by Jana DeLeon
“Twenty dollars? How in the world…” She looked at the logo on the bag and saw that it came from a resale shop nearby. “There’s even tennis shoes in here.”
“And all of it cheap because it’s so worn. But it’s perfect for what you’re doing. Go try them on. If they don’t fit, I have time to get some more before the store closes.”
Shaye headed into the bedroom with the bag of clothes and changed. She took a look in the mirror and shook her head. She hated to admit it, but Hustle had been right. Even though her other clothes were rumpled from traveling, they still had that look of expensive quality. The basic gray sweatpants and black hoodie with the New Orleans Saints logo on it were the kind of clothes no one would think twice about. The well-worn Adidas completed the look. With her ball cap, it would be perfect.
She headed back into the living area and Hustle gave her a once-over. “Better,” he said. “But if anyone knows you, there’s no getting around your face.”
He reached inside another bag on the counter and pulled out a wig of straight, shoulder- length auburn hair. “This should fix the face thing,” he said.
“I don’t know. Red hair might look weird on me.”
“Like looking weird makes you stand out in New Orleans. Try it on.”
Shaye stepped in front of a mirror hanging in the living room and twisted her long ponytail on top of her head before pulling the wig over it. She stared at her reflection in surprise.
“I barely recognize myself,” she said. “What a difference.”
Hustle gave her a critical look and nodded. “It’s good. During the day, you can wear sunglasses and even a reporter would walk right by you.”
“My own mother would walk right by me.”
“Maybe not a bad thing if she’s all parental and stuff.”
“Ha.” She looked at her reflection again. “I suppose at night I could use some black eyeliner and red lipstick to replace what the sunglasses accomplish during the day.”
“And you can pull the hoodie up. I started to get you one of those temporary tattoos but I wasn’t sure if you’d want to take things that far.”
“I’ll pass on anything with the words ‘temporary’ and ‘tattoo’ in them. Eleonore did one of those for some seminar she was attending and it took months before it wore off. I thought she was going to take a sander to her arm.”
Hustle grinned. “If you change your mind, I could draw you something with markers. It would be there a few days, but not forever.”
“I really appreciate all your help.”
He blushed and looked down at the floor. “I ain’t doing much.”
“But you are, and you have. Without you, I’d have no access to an entire group of people that have been necessary to get answers.”
Hustle looked back up at her. “I guess being poor has one advantage.”
“You might not have money, but you’re rich with other qualities. Would it surprise you if I said I don’t worry about your future?”
He frowned and was silent for several seconds. Finally, he shook his head. “I don’t guess it would, seeing what you’ve been through. You believe everyone who wants to be something can do it if they want it bad enough.”
“Exactly.”
“You set the bar pretty high, though.”
“Nah. I’m just doing what we’re all doing—getting through one day at a time.”
18
Jackson tossed an employee file onto the conference room table that he and Grayson had been using to go through Malcolm St. Claire’s personnel records. “That’s the last one,” Jackson said. “Moved to Seattle six months ago. Tomorrow, I can start checking with employers to make sure everyone who’s moved away has been present during the time frames we’re looking at. A lot of this happened during the workweek, and these are regular office-type jobs.”
Grayson leaned back in his chair and stretched. “How many are left on the list that didn’t leave town?”
“Four, but one is deceased. Suicide.”
“Well, that eliminates one more. We’ll start tomorrow taking a closer look at the three remaining in New Orleans. If we come up empty there, we’ll branch out into the ones who moved away.”
Jackson sighed. “I feel like we should be doing something more. What are we missing?”
Grayson shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve been over my notes a million times and I can’t see any angle that we haven’t followed up on. None of the Archer employees I talked to could think of anyone who might hold a specific grudge against St. Claire, although they all thought it was a possibility.”
“What about the techs? Did they figure out anything about the code in the text?”
“No. They’re stumped. They’ve been running it through encryption software for hours and haven’t come up with anything.”
“Maybe it’s bullshit. Maybe it means nothing at all and the perp gets off on the fear and guilt he’s causing before he kills the next victim.”
Grayson nodded. “I’m sure that’s true, but I still think the code means something. Serial killers are arrogant. They think they’re smarter than everyone else. The texts are him issuing a challenge that he thinks no one will take him up on.”
Jackson considered Grayson’s theory. Based on the psychology books Eleonore had recommended to him, it was a good profile. Unfortunately, the problem with crazy was that it rarely fit a profile. Some aspects of behavior might while others appeared to be that of a totally different person, which made them so much harder to identify.
“I hope they find something soon. Ethan’s running out of time, assuming he’s still alive.”
“Yeah.”
Grayson looked at the folders spread out on the table and Jackson could tell he was frustrated and just a little angry. Jackson completely understood how he felt. It seemed that no matter what rabbit hole they went down, it ended at a brick wall.
Grayson’s cell phone rang and he answered.
“What?” Grayson said, straightening in his chair. “You’re sure? On my way.”
Grayson jumped up from his chair and grabbed his jacket. “That was the hospital in LaPlace. They have Ethan.”
Jackson jumped up from his chair and hurried out of the room after Grayson.
