by Jana DeLeon
Shaye stood there until he disappeared around the end of the dock, wishing she could have done more and praying that one day he would be ready for help. Finally, she turned around and headed back to her car. Hustle had given her something to think about.
It was high time to dig into David Grange’s past.
###
Emma pulled her makeup bag out of her suitcase and placed it on the vanity. It had taken her an hour to get to the new hotel. It was only five miles away from the first hotel, but she’d driven up the highway and around every borough of the French Quarter making sure she wasn’t being followed. When she was finally convinced no one had tailed her, she’d pulled into the parking garage and registered for a single night. If she didn’t feel okay tomorrow morning, she’d find another place. Maybe it was crazy, but Emma didn’t care. She was done ignoring that nagging feeling that something wasn’t right. She hadn’t felt safe at the other hotel, and she’d had good reason not to. New Orleans had plenty of hotels and she was traveling light. If she had to move every day, she’d do it.
But for how long?
The question was one that kept creeping into her thoughts and it never failed to frustrate her, mainly because she didn’t have an answer. How long would it take to identify her stalker, and once he was identified, how long would it take Shaye to convince the police of the danger, and even if they believed her straight off, how long would it take to apprehend him? A day? A week? And even if they apprehended him quickly, could they do more than issue a restraining order?
She flopped back on the bed and blew out a breath. Too many unknowns. Maybe Clara had been right. Maybe she should just leave. Pack a larger bag, get in her car, drive as far as a tank of gas would take her, then fill up and do it again. If Patty could sell the house quickly as she claimed, Emma should have enough money to survive for quite a while without working. Years, if she was careful, but eventually, she’d have to take another job. Would he still be looking for her? Or maybe the key was to take a job with a doctor’s office and not a hospital, or maybe even private care. The demand for in-home care was growing every day. She could effectively fall off the employment grid if she was patient and waited for the right opportunity.
It was all so much to think about. And when she went down that path, the sheer number of things that would have to be done overwhelmed her. She rose from the bed and checked the dead bolt again. The first thing she was going to do was take a long hot shower, with the bathroom door open, the shower curtain cracked so that she had a good view of the door, and her pistol sitting on the toilet. Then she was going to order a hamburger, wine, and cheesecake from room service and do her damnedest to forget how frightened she was.
###
Shaye frowned when she heard the knock on her front door. She glanced at her watch. Eight p.m. Too late for the cable guy, who’d never shown, and too polite for a robber. Since she could count the number of people who knew where she lived on one hand, she bet herself a large pizza that it was Corrine.
She put her laptop on the end table and hopped off the couch. When she pulled open the door, she found herself staring at the smiling and hopeful faces of Corrine and Eleonore. “Double trouble,” she said.
“We come bearing housewarming gifts,” Corrine said and held up two bottles of wine.
Shaye felt herself weaken just a bit. It was her favorite wine from Corrine’s special stock.
“Uh-hmmm.” Eleonore held up a cheesecake.
“You guys don’t fight fair,” Shaye said and waved them inside.
“We’re a parent and a psychiatrist,” Eleonore said. “The fact that you even assume we’d fight fair tells me I have more work to do with you.”
Shaye grinned. “Break open that cheesecake before I grab it from you and kick you out.”
Eleonore put the cheesecake on the counter and opened the empty drawers one at a time.
“I’ve been too busy to unpack,” Shaye said, “or to shop. There’s some plastic utensils on the stove that I had leftover from Chinese food, and some paper plates in the cabinet behind you.”
Corrine sighed and opened one of the bottles of wine. “It hurts my heart to hear you say you’re too busy to shop. You’re a woman, and an Archer. Surely there’s something you need to buy.”
“I just ordered office furniture,” Shaye said as she grabbed a package of plastic cups from the pantry and slid them in front of Corrine. “I might even get a rug. That should make you happy. That’s purely for decoration.”
Corrine gave the plastic cups a look of dismay. “What color is the rug?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t picked it out yet.”
“You’re just trying to mollify me with a theoretical rug.”
“Yes. Is it working?”
Corrine handed Shaye a cup of wine and smiled. “Maybe a little.”
Shaye took a sip of the wine and sighed. “This stuff is wonderful.” She sat the cup down and pulled open the refrigerator. “Eleonore, I have bottled water and Diet Dr. Pepper. What’s your preference?”
Eleonore dumped a huge slice of cheesecake onto a paper plate and slid it over to Corrine. “I’m going to go wild and have the Dr. Pepper.” She cut two more pieces and they all stepped around the counter and back into the living room. Eleonore and Corrine sat on the couch while Shaye perched on the edge of the end table that had never made it back to the corner.
“So,” Eleonore said, “Corrine tells me you already have a client.”
Shaye took a big bite of the heavenly cheesecake and nodded. “A nurse. Really nice woman.”
“Cheating husband, I suppose,” Corrine said and sighed. “You’re probably going to get a lot of that.”
“Not this time. Her husband’s dead.”
“Well, I guess killing him is one way to ensure he doesn’t cheat,” Eleonore joked.
