by Jana DeLeon
“Black slacks, black-button up shirt—the kind you wear on the outside of pants—black raincoat, black shoes and gloves.”
Shaye typed the information, making a note that fingerprints were a dead end to follow because of the gloves. She’d figured as much, but knowing for certain saved time.
“What about his hair?”
“Light brown. Not short. Not long. Your average middle-class white guy haircut, I suppose.”
“You think he was white?”
“I’m sure of it. It’s one of the only things that consistently registers with me.”
“Great. Now tell me about his movements. I know you didn’t see much, but was there anything specific you can recall about the way he walked, a limp, a long stride?”
Madison frowned, then slowly shook her head. “Nothing that I can think of.” Her eyes widened. “Wait. His hand. He had the knife in his left hand. But I think…no, I’m certain he used his right hand to stab her in the neck with a needle or whatever. If that’s what he did.”
“So potentially ambidextrous but maybe left-hand dominant since that’s the hand he used for the…” Shaye let her voice trail off. Finishing the sentence was unnecessary. “Okay, now tell me about the woman.”
“Also white. Shorter than him only by a couple inches but she had on high heels—at least four inches.”
“Body?”
“Really thin. Not muscular. Big chest. Long limbs.”
“Hair?”
“Long and platinum blond. I mean really long—like halfway down her back.”
“Clothes?”
“Cheap.” Madison’s hand flew over her mouth and her face reddened. “Oh my God. That sounded horrible. Just like something my mother would say.”
“But it was your immediate impression and that’s important. Tell me why that’s the first thing that came to mind.”
“The clothes were a little too tight, but not in the way that high-end clothing fits the body. The blouse was silver, sleeveless, very low cut, and made from a clingy fabric like Lycra or spandex. Something that shows every curve. Her skirt was black and so small that it tucked up under her rear instead of hanging straight down. It ended a couple inches below her rear. Her shoes were red and strappy with a tall red heel. They were a little shiny, so maybe satin?”
“What about her coat or jacket?”
“She wasn’t wearing one.”
Shaye frowned. “Wasn’t it raining that night? And it’s been chilly lately, especially that late.”
Madison nodded. “I’d just gotten in from dinner and my hands were still cold even though I kept them in my jacket pockets. I hadn’t thought about it before, but it is strange. Maybe she left her jacket in her car?”
“They might not have arrived by car. In fact, they might not have arrived together at all but met up there.”
“If they came separately, wouldn’t someone have noticed her car just sitting in the garage?”
“He could have moved it afterward or even left in it. She also could have taken a cab. There’s several options, but don’t worry. I’ll explore them all. Was she carrying a purse?”
“A small black bag with a gold chain. It wouldn’t have fit more than an ID, cell phone, and keys. Maybe lipstick.”
Shaye typed up Madison’s observations and looked over at the nervous girl. “You did great. This is a lot of information and you didn’t think you had any.”
“It’s a lot of information but what good does it do?”
“Well, it gives me an angle to pursue on the victim.”
“How?”
“Thin, large chest, cheap clothes, no jacket on a chilly, rainy night, and no one railing against the heavens that she’s missing. Meeting a man in an empty apartment late at night. That doesn’t bring anything to mind?”
Madison sucked in a breath. “A prostitute? Oh my God. That makes sense and it’s sickening. That poor woman. She probably doesn’t have anyone looking out for her. It’s like her entire existence has been erased.”
Shaye could hear the fear in Madison’s voice and knew she was wondering what would happen if that had been her. Would anyone have noticed? She’d intentionally separated herself from society and had no apparent relationship with her immediate family. Sooner or later, her employers would go looking for her when they couldn’t reach her, but after how long?
“We don’t know anything for certain,” Shaye said, “but that’s where I’m going to start.”
“But how?”
“Let me worry about that. Getting information is what I do for a living, and I know more about what goes on down the backstreets of the French Quarter than you would think.”
“Okay. Then what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to be very careful. The man you described has an overall appearance that is very average, and the only thing you might be able to pick up on is the left hand usage. So don’t let anyone into your apartment unless you know for certain who they are and that they have a valid reason to be there. When you go out, stay in largely populated areas and make sure you’re not followed. If you feel uncomfortable, go into a public place—a store or restaurant—and call me. I’ll come get you.”
Shaye leaned across the desk and looked Madison directly in the eyes.
“Most importantly,” Shaye said, “never, ever ignore your feelings, especially fear. Our instincts are there for a reason, and too many times, we forget that. Now it’s more important than ever for you to be aware of everything that’s going on around you and how it makes you feel. Promise me.”
“I promise. But I think for both our sakes, I’ll try to stay inside as much as possible. I don’t think you want me calling you every time I’m uncomfortable.”
“You’ll know if you need to call me. I have confidence in you.”
Madison blew out a breath. “I’m glad one of us does.”
4
Jackson Lamotte checked the French bread in his oven, then moved the vase of fresh roses to his kitchen table. The lasagna he’d made was steaming under aluminum foil on the back of the stove, and a big bowl of Caesar salad was tossed and chilling in the refrigerator. It was the first dinner he’d ever cooked for Shaye, and he wanted it to be perfect. Until tonight, he’d specialized in throwing something on the grill, but he wanted to try his hand at something more intimate. More personal.
