In the Shadow of Evil

by Robin Caroll

  Alana lifted her chin. "No, but I'm going to find out where he got the crack. He hasn't left the grounds except to work. I'm going to the big house to check his schedule." She marched away, her steps punctuating her irritation, just as she'd done since her teens.

  Layla smiled at her sister's retreating back and followed at a slower pace. The big house. She'd never get used to calling the home her family had once shared the big house, even though she had signed the house and property over to her sister three years ago. It was no longer a family residence but the main office of Second Chances. Oh, Alana still lived in the second-floor loft, but the downstairs was now the retreat's community kitchen, dining, and living room.

  Retreat. How about a drug rehabilitation center? That's what Second Chances really was. Set along the bayou in Eternal Springs, Louisiana, it had cabins instead of cells and therapy sessions called group sharing. But it was rehab all the same.

  Layla trudged behind her sister, stuffing her hands into the front pocket of the hoodie. The wind whistled through the cypress trees and swayed the Spanish moss. A hint of fishy odor drifted over the vast acreage.

  A shiver stuttered down Layla's spine.

  She paused, staring across the bayou. While she couldn't detect any movement out of the ordinary, she couldn't stop the feeling that someone watched her.

  She shook her head and continued behind Alana. Gavin's behavior must've spooked her more than she'd thought. But she couldn't have ignored Alana's panicked call if she'd wanted. Somebody had to look out for Alana, and since their father's passing and their mother's move into the hospital, the responsibility fell to Layla. Sure, Cameron was in the picture now as Alana's fiancé, but still . . .

  When Layla found her sister, Alana was in the office, perusing a spreadsheet sprawled over the desk.

  "He didn't even have a weekend privilege." Alana stabbed her fingers through her hair. "So he had to have gotten the crack here." No mistaking her distress at the possibility of drugs being on the retreat's property. It defied everything the retreat stood for.

  What Alana stood for.

  Layla perched on the edge of the desk. "Has he worked any? Maybe he had someone bring him the drug on-site." She hated the thought of someone having drugs on any construction site as much as Alana hated the possibility that drugs were at Second Chances.

  Crossing her arms over her chest, Alana stared out the window. "How could he have contacted anyone? He hasn't been given phone privileges. He only received his last work assignment on Monday."

  Four days ago.

  If he didn't have privileges last weekend, only got his work assignment on Monday afternoon and it was now Friday, then by process of elimination, he had to have gotten the crack on a construction site. It'd been raining for the last three weeks, so all sites were concentrating on indoor projects.

  Layla shifted to scan the work assignments. "He was with Bob every day this week?"

  "Yep. Gavin wanted to learn plumbing as his trade."

  Splinters! Bob? No way. Bob Johnson was one of the best plumbers in the parish. He was Layla's favorite, by far. She used him more than the other three local plumbers combined. To think there was a chance that drugs would be on one of his jobs . . .

  "Where's Bob been working this week?"

  Alana's brows bunched as she read. "The Thompson repairs."

  Old Ike Thompson had allowed his nineteen-year-old son to live in his rental house. Big mistake. When the kid left two weeks ago, the house had been trashed. Holes in the Sheetrock. Burned places in the floor. Plumbing destroyed. And that was just the bottom floor. A sad situation for Ike but an opportunity for Alana.

  "You know, Gavin could've found some drugs at the site. Ike's kid was into partying hard, so he might've left some drugs behind. Gavin might have stumbled upon them."

  "Maybe. But in my experience, users don't normally leave a stash behind when they split."

  "But it's not beyond the realm of possibility. I mean, Ike's kid snuck out of town in the middle of the night. For whatever reason, he left in a hurry. Maybe he was too rushed to get everything."

  Alana chewed her bottom lip. "Could be."

  "Look," Layla slipped off the desk, "I'll run by Bob's on my way home. Talk with him and see what he says about Gavin."

  "I'd appreciate that. It would be best to have as much information as I can before I call his probation officer. I'll call Fred in." Fred was Alana's assistant director. Sweet man who adored Alana.

