The caliber of the slug matched the one used in the slaying of Christine Gautier. The trajectory of the bullet showed the shot came from the bank over one hundred yards away. There was no evidence of a shooter's existence except for a dead FBI agent.
The team related frigid air just before Swift was killed, but it dissipated within minutes.
Raiford Reynolds and Raiford Gautier received the news about their friend's death. Both were flabbergasted. They flew to Virginia for Patrick's funeral and had a momentary reunion with other FBI personnel who had become friends over the years. Steve Journey and Lawrence Dantzler greeted the men who had traveled a good distance to pay their respects to a fellow agent. At the interment, Raif cringed as he heard the guns being fired in honor of a fallen angel. He looked at his brother and said, "I told you Chris was only the beginning."
The New Orleans Police department had requested help from the FBI in a rash of violent robberies and vandalism involving female business owners who were beaten, raped, and murdered.
Agent Steve Journey brought a team into New Orleans to work with the local field agents. He thought it strange the state of Louisiana was having such a great need for FBI teams. Reviewing the twelve cases with dead women and one two nights before in which the victim was still alive, Journey's intuition as a profiler told him these were not random gang attacks. They were too well orchestrated. The animal, or he thought animals, who raped these women wore condoms and left no evidence. Thirteen attacks haunted him and made him hark back to another case in Louisiana that had involved the number thirteen. Journey called Lawrence Dantzler.
Dantzler agreed, "It is odd. Be careful. I just got off the phone with Swift's team in Baton Rouge. No more paintings have been stolen anywhere. Trista Gautier and Patrick's team talked about cold temperatures."
"Damn! Just like Latrice."
"One of his team mentioned the fact that all the other capitals had been field offices. You know, he was shot last month after the thirteenth painting. It keeps getting weirder. Did you realize it was three months to the day since Chris was shot that your thirteenth woman was attacked?"
"Not quite. Three months to the day that she talked to me. She was actually attacked the night before. I wish I could've gone to Chris's funeral, but I was in Albany on those child abductions. I called Raif. He still seemed broken at Patrick's funeral. You know, they were really good friends. Patrick landscaped the Gautier mansion."
"I went down. Yeah, Raif is a mess. He always said he would be lost without Chris. Oh, he goes about the motions, but he just seems robotic."
"Well, if I get the chance, I'll pay him a visit since I'm this close. I feel a little odd here. I mean, I got called in after several others came up with nothing."
Journey rubbed his neck after he hung up. He just could not shake his feeling that something otherworldly was at work. He had been in the old monastery when Latrice had attempted to sacrifice Larkin Sloan, Raiford Reynolds's wife now. He had profiled the case and suggested a woman was the killer. "Creepy as hell," he mumbled to himself. He remembered the frigid temperatures as the woman chanted an incantation and the sound that might have been angels flapping their wings. A shiver ran over him.
He decided to go back to his hotel and rest a short time before he went to the hospital to speak to Miss Rivers if she was awake. He left his notes on his desk and an outline of what he planned to do.
The day dispatcher was coming on duty at the same time. Journey greeted the woman and held the door open for her. He shivered as a gust of frosty air assailed him. He looked around trying to spot something. A bang preceded the woman turning to thank him; she saw blood spew from Journey's temple as he hit the ground, dead. The woman screamed.
The audacity of the murderer overwhelmed authorities. To shoot an FBI agent exiting the police station staggered the mind. He had done it not once, but twice. Again, the caliber of the bullet was the same as that in both the Gautier murder and the Swift murder. The trajectory led to a bank across the street, but there was no other evidence.
Ray's cell phone rang. "Hello," he answered.
"Ray, this is Lawrence Dantzler."
"Lawrence, what's wrong?"
"Ray, I have the heebie-jeebies. Chris, Swift, and now Journey. I just got a call from New Orleans."
"You're not kidding, are you?"
"No. I'm making arrangements to get down there. This is too damned coincidental."
