Where The Devil Won't Go: A Lucas Peyroux Novel

by E. J. Findorff

  “I’ve been meaning to ask, how come I’m not getting any other assignments? Not that I don’t know the answer.”

  She smiled patiently, like a mother. “Just get your feet wet on this one, okay?”

  “You’re worried about my decision making… About putting other cops in danger.”

  “I heard about you at the shooting range.”

  “Great.”

  “I’m not worried. It’s like this; if you were a surgeon, I wouldn’t give you three operations on your first day back, but I would totally trust you to do a heart transplant. You get me?”

  “I get you. You want me to help Billy out with the autopsies.”

  “Ha ha. I trust our shrink. She says your mental health is fine. I’m good with that, but I need to make sure it sticks.”

  I bit my lip to keep more words from leaving my mouth.

  Dobson went on. “Cozy Robicheaux called again.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have dinner with them. The poor girl doesn’t understand why her hero is avoiding her.”

  I mimicked stabbing myself in the chest. “Right through the heart. Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll call her.”

  Dobson nodded and straightened an overlapping belt she still wore as a reminder of her former weight. She looked over to yesterday’s box of donuts that still had two remaining. “I totally get how recovering alcoholics feel.” She shoved a stick of gum in her mouth and walked away.

  I called a string of police departments north along the river, inquiring about any missing residents. River Doe’s file sat cold on my desk, no different from a random gang execution or a tourist’s murder with no leads. I had a complete set of photos, a box of bagged and tagged garbage, and a few unhelpful witness statements. While waiting for lab results, I considered going back into older missing person’s reports, ones that fell through the cracks because they didn’t cause a public outrage.

  However, my cell came to life with the name of Dr. Billy Phillips from the Coroner’s Office.

  “Peyroux here.”

  “Sorry to disturb your crawfish boil.”

  “I’m at the station.”

  “Brown-noser. I’m using my Sunday to finally get to your Doe from the river. You of all people deserve some expedience. You want to come down so I can go home and soak my feet? The dogs are barkin’.”

  Dobson glanced at me through her office window as if she heard the question. I stood. “On my way and I’ll call Gray.”

  #

  This morning, Captain Dobson had asked Tara to help Frank Harvin question the neighbors in the Callio Projects since a white cop strolling in alone wouldn’t receive such a great reception. I haven’t told my partner about my episode with Frank yet, staying neutral about the whole thing.

  Tara had said she didn’t mind helping Harvin on a Sunday as she had nothing personal against him and she had attended Saturday’s Midnight Mass. She joked with me that Frank Harvin had volunteered that he wasn’t scared with a trembling voice. The truth was that Tara had built up a lot of good will in those projects and he needed her.

  Peeking into the medical examiner’s lab was like watching a jack-in-the-box; waiting for something to surprise the hell out of me. Tara had abandoned Harvin and arrived first; sitting perched on a stool near the body, rubbing her right hand. Maybe corpses gave her weak knees, but she’d never admit it. I looked twice at her sparkling blue gym shoes that screamed disco.

  Dr. Billy Phillips greeted me with a raised scalpel above that dreaded body, however my first priority was to smear mint gel under my nose. It was strange that as humans, we were composed of mostly water, and yet this was the grotesque byproduct of what water could do. Doe’s mass had reduced somewhat from when she was pulled from the river, but that didn’t make her appearance any better.

  “Billy, how’s business?” I asked.

  “Busy with a broom up my ass. Hence Sunday.” Billy looked to have a helmet of perfect, short black hair. His lanky body stood at six-foot-three with wire-frame glasses on a long face. His lengthy fingers manipulated the surgical instruments with precision. He was cool, but I suspected he was into some freaky stuff due to his sexually disturbing humor. Given his job, I figured not much shocked him.

  “Were you guys waiting for me?”

  Billy cleared his throat. “Didn’t want to start without you. She didn’t drown. No water in her lungs. Asphyxiation.”

  “So, it’s a murder. Great.” I jotted it down in the small notebook I kept in my back pocket.