“He’s alive?”
“Barely,” Grayson said as they rushed to his car. “They recognized him from the BOLO. He’s out of surgery and critical but I want to be there if he wakes up.”
“When he wakes up.”
“Yeah, when.”
From the parking lot across the street, Shaye watched as George pulled out of the convenience store parking lot. She started up Jackson’s car and headed out after him. She’d been watching for about twenty minutes, but hadn’t seen anything that set off alarms. He’d spent ten minutes messing with the gas pumps and she’d seen him gesturing to the employee she saw the other day and pointing outside. A couple minutes later, the employee had gone outside to pick up trash in the parking lot. George had disappeared into his office for a bit, then exited the store carrying a bank bag, probably a deposit ready for the bank the next morning.
Now she followed a couple cars behind George’s SUV, trying not to raise suspicion. If the store owner wasn’t up to anything, he probably wouldn’t notice her in the usual nighttime traffic, but if he was involved in Ethan’s disappearance, then he’d be keeping a close watch on his surroundings. With Ethan’s time running out, Shaye was hoping that if the store owner was involved, following him might provide a clue as to where Ethan was being held.
She followed George to the Marigny district of New Orleans and watched as he pulled down a street of narrow homes and parked in front of one. He got out of his SUV and headed for the front door. Shaye checked the street address and it matched the home address she’d found earlier for George. A thin woman with flour on her hands stepped onto the porch as he approached and smiled. He gave her a kiss and they both headed inside.
Shaye blew out a breath. That was that. Unless s
he thought George’s wife was in on the kidnapping, there was no way Ethan was in that house. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, trying to decide on the best course of action. She could wait here and see if George left again or she could head back to the dorms and see if she could locate Brett Frazier. The student hadn’t been in his dorm room when she’d checked earlier but he might be back now. The question was, which one was her best bet?
Unfortunately, she didn’t have an answer.
The reality was, she didn’t have any proof that George or Brett was involved in Ethan’s disappearance or the murder of the other students. All she had was an older man with anger issues and a younger man faking a personality. Both had opportunity. What neither had, that she could see, was motive.
Her cell phone buzzed and she hurried to answer when she saw Jackson’s name on the screen.
“Ethan’s been found,” Jackson said.
“What? Where?” Shaye could barely contain her excitement.
“Someone took him to the hospital in LaPlace. He’s out of surgery and his condition is critical, but I don’t know why or what the surgery was for, who brought him in, or quite frankly anything else than what I just told you. Grayson and I are on our way over there now but I thought you’d want to inform Tara.”
Shaye clutched the phone, fear over Ethan’s condition now overriding her elation at his being alive. What if Ethan didn’t make it? What if they never found the man who did that to him?
“I’ll call Tara and head over to her dorm right away. Please let me know more about his condition when you find out, and when Tara can see him.”
“Definitely. I know ‘watch your back’ goes without saying, but I’m saying it anyway. This guy is still out there.”
Jackson disconnected and Shaye immediately dialed Tara’s number. The phone rang several times, then went to voice mail. Shaye left a message asking Tara to call her as soon as possible, then sent a text with the same message.
She started the car and turned around, directing it back to the campus. Tara might be in the shower or hopefully, getting some much-needed sleep. If Tara hadn’t returned her call by the time she got to the dorm, Shaye would find someone to let her inside. She needed to remember to ask Tara for the code for the building.
A couple minutes later, her phone rang. It was Tara.
“Tara,” Shaye said when she answered.
“No, ma’am.” A man’s voice responded on the other end.
Shaye’s pulse spiked. “Who is this?”
“This is Officer Bennett with the New Orleans Police Department. With whom am I speaking?”
Shaye’s heart dropped into her stomach. “My name is Shaye Archer. I’m a private detective and Ms. Chatry is my client. Is she all right?”
“Archer you said?”
“Yes.” Shaye struggled to maintain her cool since the officer had yet to tell her Tara’s condition.
“I’m afraid Ms. Chatry has been attacked. She was brought to New Orleans General a couple hours ago. We’re waiting on her to regain consciousness so we can question her.”
“But she’s going to be okay?”
“The doctors seem to think so. Would you mind answering some questions for me?”
“Not at all. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
She pressed the accelerator down and moved through traffic as quickly as she could without breaking any major laws. A million questions ran through her mind. What had happened to Tara? Where had she been attacked? Had she seen her attacker? Why was she unconscious?
She wondered briefly if she should contact Jackson, but decided to wait until she had more information. Besides, Jackson needed to find out about Ethan and see if they could get information from him. If he was in critical condition, they might not have much opportunity to do so and the last thing she wanted to do was delay them, even for a minute.
When she pulled into the parking lot, her mind flashed back to the first time she’d entered those double doors—on a stretcher. It was the night Detective Harold Beaumont had found her wandering in the French Quarter with horrible injuries and no memory. She’d been there more recently for her work and personal reasons, but she always felt that tightening in her stomach when she saw the giant gray structure.
