by K. C. Sivils
"Nick Devereaux didn't cause a scene. From what we know, there was no reason for anybody to pay attention to what happened. The victim just fell dead like he was a drunk who'd just passed out. Devereaux didn't stop to see what happened. So, either Nick is the killer or the killer held a gun on him and told Nick to stay quiet and keep moving."
Boucher nodded in agreement.
"Unless Sam comes through with some CCTV video for us or something, this is a dead-end," Heat observed.
“If you’re right, the perp could have taken Devereaux anywhere. Just walked away from the scene and gotten in a car and left or gone to a house where they holed up.”
Slowly, Heat turned around in a complete circle, thinking about his days as a student. “We need to check with campus police,” Heat mumbled.
“What for?”
"They were walking towards the South Stadium lot. They either parked there or somewhere down by the levy."
“Car would have been towed,” Boucher said, nodding in agreement.
Heat grinned at his friend. "Do I need to do this alone, or do you think your past misdeeds have been forgotten?"
“I’m hurt,” Boucher exclaimed, grinning as he clutched his right hand over his heart. “Mortally wounded that you would think that about me.”
Heat couldn't help but chuckle. "That tells me all I need to know. Let's go. It's a short walk."
Rather than return the way they had come, the pair walked to the stadium's east side, taking note of the changes in foliage and disrepair of the buildings on the hill opposite the stadium. Finally, reaching the end of the row of buildings, Heat stopped and directed his gaze up at the School of Journalism building.
"I used to roll down the hill there," he told Boucher, pointing at the grass-covered slope. "You know, when I was a kid."
“Ever ride your bike over the Indian Mounds?”
“Yep,” Heat replied, grinning. “That was my first ever encounter with Campus Police.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Jim Johnson grinned as he pulled up the video from the previous night. He could feel his wife hovering behind him, trying to see what was on the screen. Just over a year ago, when he'd paid a large chunk of change to have the camera system installed, Paula had given him grief for a week.
"There they are," Jim said, his feeling momentary elation at proving his decision to install the cameras had been a good one.
“Where could they possibly be going,” Paula asked.
From behind the adults, Adam spoke up. “Home.”
Both adults turned to look at the young boy. “How do you know?”
Adam swallowed nervously and pointed at the monitor. "The shortcut is through the woods, right there."
“It shaves about five minutes off,” Billy added. “Plus, you don’t have to worry about cars at night not seeing you.”
“Boys, go ride your bikes,” Jim ordered. “Don’t go far.”
Not wanting to hang around, the pair hustled out of the room and downstairs. The bang of the door to the garage announced the Billy and Adam were almost out of the house.
Jim watched his wife cross her arms and begin pacing back and forth in the bedroom the pair had converted into an office. Paula was on edge and would panic soon if he didn’t calm her down.
“I’m going to call the police.”
Paula stopped and looked at Jim. “Why?”
"They obviously went to Anna's house. They aren't answering their phones. Nick might have been there, and…" Jim paused, not knowing what else to say.
His wife nodded, indicating her agreement with his decision. "The sooner, the better, I suppose."
Paula watched as her husband called the local police and negotiated his way through the maze until he reached someone who would take him seriously. He finally ended the call.
“They’re sending out detectives. We need to meet them at Anna’s house.”
Paula nodded and resumed pacing.
“You’ll need to call Anna,” Jim said gently. “Or would you prefer I call her?”
---
With Heat and Boucher in Baton Rouge, Amy and Blondie had decided not to go into the office that day. Blondie had to spend several hours at the courthouse looking up records for ongoing divorce cases and then head over to the Spring Branch campus of Houston Community College for her English class. Dressed in loose-fitting blue jeans and a t-shirt two sizes too big for her, Blondie stood next to Amy on the couch and looked over her roommate's shoulder.
“How do you understand any of that?”
Without looking up, Amy took a sip of hot coffee from the mug in her left hand and scrolled down several inches on her laptop.
