Dreadful

by Jana DeLeon

  Her gray hair was pulled in a tight knot on the top of her head, leaving her face completely exposed. The wrinkles and sun spots made her look even older than she was. She’d aged at least twenty years in the past six.

  “Momma?” Jenny called out again when she didn’t get an answer.

  Her mother slowly shook her head but never spoke and never turned to look at her. Jenny closed the door and went back to the counter, guilt rushing through her. She knew her mother blamed her. Blamed her for going to New Orleans. Blamed her for letting Caitlyn go outside the bar alone. Blamed her for not remembering what happened afterward.

  And Jenny blamed herself.

  Not for all of it. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe she could have prevented Caitlyn from doing anything she was determined to do. Caitlyn had never once listened to Jenny’s cautions, and that trip was no exception. But she did blame herself for her lost memory.

  She’d always been the sickly one. The one who needed more attention and care. It had frustrated Caitlyn because she got stuck doing a lot for herself while everyone waited on Jenny hand and foot. It frustrated Jenny because she lacked the independence that seemed to ooze from every pore of Caitlyn’s body. She’d tried to go about things like a normal girl, but she’d never been able to match even a quarter of Caitlyn’s energy and activity. Even trying often left her bedridden for days. Finally, she’d just stopped attempting to be normal at all. She lived her life by halves and forced herself to accept that was the way it would always be.

  Now she wasn’t even living at half. Some days not even a quarter.

  She carried her sandwich to the breakfast table and sat. Her mother’s rocker was in front of the window. Jenny always wondered why her mother had picked the rocker, because she never bothered to rock it in. Not that Jenny had seen. Instead, she sat every day, both feet planted firmly on the warped porch wood, forearms on the armrest, and sitting upright, the same way she did in church every Sunday. She wore black polyester slacks and a black blouse with a black sweater. For church, she replaced the slacks with a long black skirt that hung to her ankles. She hadn’t altered from that look since the day Jenny’s dad died.

  Sometimes Jenny thought that if she could remember what happened—if they could find out what happened to Caitlyn—it might bring her mother back to her, at least in some small way. She’d hoped the dreams would help, but so far they’d done nothing but tease her with her failure. Then Marisa had shown her a story about Shaye Archer in the local newspaper, which spawned the idea of hiring her. Shaye had solved cases that the police hadn’t been able to solve. In fact, she’d uncovered crimes they hadn’t even been aware of.

  Most importantly, she knew what it was like not to know. To have your memory betray you.

  If anyone could help, Shaye Archer could. Jenny was counting on it.

  9

  THE LAW FIRM Garrett Trahan worked for was housed in the French Quarter in a historic building that was probably worth more than the entire rest of the block. Everything in it had been maintained or restored to the original architecture. Even the furniture and decor were period-accurate. Shaye took note of a vase in the reception area that her mother had priced out when it was for sale at a local gallery. It had cost more than Shaye’s SUV. Corrine had great taste and wasn’t cheap, but that price had been too high for even her to go along with.

  The receptionist was an older woman, probably in her sixties, who had worked for the firm as long as Shaye could remember. She looked up as Shaye approached and smiled.

  “Ms. Archer. It’s been a long time. I trust you’re well.”

  Somewhat surprised at the genuine tone and expression from the receptionist, Shaye nodded. “Very well, Mrs. Marlowe. Thank you for asking. How are your grandkids?”

  The receptionist broke into a smile. “Growing like weeds. My grandson is senior year and wide receiver. His father hasn’t stopped grinning since he got the position. My granddaughter was accepted to MIT and started last fall. She’s smarter than the rest of us put together.”

  “That’s so good to hear.”

  “It’s been a good year for my family.” Her smile faded. “I’m so sorry about everything that happened with yours. I won’t linger over words. I just wanted you to know that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now, how can I help you today?”

  “I’d like to speak to Garrett Trahan, but I don’t have an appointment.”