"Maybe you shouldn't come to Louisiana. It seems to be a real hot spot."
"I'll take my chances. We already have three fallen angels. I'm too much of a devil. I'll see you as soon as I make the arrangements. It might take a little time. If my hunch is right, you'll be safe until at least I'm dead. This bastard wants to watch you suffer loss. A bulletproof vest won't help either of us. He likes head shots."
"What are the arrangements for Steve?"
"He'll be flown back to New York. His family lives outside Albany. Maybe we should go together to show a united front."
"Yeah. Good idea. I'll let Raif know. I don't think he can stand much more."
"Me either." Dantzler grunted. "Listen, have you noticed how the number thirteen keeps cropping up?"
"Specify."
He blew out a breath. "Okay. Thirteen paintings were stolen before Patrick was killed. The report I just got said Steve was about to go and speak to the thirteenth victim—the only one that lived—of that crazy spree in New Orleans. I know you've seen that on the news down there."
"Spine-chilling," Ray agreed.
"That's not all. Did you take note that at Chris's memorial back at the house, thirteen folks took a moment to say something about her. That number just reminds me too much of Latrice Descartes."
"She's dead, Lawrence."
"Yeah, but what if some demon she unleashed is out for revenge?"
"Shit. You can't really think we're dealing with something non-human."
"Latrice was human, but evil personified. Never mind my ramblings. I'll see you guys soon."
Ray hung up and thought aloud in utter denial, "This can't have anything to do with Latrice. Everybody's in jail except Alicia Steen."
Chief Reynolds called Detective Baker and ordered, "Find Alicia Steen!"
He rubbed his head. Just the possibility that this most recent rash of killings of the law enforcement officers involved in the apprehension and ultimate death of Latrice Descartes gave him the first full-blown migraine he had experienced in years. In addition, he had to wonder if whoever was responsible would come after Larkin and Raif, too. Oh, shit. Trista mentioned cold air. Was that true for the others? I'll ask Lawrence when he gets here.
He picked up the phone and called his brother. Raif's reaction was, "You've got to be kidding. I told you."
"Yeah, you did. How I wish you'd been wrong."
6
Detective Reynolds
Lawrence Dantzler arrived in Eau Boueuse without fanfare the week after he met Ray and Raif in New York. He wanted to keep his presence secret for as long as possible. He worked late hours with Ray and Parker when nobody else was around. And he confirmed Ray's suspicion about the cold.
Baker tracked Alicia Steen to Buffalo, New York, where she worked in the administrative offices of the Buffalo Bills. Baker dropped a file on his boss's desk. "You covered this kid's tracks well. She left Louisiana when she was eighteen and somehow got into Vassar. Care to explain that one?"
"Robert LaFontaine actually saw to that one." Ray smiled. "Got a number on her?"
"I'm good at what I do." He pointed to a phone number in yellow highlighter.
Ray waved Baker out and made a phone call.
Alicia came back to Eau Boueuse, to talk to Raiford Reynolds, at his insistence. Ray wanted to talk to her face to face. She would not have returned for anyone else, but Ray had worked to get her records expunged so that she could have a life. He believed an abused fifteen-year-old should not have her future destroyed and had gone out of his way so that no one need know
she had ever been associated with a serial killer. Twenty years later, she had to face some old demons.
She entered Ray's office and shook his hand. "Wow! You're the Chief of Police now. Congratulations!" she said with a sincere smile on her face. She contemplated the other men, Parker Reynolds and Brian Baker, with a little apprehension. Then, she spotted Dantzler in the corner sitting with his fingers steepled. "What's going on?" she demanded.
Ray said, "Sit down, please." He indicated a chair with his hand and introduced her to the other men. "I know this is awkward, but do you remember Brian Baker and Lawrence Dantzler?"
"I can never forget them." She looked toward Parker, who gave her a smile.