“Actually,” Shaye said, “she did kill him, but not for cheating.”
“Oh!” Corrine sat up straight. “You didn’t tell me it was a murder case.”
“It’s not,” Shaye said. “The guy was abusive and had a record. She had an order of protection, he broke in the house to attack her, and it didn’t work out the way he intended.”
“Good for her,” Corrine said.
“Sounds like she deserves a piece of this cheesecake,” Eleonore said. “Don’t tell me the DA is pressing charges.”
“No,” Shaye said. “He didn’t pursue it.”
“Smart move,” Eleonore said. “The last thing you want during the next election is to be the prosecutor who picks on abused women.”
Corrine frowned. “Wait a minute. Is your client Emma Frederick?”
Shaye looked at her mother, a bit surprised. “Yes. Do you know her?”
“Not well, but I’ve spoken to her at the hospital over some of my charges and liked her. I heard a little about what happened to her. She’s so nice. I can’t believe she has more problems after everything she’s been through. So what’s the case, or can’t you say?”
“There’s no confidentiality laws for PIs, if that’s what you mean. Decorum dictates that I don’t go around blabbing, but since you’re here and asking, maybe you can give me your professional opinions.”
The two women looked at each other and frowned. Shaye already knew what they were thinking—if she wanted the professional opinions of a social worker and a shrink, this case was a doozy.
“My client is being stalked, but he’s very clever. So clever that the police didn’t believe her.”
“But you do?” Eleonore asked.
“Yes.” Shaye told them about the first incidents that Emma had. “But he’s escalating.” She went on to tell them about today’s events with the scarf and birthday card.
“Oh my God,” Corrine said when she finished. “That’s why you took those sample books from the house today. You were afraid he might be watching.”
Shaye nodded. “She’s selling the house, so interior decorator was a logical cover. I don’t want him t
o know Emma has help.”
“Damn straight you don’t want him to know,” Eleonore said. “I don’t think I have to tell you how bad this situation is. I assume you’ve gone to the police with this new evidence?”
Shaye squirmed a bit. “Not yet.”
“What the heck are you waiting for?” Corrine asked, practically hopping in her seat.
“The lead detective kinda pissed me off,” Shaye said. “He basically implied that Emma was weak, and it was all in her head.”
Eleonore shook her head. “The woman killed her husband—a man with far more strength and skill than she had—and she’s the weak one? When was this detective born, the 1700s?”
“Actually, he’s probably only a little older than you,” Shaye said.
Eleonore looked over at Corrine. “And you ask me why I don’t date. Look at the pool I’ve got to choose from.”
Corrine rolled her eyes. “Because every fiftysomething in New Orleans is that guy. Your dating excuses are as bad as mine.”
Eleonore turned back to face Shaye, not bothering to acknowledge Corrine’s statements. “Surely there’s someone else you could talk to? The New Orleans Police Department has got to employ at least one person with a brain.”
“There was one guy,” Shaye said. “The rude detective’s partner. He’s younger, like me, and didn’t seem to like the old detective any more than I did.”
“So he doesn’t think your client is frail and imagining things?” Corrine asked.
“He said he found her credible, but without evidence, his hands are tied.”
“But you have evidence now,” Corrine said. “The scarf and the card.”
“Yes,” Shaye agreed, “but what can he do? We have no idea who the stalker is, and the police aren’t in the business of playing bodyguard in case someone is in danger. They don’t have the resources, and unfortunately, a nurse who lacks political or economical connections isn’t going to get anything beyond the norm.”
“She’s right,” Eleonore said. “I don’t like it and I still think it should be reported, but right now, this is still a case of harassment by an unknown party. The stalker hasn’t made a physical threat.”
“So the police should only concern themselves with investigating crime rather than preventing it?” Corrine argued. “You know the threat is coming.”
“That’s exactly what I said to the younger detective,” Shaye said.
Eleonore shook her head. “He’s getting off on terrifying her—the scarf, the card—purely psychological stuff.”
“And when he gets bored with that?” Corrine asked.
“He’ll kill her.”
Chapter Eight
Shaye tossed and turned in her bed, unable to relax. Every time she started to doze off, Eleonore’s words echoed through her mind on stereo. Before she’d even asked for her opinion, Shaye already knew that Eleonore would say the stalker’s ultimate plan was to kill Emma. He was a cat with a mouse, playing with her until the fun was gone. But hearing Eleonore say it made it more real. More immediate.
Her foot began to ache and she flung the covers off and sat up, drawing her leg up so she could rub her foot. She’d had two surgeries to try to fix the damage, and they’d succeeded in allowing her to walk without a limp, but the pain was never completely gone. It remained there, lurking just beneath the surface, ready to spring up at a moment’s notice to remind her that she wasn’t the same as other people and never would be.
Rain must be coming. It always ached more when it rained.
The massage didn’t seem to be working, so she climbed out of bed and headed into the kitchen for aspirin. She’d learned the hard way that the longer she waited to take something, the worse it got, and it took twice as long for the pain to subside.