  Layla dug into her jeans pocket for her truck keys. "I'll run there now and talk to Bob."

  "Call me as soon as you can." Alana touched Layla's arm. "Thanks. I just can't believe this happened."

  "It'll be okay." Layla could only pray that was true.

  THIS MEETING WAS GOING to end badly. Not so much for him, but for Dennis.

  Dennis just didn't know it. Yet.

  Night stole over Eternal Springs, Louisiana. The January wind gusted, whistling around the house. A heavy mist cloaked the parish, a remnant of the gully washers they'd received over the last several weeks.

  He leaned against the interior wall of the house and lit a cigarette. Just completed two months ago, the Hope-for-Homes house would welcome its new owners in a matter of weeks. He had to move fast to destroy the evidence and keep his name clear. Although no one suspected him of anything less than stellar quality, he couldn't take the chance. Not with what he had riding on his reputation.

  But Dennis had to be taken care of first.

  "You shouldn't smoke in here. The smell lingers." Dennis cracked open the front door. The security light at the end of the cul-de-sac spilled into the room. "Someone will know somebody was here that wasn't supposed to be."

  He cut Dennis off by tossing the cigarette in the front yard. "There. Happy now?"

  Dennis shot him a hard stare in the dim lantern light. "Hardly."

  He sighed and quietly moved to the bar, standing in front of the shelf holding the gun he'd placed there before Dennis arrived. The gun he'd stolen from Dennis's car two days ago. The shadows would work in his favor. "What's your problem now, LeJeune?"

  "You know what my problem is. You're trying to cut me out."

  "How do you figure?" Just how much did Dennis know?

  "I know you've put in bids with the casinos."

  Dennis knew more than he had thought. Who had Dennis told? "I have."

  "And you have an inside source somewhere because word on the street is that you'll get the job."

  "So?"

  "So?" Dennis crossed to the other side of the bar, resting his bony palms against the finished granite. "You're not including me."

  "How did you hear all this?"

  Dennis scraped a thin hand over his face. "That's not important. What matters is you're trying to go solo."

  "The boats don't use local inspectors. They bring in their own. Federals." He casually lifted a shoulder. "I don't need you on this one."

  Dennis's eyes narrowed as he stroked his shaggy mustache. "After all I've done for you—"

  "That you've been paid well for. Let's not pretend you've done anything out of the goodness of your heart. It's always been about the money."

  "Same with you."

  He spread his hands through the air. "I've made no other claims."

  "But the boats are big deals. Really big. We're talking a lot of money to be made. You didn't think I'd let you cut me out, did you?"

  Laughing, he lowered his hand to rest on the butt of the gun. "You have nothing to do with this deal."

  "What about the others?"

  "What others?"

  Dennis snorted. "Don't think I haven't noticed what you've been doing these last eight or nine months."

  Maybe the old inspector was onto more than just the casino deals. "What's that, LeJeune?"

  "All these buildings we fudged on . . . some freaky accidents have happened to them." Dennis's thinning gray hair flew as he shook his head.

  He swallowed. "I don't control Mother N
ature. A lot of our homes were lost in the hurricanes. A lot of the offices."

  "What about the fires? Three, over the last six months. Tell me you didn't burn those down to hide the evidence."

  He sucked in air, struggling to keep his composure. Everything he'd fought so hard to achieve could be lost because of this . . . this moron. "Who else have you told about our agreement?"

  "No one." Dennis paused, his jaw popping as he ground his teeth. "Yet. We have a nice setup going here."

  They did. But he had to go legitimate to get the casino boats deal. They'd check him out thoroughly. He couldn't take a chance on any link between him and certain buildings. He had no other choice but to destroy them.

  Like this house.

  He sighed. "Bottom line, what do you want?"

  "I want my cut, just like always."

  "But you aren't going to inspect the boats. No one will find a single problem. Why should I give you a percentage for doing nothing?"

  "Because that will keep my mouth closed." Dennis crossed his arms over his chest and cocked out his hip. "About the past. I kept records too you know."

  And there it was—the threat. The bluff.

  He couldn't allow that. He couldn't allow Dennis to be a loose end.

