by K. C. Sivils
"Because observing the Devereaux residence for an extended time from all angles in a gated community would attract unwanted attention."
The twenty-something-year-old male groaned.
"Okay, I get that. So why are we still here then? You've been staring at that place for over an hour."
“Keep your voice down,” the professional whispered. “Next time I do this sort of thing, remind me to leave you behind.”
Unchastised, the younger man sneezed and then proceeded to rub his nose. “Allergies,” he mumbled, his eyes watering as he prepared to sneeze a second time. The second sneeze was louder than the first, earning the youngster a nasty glare from his elder.
"Take medication for allergies, you fool," the professional hissed. "Sneezing in the dead of night can alert a cop, watchmen, or the target."
“Sorry.”
Irritated to be saddled with a fool, the professional brought the night-vision glasses to his eyes for a final check of the Devereaux’s house.
“This,” he whispered, “is why you plan ahead, why you do research and reconnaissance.”
With care, the professional slowly handed the glasses to his younger companion. After adjusting the lenses, the younger man grinned and handed the glasses back.
“I guess we got lucky.”
"No, we were engaged in the careful, pro-active collection of intelligence. As a result, an opportunity presented itself."
With a massive grin on his face and a desire to get the job done and return home to collect a nice paycheck, the younger man rubbed his hands together. "What do we do now?"
“We do nothing,” the professional whispered. “You are going to stay here and observe the area. If anyone or anything approaches, you will send me a text warning me.”
Unable to keep his mouth shut, the younger man verbalized his disappointment. “You mean I spent all this time crawling around in bushes, getting bitten by ants and mosquitos in the dead of night, and you’re going to get all the action? No way. I’m coming along too.”
The unmistakable sound of a 9mm semi-automatic action being worked caused the younger man to look at his partner. He stiffened at the sight of a suppressor inches from his face.
“You will do exactly as you’re told and nothing else.”
“You wouldn’t,” the youngster whined.
“It would be very, and I mean very easy for me to explain your death away to our employer. In fact, it would make this entire job easier, even with the inconvenience of disposing of your body.”
The professional almost felt disappointed when the younger man raised his hands in surrender, silently agreeing to do as ordered. This would be the last time he would allow the employer to insist he work with someone else. He worked alone, and in the rare instances when additional manpower was required, he always selected skilled professionals to work with. Contractors who knew to keep their mouths shut and do only the specific job they were hired for.
Slipping from behind the cover of the bushes on the edge of the beautifully maintained lawn, the professional walked into the shadows as he approached the Devereaux house.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sunny days were always hard for Katie Johnson. Her blue eyes and fair skin combined with the glare of bright sunlight made it almost impossible for Katie to see. The resulting squinting caused Katie's mother to constantly chastise the young girl's habit of forgetting her sunglasses, informing Katie the practice would lead to the early onset of crow's feet. Of all the things that could be going through her mind, Katie found it ironic she was worried about listening to her mother complain about her habit of squinting.
“Where are we going,” Katie murmured. “Do you have any idea where they’re taking us?”
“East,” Becca whispered. “I think we’re on I-10 East.”
“What makes you think that?”
“We’re going in a straight line, more or less, and the van is going pretty fast. Has to be on an interstate. Plus, there’s no sun in the windows,” Becca pointed out, nodding at the two windows on the doors of the service van. “If we were going west, the sun would be shinning in the window. It’s early in the day still.”
Katie considered Becca’s reasoning for a moment.
“We could be going north.”
Becca shook her head, tears pooling in her eyes.
"My dad was in Baton Rouge with his friend when he went missing. Baton Rouge is east."
Frightened, the pair huddled together, holding each other. Becca listened to all the sounds in the van, hoping to learn something, anything, that would help keep them safe. Katie sat in silence, her eyes closed as if by not looking at her surroundings, the horrible situation the two friends found themselves in would just go away like a bad dream.
“I’m sorry,” Becca whispered.
“For what?”
“You told me sneaking out and going to my house was a bad idea. I should have listened.”
“I should have talked you out of it,” Katie whispered back, nudging her friend. “It’s as much my fault as yours.”
“You’re right,” Becca replied. “You usually talk me out of all my bad ideas.”
Irritated, Katie gave her friend a shot in the ribs with an elbow.
“Owwww.”
“You deserved that,” Katie informed Becca, frowning at her friend. “I’m really scared, and you say something like that?”
“I said I was sorry.”
Silence filled the back of the van as the pair held on to each other, leaning against the van's wall. Becca felt Katie's body relax as her friend fell asleep. Wishing she could do the same, Becca stared at the interior of the van. It was spotless and smelled of powerful cleaners, the smell of which frightened her. The owner of the van went to a lot of trouble to keep the vehicle immaculate. She'd watched enough of her mother's films and television shows to know a clean vehicle made it difficult to find forensic evidence after a crime had been committed. Whoever had grabbed Becca and Katie was a professional.
Shaking in fear, Becca considered her initial idea that she and Katie had been grabbed for some reason as a way to deal with her father's gambling problems was off base. There was little doubt in her mind they were traveling east on I-10. The interstate that ran the length of the United States, from coast to coast, was a well-known corridor for all kinds of illegal activity, ranging from running drugs and weapons to human trafficking.