  Mrs. Marlowe frowned. “I don’t mean to doubt your selection but are you sure you wouldn’t rather talk to one of our older and more experienced counselors?”

  “Actually, I need to talk to him about a case I’m working on, not a legal matter.”

  Mrs. Marlowe’s eyes widened. “Oh! I hope he hasn’t involved himself in something that would disgrace the firm. I’ve lodged my own complaints but you know how the good ole boy network takes things.”

  She picked up the phone. “Mr. Trahan. Shaye Archer would like a moment of your time. She doesn’t have an appointment, but if you could spare—yes, she’s here now. Of course.”

  “He can see you now,” Mrs. Marlowe said after she hung up the phone. “Third floor, first office on the right.”

  “Thank you.” Shaye started to walk off, then paused. “Would you mind telling me what kind of complaints you lodged against Mr. Trahan?”

  Mrs. Marlowe pursed her lips. “He’s a bad egg. If there’s a spoiled-rich-boy cliché you can think of, he fits it. I don’t doubt he’s as clever as the partners contend, but he’s got a mean streak that one, and a smart mouth. I’m afraid that one day, he’s going to cause more problems for this firm than justifies the money he brings in.”

  “So he treats staff badly?”

  “Female staff. If you get what I’m saying.”

  “I do. Thank you for telling me, and it was good seeing you.”

  “You too.”

  Shaye headed for the elevator, mulling over Mrs. Marlowe’s insinuations. Bad treatment could run the gamut from denigration and yelling to sexual harassment. Mrs. Marlowe hadn’t specified and based on her demeanor, Shaye hadn’t figured she would provide more details than she already had, so she hadn’t pressed for any. Mrs. Marlowe might not like Garrett Trahan, but she was loyal to her longtime employer. If Shaye decided it was a relevant line of pursuit, she could probably find any number of young female staffers who wouldn’t have the same conflict.

  Shaye got off the elevator on the third floor and before she could even lift her hand to knock on the office door, it swung open and a young man gave her an up-and-down look, lingering a little too long on areas aside from her face. Shaye held in a sigh. No need to talk to other employees. In less than two seconds, she’d already zeroed in on the problem with Garrett Trahan.

  “Shaye Archer,” he said, and extended his hand. “The woman, the legend.”

  Other people had given her this type of compliment and meant it. But based on his tone and the half smirk he wore, Shaye knew he was merely amusing himself. Garrett Trahan had probably never been impressed with anything a woman had done. His ego wouldn’t allow it.

  “Woman, yes,” she said. “I guess legend remains to be seen.”

  “The century is early yet,” he said, and motioned her to a chair. “How can I help you? I know the firm did a lot of work for your grandfather, but I understood your mother recently divested your interest in those holdings. Are you looking to start up your own empire with the proceeds?”

  Shaye struggled to maintain a placid expression. She would rather throw the money from an airplane into a brush fire than let the man in front of her get his hands on even one dollar. “I’m afraid I don’t have any interest in empire building,” she said. “I actually wanted to speak to you about a case I’m working on.”

  He shifted in his seat and frowned. “What kind of case?”

  She held in a smile. He was probably worried he’d harassed the wrong woman and she’d decided to call him on it. “I was hired by Jenny Taylor to
look into her sister’s disappearance.”

  His eyes widened. “Wow. That’s a blast from the past.”

  “I understand you were in a relationship with Caitlyn while you were both attending LSU and that she broke it off with you right before her trip to New Orleans?”

  “I don’t know that ‘relationship’ is the right word. I mean, we went out, but it wasn’t serious. There were always other girls.” He gave her a lazy smile that was probably supposed to be sexy.

  “I see. Then Caitlyn was also seeing other guys?”

  The smile disappeared. “Not that I know of.”

  “Then I’m confused. I thought it wasn’t serious, but if she stopped dating other guys…I mean, my understanding was that Caitlyn had no shortage of pursuers. One only has to look at a picture to see why.”