“Once you’ve taken accounting and I’ve tutored you on what to look for, you’ll be able to do this too,” Amy promised.
“Says you,” Blondie replied, grabbing her purse and backpack. “See you this evening.”
“Bye. Don’t do anything stupid,” Amy called out as the apartment door shut.
Two hours later, Amy emerged from the shower, one towel wrapped around her and another around her hair. Relaxed from the hot shower, she took her time going through her daily routine. Forty-five minutes later, barefoot and dressed in a pair of shorts and a tank top, Amy sat back down on the couch and picked up her laptop and the yellow legal pad she’d been taking notes on.
Scrolling down the pages of bank statements and checking her notes, Amy decided the hot shower hadn't changed her mind. Moving her working location to the kitchen table, Amy typed up all the financial data she'd been able to glean along with notes about what she thought she'd found in her initial examination of Anna Devereaux's financials.
She retrieved her phone from her purse resting on the kitchen counter, thumbed the screen, entered her security code, and called Heat. On the fifth ring, her boss picked up.
“Amy, what did you find?”
“Boss, I really don’t think this is about gambling debts.” She listened to the sounds of traffic in the background and wondered what Heat and Boucher were up to. “Where are you, Heat?”
“In a parking lot by a busy road,” he answered. “An impound lot if you must know.”
“Oh, well, good luck with that,” Amy replied. “Ms. Devereaux is nearly broke. Well, broke by rich people’s standards. Between the huge house she owns in a gated community west of San Antonio, which is paid for, and the townhouse she owns in La La Land, she's got some valuable assets that haven't been leveraged. At least I haven't found any liens on the properties yet. But she's cashed in just about everything else and has spent what she's earned on that television show. Residuals are what’s keeping the family afloat financially."
“How much?”
"She's blown through five million."
Amy held the phone away from her ear while Heat shouted a long string of obscenities. In the background, she could hear Boucher trying to calm her boss down.
Finished with his profane rant, Heat growled at Amy over the phone. “You sure that all went to gambling debts?”
“Mostly, though this bum she’s married to likes to take vacations all the time, expensive ones.”
“What kind of vacations?”
"Mostly adventure-type vacations, like white water rafting, deep-sea fishing, but he takes some pretty chill ones too, like skiing or a weekend at Cancun."
Heat didn't say anything in response, but Amy quickly grasped what was going through his mind. "Give me a day or so, Heat. I'll find out who he was taking with him on those trips. It'll just take some effort on my part, okay?"
“Do that,” Heat replied.
"Look, I've got a summary of what I think has been going on financially. I need to dig a lot deeper, hack a few things. You get the idea, okay? I'm sending it to your phone. If you have any questions, send me a text or an email."
A gruff thanks followed by the click of the call being ended was Heat’s reply.
Amy leaned back in the kitchen chair as a wave of sadness swept over her. Another t
rip to dig in her purse to retrieve her earbuds followed by filling up her mug with the last of the coffee, and Amy was ready to begin the search to determine the identity of who Nick Devereaux’s traveling companions were.
“Heat, what have you gotten yourself into,” Amy mused aloud to herself. “What kind of woman lets her husband rob her blind like this?”
---
“What’s Amy got to say?”
Heat pocketed his phone and leaned over, staring at the inside of the impounded Mercedes rental. “This thing has to be on an open rental,” Heat announced. “Otherwise, they would have contacted Anna.”
The impound attendant fidgeted, looking about. “This thing just got towed in.”
“That unusual?” Boucher asked. “For a car to be left that long in a parking lot?”
“After a home game? It happens sometimes,” the attendant replied. “Some sugar daddy decides to take off for some extra fun after a big win, takes the mistress with him. She has to leave her car at the stadium.”
“Yeah, what’s it to her? Gold diggers don’t pay for anything anyhow,” Boucher grumbled.
“Can you unlock it for us?”
