Diabolical (Shaye Archer Series Book 3) (17 page)

Jackson nodded. Harold’s opinion of Peters had ranked right up there with Grayson’s assessment. “What about Beaumont?”

Jackson knew Harold was safely ensconced in the Ritz-Carlton, but he had to pretend Harold was no different from any other person on the list.

“Couldn’t get a hold of him,” Grayson said. “HR has him at an address in Florida. No phone number listed and directory assistance doesn’t have one for that address. I called the local PD and asked someone to do a drive-by for me and give Beaumont a message to call, but he wasn’t home. They said newspapers were in his yard, the oldest Sunday’s.”

Jackson straightened in his chair, feigning concern. “Did they check the house?”

Grayson nodded. “I gave them a scaled-down explanation of the problem and they forced a window open, but the house is clear. No sign of a struggle. Kitchen light and a radio on, but that was it.”

“Maybe he’s out of town. Left the light and radio on to fool potential thieves but forgot to stop the newspaper.”

“Maybe. Anyway, the locals promised to check back periodically and get Beaumont in touch with us as soon as they located him.”

“So that’s it,” Jackson said. “Everyone is either dead, in the hospital, out of reach, or warned.”

“Looks like. I talked to Reynolds a couple minutes ago. He sent a sketch artist to work with Ms. Mandeville.” Grayson opened a folder he’d had tucked under his arm, pulled out a sheet of paper, and passed it to Jackson. “Check that shit out.”

Jackson had seen the mask in 3-D and full color, but the sketch was just as disturbing. Clara had done an excellent job describing it and the artist had captured the malevolent feel of it perfectly, especially the eyes.

Jackson shook his head. “I can’t imagine keeping my cool long enough to get away if I was staring at that. Ms. Mandeville is one tough broad.”

Grayson took the sketch back and grimaced as he looked down at it. “What have we stepped in the middle of, Lamotte?”

“I don’t know, but we’re going to find out.”

F
rench Quarter
, 1985

H
e sat in his office
, waiting for the clock to strike midnight, as he’d done so many times before. Every time the Haitian had come, he’d been forced to pay. And he’d paid dearly. Over two million dollars in almost three decades. He’d been young and foolish when he’d made that first payment. If he’d been older and wiser, he would have refused and told the Haitian to try his theory with the police. But his wife was the one thing that still made him think twice.

He had no doubt that the Haitian would have killed her, if for no other reason than to make him suffer for not living up to his word. But that first payment had been his undoing. That payment gave the Haitian proof that he was hiding something. If something would have happened to his wife after that first payment, then the Haitian could have gone to the police and shown them withdrawals from his bank account and deposits to the Haitian’s that matched up.

Then they might have listened.

After all, why pay someone an enormous sum of money for no reason? So he’d paid and he’d kept paying, year after year. It had crossed his mind once before to track the Haitian down where he lived and kill him. End this for good. But the Haitian was a step ahead of him—the Haitian informed him that if he was murdered, he’d left documents with his attorneys that would be turned over to the police.

So instead of an end, he got yet another worry—that the Haitian would do something that prompted his murder and he would be caught in the cross fire. But months passed, then years, then decades, and the Haitian still turned up a couple times a year for payment. If the Haitian had invested wisely, he should be very well off. His clothes, watch, and car suggested that he didn’t need the money. But money had never been about need. Not for certain types of people.

Unfortunately, money was getting to be a scarce commodity even for him. Orders had been decreasing steadily, longtime customers favoring cheaper Chinese-made goods over a proven product. He’d already sold some of his real estate holdings to help with cash flow until he could figure out what direction to take the operation. Clearly, the old business model was no longer a viable one. If the Haitian demanded too much, he might have to sell off more real estate in order to make the payment.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside his office just as the clock was about to strike midnight. Seconds later, the door opened and the Haitian stepped in.

The Haitian stared at him until he looked away. He couldn’t take the cold gaze of those blue eyes—his father’s eyes. He’d guessed the truth when he was fifteen, but even if he hadn’t, the Haitian made sure he knew. Made sure he understood that the Haitian wasn’t extorting money from him. He was only taking what he was due. His inheritance. The Haitian always laughed when he used the word.

“How much?” he asked as the Haitian sat down. He didn’t want to spend any more time in the man’s presence than necessary. The Haitian took far too much pleasure in his discomfort.

“I’ve not come for money this time,” the Haitian said. “I’ve come to insure my future.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve paid everything you’ve asked.”

