Sinister (Shaye Archer Series Book 2)

by Jana DeLeon

  “Something’s bothering you.” She grabbed a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and poured them both a glass, then took a seat on a stool at the counter. “Is it work or personal?”

  “Work.”

  “That’s disappointing.”

  Shaye stared. “You want me to have a personal problem?”

  “If it involves a man, then yes.”

  “Anything that involves a man is a problem, which is exactly why I don’t have any personal involvement with them. I’ll tell you what. I’ll make an attempt to be nice to a man—on a personal basis—when you go on a date. A real date. Not a society event. And he can’t be gay.”

  Corrine knew when she was defeated. “Fine. We’ll both die crazy cat ladies. We’ll knit hats and ride bicycles in the French Quarter, with kittens and flowers in those plastic bicycle baskets. If you’d like, we can do it wearing no pants. I actually saw that last week on Bourbon Street.”

  “I would rather be original.”

  Corrine smiled. “Evening gowns then, with combat boots.” She took a sip of her wine. “So what’s the work problem?”

  Shaye gave Corrine a rundown of Hustle’s story.

  Corrine frowned the entire time. “This Hustle is the one who helped you with your last case, right?”

  Shaye nodded. “I don’t think he’s making it up. Or exaggerating.”

  “I don’t either. Someone with his background would avoid anyone connected to the system like the plague. The fact that he’s reached out to you shows how worried he is. What do you need from me?”

  “I need to make sure Jinx wasn’t picked up by a relative, maybe even her mother.”

  “That would be the preferred solution. Maybe not her mother, but living with a relative, assuming they’re a decent sort, would be better than the alternative. Do you have anything on her to help me search our records?”

  Shaye pulled the drawing out of her pocket. “Here’s a drawing Hustle did. It’s all I’ve got to work on.”

  Corrine studied the drawing. “The detail is incredible. I’ll put a description in the database and scan in the drawing and see what I get. I suppose this medical leave might come in handy after all. With so little to go on, this could take a while.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  Corrine bit her lower lip. “I don’t have to tell you the things that can happen to a young, pretty girl on the streets.”

  “No. I’m prepared for the worst. I mean, as prepared as I can get.”

  Corrine nodded. “I hope Hustle is prepared as well.”

  Shaye shook her head. “He’s tough and smart, but not as tough as he thinks he is. He still cares, and I think he cares about Jinx more than anyone. If something bad happened, he’s not ready for it, even if he thinks he is.”

  Corrine frowned. “We never really are.” She paused, and Shaye could tell she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure she should.

  “You might as well say it,” Shaye said.

  “Say what?”

  “Whatever you’re thinking you want to say but aren’t sure you should. I can read looks too, you know?”

  “Are you still having nightmares?” she asked quietly.

  “Yes,” Shaye answered. Corrine wouldn’t like the answer, but Shaye wouldn’t deliberately lie to her mother.

  Corrine downed the rest of her glass and sat it on the counter. “Are you remembering?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Corrine narrowed her eyes at Shaye.

  “I swear,” Shaye said, “I don’t know. I wish to God I did. They seem so vivid, so real, and then I wake up and try to remember, but it’s just not there.”

  Corrine reached across the counter and put her hand on Shaye’s. “Promise me you’ll tell me when you know. I don’t want you to try to protect me. This is not something you should deal with alone.”

  “Maybe not, but you shouldn’t have to deal with it either.”

  Corrine squeezed her hand. “I’ve been waiting to deal with it for nine years.”

  * * *

  Detective Jackson Lamotte watched as the paramedic zipped the bag over the body of the boy a fisherman had caught in his cast net. The body hadn’t been in the water long or it wouldn’t be intact. The creatures in the bayou made quick work of a fresh meal. The fisherman had brought it up on his last pass of the day, and it was a lucky break for the police. The better the condition of the body, the easier identification would be.

  Cause of death wasn’t a mystery and unfortunately, it wasn’t drowning. The single bullet hole through the boy’s chest had eliminated the possibility of an accident. This was a murder investigation, and Jackson’s partner and senior officer, Detective Vincent, wasn’t going to be pleased. Jackson had been saddled with Vincent for a year now, and if the man didn’t manage to kill Jackson’s career before he sleepwalked into retirement, it would be a miracle. Anything that might result in real police work had Vincent running for his office chair.

  “Fuck me,” Vincent said as he stepped beside Jackson. “I needed to catch a murder case like I need my wife to discover another shopping channel on television.”

  “You could always put in for a transfer to traffic.”

  “And reduce my pay? Not a chance. You got some strange ideas about how to handle money.”

  No, I have credible ideas about being a detective.

  Jackson wanted to say it, but it would only make matters worse for himself. Vincent hadn’t liked him from the first day—Jackson was too eager, Vincent said, which meant Jackson actually wanted to solve cases. Then that whole mess with Shaye Archer had come up and Vincent had ended up looking the heel while Jackson looked the hero. It hadn’t gained him any points. In fact, Vincent had gone out of his way ever since to find fault with everything Jackson did, even down to how he poured coffee. If Jackson gave him any reason to, Vincent would be calling for Jackson’s demotion down to beat. And that was something Jackson had no intention of letting happen.

