rounds close to the middle of the silhouette’s forehead, and five others on the left side of the shadow’s chest. One in the left shoulder, though. Still, a passing grade if she were taking the test to become a field agent again. She pulled off her ear protectors, unclipped the target from its frame and studied it closely.
“Not half bad,” said a voice behind her.
Bernadette turned. A blonde woman, a couple of inches taller than Bernadette’s five foot six, her hair pulled back into a low ponytail, in black trousers and a light blue blouse matching her eyes, the black shooting earmuffs looking too large on her head—Bernadette figured hers looked equally unwieldy.
“Hi, Joanna.” Bernadette gave the other woman a warm smile. Under other circumstances, they might have had a friendly embrace.
“Thanks for meeting on short notice.” Joanna Quimby glanced up and down the shooting booths. She and Bernadette were the only ones there.
“I’m the one who said it was urgent. Besides, I’m usually working out on my lunch hour on Mondays, so no one was the wiser.”
Joanna pulled off one of her earmuffs. “I know I said I’d have the files analyzed in a few days.”
“This isn’t about the files on that SD card.” Bernadette’s pulse sped up. “I don’t want to press you too much, but this morning was the first hit anyone has had on Marguerite Kerovic in more than two years.”
Joanna stepped into the booth next to Bernadette, put her bag on the floor, and clicked a button on the wall, her QIT-99 target sliding away from her to twenty-five yards. “I don’t know if you heard, but we’ve been a little busy.”
Bernadette holstered her Sig Sauer and brushed a piece of lint from her gray trousers. “Busy with what? Should I know something?”
“Two FBI agents were ambushed this morning.” Joanna put her earmuffs on.
Bernadette hurriedly put her earmuffs on just before Joanna faced the target, pulled her gun out, fired four times.
“Are they okay?” Bernadette said, a little loudly.
Just as Bernadette had, Joanna dropped to one knee and fired four more shots.
The reports from Joanna’s gun deadened against the sound baffling in the large room, and Joanna stood and pulled off her ear protectors again. “One dead, one in critical condition.”
Bernadette took off her earmuffs as well.
Joanna clicked the switch on the divider and the target swooped toward her. “This is an all-hands-on-deck situation. I’ve got a list of top priorities as long as my arm.”
Bernadette was silent. All morning long, she’d been nervously awaiting news. Marguerite Kerovic’s debit card, expired six months previously, declined at a RoadTrip gas station off the County Road J exit just northeast of Sun Prairie, Wisconsin. It had been six hours since she’d received the alert—sent within fifteen minutes of the declined transaction—and five hours and thirty minutes since she first called Joanna.
“You know I wouldn’t ask unless—”
Joanna nodded as she holstered her gun. “I know. The gas station’s only an hour away from Taycheedah, and if it’s a genuine lead, you want to act quickly.”
Bernadette took a black case out of her bag and put the ear protectors in. “We might already be too late.”
Joanna reached up and unclipped the target from its plastic hanger. “I assume you would get notified if Annika got any visitors at Taycheedah.”
Bernadette straightened up. “I’d like to think so, but you know we think Marguerite is in hiding. I’m not sure she’d walk into a correctional facility during visiting hours and just politely sign in to see her sister.” Bernadette took a step toward Joanna and looked at the target. Two shots dead center between the eyes of the silhouette, the other six over the heart.
“Wow.” Bernadette motioned to Joanna’s holster. “I’d hate to be on the business end of that.”
Joanna sighed as she put her earmuffs into the bag at her feet. “I loved my old Smith & Wesson. Something about the .40 just felt right in my hand. These new Glock 19s the FBI issued us are soulless.”
“Doesn’t seem like it’s affecting your performance.”
“I guess not. Just my enjoyment.” Joanna folded the target in half, then half again. “I know the timing sucks, Bernadette, but I have my hands full. I hate to say it, but you may need to pop your head out of the groundhog hole and start making contact yourself.”
“We can’t reopen the case without solid evidence,” Bernadette said, “and I can’t risk—”
“Then get your boss to stick her neck out for once,” Joanna said.
Even though the gun range was otherwise empty, Bernadette leaned forward so her mouth was close to Joanna’s ear. “You didn’t ask me here just to tell me you didn’t have time to decrypt the SD card files.”
“But I don’t have time,” Joanna said.
“Do you know what I had to go through to get that SD card?”
