Diabolical (Shaye Archer Series Book 3) (20 page)

He punched the accelerator and the truck leaped forward, sliding sideways as he left the clearing and the tires connected again with the slick dirt road. It was impossible to maintain a high speed with all the holes and bumps, but Jonal pushed the limit of the truck.

Wondering if the girl would make the drive.

Wondering if Emile was on his way to Jonal’s house.

Wondering how late his maid would visit with her sister.

When he reached the main road, a small bit of relief coursed through him. One hurdle was past, but he had several more to manage. He pressed the accelerator down to the floor, pushing the truck to its limit, praying that a policeman didn’t pull him over. There was no explanation in the world that would get him off the hook for this. Cops would never believe he wasn’t involved. Hell, he wouldn’t believe it, either.

He stopped at the first pay phone he found and dug the phone number for his maid’s sister from his wallet. He was relieved to find she was still there. He told her he’d seen someone trying to break into the house and suggested she stay at her sister’s that night. She readily agreed and his relief ticked up another notch. Then he hurried back to the truck, grabbed the branding iron, and threw it into a Dumpster before taking off again.

The girl’s breathing was noticeable now, and she was starting to move her limbs, jerking like she was having a bad dream. This time, though, he kept his speed right at the limit. No use tempting fate. The problem was what to do with the girl now. Hospitals had security cameras, so even a dump-and-run was out of the question. But he needed to leave her somewhere that she could be found. Out here in the middle of nowhere wouldn’t do her any good. She needed to be in New Orleans, where the best doctors were. Maybe they could save her.

He made the drive back into the city as quickly as he dared and headed toward the French Quarter. The hospital he’d been in for his heart was there, and it was a good one. If he could find a place to leave the girl nearby, someone would find her and take her there.

He passed the hospital emergency room entrance and circled around the block, looking for a place that might be trafficked this late by decent people. It wasn’t an easy task. But when he rounded the next corner, he hit the jackpot. Two cops were inside an all-night café, picking up coffee. The street was otherwise empty. He pulled around the corner into an alley and checked for security cameras. It was clear.

He jumped out of the truck and lifted the girl, then carried her to the corner. He peered around but the cop car was still parked in front of the café. He stepped around the corner and placed the girl on the sidewalk under a streetlight. She was starting to move more, and he hoped she wouldn’t awaken and wander off before the police saw her, but he couldn’t risk sticking around any longer. He ran back to his truck and sped off, not slowing until he was three blocks away.

And that’s when his left arm went numb.

No! Not now.

But he knew the score.

He raced down the street until he reached the corner, then swung the truck around and parked in front of a bar. His chest felt as if it had been pumped with air and was about to burst. He staggered as he made his way up to the entrance of the bar. The bouncer eyed him as he approached, and Jonal knew the man would think he was drunk.

He walked up clutching his chest. “Heart,” he whispered. “Call 911.”

Then everything went dark.

* * *

J
onal jerked
awake and bolted upright. He looked wildly around the room, trying to understand where he was and how he’d gotten here. He felt a hand on his arm and looked over to see his maid.

“Mr. Derameau,” she said. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes. What happened?” His eyes, which had been out of focus when he’d first awakened, had cleared now and he realized he was in a hospital room. In a hospital bed.

“You had another heart attack,” she said. “You don’t remember?”

Jonal tried to recall, but his mind couldn’t focus. “The bar. I stopped in front of a bar.”

The maid nodded. “The bouncer called the paramedics. You collapsed in front of the club. I don’t know what you were doing in the French Quarter that late, though. I was at my sister’s. You called to tell me you’d chased off a burglar at your house and asked me to stay put for the night. The hospital found my sister’s number in your wallet and called it. That’s how I knew to come.”

Jonal nodded as it all started to come back to him—the house, the altar, the girl, Emile Samba. “How long have I been here?”

“Three days.”

“I need something to drink,” he said.

She nodded. “I’ll go get the nurse and find out what you can have.”

As soon as she left the room, he reached for the television remote and turned the channel to the news. If the girl had been found, maybe the news would have the story. Unless they’d covered it and moved on while he’d been unconscious.

He didn’t have to wonder for long.

A photo of the girl popped up on the television screen and he felt his chest tighten. She was awake. Her face was bruised and puffy and her eyes were filled with fear but she was alive. The reporter said the girl had no memory of who she was, and an intensive police search and news campaign had not turned up any information as to her identity.

Maybe it was better, he thought, if she never remembered.

Then another picture flashed on the screen and the reporter announced that Corrine Archer had taken temporary custody of the girl, and planned on filing for permanent custody.

He felt his chest tighten again and reached for the telephone. He needed his lawyer. He had to make sure everything was in order. His time on this earth was almost up.

S
haye clutched
the steering wheel of her SUV and pressed the accelerator, moving through the traffic as quickly as possible. Things had gone better than expected at the hospital. Clara had been able to secure the information on Jonal Derameau without anyone so much as raising an eyebrow. It was a huge relief for Shaye that no one had questioned Clara. The last thing she wanted on her conscience was Clara’s job in jeopardy. The woman had already done so much for her.