Just before she exited the car, she remembered the wig and yanked it off her head before hurrying inside. Two policemen, one older and one younger, stood in the corner of the lobby and looked up as she walked in. They both took in her appearance and frowned and she guessed the clothes didn’t fit the image they were expecting. She headed straight for them.
“I’m Shaye Archer,” she said.
“I’m Officer Bennett,” the younger policeman said. “This is Officer Davis.”
“Thank you for coming,” Davis said.
“Anything I can do to help,” Shaye said. “Can you tell me more about Tara’s condition?”
Bennett looked over at Davis, deferring to his senior officer as to protocol.
Davis nodded. “We’re not completely sure what happened. What we know is a group of students crossing the courtyard on the campus heard Ms. Chatry screaming when they entered the parking area for the first dorm building.”
Ethan’s dorm, Shaye thought.
“They couldn’t see anyone,” Davis continued, “but they progressed in the direction of the screams and found Ms. Chatry on the ground close to a car, barely conscious.”
Shaye’s back tightened. “Is it her heart?”
“No,” David said. “There was a needle puncture on her neck. We’re waiting for identification of the substance. Why did you ask about her heart?”
“She has a heart condition. With the stress of an attack…”
“I see. The doctor didn’t mention anything about heart problems, so I’m going to assume Ms. Chatry wasn’t affected in that manner.”
“That’s a huge relief,” Shaye said. “Did the other students see her attacker?”
“Two of them saw someone running across the courtyard and into the hedges along the south side, but he wore a hooded sweatshirt and it was dark, so they didn’t get a good look at him. The car door was open. We found her cell phone on the floorboard and the keys in the ignition.”
“Oh my God,” Shaye said. “How horrible.”
Davis nodded. “Can you tell me what Ms. Chatry hired you to do?”
Shaye nodded and explained her case all the way up to her reason for calling Tara earlier. When she finished, Bennett pulled Tara’s cell phone from his pocket and turned the display to Shaye.
As she read the messages between Tara and the person she thought was Ethan, her stomach rolled. The killer knew exactly how to play her to get her out of the dorm. But he’d taken a huge risk attacking her in the parking lot. He was getting desperate.
Bennett looked at her. “You said Detective Lamotte informed you that Ethan Campbell is in critical condition in a hospital in LaPlace?”
“Yes. But I don’t have any more information than that. I was hoping to hear something soon about his condition because I knew Tara would want to know and to see him.”
Davis frowned. “Well, if Ethan Campbell is in critical condition in a hospital in LaPlace, he certainly didn’t send these texts.”
“Nope,” Bennett said. “And he didn’t attack Ms. Chatry. Given the texts and the fact that she appeared to have been driving his car, those were our first thoughts.”
“They would have been mine as well,” Shaye said. “Detective Grayson doesn’t want the fact that they’re investigating these cases as linked to get to the media. They don’t know about Ethan’s disappearance at all.”
Davis nodded. “I can see why he’d want it kept under wraps as long as possible. Let’s hope Ms. Chatry is able to speak soon and can shed some light on what happened. If the man who attacked her is responsible for three, potentially four, deaths, then I’d like to see him behind bars as soon as possible.”
“We all would,” Shaye said. “I hope Tara can help us out wi
th that.”
The doors to the rooms opened and a doctor stepped into the lobby. He headed over to the policemen and gave Shaye a questioning look.
“This is Shaye Archer,” Officer Davis said. “Ms. Chatry is her client. We have no problem with you providing her information on Ms. Chatry’s condition.”
The doctor’s eyes widened a bit and Shaye knew he was making the connection between her and the news reports. He stuck his hand out. “I’m Dr. Malloy. Do you know how to reach Ms. Chatry’s next of kin?”
“I’m afraid not,” Shaye said. “She told me her parents were missionaries currently working in South Africa. There’s an aunt in another state, but no one else that I’m aware of.”
Dr. Malloy nodded. “Then we’ll have to wait for Ms. Chatry to regain focus to get more information.”
“How is she?” Shaye asked. “Was she seriously hurt?”
“She was extremely lucky,” Dr. Malloy said. “Her right knee is swollen and bruised. It was wrapped when she was brought in, so I assumed an existing injury, but some of the damage is probably from this event. There’s nothing broken, and I expect her knee will return to normal after a couple weeks of rest. The more concerning part is what she was injected with.”
“You’ve identified the substance used?” Davis asked.
Dr. Malloy nodded. “It was propofol.”
“Oh my God,” Shaye said. “You’re sure her heart wasn’t affected? She has a heart condition.”
“I noticed some abnormalities,” Dr. Malloy said, “but nothing appeared to be brought on by the drug. I had put it down to stress, but an underlying condition would explain the abnormalities.” He shook his head. “Ms. Chatry was even luckier than I originally thought.”
“Isn’t propofol used for surgery?” Bennett asked.
“In some cases,” Dr. Malloy said. “It’s a powerful relaxant and a very dangerous one if used incorrectly.”
“That’s why she fell unconscious so quickly,” Davis said.
“Yes,” Dr. Malloy said. “She was given a pretty healthy dose. Quite frankly, I’m surprised she managed to break away, and I’m more than interested in hearing exactly how she managed it.”