Diabolical (Shaye Archer Series Book 3) (9 page)

Maybe she was forcing an issue rather than allowing it to develop in its own time. But with another child missing, she couldn’t back off now. She’d set off on this path, and she was more determined than ever to see it to the end.

The doorbell rang, and Jackson jumped up from the couch. “I’ve got it,” he said.

Shaye watched as he paid the deliveryman and returned with a large paper bag. He placed it on the coffee table and pulled out the containers.

“Don’t get up,” he said. “Just tell me what you want to drink.”

“Diet soda,” she said, her emotions shifting from horrified to angry.

Jackson sat a soda on the coffee table and took his seat again.

“We’re going to get this son of a bitch,” she said.

“Yes. We are.”

She reached for a crab Rangoon and something Jackson said struck her. “Why was Grayson with you at my mom’s?”

“Because I officially have a new partner.”

Shaye perked up a bit. That was really good news in a sea of crap. “Congratulations! That’s great.”

He nodded. “I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you how happy and relieved I am. I also owe you, big time.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, I hear Vincent tried to railroad me with IA and you took him down.”

“All I did was report my displeasure at being accused of impropriety to Captain Bernard.”

“Well, I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall. Grayson said Bernard yelled so loud the walls shook.”

“What did he do with Vincent?”

“Moved him to work on the Clancy journals. But—” He held up a hand before she said anything. “He will only be scanning and filing. He won’t have access to any information concerning the decoding, and the detective in charge is under strict orders that Vincent is not to ever have knowledge of anything concerning you.”

“And you think that will hold?”

“Only a few people know about your name being in those books. Vincent is too lazy to attempt to solve a case, and he has no reason to suspect that digging into the Clancy files would produce something that he could use against you.”

She shook her head. “I know everyone is doing what they can, but you and I both know that this information won’t remain secret forever. Quite frankly, I’m surprised nothing has leaked before now. Every day I turn on the news and wait for the bomb to drop—at least about my biological mother. More people know about that, and even more people have access to those records.”

“And when it happens, we’ll deal with it, but with any luck, the secrets will hold for a while longer, at least until we find this guy.”

“I hope so. If this gets out, the media storm will be worse than a hurricane. If he knows we’re onto him, even a little, he’ll kill the girl and flee.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“You think if you keep telling yourself that, then it will come true?”

“You have a better idea?”

She sighed. “No. I guess not.”

S
unday
, July 26, 2015

French Quarter, New Orleans, Louisiana

H
arold Beaumont leaned back
in the chair and looked out his hotel window. Despite the fine furnishings and comfortable bed, he’d barely slept at all and his body was sore from all that bouncing around in the back of Old Joe’s truck. The effects of aging often annoyed him but at the moment, he’d moved straight past annoyed and directly to aggravated. His mind was as good as it had always been, and for that, he was thankful, but when it came to the physical side of things, he wasn’t near the man he used to be. And that bothered him more than he’d ever admit out loud, especially right now, when he had a feeling a little more strength and endurance might come in handy.

He’d just finished off an excellent breakfast, courtesy of room service, while he waited for Bob to wake up and get moving. Sunday had always been his day to sleep late, and Harold couldn’t think of any good reason to force his old partner out of bed when there was nothing he could do with the information Harold was going to give him until tonight. Besides, if he woke Harold up on Sunday, his wife would know something was up. Susan was a great woman but she had a nose like a bloodhound. If she thought Bob was poking his nose into an open investigation, especially anything that involved Shaye Archer and John Clancy, Bob would never hear the end of it.

He checked his watch and decided that eleven o’clock was a good enough time as any to call his friend. “I’m here,” he said when Bob answered. “Can you talk?”

“Yeah. Susan just ran out to pick up some lunch. You made it all right then?”

“Went off without a hitch. You got that information for me?”

“Of course.” He gave Harold Shaye’s home address and cell phone number. “You aren’t thinking of going to her apartment, are you?”

“No. Not after I saw the footage from my security cameras. I’d hoped I was wrong—that an old cop was just being paranoid—but no such luck. I can’t afford for him to know I’m here, and I have to assume he’s watching her when he’s not out doing whatever the hell else evil he’s up to. Both of us in her apartment would be like shooting fish in a barrel.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’ll figure something out. Thanks for the information and watch your back. I know you were already driving the desk, but we were partners for a lot of years. We have no way of knowing how far he plans on reaching.”

