The Reckoning

by Jana DeLeon

  Holt shook his head, frustrated with his failure. “I didn’t notice a tail from Vodoun and certainly not from the island. Gossip spreads fast, though. Someone in Vodoun could have tipped him off that we were transporting Mathilde to the hospital in New Orleans.”

  “You think there’s more than one person involved?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe someone passed on the information, not knowing the implications.”

  “But no one from Vodoun would tell this to anyone that wasn’t aware of Mathilde and the island.”

  “I know.”

  She sucked in a breath. “It’s someone local, isn’t it? It always has been.”

  “Probably.”

  She turned to stare back out the window, and he knew her mind was reeling from the possibility that she knew the person who’d caused all this heartache for her family. What Holt wasn’t about to tell her was even worse—that he suspected the killer wasn’t working alone. That more than one person in the community might be working together to cause all this damage.

  And that they may have been working in Vodoun long before now.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Holt handed the police officer at the lab one of his cards. “Here’s my contact information.”

  The officer took the card and nodded. “If we get anything, we’ll let you know.”

  Holt strode down the sidewalk, trying to control his anger. The locks on the back door of the lab were a joke, and security cameras were non-existent. He knew funding for government agencies was minimal at best, but how in the world could they justify such a lack of security at a place testing police evidence?

  And the unfortunate tech. He’d be feeling that blow to the head for weeks and be sporting a scar on his forehead the rest of his life, but the poor guy was more upset over the stolen evidence.

  Holt was upset over the entire thing.

  Alex walked quietly beside him, but she remained wisely silent.

  He climbed inside the truck and banged his hand on the steering wheel. Never had he felt at such a loss. The entire thing was spiraling out of control, and he was further away from answers than he had been the day Erika disappeared.

  “I don’t understand,” Alex said. “Why would someone take the leg?”

  “Clearly he didn’t want us to identify the body.”

  Alex sucked in a breath. “They wouldn’t have known about the serial number on the pin. They don’t know that we already know it’s Bobby.”

  “The only silver lining in this entire mess.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We head back to Vodoun. There’s nothing left here for us to do.”

  He started the truck, but as he was about to pull away from the curb, his cell phone rang again. This time, he didn’t recognize the telephone number.

  “Mr. Chamberlain?” the man said when he answered.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Al Johnson. You came in my pawn shop about that guitar.”

  “Yes, Mr. Johnson. Have you remembered something else?”

  “Even better. I just saw that guy that sold me the guitar walk into a bar on St. Charles Street.”

  Holt stiffened. “You’re sure?”

  “Got a clear look at him before he went inside. The Lizard Lounge. Do you want me to do anything?”

  “No. If he sees you, he may bolt. Just stay out of sight and call me if you see him leave the bar.”

  “Got it.”

  Holt threw his foot down on the accelerator and launched the truck onto the street. As he cut around traffic, he told a startled looking Alex about the phone call.

  “Shouldn’t you call the police?” she asked.

  “If he sees the cops coming, he’ll bail.”

  “But what are you going to do?”

  “Confront him, and then call the New Orleans cops. They can book him for me and I’ll transport him to Vodoun for holding.”

  “Confront him? He killed Bobby. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Well, when you figure out how I can arrest him from a distance, let me know. But I have to tell you, that’s not going to be nearly as satisfying.”

  “At least I’ll be there to back you up.”

  Holt shook his head. “Absolutely not. You’re not going anywhere near that bar. You’re going to sit in the truck and wait for me to do my job.”

  “You expect me to sit like some lady-in-waiting?”

  “Yes, I do. Despite my allowing you to come along for some of this, you are not a cop and don’t have the training necessary to handle something like this. I expect you to respect my ability to do my job.”

  Alex pursed her lips but didn’t argue. He knew he’d get her with the respect comment.

  He pulled into an alley behind the bar and parked half a block down from the bar, next to a Dumpster.

  “If anyone hassles you, move the truck one street over.” He handed her the keys. “Have your cell phone close by. I’ll let you know what’s happening.”

  He exited the truck and skirted around the corner of the alley and onto St. Charles Street. The bar was in the center of the street. It was early evening, so it was crowded, but he figured that played in his favor. It was easier to blend in. If the killer knew who he was, he’d immediately know why he was there.

  He edged along the wall of the tiny pub, scanning the patrons as he went, but none of them matched the guy from the pawn shop video. Maybe Al Johnson had been mistaken. He’d seen the guy from across the street. It was possible he’d made the wrong guy.

  Suddenly, a crack of light fell across his face and he glanced to the back of the bar in time to see two men at the back entrance. The first man was pushing the door open with his right hand.

  The tattoo. It was there on the back of his hand.

  The second man was wearing a black hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. He glanced back for a second, but the hood was pulled so far down, Holt couldn’t make out any of the man’s features.

  Suddenly, it hit him that Alex was a sitting duck in the alley.

  Holt worked his way through the crowd to the back door, dialing Alex’s number as he walked.