“You told me. A cross-country trip. You found it in a—a lute or a banjo or something.”
Bernadette pursed her lips. It was a gusle, not a banjo, but she wouldn’t argue semantics. “The point is, I had to work my ass off to get this SD card to you.”
Joanna set her mouth in a line and looked Bernadette in the eyes. Then her gaze softened. “It looks like the encryption is AES-1024, which means they knew what they were doing. I’ve got some time reserved next week on a wicked-fast machine that might crack it if they took a shortcut or two. But only if we figure out who ambushed our agents.”
“Next week?”
“A long time to wait. Still, nothing I can do.”
“Maybe you can give me the SD card back,” Bernadette said, her mind racing. “I can get someone else to look at it.”
“You know the SD card is FBI property now. I can’t give it back even if I wanted to.”
“I thought I’d at least ask,” Bernadette said carefully. “This is the first hint Marguerite might be alive since I started this case.”
“I know. I’m sorry I can’t do more.” Joanna handed the folded target to Bernadette.
Bernadette took it—and immediately felt a tiny item shift inside the folded paper. About the right size and weight for an SD card.
Twenty feet away, the door to the hallway opened, and two men entered, discussing the Washington Nationals’ chances this season. Joanna stepped out of the booth, then hurried toward the door as it was closing.
Bernadette turned the target in her hand so the folded edge was along the bottom, feeling the SD card fall against the edge, and hurried to catch up with Joanna. “Margaritas are on me next time, all right?”
Joanna caught the door with her foot just before it shut. “You’re on. Hopefully, we’ll get to the bottom of everything by next week. Then you and I can go get hammered.”
They signed out at the registration desk and Joanna took a sharp right toward the FBI building. Bernadette looked to her left; the walk sign was on to cross the street
On the other side of the street, Bernadette held the folded target and tilted it; the SD card slid right into her hand, and she surreptitiously placed it in her bag. Bernadette was lucky Joanna had taken the time to give her the SD card back. She walked toward the entrance of the Metro, putting the target in a paper recycling bin. She glanced around but didn’t see anyone following her.
Joanna couldn’t get her any information about the debit card or about Marguerite, but at least Bernadette had the SD card back. She stepped into the Metro station and got on the down escalator.
An expired debit card and a declined transaction—a hit on the debit card was almost nothing to go on. Magnetic stripes on credit cards got skimmed all the time; card information got faked. Even if Marguerite’s actual debit card had been present at the gas station, it might have been stolen two thousand miles away.
The eastbound Metro was just pulling up as Bernadette reached the bottom of the escalator, and she quickened her pace to get into it before the doors closed. At one thirty, the subway car wasn’t full, and she took a seat on the side. Had anyone followed her into the car? She didn’t think so. She stared at the Metro map across from her seat and her eyes unfocused.
Even if the expired debit card wasn’t much to go on, the short distance between the gas station where the card was declined and Annika Nakrivo’s prison cell meant Bernadette couldn’t afford to ignore it.
She’d hoped to have more concrete information before bringing her discovery to her boss. If she had confirmed the physical presence of the debit card, or if she had video footage from the gas station confirming Marguerite was there, Bernadette would know if the declined transaction was just false hope—or if it was a real lead.
Two stops later, she stood, exited the car, and made a beeline for the stairs leading to the Sycamore Street exit and the humid air of the June afternoon. Four blocks later, she found herself at the Controlled Substance Analysis Bureau building. Her ID got her past the guard and the gate and into the elevator, where she pushed the “3” button, and the doors began to slide shut.
“Hold it, please!” A familiar voice.
Bernadette stuck her hand out and the elevator doors opened again.
Lesley Gill got in, holding two large coffee cups with the Old Dominion Roasting Company logo. “Thanks—oh, hi, Bernadette.”
Bernadette put her hand in her purse.
“Yeah, rough morning. We needed an afternoon coffee run.” Lesley leaned toward Bernadette conspiratorially. “And the coffee here is disgusting.”
Bernadette grinned, her hand finding the SD card. “Or it’s possible—”
“That I’m a coffee snob. Yes, I’m aware. How was your workout?”
“Productive.”
“Productive?”
“Yep. Here, let me help you out.” Bernadette took a coffee from Lesley and slipped the SD card into her newly free hand.
“Is this—” Lesley began.
Bernadette nodded.