“Yes, but my people live long lives. Much longer than a stressed white man with a guilty conscience. I had to ensure that my lifestyle wouldn’t change if you were to meet with unfortunate circumstances.”

The Haitian pulled some photos out of his pocket and slid them across the desk. He hesitated before reaching for them, already knowing that whatever they contained was going to be bad. He lifted the photos, looked at the first one, and gasped.

“No!” He flipped through the pictures, each one more devastating than the next.

“I believe,” the Haitian said, “that your son has embarked on his own career path. I wonder what his employer would think if they knew he was a devil worshipper. So much talk. So much fear of such things these days.”

He threw the photos back at the Haitian. “Photos can be manipulated. This proves nothing.”

The Haitian smiled. “Of course, but video…so much harder to alter. Your son was such an easy target, celebrating his birthday in the French Quarter, drinking until he no longer remembered who he was or what he was doing. I thought I would have to drug him, but he did all the work for me.”

He felt the blood drain from his face and his stomach rolled. “The girl on the altar?”

“A poor confused soul,” the Haitian said, “who believed the ceremony would give her special powers.”

“What did you make him do?”

“He was too drunk to do anything but exist there, but the footage of him holding a knife above her would be enough to convince the police that he was responsible for the cuts on her body. And if that isn’t enough, there’s the brand. Oh, your son didn’t administer it, but he was holding the poker. His fingerprints are on both.”

The man’s stomach rolled. “So the girl is…?”

“Dead? Yes. The same poison used to kill your father. The police will find her body in the next day or so. As long as your son understands his responsibility, the police will never see the footage or the photos.”

He clutched the armrests of his chair, desperate for a solution that didn’t involve telling his son this horrible story. That didn’t involve obligating him to this life of constant fear. “I’ll give you anything. Name your price. Just don’t involve him.”

“My price is your son’s acceptance of your promise. There is no other option.” The Haitian rose. “I’ll be back in a week to ensure you’ve done what you needed to do. Unless you’d prefer to wait until your death and let me tell your son what you did.”

He managed to control his rage only long enough for the Haitian to leave the building, then he launched from his chair, yelling and throwing anything he could get his hands on. When his energy was finally spent, he sank onto his knees in the middle of the floor and began to weep.

“What have I done?”

S
haye pushed
herself away from her desk and leaned back in her office chair. She’d been searching for any information on the mysterious Derameau for two hours already and had exactly nothing. The name wasn’t common, but it wasn’t exactly uncommon, either. She’d called every Derameau she could find a phone number for but no one claimed any knowledge of a relative who’d fathered many children and practiced the black arts.

It didn’t help that in addition to not knowing the man’s first name, she also had a limited idea of his age. The woman at the shop said the man who bought the goat mask was young, maybe twenty, which meant his father could have been forty or so years old up to who knows how old. Men didn’t have the same reproductive limitations as women. So if he’d been forty back then he might be midfifties and up now.

Which meant he might be dead.

She did a quick mental calculation. If the man purchased the mask sixteen years ago and he was approximately twenty years old, then that was thirty-six years. Add a little for margin of error and you had someone who was born sometime within the last forty years. She grabbed her phone and called Jackson who answered on the first ring.

“I need a huge favor,” she said.

“Did you find out something?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. It’s a long shot and really thin, I mean paper thin, but I have a feeling about it.” She told him about her conversation with the shop owner’s daughter and the potentially fictional Derameau. “The guy who bought the mask is him…the man who bought me. The height and build was right and the dead eyes. I just know it’s him.”

“The woman was certain it was the mask that belonged to her grandfather?”

“You should have seen the look on her face when I showed her the picture. She was frightened.”

“Okay, so what do you want me to do?”

“I’ve run down every Derameau that I could find and haven’t gotten any closer to locating the man who might be the father, but if he wanted to keep a low profile, then there might not be anything to find. Unless he’s dead.”

“The one time you can’t hide from paperwork. So you want me to check the death records for any males with the last name Derameau who died in the last…forty years? More?”

“I think forty years should cover it.”

“No problem. Give me some time to arrange it and I’ll call when I have something.”

“Thanks. And Jackson?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful. You don’t know who you can trust.”

“I will.”

Shaye tossed her phone on the desk and blew out a breath. Now what? She’d pursued this line of investigation as far as she could without help, and she had nothing else.

You’ve got the house.