“You know me…three big dogs and too many guns to name. If none of those work, I’ll send Susan after him.”

“That will do it.”

“Call me if you need anything else.”

“I will.”

“And Beaumont…be careful.”

Harold tossed his phone on the bed, rose from the chair, and grabbed his duffel bag. It contained what he considered the necessities—a single change of clothes, three pistols, and more ammo than he took to the gun range. He’d hidden his rifles in the attic before he left, not wanting the killer to get his hands on anything that he could use to kill people. If someone were killed with one of Harold’s guns, he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. The three pistols were the only other guns he owned and they were all right there with him, along with holsters for his hip, shoulder, and ankle. The only other item in the bag was his bulletproof vest.

He pulled it out and ran his hand over it, his fingers dipping into the holes the three bullets had made. He’d been lucky the guy wasn’t a better shot. If he’d aimed just six inches up, Harold’s head would have been gone and the vest would have been cataloged and handed to another detective. They’d allowed him to keep this one. Since it was damaged, it wasn’t as effective as it was before, but Harold was superstitious about some things. The vest had saved his life once before. If he got into a situation again, he wanted to be wearing it.

He placed the vest on the bed and picked up his phone again. The app for the security cameras was right there next to his in-box and he pressed it to watch the clip he’d saved from the earlier footage. He watched the killer’s back as he crept down the hall toward the kitchen, and the same anger he’d felt when he saw it the first time coursed through him all over again. That man had come there with only one purpose in mind—silencing Harold forever.

But why the knife?

That was the one thing Harold hadn’t been able to figure out. He’d expected the killer to whirl around the corner with a pistol, ready to empty a magazine into him. The knife didn’t make any sense, but then, maybe there was no making sense of evil. It usually had its own reasons for things that normal people would never understand.

When he walked into the kitchen, the hood on the sweatshirt blocked his face from view but as before, Harold could tell the shape of the hood was odd. When the killer came out of the garage and faced the camera, Harold could see why the hood was misshapen.

In all his years of police work, he’d been cautious but never scared.

Until now.

* * *

T
he afternoon was half gone
when Shaye pulled into a parking space in the corner of the lot of the apartment building where her biological mother used to live. They were getting a later start than Hustle had expected, but Shaye hadn’t offered an explanation as to why. He could tell by her strained expression that something had happened. Or maybe it was just everything was weighing so heavy on her that she was getting exhausted. Either way, she wasn’t in the same mood as the day before, and that bothered him, but he didn’t want to ask and put her on the spot. Whatever it was, she was still thinking on it hard and he didn’t want to get in the way of that.

She looked over at him, and he waited for the inevitable question that he knew was coming.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked.

“That’s the third time you’ve asked me and that’s just in the car. My answer isn’t going to change.”

“I know. I just don’t feel right having you do my job for me.”

“It’s your job to get answers, right? You already tried and these people won’t talk to you. It’s Saul’s job to keep the hotel maintenance up, but that don’t mean he’s doing it all himself. I don’t mean no disrespect but you’re not qualified for every job you need done.”

She smiled. “So what you’re saying is that picking the right person for the job
is
my job? I guess I can live with that. Is your microphone still in place?”

He pulled out the collar of his T-shirt and glanced down. “The microphone is in place. I’m sure I want to do this. I have a couple things worked up to tell them depending on my assessment when they open the door. If anything looks or feels weird, I’ll leave and come straight back to the car. Can we get this show going? This tape on my chest itches.”

She nodded. “Get out before I annoy you even more.”

He grinned and climbed out of the SUV. Shaye was great but she was a professional worrier. Not that she didn’t have plenty of reason. But she didn’t get these people. She didn’t understand how their minds worked, but he did. His mom had worked hard, often holding down two jobs, but a high school education didn’t get you much in the way of pay. They’d never lived in government housing, but the tiny house she rented was on the same block as a big complex and a lot of HUD homes. He knew these people better than Shaye ever could.

And no way would they talk to someone like Shaye. Even in jeans and a T-shirt, she would never look like she belonged down here. Everyone would assume she was a cop or social worker, and doors and mouths would shut so fast she wouldn’t even have time to introduce herself. But a skinny kid with long scraggly hair and cheap secondhand clothes wasn’t a threat. Saul had taken him shopping for new clothes, but Hustle had insisted on keeping the jeans and shirt he wore now. They were the last things his mom had bought for him, and he planned on keeping them forever. When they didn’t fit, they would get one last washing, then he’d stick them in a drawer. It was a good thing he’d been so sentimental. No way would his new clothes have passed with these people, and he would have felt guilty tearing them up, even though he had a good reason.