  “Been in the river about four days. I’m ruling it a homicide. I’ve been going over the contents of her stomach.”

  I quickly wrote his comments. “No way to tell a dumping point, I guess.”

  “You’re the detective.”

  “You would think.” I glanced at Tara.

  “Well, you’re in luck. I saved the best for last.”

  “You know who she is?” I glanced at Tara.

  “No, but almost as good. Just twenty minutes ago I pulled an iPhone from her vaginal cavity.” He handed Tara the evidence bag. “You only get one joke, so make it good.”

  “No jokes.” Wincing, I blinked the image away. “Do you know if she was still alive when the phone went in?”

  “Yes, the tissue bled when it tore, but a suction had been created, so it didn’t get wet.”

  “Let’s see if it still works.” Tara gloved up to handle the cell.

  I watched the screen light up. “You said tissue tore. Was there a lot of trauma?”

  “You asking whether she was a Catholic school girl or a hooker with nine kids?” His eyes smiled. “She wasn’t a porn star. It would have hurt going in under normal circumstances, but under duress and the adrenaline of impending death, she might not have felt that much pain.”

  “Like not knowing you were shot during an altercation?”

  “Yes,” Billy agreed. “Doesn’t mean her killer didn’t do it. Maybe she was unconscious at the time. Good luck with prints.”

  Tara looked up. “It’s possible it’s not her phone. Maybe someone else wants us to think the phone is hers, trying to fake their death?”

  “Stupid way to fake your death,” Billy said. “Of course there are people that stupid, but that’s a question for you two. I have pictures for you. I found a mole on her inside thigh, pretty common, but nothing else to distinguish her. No scars or medical issues like rods or implants. No abnormalities. I’ll need her dental records to get a proper ID. That, or some DNA to compare her to.”

  “It should be easy enough to track down the owner through the carrier.” Tara motioned like Vanna White. “It’s ready.”

  “We’re not going to send it to Dr. Jerry for prints?”

  Billy spoke up. “The way it was situated in there; it was like sliding it between two sponges and it came out slimed… sorry, there aren’t gonna be any prints on it, in my opinion.”

  I lowered my vision until light flashed across the surface. “Don’t see any obvious ones in the glare.”

  Tara pointed. “Our best bet for prints will be the inside cover and battery.”

  “Where it’s been well-protected. But if the GPS is on, we’ll be able to track her movements.”

  “That’s right,” Tara agreed, “these bastard phones know every move you make.”

  I pulled a pair of latex gloves from a box and swiped the screen. The wallpaper was a selfie of an attractive woman. Our luck held as her cell opened without a password. “The GPS is off. No record of where she’s been.”

  “Figures.”

  “The account information won’t show a name. Let’s see her call history.” It took a couple seconds to pull it up. “Hmm. Interesting. No contacts.”

  “That’s freaky. Who has no contacts?” Tara extended her neck to see.

  “New phone? There’s only one call going out and it dropped.”

  “Has to be brand new. That’s the only explanation.”

  “Maybe she deleted the call log. Can you do that?”
I asked.

  “Yeah, but why? Who was the call to?”

  “Emergency 9-1-1. Four days ago.” I glanced at her meaningfully.

  “And it didn’t go through? Remind me not to use her carrier. Find her picture gallery.”

  I scanned her sparse icons until finding the gallery. “Five pictures.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Has to be her first iPhone, maybe days old. Nothing carried over from a previous card and she didn’t have time to fill it up or know to turn the GPS on.” I touched the first thumbnail and the picture blew up on the screen. It portrayed a bored, but attractive girl-next-door.

  “Anything other than her?”

  “Let’s see, a kitchen, and a door with a ‘B’ on it, probably her front door and praise Jesus,” I turned the phone so Tara could see. “A picture of an apartment building. I know this balcony. It’s on Dauphine. Oh, man, there’s a video here.”

  “Well, play it.”