She reached for her mouse and brought up the pictures she’d downloaded to her computer. On the big monitor, the house looked even more dark and depressing than it did when looking at the pictures on her cell phone. She clicked through them one at a time, studying every detail captured, silently willing her mind to zero in on something and unlock another door to her past.

Her frustration grew as she moved through photo after photo without even a flicker. She tapped on her desk and stared out the front window. Maybe the photos wouldn’t work. Maybe she needed to be inside the house for her mind to really process what she was seeing. Maybe she had to feel it in order to remember it.

But revisiting the house presented a problem as well. Clearly, her captor was targeting the people from her past. She had to assume he was watching her as well. He could have been the one who came in the house when she and Hustle were there. If that was the case, then he was aware of it already and he might be watching it, waiting for her to return.

He can’t be everywhere at once.

That was true, but since she couldn’t know for certain where he was, she had to assume that he might be watching her. That meant not taking unnecessary risks. Even if she got desperate or foolish enough to consider doing something stupid, she’d made promises to her mother, her grandfather, and Jackson, and she wasn’t about to go back on her word. Still, that didn’t mean she could sit inside her apartment and wait for something to happen.

Jackson wasn’t an option. He was working and wasn’t her personal bodyguard. Besides, she needed him down at the department doing exactly what he was doing. Harold wanted to keep a low profile, and hanging out with her was the last thing that would accomplish that. And then an idea struck her. She might have been annoyed with Pierce for hiring someone to follow her, but the idea of paid protection wasn’t exactly a bad one. Not if she controlled the game.

She grabbed her phone and started scrolling through her contacts. When she’d been on an insurance fraud case for Breaux, the detective agency she’d worked for before going solo, she’d met a guy who owned a private security firm. He was former military, and “imposing” was the most polite way to describe him. Surely no one could complain if she had an armed, qualified bodyguard.

Her cell phone rang and she saw her grandfather’s name pop up on the screen. She answered the call and could tell immediately that something was wrong by his clipped tone.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news about the house,” Pierce said.

“You couldn’t locate the owner?”

“No. That was easy enough, and he was quite willing to sell. The lawyers insisted I send an inspector over there to assess the structure since I specifically told them I wanted it to remain intact until further notice.”

“Of course.” Lawyers didn’t like anything that was a potential liability.

“The inspector just called…I’m really sorry but the house burned to the ground last night.”

Shaye clutched the phone, her mind trying to process what her grandfather had just said. “How? There wasn’t even a storm. The house didn’t have power.”

“I don’t know. The fire department put the fire out early this morning, but they told me they won’t bother with an investigation. The house was unoccupied and probably should have been condemned. The owner collected on it after Katrina, so not like he can process another claim for the same property that he’s already been paid for.”

“They don’t care why it caught fire?”

“No one sustained a loss. In the big scheme of things, it’s better for everyone if homes in that shape go away. All they do is invite drug dealers, squatters, and injury.”

Shaye knew he was right, but it was still frustrating. No way was she willing to believe this was an accident.

“I knew you wouldn’t be satisfied with the department’s stance on the matter,” Pierce said, “so I have my attorney looking for an arson investigator.”

“Thank you…for everything.”

“I’m really sorry, honey. If there’s anything else I can do, you’ll let me know?”

“Yes.”

There was a couple seconds of silence, then he cleared his throat. “How are you doing? I mean, other than this?”

“I’m doing fine.”

“Have you made any more progress?”

“Unfortunately, it’s very slow going. I don’t really have anything to report.”

She hated lying so she’d carefully couched her words so that they weren’t necessarily a lie. The investigation
was
going slowly. And she didn’t have anything to report because she, Jackson, and Harold had agreed to keep everything a secret, at least until they uncovered the mole in the police department.

“Try not to let it get to you,” he said. “I know it sounds trite but I’m really worried about you.”

“I know you are, but I promise I’m all right. And if I’m ever not all right, then I have you and mom and Eleonore to put me back in line.”

“Well, don’t make it a full-time job, okay?”

“I’m not making any promises.”

“I didn’t figure you would. I’ll let you know when I hear something about the arson investigator. I have to run.”

She disconnected the call and tossed her phone onto the desk. One more avenue of investigation gone. The masked man was either ahead of her or right behind her, sealing off potential angles of detection. She had to get ahead of him, but he had all the advantages.

After all, he knew more about her than she did.