Like her mother, Becca was pretty, a fact she was well aware of. Katie was cute as well, making the pair of them potential victims of human trafficking. On more than one occasion, both girls' mothers had sat them down and, in blunt language, told them to avoid strangers and situations where they could be snatched. Becca began to cry at the thought of the many lectures she'd rolled her eyes at and ignored.
---
Heat locked the car and glanced in both directions before stepping out into the parking lot. Cars were pulling in and hurrying to get the best parking spot, paying little attention to the patrons who’d arrived earlier and were attempting to make their way to the entrance of the Piccadilly Cafeteria.
“I been looking forward to this since we hit town last night,” Boucher informed Heat.
“Yep,” Heat agreed, eager to taste some of the familiar flavors he’d enjoyed as a child growing up and as an adult, eating the same items on each visit.
“You gettin’ fried fish, fries, and greens?”
“What do you think, Boucher?”
His friend laughed at him. “You’re too predictable sometimes, Heat. You should mix things up.”
“Like you have any room to talk,” Heat snarled in response. “Let’s see, you’ll be getting fried chicken, carrot soufflé, fried okra, and cornbread.”
“Okay,” Boucher laughed, “you got me. But at least I vary the pie I eat for dessert. We both know you’re getting blueberry pie.”
It was Heat’s turn to grin. “Why change things when you know what you like?”
The pair stood quietly in li
ne, not talking, each keeping their thoughts to themselves. It was early still, and the lunch rush was just starting, allowing the line to move quickly. Both men picked up trays and silverware wrapped in cloth napkins and took their time going down the serving line. Living in Houston agreed with both men, but they missed certain aspects of life in Louisiana, one of them eating at the cafeteria where it was custom to eat Sunday lunch after church.
Sitting down in a booth, the pair got comfortable and began eating, each according to their lifelong habit when dining at Piccadilly's. Boucher took one bite of each item and moved on to the next. Heat ate all of his greens first, wincing at each mouthful and washing it down with a sip of his soft drink. The greens were followed by the fries, then his fish, roll, and finally his blueberry pie.
“There he is,” Heat observed, nodding in the direction of the individual they were to meet with. Spotting the pair, Detective Sam Arceneaux nodded and made his way over to the booth.
"It's been a while," Arceneaux commented as Boucher scooted over to make room.
“Yeah,” Heat commented, examining Arceneaux. “You’re looking good,” Heat commented. “You’ve lost, what thirty, forty pounds?”
“Something like that,” the detective replied, running his hand through what remained of his thinning brown hair. “I feel a lot better,” he commented. “I can actually run down a perp now.”
All three men laughed. Heat and Boucher finished their pie while Arceneaux caught them up on their old friends in the Baton Rouge Sheriff’s Office.
“So, what brings the two of you back home,” Arceneaux asked.
“Working a case,” Heat said. “For you, it’s a murder. For us, well, we think it’s a kidnapping.”
Arceneaux looked around as if meeting with his two old friends would get him in trouble if he was spotted. “I can’t comment on an open case, you know that.”
“Sure you can,” Heat replied. “Especially if we’re right and a kidnapping went down at the same time. We’ll tell you everything we know. It’ll make your case tighter for the D.A.”
Arceneaux pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “I don’t know.”
“Just listen,” Heat said calmly. “Then take some time and think about it. If you don’t feel kosher doing it, it’s okay.”
“Just listen, that’s all we’re asking,” Boucher added. “It never hurts to listen, you know that, Sam.”
Arceneaux looked around and then shook his head. “I’m going to regret this. You two always get in trouble.”
“Sam, it’ll be okay,” Heat promised. “Last Saturday night, murder outside Tiger Stadium, south end.”
“Geez,” Arceneaux exclaimed. “You don’t want much. The heat on that case is unbelievable.”
"Of course, it is," Heat replied. "We think the victim was accompanied by Nick Devereaux. The murder was a hit, and then the perp grabbed Devereaux."
Boucher laid his phone on the tabletop. “This the victim?”
A quick glance at the photo was all Arceneaux needed. He nodded, not saying a word.
“What makes you think this Devereaux was grabbed?”
“He owes money to some nasty people,” Heat explained.
Arceneaux sat quietly, the wheels turning in his mind.
“This Devereaux, any relation to Anna?”
To Heat’s credit, his expression didn’t change. He stared at his old friend. “What if it is?”
“You should know better, Heat.”
“Know better how?”
“Man, Heat, I remember when Anna, well, you need to steer a wide path around this one. It won’t bring you nothing but more heartache.”
Without changing his expression, Heat spoke in a low voice. “Anna’s my client.”
“And you call yourself his friend,” Arceneaux said in disgust, glaring at Boucher as he stood up.
Boucher gave Arceneaux a nonchalant look and shrugged. "You know how Heat is. When it comes to Anna, there ain’t no talkin’ sense to him. It’s why I’m here, you know, keep an eye on him.”