“Man, look, I shouldn’t even be letting you look at it,” the attendant answered, looking around nervously.
Heat held up a hundred-dollar bill. “You’ve already taken one bribe,” he reminded the attendant. “Let this massage your conscience while you go and leave us alone for ten minutes.”
"Look, you said it's already been searched," Boucher pointed out. "Just let us have a quick look-see, and then we'll be gone."
“I never saw either of you,” the attendant announced without conviction. He grabbed the c-note from Heat and headed towards the office.
“It’s unlocked,” Boucher announced, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. He opened the driver’s door and took a seat. Heat did the same on the passenger side and began examining the contents of the glove compartment.
"Rental agreement," Heat mumbled, reading the document. "Yep, this was Devereaux's rental, all right. And the stiff, Charlie Smith, he's listed as the second driver.”
“Nothing over here,” Boucher said.
“Well, at least we know for certain who the stiff is,” Heat replied, his mind somewhere else. Boucher watched his friend, knowing Heat was thinking about Anna Devereaux in some way.
“What did Amy have to say that set you off?”
“She doesn’t think this is about Devereaux’s gambling.”
“How come?”
“Because Anna paid off just about everything that turd owed. Amy’s going to send us the details.”
“How much did this Nick guy lose?”
Heat stared out through the chain-link fence at the cars flashing by on the other side. Boucher watched as his friend clenched his jaws, making the veins in his neck stand out. With flushed cheeks, Heat answered in a monotone.
“Nearly every cash penny Anna had.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Nick could see anyone or anything that approached him from his vantage point beneath the live oak tree. His wrists and ankles hurt due to the chaffing of the manacles he wore on his wrists and ankles. Having already tested the manacles and the heavy, rusty chain that appeared to have been made for industrial use, Nick was confident there was no point in trying to escape.
His captors had left him well supplied with water, mosquito repellant, some bags of chips, and a sleeping bag. They’d even left him with a toothbrush, toothpaste, and some toilet paper. What he really wanted was an air conditioner to escape the heat and humidity of south Louisiana. Some ice-cold beer would be nice as well.
As much as Nick hated the hot, sticky air, he preferred reclining under the giant, ancient oak tree than being duct-taped to a chair in an equally hot, humid room in some building. Chained as he was under the tree, there was at least the possibility someone might stumble across him, and the great outdoors certainly provided more to see and hear than sitting, taped to a chair. The open land immediately surrounding the tree was covered with grass of the sort that grew in the marshy swamplands of south Louisiana. Small piles of dry, brown grass clippings were scattered all throughout the field, indicating someone had mowed not too long ago.
Here and there, Nick could see the telltale mounds of dirt indicating colonies of fire ants had taken up residence in the field. He could make out a line of weathered grey posts with barbed wire strung to create a fence on the eastern side of the property. Another cursory examination of the field revealed the familiar piles of black cow dung, indicating the presence of cattle somewhere on the property. Nick made a face, knowing as the heat of the day got worse, so would the smell, and the flies would come to visit him, leaving the manure to dry out in the hot sun.
When his captors returned, he planned to ask for a shower or at least a way to wash up. Going unwashed for more than 24 hours wasn't something Nick Devereaux did. He hated the way he smelled. Even worse, he hated the oily sensation of his hair. For a man who changed clothes at least twice a day, wearing the same clothes, particularly his underwear, was a dreadful experience. With the sun climbing higher in the sky and as was typical of south Louisiana, there being no sign of a breeze, Nick's clothes were already soaked through with sweat, clinging to his back and arms.
Deciding to attempt another nap, Nick laid down on his sleeping bag and closed his eyes. Commanding the muscles in his body to relax, Nick became aware of the sounds of the lands around him, the whistles of birds, and in the far distance, the sound of traffic rushing by on the interstate. Yet, as relaxed as he was, Nick couldn't drift away and go to sleep. He wasn't troubled by a sense of guilt or even fear. Instead, he was plagued by the odors he smelled. His own stench was foul enough. With the smell of rotting wood and gumbo mud overpowering nearly every other scent detectable by the human nose, Nick began to wonder how much more he would have to suffer before his ordeal ended.