  Jackson closed the door on the ambulance and lifted the plastic bag that held the card of fingerprints he’d taken off the body. “I’m going to head back to the precinct and run these. Do you want me to handle notification?”

  Vincent frowned. Notifying victims’ families was one of the worst parts of the job, but it was also a part usually handled by the senior detective. Right now, Vincent was mentally waging a war between wanting to pass off that particularly loathsome duty and maintaining his seniority by doing the tasks earned by his position.

  “It’s already after ten. No use waking people up with this kind of news. It can wait until tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay,” Jackson said, even though he thought Vincent’s logic was flawed. Someone with a missing child wasn’t sleeping at all, but apparently Vincent didn’t want to take his assessment that far. Unfortunately, there was nothing Jackson could do about it.

  He headed for his car before he said something that would get him into trouble. His frustration with Vincent grew daily and sooner or later, something was going to give. He just hoped it wasn’t his job, or worse, Vincent’s jaw when he punched him.

  At the station, he headed inside and nodded to the desk sergeant, an older gentleman who’d put in thirty-five years already.

  “Pulling a late one,” the desk sergeant commented.

  “Yeah, some fisherman caught a kid in his cast net. Teenager.”

  The desk sergeant shook his head. “So many drownings around here. You’d think people would learn to be more careful around water.”

  “This one wasn’t a drowning. It was murder—bullet straight through his chest.”

  “Hunting accident?”

  “This time of the year? Not likely. The body wasn’t in the water long. It’s fairly intact.”

  The desk sergeant whistled. “I bet Vincent’s shitting kittens that he caught an actual case.”

  “Yeah, but he’s doing his ‘thinking on it’ at home for his own convenience. I’m going to run the print. Vincent thinks t
he family can wait until tomorrow for notification because they’re already asleep.”

  “Yeah, sure they are. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Thanks.” Jackson headed for the forensics department and started the fingerprint trace, then headed to the break room for a cup of coffee. He finished one standing next to the pot, then poured another and headed back to the computer to see if anything had popped up. He bent over to look at the screen.

  Jackpot.

  He clicked on the link and an image of the victim displayed next to his vitals.

  Josh Thibodeaux. Sixteen years old. Reported missing from his home six months ago.

  Jackson frowned. A runaway. That complicated everything. His parents wouldn’t know where he was or where he should have been when he disappeared. His movements couldn’t be traced from school and home, and he wouldn’t have friends who knew all the things he wouldn’t have shared with his parents. No computer to hack. No gaming system to trace.

  He blew out a breath. Even if they could find the area where Josh hung out, street kids wouldn’t talk to the police. This case had just gone from bad to worse, and Jackson didn’t even want to hear what Vincent had to say when he heard this news. Only one silver lining came from the information—after six months’ time, Josh’s parents probably were asleep. Waiting until morning to notify them wasn’t going to make a difference.

  He sent the information to Vincent, copying himself, then headed to his desk to print it out. After he did his duty with Vincent tomorrow morning with the parents, he’d head into the French Quarter and see if he could find a street kid who would talk. It was a long shot, and he was certain it was a shot he’d be firing alone, but it was probably the only angle he had to work. The advantage was that with it being the Fourth, Vincent would be in a hurry to talk to the parents, then get on with the holiday. He wouldn’t stick around to waste Jackson’s time with fruitless endeavors, so that left Jackson free to do what he wanted.

  Like investigate the case.

  He unlocked his desk drawer and pulled out an empty file to put the printout in. As he went to close the drawer, he saw the file in the back, labeled “S.A.” He frowned as he closed and locked the drawer, then leaned back in his chair and blew out a breath. He’d promised Shaye that if she ever wanted to look into her past, he’d help, and he’d meant it. Unfortunately, his search of the police databases had produced nothing of relevance—no similar cases, no new leads.

  At this point, they needed to start talking to everyone who was there when Shaye was found, starting with Detective Beaumont, the cop who’d found her and was now retired. Jackson had wanted to contact Shaye for days now, but every time he pulled out his cell phone, he hesitated.

  It’s because you’re attracted to her.

  He sighed. Of course he was attracted to her. Any man with a pulse would find her attractive. But it was more than that. He liked her. He respected her. And he didn’t want to disappoint her.

  Not that he’d expected to find much, if anything, with his search, but there was always that glimmer of hope, deep in the back of his mind, that something would pop out years after the fact, giving him the break he needed.

  He rose from his chair and pulled out his car keys. Time to head home for a riveting night of microwave food and late-night television. He was pretty sure he’d watched everything viable on cable, but there was always a six-pack of beer and the hope of a new release in his future.

  It might be boring and repetitive, but it was still a sight better than what he would face tomorrow morning.

  * * *

  It was 11:00 p.m. when Shaye entered her apartment in the French Quarter. She locked the front door and pulled the dead bolts, then rearmed the alarm before heading through her office and into the kitchen. She’d picked up a phone for Hustle at one of the late-night shops and needed to call and get it added to her business plan.