"Look, if you don't want to help us, I get it." He reached into his shirt pocket and produced a business card. "Here's my number. If you change your mind, give me a call anytime, day or night."
Wanting nothing more than to leave, Arceneaux took the card and pocketed it, noting the business card had a paper clip on it. He said nothing and left the cafeteria. Heat watched as Arceneaux shielded his eyes from the bright morning sun and glanced in both directions before stepping off the sidewalk and into the parking lot.
“What do you think?”
“I’m not sure, Boucher. Sam was never much of a rule breaker.”
“Yeah,” Boucher said in agreement. “How many kids does he have now?”
“Three.”
“How much did you give him?”
Heat looked his friend in the eye. “Five hundred.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sore and stiff from a restless night, Paula finally gave up and decided to get up. She hated sleeping by herself. As angry as her husband could make her, Paula would rather have the source of her irritation lying next to her snoring than occupying the guest bedroom. Not ready to face Jim and resume the battle of the past few days, Paula got up and headed downstairs to start coffee and consider what to make for breakfast for the kids.
Once the coffee was started, Paula walked over to the center of the kitchen and leaned on her custom-made island. The first hint of the smell of coffee had just reached her nose when Billy and Adam dashed through the kitchen, heading for the backyard.
“Whoa!”
Adam ran into Billy from behind as both youngsters came to a sudden stop. With sheepish expressions firmly in place, the pair turned around to face Paula. She noted the downwards tilt of their heads and the upward tilt of the eyes. The pair were no doubt up to something.
“Where are the two of you going?”
“Out,” replied Billy.
“Hum, out,” Paula replied with a hint of suspicion in her voice. “And just what will the two of you be doing while you’re out?”
“Riding our bikes,” Adam replied, neither boy looking up.
Paula considered her options and decided to take a less commanding approach to deal with the pair, who were undoubtedly plotting something they shouldn't.
“Not until you’ve had breakfast,” Paula commanded.
“Mom, we’re not hungry.”
Using her she who must be obeyed voice, Paula repeated the command. Defeated, the pair of boys sat down at the kitchen table to wait until breakfast was served.
“Go get your sisters,” Paula ordered. “They need to get up.”
“No can do,” Billy quipped, grinning at Adam.
“What did you say,” an irritated Paula snapped.
“Becca and Katie weren’t in their room,” Adam announced. “Yeah, we were going to scare them,” Billy explained, “but they were already gone.”
“Stay here,” Paula ordered. She opened the back door and stepped into the garage, flicking on the lights as she did so. Only four of the six bicycles stored in the garage were present. Undecided as to which emotion to feel, anger at the girls taking off or fear because they were gone without any explanation, Paula pressed the control to open the garage doors.
“Billy, go get your father, right now!”
---
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” Heat answered. “We’ve both seen some pretty brazen things in our day.”
“Yeah, but in the middle of a crowd like that? That takes some cojones.”
Heat shook his head as he signaled a left turn and eased the Pilot onto Highland Road. "How many drunks have you seen fall down at a game?"
Boucher considered the matter for a moment before sighing. “Point taken. Still, nobody saw anything.”
"Nobody saw anything unusual," Heat corrected. "People are walking to their cars or RVs, or maybe just walking home if they live close enough. Some drunk fal
ls down and just lays there? People are going to mind their own business. I mean, it's just a drunk, right?"
“I suppose,” Boucher said, looking down at the tablet he had been reading. “All the news accounts say the guy just lay there until some EMTs came along and figured they needed to get the guy so he couldn’t wake up and try to drive home.”
“Like I said, nobody felt the need to do anything.”
As Heat pulled into the South Stadium parking lot, Boucher became distracted by a pair of leggy coeds in shorts and forgot the point he was going to argue. After driving up and down three rows of parked cars, Heat found a spot and zipped in.
"Give me a piece of paper," Heat ordered. Boucher tore one off the notepad sitting on the console between them and handed it to Heat, who had fished a pen out of the tiny storage space underneath the radio. Heat wrote "visitor" in large block letters and placed it on the dash.
"Let's go take a look," he announced. The pair got out and ambled through the lot, weaving their way between the eclectic mix of cars, taking note of expensive BMWs and jacked-up Jeeps and F-150s interspersed between worn-out clunkers that may or may not start when their owners returned.
“Not much has changed,” Boucher noted. “Rich kids and poor kids.”
Leaving the parking lot behind, the pair made their way along the side of the stadium, enjoying the shade and, in Boucher’s case, the coeds making their way to class or the parking lot. Reaching the south end of the stadium, they made their way to the large live oak where the murder had taken place.
“This is the tree,” Heat confirmed, pointing at the tiny scrap of yellow crime scene tape still stuck on the oak’s trunk. Boucher squatted down and looked around, taking in every detail he could. “I’d bet a Benjamin there was no evidence of any kind left behind. The perp walked up behind the victim, slipped the blade in, and just kept walking along like nothing had happened when the victim hit the ground.”
“He had a gun,” Heat said aloud. “Not just for back-up either.”
“Why a gun? The noise would draw attention. The blade was silent, and nobody noticed.”