---
Beads of sweat traveled down Heat's forehead, making their way to his eyebrows where the salty fluid was channeled down his cheeks or to the bridge of his nose. Drop after drop of sweat dripped from the end of his nose onto Heat's chest, creating a dark stain on his shirt. He could feel sweat running down his back between his shirt and the vinyl covering of the seat.
Boucher had vanished some thirty minutes earlier, leaving Heat sitting alone in his car with the windows down. It galled him to sit in a car with the engine running simply for the sake of air conditioning. Despite this fact, Heat considered starting the engine and blowing cool air on himself until Boucher returned.
The tickle of a bead of sweat on the tip of his nose caused Heat to sneeze, in the process sending droplets of sweat flying everywhere. Disgusted, he surrendered to the inevitable and started the engine to the Honda Pilot and cut the air conditioning on high. Within minutes the roasting hot air in the car had begun to cool, allowing Heat to raise his windows. Shifting his weight to get more comfortable, Heat turned on the car stereo and leaned against the door.
As the air conditioning brought down the temperature in the car, Heat turned on his stereo and engaged the CD player. Boucher regularly laughed at Heat's refusal to adapt to new technology, instead preferring to use the CD player for his custom playlists. Nevertheless, the music served its purpose, distracting Heat from the misery of sweating, allowing Keith Richards' blues licks on Ventilator Blues to take his mind somewhere else.
Images of pictures of Nick Devereaux began to flash through his mind’s eye, promptly followed by the summary of Anna’s finances from Amy. Summaries that showed a clear pattern of Nick Devereaux bleeding Anna dry with gambling debts and profligate spending on a lavish lifestyle. Other images went through Heat’s mind, those of Anna’s home in West Texas. Granted, it was a beautiful two-story house in a gated community, but it was hardly a Hollywood mansion. The pictures had shown a home tastefully, but not ostentatiously, decorated.
Anna was a hard worker, always had been. She had never relied on her looks and t
alent to get by when they were young. Heat fondly recalled the times he’d waited for her after dance class or read lines with her during a high school or college production. Anna dreamed of being a professional and not just any professional in the acting business. She wanted to be the starlet who set the standard for the others.
Heat shook his head in frustration and advanced the CD forward several songs. His head began moving in time with Richard’s chugging intro to Midnight Rambler. Then, as was his habit when listening to music to think, Heat began mumbling aloud to himself.
“What could Anna have seen in him? Why him and not me?”
There was no doubt in Heat’s mind Anna knew full well how angry her request to find her worthless husband would make him. The anger burned inside him still that Anna had come to him to find the man she’d abandoned him for. Yet, here he was, sitting and sweating in the heat in his Pilot, cluelessly trying to find Nick Devereaux.
Heat had never gotten over Anna. He didn’t sit and pine away for her, but the pain of being hurt like he had without ever learning why was ever present. It was the very reason Heat didn’t date. It was why he refused to take work from female clients in divorce cases, leaving those clients for his deceased partner, Wolf Pfeiffer.
His attitude towards women came off as being misogynistic at times, a fact that bothered Heat not at all. Anna had ruined him for other women, and in doing so, she'd broken Heat's heart so badly he couldn't bring himself to trust women when it came to relationships. When a woman came to their offices, Heat always mistrusted the female client, wondering when it was she’d decided to blindside her unsuspecting husband with divorce papers.
Heat knew full well many of the husbands were sleazy cheats or abusers. He simply could not move beyond what Anna had done to him. The fact many of the women who filed for divorce were either gold diggers or simply were tired of their lives and wanted to ditch their husband only reinforced his deeply seated feelings of mistrust for the opposite sex.