  She dumped the bag with the phone on the kitchen counter, then grabbed vanilla ice cream and root beer out of the refrigerator and made a root beer float, refusing to tabulate the additional minutes of cardio she’d have to add to work it off. It had been a long, taxing day, and since she’d left her mother’s house before she’d finished up the baking, Shaye was going to indulge in her second-favorite sweet.

  She stuck a spoon and a straw in the tall glass, grabbed her laptop off the counter, and plopped down on the couch. Nothing good was on television, so she switched to stored movies and turned on Jaws. Sometimes it was a relief to see a monster that had big fins and a lot of teeth. The news only showed those that walked on two legs.

  She grabbed her laptop off the side table and started making notes from her conversation with Hustle. By the time she’d finished the notes, she’d polished off the root beer float and slumped back on the couch, thinking about the shower she needed to take, but too lazy to get up and do it right that minute. Maybe she’d just finish the movie, then shower and head to bed. It was already late, and she had a long day in the hot New Orleans sun ahead of her. The last thing she remembered before she nodded off was “Those bathing suits make all the women look like they have fat thighs.”

  The stone she lay upon was cold, but it was winter, so no cause for alarm…yet. Her head felt woozy as she lifted it up and blinked, struggling to see in the dark. A second later, a single candle ignited and her pulse surged. A second candle ignited, then a third, and a fourth, until she was surrounded by a circle of them. Her breath came faster and shallower and she struggled against the panic she knew was coming. She looked down at her body and her worst fears were confirmed.

  It was the red dress.

  She tried to get up, but thick ropes bound her hands and feet in place. The candles moved closer to her and she could see the shadowy, hooded figures holding them. One of the hooded figures stepped next to the stone table and sat his candle beside her. He pulled out a large knife with etched words that she didn’t understand.

  As he lowered the knife to her chest, she started to scream.

  Shaye bolted up from the couch, gasping for air, her heart pounding so hard that it made her chest hurt. It took her several seconds to realize she was in her apartment, and only then did her panic begin to subside. Her body relaxed a tiny bit, and she sat on the edge of the couch only to jump back up as a bolt of lightning struck right outside her apartment, the blast setting off car alarms on the street. Thunder boomed behind, and she rushed to her bedroom to grab her big flashlight from the nightstand.

  She hurried around the apartment, turning on every light in every room, then went back to the living room where she curled up on the couch and fought back the tears that threatened to spill over.

  When would it end?

  Chapter Four

  Jinx jerked awake at the sound of thunder, reaching for her neck, which had stiffened in the awkward position she’d dozed off in. She hadn’t intended to fall asleep, but exhaustion must have caught up with her. It was strange, she thought, how fear could tax your physical body as much as running for hours. She sat upright and blinked, but couldn’t see anything in the darkness. Her head didn’t feel woolly as it did earlier, so that was a good sign. The burger hadn’t been drugged.

  She inched forward until she reached the bars on the front of the cage and stared in the direction of the boy who’d been dumped there before. Was he still there? She shook her head. Of course he was still there. If the man had returned, she would have awakened. She wasn’t that exhausted.

  “Are you awake?” she called out.

  She heard rustling and several seconds later, the boy replied, “Who are you?”

  Her initial relief that the boy was alive fled at the sound of his high-pitched, shaky voice. He couldn’t be more than twelve years old or so. His voice hadn’t changed yet. “My name is Jinx. What’s your name?”

  “Peter Carlin.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Ten.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “My head hurts, like I’ve been
turning in circles. And my arms and legs hurt. Where am I?”

  Jinx bit her lower lip. What in the world did she tell him? “I’m not sure where we are,” she said.

  “Why don’t you know? You’re here.”

  “I was brought her while I was asleep, like you.”

  She heard sniffling and her heart clenched.

  “Was it…was it the bad man from before?” he asked, his voice breaking.

  Her back tensed. “What bad man? Did you see someone?”

  “Uh-huh. There was a man in the park. He was standing in the trees but I saw him.”

  “What did the man look like?”

  “Big and scary.”

  “Could you see his face?”

  “No. He had on a hat, and he was back in the dark behind the bushes.”

  Jinx felt momentarily disappointed, then put things into perspective. Even if Peter had gotten a good look at the man, a description from a frightened ten-year-old boy probably wouldn’t get them much closer to identification. Besides, it wasn’t like they had anyone to tell. They were both trapped here.

  “Did anyone else see the man?” she asked.

  “I told Mommy that he scared me, but when she looked for him, he was gone.”

  “Had you ever seen the man before that day in the park?”

  “No. But I saw him outside my bedroom window that night, ’cept he was wearing something on his face. Like they wear in the big parade.”

  The mask. The man had been stalking Peter, looking for an opportunity to take him. “Like they wear in the Mardi Gras parade?” Jinx asked.

  “Yeah. Mommy didn’t believe me when I said he was out there. She said I had a bad dream because of the park, but I wasn’t asleep. I was standing at my window.”

  “I believe you,” Jinx said.

  “Why didn’t Mommy?” He sniffled again.

  “She wasn’t trying to hurt you. I’m sure she just didn’t think anyone would be watching you. That’s not normal, so people don’t think it will happen to them.”