* * *

G
rayson stepped
up to Jackson’s desk and shook his head. “Reynolds said the forensics team didn’t come up with crap from the hospital garage, and the security cameras are old and blurry. All they could make out was that the guy ran south after Ms. Mandeville got away. They searched the streets and parking lots south of the hospital and questioned everyone they could find, but no one was out at that time of the night and none of the businesses with cameras caught anything. Wasn’t a lot of them to begin with.”

“It was a long shot given the time of night.”

“Yeah. What was Shaye’s take on it?”

“She doesn’t know what to think. She’s freaked out, of course, and glad Clara got away, but beyond that, she’s as in the dark as the rest of us.”

“She’s taking extra precautions, right? Her place is secure? She carries her weapon? Not going anywhere alone?”

“She knows the score, probably better than any of us. Think about it, she’s been living in this city for nine years now, not knowing if the guy who did that to her was walking past her on the sidewalk.”

Grayson nodded. “Gives a whole other meaning to the words living nightmare. Listen, I’ve got to go over some paperwork with Frank for some cases we need to close out. It will probably take an hour. Why don’t you grab some lunch? Maybe we’ll catch a break and have something to look into this afternoon.”

“Sounds good,” Jackson said.

He waited until Grayson left for the conference room, then quickly processed Shaye’s request. He had no idea how long it would take to finish. There were too many variables—amount of data, number of jobs ahead of him in the queue, how well their Internet was running today, and that was always questionable.

His cell phone rang, and he saw Shaye’s name come up on the display. Worried about two calls back to back, he grabbed it up and answered on the second ring.

“The house I lived in with Lydia burned down last night,” she said.

“What?”

“Pierce just called. His lawyers wanted an inspection and instead of a house, the inspector found a smoldering pile of ash.”

“Were any other structures affected?”

“Nope. Just that one. Not a cloud in the sky last night and no power on at the property. No footprints in the dust, either, so no one had been squatting there. This can’t be a coincidence.”

“It’s not very likely.”

“Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that we lost another avenue of investigation. I’ve got to go. I need to figure out another way to prompt my mind into giving up its secrets.”

She disconnected and Jackson frowned. He hated the sound of defeat in her voice. Shaye wasn’t the kind of woman who gave up easily. If she was getting discouraged, she might lose patience. If she got impatient, she might take bigger risks. One slip was all it took for the wrong person to make the right move.

He rose from his chair and as he grabbed his car keys, Sergeant Boyd stepped up to his desk.

“Hey, I saw Vincent in the Ninth Ward late last night,” Boyd said. “Are you guys working something over there? I got an assault at a jazz bar down that way. Thought I’d see if you knew anything.”

“You haven’t heard?” Jackson asked. “I’m not working with Vincent anymore. I’m partnered with Grayson now.”

Boyd smiled. “That’s great! Hell, I bet you did a song and dance over that one. Grayson’s a good cop. You should do well with him.”

“Thanks. It’s nice to actually do my job and not take any shit for it.”

“Good luck and congratulations.”

Boyd continued across the floor, and Jackson headed outside and into the parking lot, mulling over what Boyd had said. Why would Vincent be in the Ninth Ward late at night? His house was in the opposite direction. He was a known cheapskate, so no way was he paying bar prices for drinks, and besides, if he was going to do that, there was a bar around the corner that all the cops went to because they got a discount.

He got into his car and backed out of his space. The more he thought about it, the more it bothered him. Vincent was one of the names on his list. One of the men who was there when Shaye was found and had access to the Clancy files. What if he wasn’t as lazy and inept as everyone thought? It would make a great cover. If everyone thought you’d checked out until retirement, then they stopped counting on you for anything and didn’t go looking for you when they needed something. All of which left Vincent with plenty of time inside and outside the department to pursue something else.

As Jackson pulled out of the parking lot, he saw Vincent’s car at the light ahead of him. Speak of the devil. Probably taking one of those two-hour lunches he was famous for. Vincent went left at the light and Jackson floored his vehicle, barely making the corner before the turn signal expired. He was going to find out where Vincent went when he left the police station.

It was long overdue.

He put a car in between them that went the same direction as Vincent for a good six blocks before turning off. Jackson slowed as soon as he saw the car signal and took his time accelerating. A truck pulled out of a side street in front of him and he breathed a sigh of relief. His car was nondescript, so it blended well in traffic, but Vincent had been in it plenty of times. If he was paying attention, then he’d recognize the car. Jackson hoped he wasn’t paying attention.