The bottle of aspirin was still on the kitchen counter where Corrine had left it. Between the stalker talk and the wine, her mother’s head had probably been on the edge of explosion. At least, that was the way she described it. Shaye dumped a couple of aspirin into her palm and tossed them back with a big gulp of water. Time to grab her laptop and head back to bed.
Then she heard a scraping noise outside.
She froze, trying to identify the source and location of the sound, but all she heard was the low rumble of distant thunder. She went back to her bedroom and grabbed her pistol, then systematically checked every window in the apartment. The streetlights were dim, and with the impending storm, no moonlight was available to improve visibility.
The street appeared quiet. No sign of movement, not even an automobile.
Then she heard the noise again.
This time she was certain it came from the courtyard between her apartment and the building next to hers. She grabbed a spotlight from her bedroom closet and placed her ear against the side door that led into the courtyard. It was quiet now, but that didn’t mean someone wasn’t out there. The storm hadn’t moved in yet, so the air was still—no wind to blow things around and create the noise. And the only items contained in the courtyard were the trash cans for the building occupants and a tiny wrought iron table and two chairs that sat under a tree in front of the back wall of the courtyard.
She sat the floodlight on the floor next to the door, disarmed the alarm, and inched back the dead bolt. She turned the doorknob slowly, then pushed the door open a tiny bit and slid her foot against it to keep it from closing again. She switched her pistol to her right hand and reached down to pick up the spotlight with her left, then she counted to three and threw the door open.
She jumped out, clicked on the spotlight, and directed it down the breezeway toward the brick wall. The breezeway was empty, but twenty feet away, one of the trash cans moved. She trained her pistol on the cans. “I’ve got a weapon. Come out of there.”
The can rattled again and its shadow cast across the breezeway morphed as if something behind it had moved. Her finger tightened on the trigger and she felt her chest constrict. Her pulse beat in her throat and her temples, pounding like a jackhammer. She inched forward.
“Come out or I’ll shoot.”
One of the cans swayed and a black-and-white cat jumped on top of it and let out a loud meow. She jumped back, and the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding came out in a whoosh.
“Damn it, cat. Are you trying to get shot?”
The cat sat and started cleaning its paw. Shaye shot it a disgusted look and hurried back inside. She locked the door, slid the dead bolt into place and leaned back against it, willing her pulse to slow. All that aggravation and stress over an alley cat.
If you were still living with Corrine, you’d probably be asleep.
She pushed herself away from the door and headed into the kitchen. To hell with sleep. If her mind worked better at night, then so be it. She’d work at night and catch a nap in the daytime. What was the use of being your own boss if you couldn’t make the rules?
###
From the rooftop across the street, he watched as she slammed the door to her apartment shut. He lowered the night-vision goggles and frowned. He’d been right. She was no interior decorator. He’d thought he recognized her when he saw her at the house. It had taken him several hours to locate the old copy of New Orleans Magazine that had the picture he remembered. The girl in the photo was younger than the woman he’d seen with Emma, but he was certain it was the same person.
Shaye Archer.
Once he had a name, it took no time to find out everything he needed to know about Shaye’s life, her family, and most importantly, her new business venture. He’d almost tired of clicking on links when he came across her website. He’d smirked when he read the home page. Private investigator. What in the world were poor little rich debutantes going to think up next to waste everyone’s time? The thought of that inexperienced, frail-looking girl getting the better of him was laughable.
But she was messing up his game.
He wanted Emma alone and frightened. Allies and others who would bolster her confidence and keep he
r from falling apart would interfere with his fun. No way was he allowing a stupid twit like Shaye Archer to detract from his pleasure. Something would have to be done, but first, he had to make sure he knew where to find her when he was ready to strike.
When he saw the address on the website, he figured she was using the apartment for both her living quarters and her office, but he needed to be sure.
It had been a simple matter to put fish behind the trash cans in the breezeway, then drop fishy liquid from the freezer bag along the sidewalk to where he’d spotted the cat. Then he’d climbed atop the building across the street and waited. He’d wondered, at first, if he’d miscalculated, because lights were on in the apartment. She might be working late, but that wouldn’t indicate she was living there. But when she’d burst outside barefoot and wearing gym shorts and a tank, he knew she’d been in bed.
With every light in the apartment on.
Apparently, Miss Archer was afraid of the dark.
Chapter Nine
Jackson slipped his cell phone into his pocket and looked across the desk at Vincent. So far, he’d spent the morning at the very dangerous job of completing paperwork and fetching Vincent coffee. He could almost feel himself aging in place. “We got anything up right now?” he asked.
“Paperwork from that drug bust last week,” Vincent said. “Since you had the better view of everything that went down, I figure you need to do the write-up.”
Translation: Because I’m lazy, I waited out back while you busted in and did all the hard work. Because I’m super lazy, I think you should do all the paperwork as well.
“Yeah,” Jackson said. “I started it already. Got about thirty minutes or so on it to finish. If that’s all, I’m going to take off for an hour or so. I got to talk with my landlord about some maintenance problems.”
Vincent barely glanced at him. “Sure. Take whatever you need. If we get a call, I’ll let you know.”