He pulled open the door to the apartment building and headed down the hallway toward the unit where Shaye’s biological mother had lived. The building was run-down and dingy and he’d been in Dumpsters that smelled better, but none of that bothered him. He’d lived in worse conditions than this, but it was a good reminder of where he could be if he didn’t take advantage of everything Shaye and Saul were offering him.

He located the apartment across the hall from Shaye’s mother’s old unit and knocked on the door. There was some rustling inside and finally the door opened and a woman peered out at him. She was probably thirty or so, but she looked at least fifteen years older. Drugs aged you fast, and based on the acne she had on her chin and cheeks, Hustle was betting her drug of choice was meth.

He heard a baby squeal inside and struggled against the urge to shake the crap out of her until she realized what kind of life she was dooming her child to, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. He’d seen it too many times before.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I was looking for Lydia Johnson.”

“She’s dead.”

“Yeah, I know. The manager told me.”

“Then what are you knocking on my door for?”

“Lydia was my aunt. She had a daughter, my cousin Cindy. Anyway, I was trying to find her.”

“Ain’t never heard of no Cindy. Ain’t never seen Lydia with a kid.”

“Maybe Cindy wasn’t with her when she came here. You have any idea where Aunt Lydia was before?”

The woman narrowed her eyes at Hustle. “If you don’t know where your cousin is, you ain’t seen her in a while. Why you need to find this girl now?”

“My dad worked road construction and we moved away for a while. Aunt Lydia didn’t have a phone so I lost track of them. We moved back to New Orleans a couple months ago, but my dad died. He had one of those things at his job—you know, where they give you some money?”

“Insurance.”

“Yeah, that’s what the man called it. Anyway, the man said I had some money coming and I thought maybe Aunt Lydia, Cindy, and me could use it to get a better situation, you know? But since Aunt Lydia’s gone, it’s just me and Cindy.”

“What about your mother?”

“She died having me. Couldn’t afford no hospital.”

“Sorry about that, and your dad. You’re young to lose them both.”

He shrugged. “Shit happens, you know? You just keep going until you can’t go no more.”

The woman stared at him for a bit, then nodded. “I don’t know the exact address, but Lydia said she used to live in a house on Tupelo close to the river.”

“You know the cross street?”

“Around Douglas maybe? I can’t remember for sure, but that sounds right.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“Good luck finding your cousin. Maybe you can get her out before she goes the way her mom did. If she hasn’t already.”

The woman closed the door and he headed out of the apartment and back to the SUV. He could have tried the other units, but he didn’t think anyone would know more than what the woman had already told him. He had no way of knowing if the house on Tupelo was where Shaye had lived, but at least it was a start. Assuming, of course, that the house hadn’t been wiped out by Katrina.

He hopped into the SUV and was instantly greeted by an ecstatic Shaye. “You are incredible,” she said. “I couldn’t even get that woman to admit she knew Lydia.”

“I don’t look like no threat.”

“Apparently not. Do you think that story will work again at the other address?”

He shrugged. “Hard to say. She wasn’t too old and had a baby inside so I figured I’d go with the ‘trying to break out’ angle. They get too old and they aren’t even desperate anymore. They all accepted that’s their life. But if they haven’t gotten to that place, thinking someone has a chance to get away from it gives them that little spark of hope that maybe someday that knock on the door will be their ticket out.”

Shaye frowned. “I wish you didn’t know all of this.”

“I’m not mad about it. My moms didn’t always do things smart, you know, but she was a good person and I know she loved me. A lot of people ain’t even got that.”

“That’s true.”

“Besides, knowing all this—how hard it is to live this way—makes me work even harder to never be back here. You and Saul were my ticket out. I’m going to make sure you never regret it.”

“I could never regret knowing you. You’re going to do great things.”

Hustle looked at the dashboard. Every time Shaye said things like that he felt weird. Not bad weird. More like uncommon weird. He was so used to people blowing hot air about everything that Shaye’s sincerity was something he didn’t have a lot of experience with, especially when she was complimenting him. He liked it but he didn’t wear it all that well. It made him kinda itchy, like the microphone.

Finally, he nodded. “Just like you. So get to driving. We have a bad guy to catch and your memory ain’t gonna just walk up and write his name down for you.”