Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Jesse

I flick on the roof lights and let the sirens blare. "It's Christmastime on Main Street," I say as I speed through town.

I've driven well above the legal limit on these roads many times, only now, it's within my authority as the deputy sheriff, trying to serve, protect, and maintain the peace.

If being the new guy on the force wasn't hard enough, I've been having to deal with my missing cousin and now the Bling Ring—as the citizens of Hogwash Holler call the band of petty thieves, taking their private property.

I keep my finger on the pulse of the official news and skim the Pest Digest. At first glance, you'd think it was a gardening journal, but the local periodical is equal parts speculation and gossip. If there's a shred of newsworthy info in the paper, consider it a lucky day, but everyone in town subscribes and I consider it part of my job to keep informed.

Recently, my name has been in ink a few times. Thankfully, the Pest Digest didn't exist back when I was in high school. Better for there not to be a record of my misbehavior.

On my two-way radio, I call dispatch. "We have a runner. In active pursuit of the 211 from the gas station. On Main Street and turning onto Spring Street. The suspect may have also stolen a license plate cover. Over."

"Roger that. Louisiana state plates?" asks Nancy, our dispatcher.

"Negative. California. It was a license plate cover frame decorated with rhinestones."

Nancy chuckles. "Is this a joke?"

"Possibly the work of the Bling Ring. Attempting to locate the suspect. Over."

"Copy that. Do you need backup?"

"Not at present, ma'am. Over and out."

As I pursue the thief toward the Chateau, my guess is the Bling Ring consists of a group of scavenger hunters who failed to find Tickle's famed Golden Tokens and the rest of the treasure just like everyone else. Only now, they're stuck here and trying to make their mission meaningful.

"Sorry, folks. Not on my watch," I mutter.

I'll catch them and ensure that everything is returned to their rightful owners along with an apology. We're southern, and I'll teach these criminals their manners on top of obeying the law .

I can't be sure the suspect came down here, but there are only a few options out this way: Tickle Chateau, the Metairie Stronghold—an old fort—the cemetery, and the swamp.

Unfortunately for the guy I'm pursuing, I know this area like the back of my hand—that was but one reason Cameron Parish agreed to take me on. Long ago, I wasn't so different from the suspect, always getting up to no good, taking things that weren't mine, and getting into enough trouble to make my mother turn over in her grave.

Stopping, I flick off the emergency lights mounted on the roof and cut the engine. Scanning the area surrounding the once grand antebellum home, memories of other visits out this way pop into my mind like Polaroid photos.

My cousin Sawyer and I were like brothers. We used to rile each other up, claiming the place was haunted. We'd sneak in and hang out, not respecting the No Trespassing sign. I'm guessing our spray paint still stains the plasterboard walls in the dining room.

Moss, ivy, mildew, and vines slowly reclaim the structure with its moldering pillars and porches, ironwork and secrets. I wonder what ever became of Hogan Tickle as I quietly approach his former residence. My hand hovers over my sidearm just in case the suspect or the crocogator make any fast moves.

It's already fall, but the air this close to the bayou is thicker than in town and sticky. Unusually quiet too, but that works in my favor as I listen for the snap of a twig or the rustle of leaves .

As minutes pass, there are so many places to hide on this property, the reality that today isn't the day I'm going to catch these criminals sinks deeper. I can't keep chasing them down. I have to come up with a plan.

I feel strangely like a fish on one of those rickety docks in the marsh, flapping around, gasping for air. Only, it's not like I can't breathe. More like something else suffocates me. I'm just not sure what. It eludes me, evades like these suspects I've been chasing for the better part of a month.

Not only did I join the police force because of a sense of duty, I have wrongs to right and mysteries to solve. Namely, the one that plagues my broken family. Also, the one that routinely threatens to ruin our town. Sawyer claimed it's cursed. I believe there are opportunists seeking a purported payday.

Long ago, this area was known for fishing, farming, and thievery—of the pirate treasure variety. Then came Hogan Tickle, an entrepreneur and eccentric, at least in his old age.

Supposedly, when he was younger, he was part of the Boot Boys, a trio of bandits who sold beer during prohibition. He went straight, switching to root beer, but that didn't stop him from gambling, hence the defunct soda fountain in town. That also didn't keep him from seeking treasure—sparkly and valuable things.

But the Bling Ring repeatedly takes trinkets, random objects that happen to shine. It doesn't add up.

Rumor has it there was the Dubois Diamond, the Roger Cahoot Ruby, and a third, unknown treasure of which Tickle took possession. He left riddles on his gravestone, supposedly directing people on a scavenger hunt to find it. No one ever has, but that doesn't stop them from looking.

Turning back toward the SUV—a sport utility vehicle is helpful out here where there are more dirt roads than paved—a gleam in the leaf litter and overgrown grass catches my eye. Crouching down to pick it up, I find what looks like part of a key chain. Carl Soto reported his missing, but not his keys. Could this be part of it, or is it a coincidence?

Had it been here a while, like everything else, the bayou would've taken possession of it. No, this is a fresh clue. Either that or a bunch of magpies have some loser locals doing their dirty work retrieving shiny objects to line their nests.

It's always shiny objects.

When I got back to Hogwash after years away, and a few more spent getting squared away and having graduated from the Academy, I found my cousin Sawyer still in town. Time hadn't done him any favors, and he had less sense than I remembered, but he's family—practically a brother.

And a man who likes to go fishing on the bayou at night—crawfish in particular. The problem with that is other things like hunting after dark.

The day after I got my badge, I went to meet my cousin for breakfast to celebrate and he didn't show. We found his flats boat and gear backed up by Bladecrook—a tricky spot in the otherwise calm swamp .

But that's not all. I know he got involved in some schemes—owed money to unsavory characters. I tried to get him to quit gambling. Gave him three strikes. He couldn't give it up, I suppose. Now, I'm afraid he's lost.

But one thing he told me that's stuck in my mind. He insisted he was going to find the ring. As far as I know, he's not part of JRR Tolkien's fantasy world. He couldn't have meant the Bling Ring because this was before they struck. I can only imagine he referred to Adele Swan's engagement ring—yet another supposed blemish on my family's name.

I knew better than to get involved with a Swan, even if it was just that one time. But my hands are clean. No ring. No bling.

Just a stain on my lips that I seldom think about anymore, so why am I now?

But that's not my only problem. My family's past crimes fill more than a few of the folders in the police station at the back of the town hall. My father, cousin, his parents, and even I have been in and out of jail more times than is acceptable—my father died there and I don't want that to be my fate.

I just hope none of it catches up with me, not after I've come this far to do the right thing.

My frown deepens. I'm well aware the past follows me around like a gray cloud. That's the problem with wrongdoing and lies—they never seem to go away. The truth always has a way of working its way to the surface. I suppose my cousin will turn up too.