Sinister (Shaye Archer Series Book 2)

by Jana DeLeon

  “Only a matter of time,” the desk sergeant agreed. “It’s too big a story. Someone’s bound to tell.” He shook his head. “That poor girl. She’s been through so much already and it’s a damned miracle the kind of person she turned out to be. I hate that she’s got more to deal with.”

  “Me too.”

  The desk sergeant narrowed his eyes at Jackson. “You’ve gotten friendly with her, haven’t you?”

  “I guess so. As friendly as she allows people to be, anyway.”

  “She’s cautious. Can’t hardly blame her for that.”

  “No. You can’t. Thanks for telling me. I won’t say a word.”

  Jackson headed to his desk and plopped into his chair. What a bomb drop. He had no doubt that Shaye was a strong person. He’d witnessed it himself, but this kind of news was going to be rough.

  What if she remembers?

  The thought flashed through his mind and he clutched at the armrests of his chair. This could be the thing that brought it all back, and if her mother was responsible for what Shaye had been through… He ran his hand through his hair. The sergeant had said the woman was a junkie. That spelled all kinds of bad things.

  You’re getting ahead of yourself.

  He sat up straight and rolled himself up to his desk. No use panicking before it was required. If Shaye started remembering, then he’d be there for her and help in any way possible, assuming she let him of course. If she didn’t want his help, then she had her mother and Eleonore, and both of them knew more about handling the emotional stress that Shaye would experience far more than he did. She had two of the most qualified people in the state supporting her and enough money to insulate herself from the media storm if it got to that point. She’d be fine.

  He was going to keep telling himself that.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Shaye parked in front of the warehouse Hustle indicated but didn’t get out of the SUV. She had thought about this confrontation the entire drive over and still had no idea if what she was doing was a smart move.

  “It’s not too late to change your mind,” Hustle said.

  “This is the only lead we have.”

  “I know, and I want to find out where Rick got the board, but if Johnny Rivette is behind all this, we’re volunteering for death by going in there and asking questions.”

  “I’m volunteering.” She handed him the keys. “You’re not. Do you know how to drive?”

  Hustle’s eyes widened and he nodded. “Yeah, sort of.”

  “Good. Take the truck around the block and park at the far end.”

  He shook his head. “I ain’t letting you go in there by yourself.”

  “Yes, you are. The best way to help me is to stay here and wait. If I don’t come out in fifteen minutes, call Jackson. I put his number in your phone.”

  “Fifteen minutes is about fourteen more than he needs to cap you.”

  She opened the door and hopped out. “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Shaye—wait! What are you going to say?”

  “The truth.”

  Hustle stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. He probably wasn’t far off base. She shut the door before he could launch another argument and headed for the door to the warehouse. She waited until Hustle had driven down the block and around the corner, then rang the doorbell. Only seconds later, the door flew open and a big guy with a shaved head covered in tattoos stared at her. Clearly he filled the bodyguard position.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “I need to speak to Rick Rivette.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “What about?”

  “About a skateboard he pawned.”

  “You the skateboard police?”

  “No. I’m not the police at all. I’m a private investigator.”

  “Well, Rick don’t live here and Mr. Rivette don’t talk to cops or anything like ’em. That includes skinny bitch private investigators.”

  He started to close the door and she put a hand out. “The girl who owned that skateboard is missing. Rick can talk to me or I can turn everything I have over to the cops. Your choice.”

  He smirked. “You think I’m scared of the cops? You got it all wrong, sweetheart.”

  “Who’s there?” A man’s voice sounded from behind the door.

  “Just some broad asking about Rick and some skateboard. Nothing you need to bother with.”

  “Let me be the judge of that,” the man said.

  The bodyguard stepped out of the way and a man in his forties wearing a black suit stepped into the doorway. “You have questions about my nephew?”

  “Yes. Mr. Rivette? I’m not here to cause any trouble.”

  The bodyguard snorted. “Like you could.”

  Rivette shot him a disapproving look and gestured at her to come inside. Shaye hesitated for a second, then stepped through the doorway.

  The interior of the building was in stark contrast to the grungy outside. The foyer of the warehouse had a marble floor and ornate wood walls. Double doors to the right were open, exposing an office. A staircase at the back of the foyer led upstairs. Rivette walked into the office and took a seat behind the desk, waving at the chair across from him. Shaye took a seat in one of the chairs. The bodyguard moved to the side of Rivette, his arms crossed.

  Rivette looked up at the bodyguard. “There were some problems in the back. I need you to check on them.”

  The bodyguard shot Shaye a dirty look and headed out of the office.

  “Please excuse my associate’s manners,” Rivette said. “My business doesn’t usually attract ladies, especially in this area of town.”

  “What business is that?” Shaye asked.

  “Oh, a little of this and a little of that. Real estate, import/export…all of it tedious and nothing particularly interesting.”

  He delivered the reply with a confident smile that basically said “I’m humoring you.”

  “You said you needed to talk to my nephew?” Rivette asked.

  “Yes. He sold a skateboard to a pawnshop. I’d like to find out where he got it.”