The doors opened on the third floor. The beige and olive green paint scheme greeted them, the black plastic CSAB logo looking cheap on the wall. They stepped into the hallway, then opened the door to the CSAB office.
“Want me to get started on the files?” Lesley asked quietly.
“Please.”
They walked to Lesley’s desk in the cubicle farm and Bernadette set the coffee down next to a figurine of a science fiction character Bernadette didn’t recognize.
“Oh,” Lesley said, “that one’s for Maura.”
Bernadette picked the coffee back up. “I was just on my way to see her.”
“Thanks.”
Bernadette walked past the other cubicles and turned left, approaching a set of interior offices. She stopped at the third oak door, with a silver nameplate next to the door frame in elegant, embossed letters reading Lt. Maura Stevenson.
Like the entry, this hallway was beige and olive, again with black plastic nameplates adorning the wall next to the other doors. Maura’s was the only silver one. The year before, Maura had easily pried the black plastic nameplate off the wall and affixed the silver one. Neither of them had ever commented on it—Bernadette was surprised management had allowed Maura to keep the distinctive nameplate.
She raised her hand, hesitated, then knocked three times.
“Come in,” Maura said on the other side of the door.
Bernadette opened the door. In stark contrast to the rest of the floor, Maura’s office was homey and warm. A large ficus plant next to the door, an overstuffed armchair in the corner in a jewel-toned floral pattern, a fluffy rug running from under the warm, gray-washed wooden desk to the front edge of the armchair, and framed posters of jazz concerts on all four light blue walls: Melba Liston, Vi Redd, Joyce Moreno, Sarah Vaughan. Maura had banished the beige and olive green completely.
Behind the desk, Maura looked up from her laptop. “Good afternoon, Bernadette.”
Bernadette held the coffee out to Maura. “Ran into Lesley on my way back from lunch.”
“Oh, great, thanks.” Maura took the coffee and held it to her lips carefully, taking a sip. She set it down on her desk and looked at the cup approvingly before glancing up at Bernadette. “Did the lab get back to you on the Shreveport case?”
Bernadette shook her head. “Results in the morning.”
Maura tilted her head. “So what’s up?”
Bernadette turned and closed the door.
“Marguerite Kerovic?”
Bernadette nodded. “Maybe a lead.”
Maura raised her eyebrows.
“I was hoping I’d have more intel to go on, but...”
“Have a seat.” Maura motioned to the overstuffed chair.
Bernadette glanced at the chair for a moment. It looked comfortable. She breathed in—and the subtle scents of roses and cardamom filled her senses.
A stab of envy. Maura could coil for the hunt like the best agents she’d worked with, but then could take things down a few notches—making this office a haven from the usual madness of her job. They’d become fast friends years ago, and now Bernadette never knew when to treat Maura like a friend or like her boss.
“Go on, sit.”
Bernadette sat in the overstuffed armchair. The chair was more for chatting and conversation than it was for informing one’s manager of serious news. Bernadette was sure Maura had used the comfy chair to her advantage many times: de-escalating tense situations; getting her visitors to let their guards down. Even Bernadette found it difficult to keep her guard up.
“How was Sophie’s softball game?”
Bernadette blinked. “What?”
“I didn’t have a chance to ask you yet.”
“Oh—fine.” Bernadette paused. “They won.”
“That’s great.” Maura smiled widely. “How’d Sophie do?”
“Five innings of shutout ball. And she hit a double to drive in a run.”
Maura leaned forward. “You’ve got more restraint than me. I’d be crowing about that, strutting around the office, making sure everyone knew how great my daughter was.”
Bernadette forced a smile and a nod. She and Sophie had argued that morning: first about not letting Sophie sleep over at her friend’s house, then about Bernadette leaving for a work trip to Shreveport later in the week. Even so, she should have been bragging about Sophie’s heroics in the game. “I don’t want to be one of those moms, Maura. Bragging about my kid’s trophies as if I’d won them myself. But I get what you’re saying.” Bernadette sat up in the comfy chair and cleared her throat. “Hey, maybe you could come to the next game.”
“When?”
“Saturday. Sophie hasn’t seen her Aunt Maura at a game this season.”
Maura’s face turned wistful. Maybe she missed the friendship just as much as Bernadette did—but it was tough after Maura had become Bernadette’s boss. “I’d love to go. Maybe I can make it work—we’ll see how Shreveport goes. Now—you said you wanted to discuss Marguerite Kerovic?”