Jonal’s personal information had been somewhat disappointing in that it still didn’t provide a home address or a next of kin. Clearly, the man had taken privacy to an entirely different level than most, leaving Shaye to wonder what he’d been hiding from. Or whom. But the one thing Jonal couldn’t control was the fact that his death generated a bill that had to be paid and a body that had to be claimed. In both cases, it was an attorney who’d handled the job.

Shaye had wasted no time locating the attorney, who had an office in the French Quarter and maintained office hours until 6:00 p.m. Professional etiquette called for her to make an appointment, but Shaye wasn’t about to be put down on a schedule for a week or two away. It was much harder to tell someone no when they were standing in front of you. She could make a better case for urgency in person.

The office was several blocks from the hospital. She located a parking spot across the street, then hurried into the building and up to the second-floor law office, walking in the door five minutes before closing time. The receptionist at the front desk frowned when Shaye entered. The practice specialized in estate planning and Shaye, in her old jeans and plain T-shirt, obviously didn’t fit the standard of dress for their usual clientele.

“Hello,” Shaye said, smiling and using her pleasant voice. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Lacoste.”

The girl frowned. “Do you have an appointment?” she asked, even though Shaye was certain she already knew Shaye didn’t.

“No, but it’s a time-sensitive situation.” She pulled her business card from her wallet and handed it to the girl. “If you could give him this and ask if he has a few minutes to speak with me. It is really important.”

The receptionist didn’t even flinch at the private investigator title on the business card, but then where money was concerned, investigation was often part and parcel of the business.

“He’s really busy,” the receptionist said. “It would be best if you made an appointment.”

“It wouldn’t be best for me. Look, I’m trying to be polite, but I don’t really have any time to waste. Either you take him the card and ask him to speak to me, or the next person standing here asking to speak to him will be a detective with the New Orleans Police Department.”

Her eyes widened slightly and she rose from her chair. “Just a minute,” she said and headed down a hallway behind her. A minute later, she returned wearing a sheepish look. “I apologize for not realizing who you were, Ms. Archer. Mr. Lacoste is happy to see you now. The second door on the left.”

Shaye forced herself to maintain a walk, albeit a quick one, to Lacoste’s office. She rapped on the door and heard a voice inside calling for her to enter. She walked into the room and took note of the distinguished, silver-haired man who rose from the desk and came over to greet her, hand extended.

“I’m sorry you were delayed in getting in to see me,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Don’t apologize. Your receptionist was doing her job, and I barged in here without so much as a phone call, much less an appointment.”

“Please.” He waved a hand at two chairs in front of his desk. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

“No. Thank you,” she said as she sat. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

He nodded and took his seat. “The receptionist said you had a matter of some urgency that you needed to speak to me about, and that it might involve the police?”

“The police are looking for a missing girl who I think was abducted by the same man I’m looking for.”

Lacoste frowned. “And you think I might have knowledge of this person?”

“Not directly. The identity of the man is what I’ve been working to determine. My investigation has led me to believe the man I’m looking for might be an illegitimate child of one of your clients, Jonal Derameau.”

Lacoste’s eyes widened. “Mr. Derameau was an interesting and difficult man. So private that he made it hard for me to do my job. I didn’t even know his home address until days before his death.”

“Didn’t you find that odd?”

“Of course, but Mr. Derameau owned several nightclubs in New Orleans and there were rumors of business that transpired there—the kind of business that the police and the IRS might be interested in. I had no direct knowledge or proof of anything of that nature, but I assumed it might be true and that was the reason for Mr. Derameau’s secrecy.”

“I see.”

“You said you believe one of Mr. Derameau’s children abducted a child?”

“I’m not certain, but some facts in the case have led me to this line of investigation. I hoped that as his attorney, you’d have an idea as to where I might find Mr. Derameau’s children, or at least start looking.”

Lacoste shook his head. “I knew, of course, that he had children. All illegitimate. Mr. Derameau was never married that I am aware of. When I drafted his will, he told me that he had settled with the mothers and children years ago and that there would be no claims to his estate upon his death. I was skeptical, of course, but his words turned out to be truthful. Not a single person has contacted me claiming to be a relative of Mr. Derameau. In fact, no one has ever contacted me about Mr. Derameau until today.”

Disappointment coursed through her and her shoulders slumped. Every time she thought she was close, another wall was erected.

“I can’t help you locate Mr. Derameau’s children,” he continued, “but I can give you the information I have on someone who might be able to help you. If she’s still alive.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Derameau always referred to her as his maid, but I suspect he regarded her as more than just hired help. She handled everything in his household and cared for Mr. Derameau as he aged. She lived in the home with him for many years. I never got the impression that the relationship was romantic, mind you, but I am certain Mr. Derameau had a lot of respect and affection for the woman. In fact, he left his considerable fortune to her.”

Shaye’s disappointment melted away. If the maid had lived with and cared for Derameau, then she might be the only person who knew the man’s secrets. “I would love her information, if you don’t mind providing it.”

“Of course not. I know your grandfather through a couple of business dealings and your mother from charity events. I’ve followed your story, of course, as I’m sure most of the city has. You’re clearly not someone looking for the next sensational feather to put in your cap. In fact, I suspect you do as much as possible to avoid being the news, which I imagine is a challenge.”