"Ahem." Ray said, "This is my son, Parker. He's a cop too." Then he spoke candidly with her. "Have you heard about the recent murders of law enforcement officers involved in Latrice's case?"
"No."
"Well, there have been three—Christine Gautier, Patrick Swift, and Steve Journey."
She looked around like a caged animal searching for escape. Finally, she sank into the chair Ray had pointed to.
Retaking his own seat, "Alicia," he said, "first, I want you to know I don't think you've had anything to do with these recent killings."
"That's good to hear." She breathed a sigh of relief. "When I left here, I wanted to get as far away as possible. I thought distance could help me forget that nightmare period of my life. Nobody up there knows anything about it. I'd like to keep it that way."
"So would I," assured Ray. "That's one reason I wanted you here and none of us there. We need your help. We really think this might have something to do with Latrice. What can you tell us about her we don't already know?"
"I have no idea. I was so manipulated. I really thought she'd take the pain away. How could I have been so blind?"
"You were a child—an abused child."
She fiddled with her purse strap. "Mr. Ray, you could have asked me over the phone, saved the taxpayer some money."
"I know, but I thought location might jar your memory." He gave her a smile. "And I personally paid for your flight. It's good to see you."
Remembering some of the rogue things Ray had done, she shook her head and grinned. The man will never change. Still doing things his way, just like when he traded places with his twin to catch Latrice in the act. "The things I remember are she talked about her mother a lot—her mother and somebody named Lloyd."
"Was her mother in Europe?" asked Parker from a chair on Alicia's right.
She turned toward him. "I don't think so. I think she was in the States."
"And you have no idea who Lloyd was?"
"No, sorry."
Alicia really had nothing to offer, so after Ray took her to lunch to reassure her that no one held any ill will toward her and to catch up on her life, Parker drove her to New Orleans to catch a flight back to Buffalo.
"You're really good," said Alicia on the drive.
"Excuse me?" said Parker.
"You're good at picking up on things that other people might miss like the fact that Latrice's mother might have been in the States and not deported in the beginning, but you're not a detective. Is that why you were in that awkward meeting? Why aren't you a detective?
"I've only been on the force about a year and a half."
"So? Do you have to be a cop a certain length of time?"
"Not really." He stretched his crystal blue eyes wide. "But most people become police officers first for the experience from working the street. Usually, at least five years of experience could help. In Eau Boueuse, you have to take a test."
"So, take the test. If you're gonna do the work, you should have the title and the income."
"I'm doing the work because I promised my aunt I would catch her killer." He glanced at his passenger.
"That's commendable, but you could benefit more than your aunt."
"It's a thought. I'll see what my dad thinks."
Their conversation turned to mundane things for the rest of the trip.
Finally at the airport, Parker said, "Well, we're here."
Having only an overnight carryon bag slung over her shoulder, Alicia leaned in the door as she started into the airport. "Thanks for the ride. If I think of anything, I'll call. Let me know if I should ask for Detective Reynolds. Take the test." She laughed lightly. "Hey, having the chief of police as your father might have its perks. I know how much he helped me have a life."
She waved, and Parker drove away thinking: You have no idea how much he helped me have a life.
When Parker got home, he told Sheena what Alicia Steen had suggested.
"I think she's right," said Sheena. "You'll make a great detective. When's the next test?"
"Two weeks. You really think I should do it?"
"Yes, I do. The salary increase would make it a little easier to raise a family."
"That won't be for a while though."
"Yeah, about seven months." Sheena turned off the light and waited to see how long her little news flash would take to sink into Parker's brain.
Five minutes later, Parker turned on the lamp on his side of the bed. "What do you mean seven months?"
Sheena laughed, "Daddy," as she laced her fingers behind Parker's neck, gripping the ends of his dark hair. "Come here, and I'll show you how it happened."
The next day Parker stopped in Ray's office. "What's up?" Ray asked.
"Two things. Which would you like first?"