Of course, he was probably the only man in New Orleans serving a romantic dinner with every light in the house on, but good lighting was comforting to Shaye. He’d probably never own another candle. The mere sight of them still turned her stomach, and after learning details of what had happened to her during her captivity, he wasn’t that thrilled with them either.
Their relationship had moved from friends to more after her last big case—a kidnapping and murder. Given everything that Shaye had been through, Jackson had wondered if he was going to carry a torch forever for the only woman he’d ever wanted. But her desire for normalcy and her emotional strength continued to amaze him every single day. The fact that she trusted him was so humbling it was almost overwhelming. She was the most extraordinary person he’d ever met.
They were taking things very slowly, but that was fine with Jackson. He had a lifetime to spend with Shaye if she was willing. This dinner was just one more baby step in their relationship. He had just finished taking the bread out of the oven when he heard the knock on the door. He hurried over to open it to a smiling Shaye. He leaned in to kiss her, then stepped back for her to enter.
“Your timing is excellent,” he said. “I just took the bread out of the oven and the lasagna is piping hot.”
“You’re kidding, lasagna? It’s smells incredible,” she said. “You’re going to make my superior ability to call for takeout look underwhelming, aren’t you?”
“We all have different things we like to do. I grew up cooking with my mother. I can’t say that I’m interested in doing it all the time—at least not to this extent—but sometimes you just want the stuff yo
u had growing up, and a restaurant can’t deliver the same experience.”
Shaye nodded. “I feel the same way about Corrine’s baking. I mean, there are exceptional bakeries in the French Quarter, but there’s something about hers that is always better.”
Jackson pulled a bottle of wine out of the refrigerator and poured them each a glass. “That is something we definitely agree on, and as I spotted a container under your arm, I find myself hoping that it holds the aforementioned baked goods?”
Shaye waved the contained in front of him. “Chocolate cookies with peanut butter chips.”
“My favorite.”
“I can’t bake them myself, but I can call in a favor.”
He grinned. “Takeout.”
Shaye laughed and he felt his chest constrict. Every burst of laughter felt like a small miracle to him. Now, when he found himself hesitating over taking a new course of action, his inner voice asked “what’s stopping you?” No roadblock he could encounter would ever match the ones she had scaled.
“Well, let’s get this dinner show on the road,” he said. “Because I cannot wait for dessert. Please sit. I’m serving tonight.”
Shaye sat at the table and leaned over to sniff the roses. “These are beautiful.”
Jackson placed the bowl of salad on the table and took his seat. “They are matched only by my dinner guest.”
Shaye blushed and smiled and busied herself by stabbing her salad. He thought the fact that such a confident woman blushed over a compliment was charming. But then, there wasn’t anything he didn’t love about Shaye Archer.
You’re such a goner.
He smiled. Nothing wrong with being a goner.
“I know you need to get in some greens,” he said, “but save most of the room for dinner.”
“Please. Only an amateur would load up on salad when there’s lasagna and garlic bread waiting in the wings. I’m eating enough to satisfy that nagging voice of my mother in my head and then I’m digging in. The smell alone has my stomach rumbling.”
“Mine too. I skipped lunch to make more room and after all the cooking, I’m pretty much starving.”
Shaye finished the last bite of her salad and pushed the plate to the side. Jackson stacked their empty salad plates and jumped up to get the lasagna. He pulled the foil back from the top and put the serving spoon in the dish, then carried the entire thing to the center of the table. He snagged the bread and tossed it in a basket before sitting back down.
Shaye cut the lasagna into squares and lifted one onto her plate, then another onto Jackson’s. He watched as she took a bite, hoping she liked his mother’s recipe as much as he did. The instant the fork left her mouth, her eyes widened.
“Oh my God,” she said when she finished the bite. “That is the best lasagna I’ve ever had.”
“Seriously?”
“Absolutely. If the rest of your mother’s recipes are this good, you should open a restaurant.”
He laughed, pleased that she liked the dish. “I think that might interfere with my police work.”
“Corrine would tell you that you could always quit the police force. After all, you’re less likely to get shot at if you own a restaurant.”
“Probably true. But given how ridiculous customers can be, I’m more likely to shoot someone myself.”
Her smile faded just a bit, and she asked, “How are things going at the department?”
“Better. People are focusing more on the job again and less on what happened with the chief. There’s still a couple of holdouts—old-timers mostly—but the rest don’t see a future in clinging to a tainted past.”
Chief Bernard, the man who’d been running the department when Jackson was hired, had recently been exposed for his part in the plot to keep Shaye’s abductor a secret. He’d been blackmailed, but apparently even Bernard had determined that wasn’t a good enough excuse for the things he’d done. He’d taken his own life, and a wake of destruction had swept through the department immediately afterward, many indirectly blaming Shaye for the chief’s decision and Jackson for helping her uncover the truth.