“It definitely can be.”

He tapped on his computer and jotted down a name and address on a piece of paper, then handed it to Shaye.

“I really appreciate your help.”

He nodded. “You were instrumental in taking down that Clancy monster, and that was a service to this city and all of humanity. If I can play even the smallest role in helping you get another one off the streets, then I’m more than happy to do it.”

Shaye rose from her chair and he followed. She extended her hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, sir.”

“The pleasure was all mine.”

* * *

S
haye could barely contain
her excitement as she exited the law firm and got into her car. A quick search of the address Lacoste had provided showed that Jonal Derameau’s maid, Anna Washington, still resided there. Fingers crossed that she was still alive and kicking in her home, Shaye directed her car toward the Audubon District.

With all the traffic lights and a steady flow of vehicles, the drive took a good thirty minutes, which was about twenty-nine minutes more than Shaye had been prepared to handle. By the time she parked at the curb in front of the attractive white home, she was so jittery she had to take a few minutes to calm down.

Finally, she climbed out of her SUV and headed to the front door. She rang the doorbell and waited. She was just about to ring it again when she heard footsteps inside and then the door opened a crack. The black woman who looked out at her was probably in her sixties. She was slim and attractive, and wore gray slacks and a cream silk blouse.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Are you Anna Washington?” Shaye asked.

“Who’s inquiring?”

“I’m sorry.” Shaye reached into her purse and pulled out a business card. “My name is Shaye Archer. I’d like to ask you some questions about Jonal Derameau’s children.”

The woman took the card and her eyes widened. “I think you need to come inside.” She stepped back and opened the door wide so that Shaye could enter. Shaye stepped inside, and the woman motioned to her as she set out across the formal living room toward the back of the house.

Shaye followed her through a doorway and into the kitchen. A wide expanse of white marble complemented beautifully crafted cabinets painted a slate color. The woman motioned for her to sit and Shaye took a seat on one of the stools at the counter. The woman pulled a pitcher of iced tea from her refrigerator and poured them both a glass. Shaye noticed that her hands shook as she placed the glass in front of Shaye.

“I’m Anna Washington,” the woman said finally. “I apologize for my nerves, but I never really expected for you to come.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, but I’ll explain what I know. The rest is up to you to figure out.” Anna took a drink of tea, then slid onto a stool across from Shaye. “I took care of Mr. Derameau and his estate for almost thirty years. He was a hard man, cold even, but he always treated me fairly and far more than fair in death.”

“He left everything to you.”

She nodded. “Right before he died, something happened. I was visiting my sister and he called, claiming there had been an intruder at the estate and asking me to stay over with my sister until he could ensure the house was secure. The next morning, a nurse at New Orleans General called my sister’s house saying a man with her phone number in his wallet had collapsed in front of a nightclub in the French Quarter and had been brought into the emergency room the night before. He had no identification on him and they were trying to locate the next of kin.”

“What had happened to him?”

“He had a bad heart. He had already suffered one heart attack but he was strong as an ox, even for his age, and refused to let it get him. Same thing happened this time, but what I don’t know, and what he’d never tell me, was why he was in the French Quarter and why he’d asked me to stay at my sister’s house. There was no sign of an intruder at the estate.”

“What did he say when you asked him?”

“Only that it was something I never needed to know. Mr. Derameau was a very private man. He wasn’t one to talk about his personal business, but I knew something terrible had happened. Something that made his heart give out for good. He died two weeks later.”

“You said you never expected for me to come? Why? Why me?”

“Not you specifically, but before he died, Mr. Derameau gave me instructions. He said if anyone showed up here asking about his children, I was to give them something. I’ll be the first to admit, I thought the heart attack had affected his mind.”

“Mr. Derameau was well off. It isn’t really a stretch to think his children might come seeking a share of his estate.”

“Mr. Derameau set up trusts for the mothers and the children when they were born. He was very generous. The money is paid out over their lifetime in monthly increments. It was enough money so that invested well, none would ever have to worry about the basics being paid. But there was one condition. No one could contact Mr. Derameau. Not for any reason. If a mother contacted him, she and her child would have their trust revoked. The same for the children. If they attempted to locate and contact Mr. Derameau, their trust and their mother’s would be revoked.”

“Mr. Derameau really didn’t want to be a father, did he?”

“Mr. Derameau had demons and I believe he insulated himself to protect others from them as much as to protect himself. Every afternoon, I spent an hour reading the Bible on the back patio. He’d started coming out there when I read and asked me to read some passages to him and explain them. I think right there at the end, he was on the threshold of a conversion. I pray every day that he was close enough.”

“He didn’t have any other family?”

“None living. He told me once he had a sister but she died young.”

“What did he tell you to give the person who came asking?”

“Wait just a minute and I’ll get it.” She rose from the stool and headed through a door off the back of the kitchen. She returned a couple minutes later with an ornate wooden box, about a foot long and eight inches wide, and placed it on the counter. Then she pulled an iron key out of her pocket and placed it on top of the box.