  I pressed the arrow and a black, shadowy image bounced around until settling on a hulking figure heading toward the camera operator. It was too dark to see details, but there was a snake pit of humans around her. The view spun to bright penlights on the wall like twinkling stars. The screen became black and the video ended.

  “No audio. She was probably too afraid to say anything. We have to get this to tech so they can blow this video up and maybe lighten it so we can make out details,” Tara said.

  “Check this out. The time stamp of the video is a minute before the 9-1-1 call. She took the video hoping to get her killer on camera, dialed emergency and then…”

  “…And then inserted it, probably thinking the 9-1-1 call would be traced and she’d be found.”

  “But the call didn’t go through.” I played the video again. “Had to be a place with little to no bars. There are other victims in the video, too, like a trafficking ring. God, and then to stick this phone in? She was brave.”

  “I’ll dial her carrier and get a name. At least we have a place to start.”

  “And we definitely keep this tidbit out of the press.”

  “Damn straight. Can you imagine?” Tara walked away from me, dialing the number.

  “A print on the inside cover would be nice.” I saddled up to the body. “Preferably her killer’s.”

  “It’s possible,” Billy mumbled.

  A few minutes later, Tara dropped the cell back into the evidence bag and faced the body as if exhausted. “The account’s only been active for five days. Makes sense with the number of photos. The name is Haley Robicheaux.”

  “Oh, God. No.” I wiped my hands down my face.

  “Wait, Robicheaux – as in Cozy Robicheaux?”

  “Haley’s her sister. Was her sister. She told me about her running away in the hospital. Damn.”

  “Now you have to go see her.”

  “To tell the girl I shot that we found her dead sister who might’ve been caught up in a human trafficking ring. Fantastic. Of all the fucking coincidences.” I paced around the room, letting my head tilt back. “In the hospital, Cozy had asked me to remember her sister’s name in case I ever ran across her.” I came back to the body, which had been cut open vertically. My eyes focused on Phillips.

  “That from her stomach?” Tara asked, pointing.

  “Last meal was an assortment of shrimp, crab, roast beef, vegetables, some possible caviar. Some items digested more than others.”

  I wrote in my notebook. “Like she was having little bit of everything. Like appetizers or hors d’oervres.”

  “A cocktail party,” Tara added.

  “That video wasn’t at any cocktail party.”

  He presented a tray that looked to contain little red buttons. “Her nails had been manicured.”

  I focused on Billy’s face. “Either at a party or a fancy dinner. Probably drinking alcohol.”

  Billy stopped tinkering with the food. “We’ll have to wait for the tox screen to see if drugs were involved.”

  I touched Tara’s arm. “Let’s check out Haley’s apartment to at least get some DNA to compare. Then, we’ll inform the Robicheaux family.”

  “You want to call Dobson?” Tara asked.

  I moved toward the door. “Yeah, she can check out Haley Robicheaux’s history while we head over to her place.”

  “Tell her to have CSU meet us there.”

  “Right.” I followed my partner out while explaining our findings to Captain Dobson. We stepped out of the building where I noticed Tara’s hand had swelled a bit. She had just been with Harvin questioning the Callio residents. Could she have decked him, too? I put my arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For adding to my artwork on Harvin’s face.”

  “Your artwork? You gave him that black eye?”

  “Yep. Why did you hit him?”

  “He was talking shit about you. Said I’d get a bullet in my back. How do you know I hit him?” Tara questioned.

  He cocked his head and smirked. “I’m a detective.”

  Chapter 8

  Cozy laid in a ball on her twin bed, staring at a silver-framed picture of Haley taken five years earlier. Haley’s mouth was wide with genuine happiness at her seventeenth birthday. Ash had his arms around her sister’s waist from behind as if surprising her, a picture of two people in love. Having sex with Haley’s ex-boyfriend was a way of lashing out at her sister, but it didn’t help. It should’ve made her feel guilty, but it only made her numb.