  “Yeah, she was a looker. And maybe I spent more time with her than I did with the others, but it’s not like we were engaged or anything. It was college, you know? Dating a cheerleader got you points on campus, but she didn’t have the family connections I’d need after school. I’m thinking about politics long term.”

  “You’re married now?”

  “Still shopping…if you’re in the market, I know a place that has great lasagna.”

  “So do I. My boyfriend’s house.”

  He shrugged. “If that doesn’t work out, give me a call. Anyway, what is it you need to know? I’ve got a meeting with a client in fifteen minutes and I have to prepare.”

  Clearly, if he couldn’t get his hands on her money or her body, Shaye was of no interest to Garrett.

  “You ran into Caitlyn and her friends in a bar in New Orleans the night she disappeared. They said you fought.”

  “We called each other a few names and she left. It was no big deal.”

  “You were there with friends?”

  “I’d ridden in with friends, but we got separated for a bit in the French Quarter. The place was a zoo.”

  His statement was perfectly reasonable, but Shaye knew he was lying. Garrett Trahan was smooth enough to fool most people, but he didn’t fool her. If he got separated from his friends, she had no doubt it was intentional, and likely had everything to do with tracking down Caitlyn.

  “Did Caitlyn tell you where she was?”

  “Why would she do that? We weren’t dating anymore.”

  “One of her friends thought you might be firing up the old flames again. Just keeping it a secret this time.”

  “Her friend is smoking something. I don’t care what Caitlyn or anyone else says. I didn’t follow her to New Orleans. I didn’t have anything to do with her disappearance, and I have no idea what happened to her. But it doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because Caitlyn always did whatever she wanted, and what she wanted was usually on the other side of that line that most people walk.”

  “She took chances?”

  He looked her straight in the eye. “Women have to be careful, you know. There’s no telling what can happen to them if they’re not careful.”

  “What do you think happened to her?”

  “I think she ditched her friends and hooked up with a guy, the same way she did the night I met her at a fraternity mixer. Just this time, she wasn’t as lucky.”

  Shaye heard the buzz of a cell phone and glanced at the phone on his desk. Garrett rose from his chair.

  “If that’s all,” he said. “I have to get ready for my meeting.”

  Shaye rose from the chair and placed her card on Garrett’s desk. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Trahan. If you think of anything else, please give me a call.”

  He gave her a single nod and she left.

  But she could feel his eyes on her as she walked.

  It gave her the creeps.

  Even more interesting was the call he received right before he rushed her out. The buzz was definitely a cell phone, but the display of the phone on his desk was completely black. And the sound seemed to come from his pants pocket.

  Why would Garrett Trahan need two cell phones?

  JACKSON GAVE the apartment manager a nod and stepped inside Cody Reynolds’s apartment. He gave it a once-over and looked over at Grayson. “It’s not what I expected.”

  “Me either,” Grayson agreed.

  Jackson had reviewed the background on Reynolds on their way to his apartment. He was originally from Baton Rouge. Had dropped out of school at fifteen and had a sealed juvenile record. Got his GED and did an eight-year stint in the army when he turned eighteen. Was honorably discharged and came to New Orleans, where he’d been ever since. Had bounced around from job to job until he landed at the French Revival, where he’d stuck for the last eight years.

  His first four years in New Orleans, he’d been a guest of the NOLA PD several times. Drunk driving, possession of a controlled substance, and three cases of assault, all bar fights. Then his behavior had tapered off into the occasional speeding ticket. He wouldn’t win any Man of the Year awards, but his past read like a million other young men who rebelled, went a little wild, then grew up and started taking some responsibility.

  Still, the apartment was a lot nicer—and cleaner—than Jackson had expected.

  The building was one of those old warehouses that had been converted into apartments. It had that industrial look that appealed well to masculine clientele. High ceilings. Exposed brick and pipes. And huge windows that offered a clear view of the surrounding area. The furniture was simple as well and didn’t detract from the architecture of the apartment. Just standard brown leather couch and chairs, a solid blue rug, and glass-and-iron end tables. A large television hung on the wall over the fireplace. The living room was open to the kitchen and dining area, and the theme continued into each connected space.