"You decide, but only if it's good."
"Okay. You're gonna be a grandfather, and I'd like to take the upcoming detective test."
Holding up a finger, Ray said, "Let's take the first one first."
Parker grinned. "Sheena told me she's pregnant."
"Congratulations! We'll babysit after you potty train him." Both men laughed before Ray said, "Seriously, it's wonderful news. I think 'Poppy' rather than 'Grandpa' will be nice. Larkin has always said she'd prefer 'Nana.'"
"If that's what y'all want."
"And if taking the detective exam is what you want, it's two weeks from Saturday, eight A.M. sharp."
"Yeah, I would."
"Then, show up." Ray turned to his computer and hit a few keys. "You're registered. Good luck on both things. Is it all right to share your news?"
Parker nodded. "Even if I said no, you'd call Momma the minute I leave."
Parker hit the "submit" box after finishing one hundred questions on the written portion of the detective exam. Next, he moved to the lab where he had to perform ten regularly required functions of a detective. Then, he went home to wait for the results.
Sheena slipped her arms around Parker as he sat in his recliner and watched LSU play football. "How did it go?" she asked as she began to massage her husband's neck. As a physical therapist, she knew exactly how to manipulate the muscles to relieve his stress.
"Oh, that feels good." He released a long sigh. "That test was tough. They don't want a dumbass for a detective."
"You're not dumb. You're brilliant."
"I wouldn't go that far."
"True or false—you married the greatest woman on Earth."
"True—definitely true."
"At this point in time you would like to
Watch football.
Take a nap.
Make love to your wife."
Parker leaned his head back and looked up at Sheena. Her long golden curls tickled his cheek. "Do I have to choose between A and C?"
"Yes, you do. I'll give you some help—Set the DVR."
"C—definitely C."
"I told you that you were brilliant."
The following Wednesday, Officer Parker Reynolds was summoned to the office of the Chief of Police. When he arrived, two other patrolmen, Link Marceau and Ezra Shotz, were there.
"It took you long enough to get here!" Ray snapped, sounding serious. "You're a motorcycle cop. You can't blame your partner's driving,"
"Sorry. I didn't think I needed the siren."
&nb
sp; "Well, what none of you will need beginning Monday morning are those uniforms. Congratulations, detectives." Ray handed each man a velvet box containing his new badge. "You're the only three that both passed the test and had city council approval. Marceau, you'll be with Pennington. Shotz, I'm partnering you with Baines. She won't be happy about leaving Pennington, but I'm the boss. Baker is on his own for now, and, Parker, you have a temporary partner. Later, you'll be with Baker."
Parker started to speak.
Ray held up a finger. "Cultivate your partner and learn from him or her. Your partner is almost as important as your spouse. As a matter of fact, your partner will probably know things about you that your spouse will never know. Your partner could be the difference between life and death. You will learn to lie, cheat, steal, and kill for your partner—well, maybe not literally." He gave a little scowl. "I just remember when I was partnered with Chris—she knew things about me, maybe more than my twin knows about me." He shrugged. "Dismissed."
Three excited men started out the door. Ray called, "Detective Reynolds, stay a moment."
"Yes, Chief? Who's my partner?"
"Dantzler, obviously."
"Okay, Chief."
"Naa. It's Daddy right now. Come here." Ray embraced Parker. "I'm proud of you."
"Thanks."
Ray took a deep breath. "Do you still insist on calling me Daddy even now that you're gonna be one yourself? You know"—He jerked his head toward the closed door—"those guys will give you hell and call you juvenile."
Parker gave a snort. "I don't care. You've only been my daddy for seven years." He smirked. "But I can begin calling you 'Poppy' for practice."
Ray chortled. I like Daddy.
"We're going out to celebrate tonight. We'll meet at Mama Rosa's at six. Until then, Detective Reynolds."
Broken (The Raiford Chronicles #3 Book 1) Page 4