  The bedroom was barely cool, despite the window unit. She wandered to the refrigerator, cracked open a beer and poured it down until her throat burned. After a quick breath, the rest of her Abita Amber vanished with one last large swallow. She pushed the bottle deep into the trash, and then watched through the screen as her Momma dragged the ice chest along the pier, stopping at the large pot and burner. Cozy meandered outside and leaned against the metal pipe that acted as a railing. Her momma offered a comforting smile while pouring salt into the tap water to purge the crabs in the cooler.

  “Those are big,” Cozy said.

  “Paul just dropped them off. He’s such a sweetheart. I told him to stop by later tonight with Ash.”

  “Mr. Paul likes you. He gave you crabs.” Cozy giggled and blushed.

  “Cozy, ew.” She rolled her eyes. “I told you, hawt, the man who wins my hand isn’t going to be anyone that lives here.”

  “But you’re stuck here. Kind of a catch-22.”

  Her momma wiped the sweat on the back of her neck and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “You are so smart. I wish you would change your mind about college. It’s close enough for you to keep living here.”

  Cozy deflated. “You need to get the police to find Haley and talk to her.”

  “You need to concern yourself with the here and now.”

  “I am. Haley should be here… now. I don’t know why I don’t just go and search for her myself. I could do it every weekend.”

  “You most certainly won’t.” Aponi slid a rogue hair away from Cozy’s face. “The Spirits can guide you if you choose to let them.”

  “Do you think the Spirits are upset that the Indians who once honored them are mostly gone or stopped searching for them altogether?”

  “Interesting question. I never thought about it. Hypothetically, would the Christian God be less powerful if there was only a handful of worshippers?”

  “I guess not.” Cozy gave her mother a rare, genuine smile.

  Her momma inhaled like a bloodhound. “You drinking beer?”

  “I had one.”

  Instead of a speech, her momma surprised her. “Go get us two more, would you, dear? We can set up the boiler together.”

  “Sure.”

  Cozy ran into the house, grabbing onto the counter as the room spun. With a splash of water on her face, her equilibrium balanced, and a wave like being upside-down passed though her eyes. Something was wrong – she could feel it.<
br />
  Steady again, she opened the refrigerator and let the cool air even her out. Enjoying a beer with her momma? How odd. She pulled out two ice cold Coors Lights.

  #

  The squat, middle-aged landlord wore a wretched, powder blue tank top, shorts and sandals. The thinning hair on his head looked like a hot spot that a dog can’t stop licking, but it might’ve been his only sympathetic quality. With a thick beard and crossed eyes, he impatiently rocked to and fro as Tara and I spoke to our captain on my cell’s speaker.

  “We’re right outside Haley’s door.” I tilted the cell next to Tara, standing far enough away so the landlord couldn’t pry.

  Dobson continued, smacking loudly as if chewing gum, “I ran Haley Robicheaux’s name. Robicheaux is like the Cajun version of Smith. Still, she is definitely Cozy’s sister.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nothing on Haley. Completely clean record. You already know about Cozy killing her father. Got the address out in Manchac for you if you don’t already.”

  Tara backed away. “Can’t wait to get to the bayou. Yee-haw.”

  At the hospital, Cozy had invited me to visit her home. All I knew of Manchac was passing the exit on my way to Hammond and seeing some of the bayou houses called ‘camps’ situated on pylons while crossing on I-55. It looked like one of those small towns Stephen King wrote about, a town you grew up in, but never moved to.

  Tara’s breath smelled of spearmint as she spoke. “Now we have to deliver the news, but with the caveat that it might not be her. How messed up is that?”

  “We can hold off.”

  Dobson’s voice shot out of the phone. “Go talk with them after you go through the apartment and see if they can fill any holes. Dr. Jerry’s on his way with his team.”

  “Thanks, Cap.” Tara said to the phone. I ended the call not telling our Captain that had been the plan all along.

  “You say she was hardly ever here?” I asked Mr. Porter.

  He rattled the keys in his hand. “Sometimes I saw her leave in the afternoon and usually she’d come in sometime before dawn. Like she worked a night shift.”

  “You know this how?” Tara asked, folding her arms and shifting her weight.