  “What makes you think it wasn’t his to begin with?”

  “Because it belonged to a missing girl I was hired to find.”

  Rivette leaned back in his chair. “I see. And you think my nephew attacked this girl?”

  “Right now, I don’t think anything at all, except that the sooner I find the girl the better. That’s why I need information.”

  “Fair enough.” Rivette picked up his cell phone and made a call. “Send Rick to my office.” He placed the phone back on his desk. “He’ll be here in a moment. Then you can see for yourself and make your own judgment.”

  “You don’t think he did it,” Shaye said.

  “I think my nephew is weak, stupid, and lazy. Attacking someone requires action, and making a body disappear so that even a private investigator can’t easily locate it requires a certain level of intelligence. Selling the victim’s personal items to a pawnshop requires a huge lack of intelligence.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t imagine my nephew having the intelligence or putting forth enough effort to pull off something like what you’re suggesting. I’m sure it won’t take more than a minute of conversation for you to form the same conclusion.”

  A couple seconds later, a teen boy entered the office. He was about five feet ten and maybe a hundred forty pounds soaking wet. He definitely wasn’t the man who attacked Hustle. As much as Shaye hated to admit it, Johnny Rivette appeared to be right about his nephew. The teen was hardly imposing

  Rivette waved a hand at Shaye. “This lady would like to ask you some questions, and you’ll be happy to answer her.”

  Shaye looked up at Rick. “You sold a skateboard to a pawnshop. Black with a dragon on the bottom.”

  He shuffled a bit and nodded.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Found it.”

  “Can you tell me where?”

  He shrugged. “I don
’t remember.”

  “The hell you don’t,” Rivette said. “Answer the question.”

  The teen glanced at his uncle and Shaye could tell he didn’t want to answer.

  “Off Rampart somewhere,” he said finally. “I don’t remember the exact street.”

  “What district?” Shaye asked. Rampart was a long street and ran through several districts.

  “Lower Ninth,” he grumbled.

  Rivette shook his head. “You’ve been hanging around those potheads again, haven’t you? How many times are we going to have this conversation?”

  “I guess at least once more,” Rick said.

  Rivette stood up and slapped him on the back of the head. “Don’t disrespect me in front of guests.” He looked at Shaye as he took his seat again. “Do you have any more questions?”

  “You found the skateboard on the street?” Shaye asked.

  “In an alley between buildings. It was sorta under some cardboard. Probably why no one saw it.”

  “What day was this?”

  “Last Friday.”

  “Did you find anything else or see anything that looked odd?”

  Rick looked confused. “I don’t guess so. I mean, it’s the Lower Ninth so shit’s not normal or nothing.”

  Shaye pulled up a picture of Jinx on her cell phone and showed it to Rick. “Have you ever seen this girl?”

  Rick stared at the screen, then shook his head. “I don’t know her.”

  He’s lying.

  Shaye was as certain about that as she was that the sun had risen that morning. “You sure?” She held the phone up higher.

  He didn’t even look at it again. “I said I don’t know her. Can I leave now? I’m hungry.”

  Rivette looked at Shaye and she nodded. She wasn’t going to get anything else out of him. Once he’d left the room, Shaye pushed her phone across the desk to Rivette. “Have you seen her before?”

  Rivette picked up the phone and studied it. “Pretty. I assume this is your missing girl?”

  “Yes.”

  He pushed the phone back across the desk. “I’ve never seen her before.”

  Rivette appeared to be telling the truth, but then, he’d had decades of experience lying and was pretty much an expert. Shaye knew she wasn’t going to get anything else out of him and antagonizing him seemed like a bad idea, so she rose from her chair.

  “Thank you for your help, Mr. Rivette,” she said.

  “Of course,” he said as he rose. “I hope you find your missing girl.”

  “Me too.”

  She headed outside and looked down the street. Hustle was parked one block over, and she heard the engine fire up as soon as she stepped out of the building. She started up the sidewalk toward the corner and waved Hustle onto the side street. He made the turn and pulled to a stop. She jumped in the passenger’s side.

  “Go down a couple blocks and then I can take over,” she said.

  Shaye was certain Rick wasn’t the person who attacked Hustle, but she wasn’t taking any chances. She didn’t want anyone in Rivette’s building to see Hustle with her. Her cell phone vibrated and she saw her mother’s name come up on the display. She tucked it back in her pocket. If it was important, Corrine would leave a message. If it wasn’t important, it could wait.

  Hustle gripped the steering wheel and increased speed slightly, his brow creased in concentration. It was obvious to Shaye that he understood the mechanics of driving a car but wasn’t comfortable with it, especially given that he hadn’t asked a single question about Rick Rivette yet. It was hard to get experience driving when your main means of transportation was a skateboard and you had no adults around teaching you. He continued down two more blocks, then pulled over and changed places with her.

  “Did you find out anything?” he asked as he shut the passenger door.

  “Not much.” She told him what Rick said.

  “You think he’s telling the truth?”

  “The location fits with my idea that the kidnapper took her when she was on her way to her sleeping space. Assuming he used the same tactic he tried on you—rushing her from an abandoned building—she could have either dropped the board or been knocked off of it and it slid under the cardboard where Rick found it.”