  “He just walked out the back door of the bar with another man,” he said when she answered. “They’re in the alley with you. Get out before they see you.”

  “Too late,” Alex said. “I ducked down when the door opened. I don’t think they paid attention to the truck since it’s partially hidden by the Dumpster, but if I pull away now, they’ll bolt.”

  “Can you see them now?”

  “No. There’s a stack of crates blocking my view. I only caught a glimpse of them walking out the back door before I ducked, but I think they’re somewhere in those crates.”

  Holt cursed under his breath. “Stay put and stay low until I call you.”

  “Be careful.”

  Holt slipped the phone into his jeans pocket and eased the back door open just a crack. The men weren’t anywhere to be seen, but crates and boxes littered the alley. They could be standing mere feet away and still be out of sight.

  The faint sound of voices caught his ear and he slipped out into the alley, trying to determine the direction of the voices. An eight-foot stack of crates stood to his right, and he eased up behind them.

  The voices grew louder and he peered through the slats in the crates, trying to make out the face of either man. The man from the pawn shop was facing the crates Holt crouched behind and he got a clean look at him. It was definitely the guy he was looking for. The guy with the hooded sweatshirt had his back to the crates, so Holt still couldn’t get a look at him.

  “I told you to dump the body in the bayou,” the man in the hooded sweatshirt said.

  “I did,” the tattoo man replied.


  “Then how did that leg wind up in a police laboratory in New Orleans?”

  “Maybe it was the tide. I weighted it down.”

  “You really messed up, killing that guy.”

  “It’s not my fault the guy saw me grab the kid and followed me. What was I supposed to do—let him go?”

  “You were supposed to make sure no one was watching when you grabbed the kid.”

  “I cleared out his apartment, just like you said, so everyone would think he took off with the kid.”

  “And that plan would have worked if that fill-in sheriff hadn’t found a piece of him lying around. If the cops figure out that Bobby Rhonaldo is dead, they’re going to start treating this as something other than a random kidnapping. But all that’s irrelevant now, and it’s not the only problem I have.”

  “I did everything you told me to do.”

  “Yes, and more. I saw the pawn ticket when you paid for lunch. You pawned that guitar, you idiot.”

  “But no one knows I had the guitar but you,” the tattoo man argued, but his expression belied the certainty of his words.

  “Rhonaldo is missing, along with his daughter and all his belongings. That guitar was rare. The police could have sent out a bulletin asking anyone who sees it to contact them. Pawn shops don’t want any trouble with the law.”

  “I’m sure no one’s looking for it,” the man said, his nervousness clear in his voice. “The guy didn’t even ask me questions.”

  “Of course he didn’t ask questions. He’s not the cops and wouldn’t want trouble in his shop, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t pick up the phone and call the police as soon as you left.”

  “Maybe the police will think Bobby sold the guitar for cash to get out of town.”

  “Pawn shops have excellent security systems. If the owner reported the sale to the police, you can bet they have your face plastered across every law enforcement office in Louisiana.”

  “I…I’m sorry, boss—”

  “You would risk this—everything I’ve worked for—for a couple of dollars? What do you think I ought to do about that? What do you think I will do about that?”

  “I’ll lie low,” tattoo man said, clearly starting to panic. “I have a place out of town. I can go there until this blows over.”

  “I have a better idea.”

  “No!” the man screamed.

  Holt heard the click of steel but before he could jump around the crates, the shot rang out through the alley.

  “Police!” he yelled and vaulted around the crates, gun leveled, but the shooter was already running down the alley.

  Straight toward Alex.

  * * *

  THE SHOOTER DUCKED IN and out of the debris and Dumpsters that lined the alley, making a shot impossible, especially as Holt was dodging the same obstacles. He prayed that Alex had heard the shot and stayed down. He had no doubt that if the shooter saw her, he’d have no problem killing her.

  He was about thirty yards from his truck when three more shots rang out.

  “No!” He ran as fast as he could, knocking over crates and trash cans as he went.

  He rounded the Dumpster and saw steam coming from the engine. Two single bullet holes went straight through the windshield. He scanned the alley for the shooter, but he was long gone.

  Holt rushed to the truck and yanked the door open. Alex looked up at him from where she was crouched on the floorboard, her hands and face covered with tiny cuts from the scattering of glass from the windshield. He felt almost dizzy from relief.

  “Are you all right?” He extended his hand.

  “Yes,” she said and took his hand. She stepped out of the truck, then slumped back against it and took a deep breath. “I thought…he came around that corner and before I could even duck, he’d already fired a shot at me. I barely ducked before he shot again.”

  She started shaking. “If he’d have stopped even a second longer to fire a shot through the door—”

  “But he didn’t,” Holt interrupted. He pulled her into his arms and held her close to him, trying to control his own racing heart. It was just beginning to hit him how close he’d come to losing her.