  Dennis had just sealed his own fate.

  "Just cut me in on this deal, and we'll go on with business as usual." Dennis shifted and shoved his hand into the pocket of his coat.

  He gripped the loaded gun and whipped it from the shelf in one fluid motion. He pointed the barrel at Dennis's chest. Didn't even take a breath before pulling the trigger.

  Crack!

  A muzzle flash barely registered before Dennis took two steps backward. He staggered. Swayed. His eyes widened for a split second before Dennis slumped. His limp body didn't move once it hit the floor.

  He let out the breath he'd been holding. He leveled the gun, shot Dennis in the head just for good measure, then wiped down the gun. Using the corner of a rag, he dropped the gun beside Dennis.

  He moved to the garage and retrieved the gallons of gasoline he'd stowed there earlier. Now to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Disposing of the body to remove all evidence and burning down the house with the substandard materials.

  Fate couldn't have given him a better gift.

  TWO

  "If there is no struggle, there is no progress."

  —FREDERICK DOUGLASS

  HONK! HONK!

  Maddox grabbed his badge and gun off the table and headed out into the darkness of night. A dusting of rain covered him as he ducked to the road. He swallowed a yawn and slipped in the passenger seat of the unmarked cruiser.

  "Already missing your beauty sleep?" His partner, Houston Wallace, popped gum while steering the car down the street. Even in the wee hours, his partner looked the same as when they'd clocked out at five. Even right down to the untucked, wild Hawaiian-print shirt and stained coat. His thinning, salt-and-pepper hair was kept short, which did nothing to mask the receding hairline. At five foot eleven, Houston was a couple of inches short of Maddox's height. A fact Maddox never let him forget.

  "It's three in the morning. Of course I'm missing my sleep." He cocked his gaze to his partner. "Man, being on call bites."

  "If you make commander, you won't have to take these early calls." Houston popped his gum again and turned the car onto I-210. "A homicide. Practically right in our backyard."

  Maddox's gut tightened. He wanted to make commander, could taste it. A real rank, as his father would say. Houston had turned down the promotion a year ago. The new commander was making noise about running for sheriff in one of the little bayou towns in the parish. If the slot opened . . . "Yeah, we'll see."

  "It could happen." Houston popped his gum again. "Dispatcher said they'd found a gunshot vic."

  "Yeah, that's what he told me too."

  Maddox looked down into the mouth of the west fork of the Calcasieu River as they topped the bridge. So high up . . . He forced himself to release the fists he'd balled his hands into and pinched his eyes shut.

  Eternity passed. Slowly.

  "We're off the bridge."

  He opened his eyes. Even though Houston had never teased him about his fear, the heat crept up the back of Maddox's neck. He glanced out the window. They now sped along LA378 into Westlake. "Outside city limits, huh?"

  "Yeah. Local FD called dispatch." Houston slowed as they crept off Miller Avenue, leaving the small town in the rearview mirror. "Address is in rural Eternal Springs. Help me look for the road."

  "Fire department called it in, huh?" Maddox grabbed latex gloves and a couple of evidence bags from the crime-scene kit and shoved them into his pocket while Houston rattled off the street name. Murky darkness cloaked the area, leaving visibility next to nil. Even as versed as his partner and he were in the parish, Maddox had never heard of the street. Must be a private drive.

  Sure enough, Houston slammed on the brakes and took a hard right onto a gravel road that drew them closer to the river.

  Flashing lights atop fire trucks welcomed them to the crime scene. Smoke mixed with the falling mist, filling the bayou area. Exterior half walls, charred and smoldering, stood under the bright rigged lights of the fire trucks. No roof remained on the building. Some interior walls had held, but mostly the site was unrecognizable as a house.

  The haze shrouded them as they picked their way over stretched fire hoses toward two uniformed officers hovering by what was once the main entrance to the home, talking with the fire chief. The oldest uniform looked up at their approach. "Detectives?"

  Houston nodded. "Wallace and Bishop." He hitched the shoulder strap to the crime-scene bag higher and held out his hand.