  “Maybe he hired a professional decorator,” Grayson said.

  “Housekeeper too,” Jackson replied.

  “Please. I’ve been to your apartment. You could eat off the floor. It doesn’t look bad either.”

  “Yeah, but my mother helped.”

  Grayson laughed. “Well, let’s hope all this cleanliness also means organization and not just everything shoved in closets and drawers. It will make our job easier. I’ll start in the kitchen. You want to take the bedroom?”

  “Sure.” Jackson headed for the opposite side of the kitchen toward the door that he figured led to the bedroom. It was a one-bedroom apartment, so not too much space to cover.

  The bedroom was just as neat as the front rooms, and Jackson would bet he could do the military quarter bounce on the bed, the linens were pulled so tight. Maybe that was it. Maybe the things he’d been forced to do in the military had stuck. That would explain the neatness, anyway. The rest was probably due to a woman’s influence—mother, sister, girlfriend.

  He headed into the bathroom first and checked the vanity and the cubby behind the mirror. Neither contained anything outside of normal bathroom items. The bedroom wasn’t large and contained the bed, one nightstand, and a dresser. Jackson dug through the dresser, making easy work of the neatly folded and stacked underwear, socks, and tees. Then he moved to the nightstand, which contained cough drops, a television remote, condoms, and a Bible.

  Jackson frowned as he looked at the large book in the bottom of the drawer, the condoms perched on the top corner of it. It seemed an odd choice to keep next to his bed, because Reynolds didn’t appear to be the type of guy who’d read the Bible before sleeping. At least he didn’t seem that way on paper. Family heirloom, maybe?

  He reached in to grab the Bible and knew immediately what was going on. It was much heavier than it should have been. He opened it up and pulled a nine-millimeter from the cutout inside.

  “Take a look at this,” Jackson called out.

  When Grayson walked into the room, Jackson showed him the Bible and the gun.

  “Interesting,” Grayson said. “So he had a gun, but he didn’t take it with him to the cemetery.”

  “More proof
that he knew who he was meeting and didn’t think he had any reason to fear them. He was wrong about that one. You find anything?”

  “Just neatly stacked dishes and a pantry that looks like the one from that movie with Julia Roberts.”

  “Sleeping with the Enemy?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Maybe that’s it. Maybe it was an ex who took him out.”

  “If he’d been shot, I’d be on board with that theory, but what kind of woman risks a head shot to a guy Reynolds’s size? She’d have to take him down with the first blow or he’d kill her.”

  “Why are you assuming the ex is a woman?”

  “Well, hell. I don’t know, but you’re right. Anything to indicate a relationship in here?”

  “Just condoms, but that doesn’t clarify things either. I still need to check the closet.”

  Grayson nodded. “Let’s get it done and head over to the bar. Maybe his coworkers can shed some light on things.”

  Jackson pulled open the closet doors and started checking the pockets of pants, which were all hung on the left. Grayson began with shirts, all hanging on the right. The shoes were lined neatly across the bottom and a review came up with nothing inside them. The top of the closet held spare pillows and blankets and two shoeboxes. Jackson pulled the shoeboxes down and placed them on the bed.

  “This looks like receipts,” Grayson said. “I’ll bring it with us to go through later. What do you have?”

  “Looks like personal items. Some newspaper clippings about his service with the military. His discharge papers. Passport. And a stack of photos.” Jackson pulled the photos out and handed Grayson half the stack.

  “He’s got names on the back,” Grayson said. “Maybe we can narrow down that ex thing.”

  Jackson flipped through the photos, mostly featuring Reynolds with his army buddies and several with Reynolds and some children. No children had popped up in the background check so Jackson assumed they belonged to a relative or friend, but he’d ask Reynolds’s coworkers and dig a little deeper into things just to be sure.