  “That’s true.”

  “The one thing I know for sure, Rick definitely isn’t the kidnapper.”

  “No,” Hustle agreed. “He’s scrawny.”

  “I showed him a picture of Jinx and asked if he’d ever seen her. He said he hadn’t, but I could tell he was lying. Have you ever seen Rick hanging around Jinx or at the docks?”

  “No. He’s usually with a bunch of potheads in the Lower Ninth. He’s definitely not a skater.”

  “If he’s usually in the Lower Ninth, he could have seen Jinx there before, maybe followed her. Do you think there could have been a second person around when you were attacked?”

  Hustle frowned. “I didn’t see or hear anyone else. I looked back once I got away, but there’s not much light so I couldn’t see anything. If there was a second guy, why wouldn’t he come out and help while I was fighting?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because you got away too quickly. Maybe he’s not the muscle. You said Rick was a thug, but he definitely doesn’t have the mass to go around starting fights.”

  Hustle nodded. “He just throws around his uncle’s name and people leave him alone.”

  “I can see that. His uncle is a rather interesting character.”

  Hustle’s eyes widened. “You met Johnny?”

  Shaye nodded. “I can see why his name makes people nervous. His public persona is all polish and manners, which is either arrogance or confidence. I tend to favor the second given his ability to avoid prosecution.”

  “He’s bad news.”

  “Do you think Jinx could have seen something she shouldn’t have? Maybe something Rick did?”

  “Anything’s possible, but what about the other missing kids?”

  “True. The likelihood of them all witnessing the same thing at the same time is slight, right, and besides which, someone would have talked.” She took in a deep breath and blew it out. There was a pattern here somewhere and she couldn’t figure it out. It’s like the answers were just beyond her reach. “I asked Johnny about his business and he mentioned real estate. Do you have any idea what he owns?”

  “A couple bars and I think some of those scary motels, you know the kind.”

  “What about the construction around Bywater? Is he involved in any of that?”

  Hustle straightened in his seat. “I saw his Mercedes at the site where Scratch works.”

  “When?”

  “Couple weeks ago.”

  Shaye made a left turn on the next street. “Maybe we’ll go talk to that foreman again.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jackson pulled up in front of Bradley Thompson’s house and killed the engine, still uncertain of his next move. His plan was to talk to Bradley’s parents and see if they could provide any information on their son’s suicide, particularly what might have led up to it. But he had no idea how to broach the subject, and there was no legitimate reason for the police to be interested at this point.

  Finally, he climbed out of his car and headed to the front door, hoping he’d figure out something once he was sitting in front of them. A middle-aged woman with brown hair and a sad expression answered the door. When he showed her his credentials, she seemed a bit surprised but invited him inside, explaining that her husband was at work but he could talk with her.

  Jackson took a seat in a chair in the living room and looked up at a picture on the fireplace mantel. It was a photo of Bradley taken at a Mardi Gras parade. He was smiling and looked like any other teen having fun. Mrs. Thompson sat on the couch across from him, her hands crossed over each other in her lap.

  “What can I do for you, Detective Lamotte?” she asked.

  “I wanted to ask you about Bradley, but if you’d rather not speak to me, I res
pect that.”

  Mrs. Thompson frowned. “I don’t understand. I thought the police were done with their investigation.”

  “We have closed the investigation into his death, but I’m working on another case and Bradley’s name came up. I’m afraid I can’t give you more information as it’s an open investigation, but I wondered if you would answer some questions for me.”

  “If you think it will help.”

  “I read in the file that Bradley didn’t leave a note. Do you have any idea why he did what he did?”

  Mrs. Thompson shook her head. “I’ve thought about little else ever since it happened. What could have been so bad that he wouldn’t talk to me? We’d always been close.”

  Jackson clued in on her phrasing. “You’d always been close? At the time of his death, was that not the case?”

  “Something was bothering him. I knew it but I couldn’t get him to talk. He was distant, almost sullen. Sometimes he’d be staring out the window and when I’d speak to him, he wouldn’t even hear me. He was lost in his own thoughts.”

  “Did you ask his friends?”

  “Yes. He’d been good friends with two boys since elementary school, but both of them said the same thing—that he was different but wouldn’t tell them what was wrong. One of his friends was so distraught he had to be hospitalized right after…they’re both in therapy. The whole thing is such a waste and so maddening. How can you prevent something bad from happening if you don’t know what’s triggering it to begin with?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  Mrs. Thompson nodded. “I’m sure you wish it more than most given your line of work. Do you think my son’s death has something to do with another case?”

  “I’m not sure. Given the facts, I can’t see a connection, but since your son’s name came up, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to talk to you. I saw a Father Michael did the service. I’ve been considering a return to my childhood roots. How do you like him?”

  “He’s been such a comfort. Visits me at least once a week to pray with me. He’s done wonders with the teen groups at the church. It’s hard to get teens excited about anything, especially religion, but he has a way of talking to them that they respond to. Bradley really liked him.”