  The older man shook it. "I'm Assistant Chief Rex Carson and this is Officer Thibodeaux."

  "Whatcha got?" Maddox rested his hand on the butt of his gun. A natural position for him after six years of wearing the gold badge for the Calcasieu Parish sheriff's office.

  The fire chief interrupted. "Found a body in the living room when we got the fire contained. Thought maybe it was smoke inhalation, then we saw the big hole in the remains of the chest and found a charred handgun beside the body."

  Sounded like homicide to Maddox. Adrenaline leaned him in closer to the fireman. This was what he lived for. Cases just like this. One dead body and a whole lot of questions. "The owner of the house?"

  Carson shook his head. "Owner hasn't moved in yet."

  "Any ID on the body?" Houston asked.

  "Once we figured it was a murder, we didn't want to touch the body." The fire chief removed his hat, smoothed down his dark hair, then plopped the headgear back down. "Prelim looks like it was arson, which makes sense if someone shot somebody, then wanted to destroy the evidence."

  Carson picked up the details. "As soon as we confirmed it looked like a homicide, we called Chief Samuels who made the decision to call you."

  Maddox remembered Chief Ethan Samuels from the homicides he'd assisted Officer Lincoln Vailes with several months ago. "Anybody have a clue who the vic is?"

  Thibodeaux finally spoke. "No, sir."

  Hopefully the rain wouldn't destroy any crucial evidence. Well, what the fire hadn't obliterated. "Okay, we'll take it from here." Maddox glanced at the loafers he'd slipped on. They'd be ruined as soon as he entered the scene.

  Houston chuckled and almost choked on his gum.

  Maddox took in his partner's dirty sneakers with a grimace. "Would serve you right to choke to death."

  Laughing louder, Houston followed the chief into the charred remains of what was once a house. Maddox trailed at a slower rate, pulling on latex gloves as he walked. If he took care with where he stepped, maybe he could salvage the shoes from being a total loss.

  But as soon as he saw the sprawled body, all other thoughts fled. He circled the body, committing every detail to memory, as Houston whipped out his notebook and began scribbling.

  Both men squatted. Maddox cocked his head to s
tudy the charred handgun from a better angle. "Revolver. Smith & Wesson?"

  "Or Taurus."

  Maddox glanced at Carson who'd come in behind them. "Coroner been called?"

  "On his way."

  Houston withdrew the digital camera from the crime-scene kit and took shots. He shifted, getting pictures of the body and crime scene from every angle.

  Leaving the body, Maddox turned back to the front yard. He scanned the ground around the entry and walkway. Even with the soggy terrain, they wouldn't be able to gather any footprint casts—too many firemen had tracked over the area. Somebody knew what he was doing.

  Headlights cut through the mist and smoke still wisping in the dark. The coroner's wagon sloshed into the dirt driveway.

  Maddox moved from the threshold. A spot of white against the red mud beside the walkway caught his attention. He squatted, inspecting the area. A cigarette butt, barely smoked, sat pressed into the mud. He withdrew an evidence bag from his coat pocket, bagged and tagged the butt before shoving it into his pocket, then stepped forward to greet K. C. Casteel.

  The fifty-something coroner made his way to Maddox, his assistant on his heels. "Hey, Bishop. How's it going?" He jabbed glasses up the bridge of his nose.

  "Got new specs, huh, Doc?"

  Casteel shot him a wary look. "Doctor said I need them now." He grunted and toed a rock. "Don't know why. I can see just fine without 'em."

  Maddox stifled a grin. "It's hard getting old, ain't it?"

  "Speak for yourself." He narrowed his eyes for a moment, then grinned. "So, where's your body?"

  Leading the way, Maddox filled Casteel in on what they knew. As soon as they approached the body, the coroner and his assistant slipped on their gloves and began inspecting. "Definitely a gunshot wound to the chest." Casteel turned the skull. "And in the head."

  Maddox bent over his shoulder. "I missed that." But now that Casteel had pointed it out, Maddox could clearly see it.

  "Don't surprise me," Casteel muttered.

  "Can you give us an estimate of time of death?" Houston asked.