  Alex squeezed him tightly, and he could feel her racing heart beating against his chest. “You were right for telling me to stay behind. I know it didn’t turn out like you expected, but it’s clear I’m not qualified to handle this.”

  He placed his hands on each side of her face and looked down at her. “You handled it fine. You’re alive. That’s the only important thing.”

  “But he got away. If I’d been better at this, I would have taken out my own gun and shot him in the leg or something.”

  He smiled. “Old Ms. Maude did not teach you that much in one afternoon.”

  Alex laughed. “I’m alive.”

  Holt nodded. “Let’s call the police. The other guy wasn’t as lucky.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Did you get a good look at the shooter?”

  “No. The hood was low, and it all happened so fast.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I didn’t get a good look, either.”

  She didn’t say any more, but he could tell by her expression that she felt the same way he did—frustrated, disappointed, cheated. Another good lead that had resulted in a dead end. Literally.

  But it was hard to remain angry when he thought about what could have been lost. If Alex had reacted a second slower, or the shooter had been just a hair more accurate. He shook his head. Best to remove those thoughts completely from his mind. Alex was safe, and he was going to see that she stayed that way.

  It took three long hours to settle everything with the New Orleans Police Department, the coroner and the mechanic’s shop. Three long hours to find out that the dead guy carried no identification and his fingerprints weren’t in the system. Only thirty minutes to find out that the truck couldn’t be repaired that night and they were without transportation.

  “So what now?” Alex asked, as they signed off on their written statements.

  “It’s late, and we’re both exhausted. I say we check into a hotel and get a rental car tomorrow. The repairs on my truck may take a few days.”

  “Why waste money on a hotel? My apartment is ten minutes from here.”

  “And that’s probably the first place the shooter will look.”

  The breath caught in her throat for a moment, and she shook her head. “You’re right. I guess I’m having trouble wrapping my mind around all the implications.” Not to mention trying to control her emotions over the thought of checking into a hotel with Holt. Still, logic overruled emotion every time.

  “Separate rooms, of course,” she said.

  “Of course, but connected. Just in case…”

  He didn’t finish his sentence, but he didn’t have to. She knew Holt was afraid the shooter would come looking for them—her specifically, since he couldn’t be certain she hadn’t gotten a good look at his face.

  “Sir,” an officer interrupted them. “The captain asked me to give you a lift wherever you need to go. If you’re planning on staying the night, I can recommend a hotel a couple of blocks over.”

  “That’s fine,” Holt said. “Thanks.”

  Twenty minutes later, Holt slid a key card in the hotel door and pushed it open, allowing Alex to step inside. He did a quick sweep of the room, checking the bathroom and closets, then unlocked the door to the adjoining room. He left her room and, just seconds later, stepped back inside through the adjoining door.

  “Does it pass inspection?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I’m glad they had adjoining rooms on the upper floors. You want to order room service? I’m starving.”

  “Surprisingly, I am, too, but then I guess with minimal breakfast and almost no lunch, it stands to
reason. Even the scared-half-to-death get hungry eventually.”

  “Hey.” Holt placed a hand on her arm. “It’s okay to be scared. When I saw him take off in your direction, all I could do was run like hell and pray that you ducked.”

  “It happened so quickly, yet it seemed like it happened in slow motion. Does that make any sense?”

  He frowned. “Yeah. It makes perfect sense.”

  It looked for a moment like he was going to say more, but then Alex saw the sheet come down over his eyes and knew he’d gone back to that place where everything was protected and nothing got outside of him. It was the brick wall she’d run up against so many times in their relationship. There was no scaling it and no breaking through.

  She picked up a room service menu from the nightstand. “I think I’m going to have a burger and fries. How about you?”

  “Sounds good.”

  She handed him the menu. “Would you mind ordering? I want to take a quick shower.”

  She slipped into the bathroom and turned on the shower, making sure the water was piping hot. A clean change of clothes would have been great, but the hotel robe would have to do.

  The hot water made her sigh as she backed under the showerhead and let it run down her shoulders and back. She felt some of the tension leave her neck as her muscles loosened, and she rotated her head in a circular motion, the vertebrae cracking as she moved.

  It was the first time she’d been alone since the shooting. Only the sound of running water surrounded her, and she was able to process everything that had happened that day. It was a lot of processing, but if anyone had the skill to handle it, she did. At least, she hoped she did.

  College, medical school, internship—all preparing her to face the most complicated and elevated of emotions. But nothing could prepare you for harnessing all that knowledge and applying it to yourself. Logically, she knew she should be grateful to be alive and she was, but she was scared to death for Erika.

  Based on what Holt overheard in the alley, it seemed fairly certain that the dead man had killed Bobby, pawned the guitar and dumped the body. If he had Erika, God only knew what had happened to her. And Alex was scared for Sarah. Her cousin hadn’t even scratched the surface of recovering from her husband’s affair and their impending divorce, and now he was dead. If something happened to Erika, Alex didn’t know that Sarah would be able to cope.