Eventually, common sense and reality had sunk in, and the men who were committed to upholding the law returned to thinking logically rather than emotionally, and the chill that Jackson had felt every time he entered the department was mostly gone. Only a couple still held a grudge, one of them his former partner and senior officer, a man who accused Jackson of trying to make him look bad. The reality was, Jackson didn’t have to do a thing to make Detective Vincent look bad. He was disgruntled, lazy, misogynistic, and determined to ride his desk into retirement, but it was much easier to blame Jackson than to admit his own flaws.
“They’re not blaming you, either,” Jackson said, because he knew that was the unspoken part of her question. She felt guilty for the flak he’d endured when her sordid past was finally uncovered, even though she couldn’t possibly have known that Bernard was involved or what his exposure would cause. Her own grandfather had covered up part of her forgotten past and Shaye hadn’t been aware of his involvement until the very end, when he killed her captor and then himself.
“Maybe not, but they still wouldn’t be happy to see me, which sucks because given my profession, it would be nice to have a relationship with the local police that wasn’t necessarily adversarial. With one notable exception, of course.” She smiled.
Something in her tone sounded more focused than noncommittal. As though her desire for a good working relationship with the police department was something she wished she had right now and for a specific reason. Which could only mean one thing.
“You have a new case,” he said.
“I have a lot of new cases. As of an hour ago, three to be exact.”
“I’m not talking about the insurance stuff or the background checks. You could do those in your sleep. You picked up something different.”
“Oh, it’s different all right. I mean, I’ve made a bit of a name for myself by investigating the impossible, but the deck is really stacked against me on this one.”
“Tell me.”
The fact that she didn’t even hesitate before launching into the details of her new case was both encouraging and a relief, especially given that it was supposed to be a one-way street. Departmental rules forbade the discussion of an active investigation with civilians, and that point had been doubled down on by the acting police chief, especially with regard to Shaye and more specifically to Jackson because of their relationship. Granted, cops gave information to civilians all the time in order to solve cases, but emotions still ran a little high when it came to Shaye and police business.
He listened intently as Shaye described her new client and what she had seen. It seemed straightforward at first and he wondered why he hadn’t heard any buzz about the case. Then Shaye got to the impossible part of her story, and he was so distracted by the number of roadblocks and complications that he stopped eating. He managed to remain silent until she was done, but just barely.
“That is one of the most unreal things I’ve ever heard,” he said. “You have a murder with an eyewitness but no description of the victim or the killer and no forensic evidence.”
“I know. Solving this will take extreme luck or maybe even a miracle, because I don’t think skill set is going to be enough.”
“Can I ask why you took the case? Assuming your client’s observations were accurate, either the woman’s disappearance will become a missing persons case or her body will turn up and she’ll become a homicide case.”
“Unless she’s not from the area, the body was dumped in the swamp, and no one is looking for her.” Shaye repeated the detailed description of the woman’s appearance and told Jackson her theory.
“A prostitute is a really good fit,” he agreed, “but unfortunately, opens up a whole other avenue of silence.”
“Maybe for cops, but I’m hoping I can get some of them to talk to me.”
“They might. A woman—not a cop—and trying
to figure out who might have killed one of them. A few might be motivated to give up information they wouldn’t spill to the police. But where do you plan on starting?”
“With the parking garage of the building, for one.”
“There are girls working the parking garage?”
Shaye laughed. “No. At least, not that I’m aware of. But she had to get there somehow. So unless she walked coatless in the winter rain, took a cab, or rode with the killer, she drove. If she drove, and the killer didn’t take her car, it might be flagged for towing. If she took a cab, I might be able to run down the fare. If she walked, then she might work an area nearby.”
“That’s smart.” Jackson shook his head. “Man, I wish I could help you. It wouldn’t take me any time to find out if a car was towed from that building.”
“Don’t even think about it. I’m paid to do the legwork, and the last thing I want is for you to put your job in jeopardy over my Mission: Impossible case. I can run down everything I need to know without you sticking your neck out.”
“I know you can, but I still wish I could save you the time.”
“Hey, you made me dinner. That saved me the time of ordering and waiting for delivery.”
He smiled. “And my food is way better.”
“That is absolutely true.”
He quickly quashed his aggravation at the hand-tying and turned his attention back to dinner, not wanting to waste time spent with Shaye being irritated over the way things ought to be that were out of his control. But he already knew that at first opportunity, he’d have a little talk with Detective Maxwell. He was a good guy and a solid cop. He wasn’t out to prove anything and didn’t have a chip on his shoulder about Shaye, so he wouldn’t see it as threatening that she’d taken the case. Besides, Jackson could always pitch it as his own concern that Shaye might be walking into a dangerous situation. No one would blame him for wanting to prevent that from happening.
Even though a hurricane couldn’t compete with the force of nature that was Shaye Archer.
Madison hurried down the sidewalk toward her building, her anxiety growing with every step. She chastised herself for the millionth time for not getting Uber service, then reminded herself for the millionth time that Uber presented issues as well as walking. Other people didn’t understand when she said that. After all, the app sent you a picture of your driver. What could possibly go wrong?