Voodoo on Bayou Lafonte

by Susan C. Muller

  “Wait a minute, let me find my shoes. I’ll go with you.”

  “No, I’m a fellow law enforcement official. They’ll be more open with me if you’re not there.”

  Remy reached into his pocket and thumbed his phone off as soon as her back turned. It was what he planned to do after he left the sheriff’s station he didn’t want her to know about.

  Chapter 7

  The Comeaux sheriff’s station fulfilled Remy’s expectations exactly. It shared half of a cinderblock building with a fishing and swamp tour business, which looked more successful even though it was shuttered and vacant.

  Two out-of-date cruisers and a shiny, customized Hummer sat on the dust-covered street. He circled the SUV once, studying its features.

  A red and blue police light bar stretched across the top, while a spotlight the size of the Hubble telescope perched on the side, within easy reach of the driver. A radio antenna that could have picked up stations in Montana rose from the back. The windows were darkly tinted, but he could make out a gun rack inside. The heavy, wide tires reached almost to his waist.

  A badge-shaped sticker reading ‘Comeaux Sheriff’s Department,’ decorated the back window.

  This guy must be overcompensating for one hell of an inadequacy.

  The Hummer appeared brand new, but even Shreveport didn’t make the gas-guzzling suckers anymore. Still, it would have to be worth double the yearly salary of the average citizen of Comeaux. Make that triple.

  Maybe he should have stayed here and gone into police work. Looked like it paid better than in Houston.

  Remy hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans and studied the building in front of him. A two-foot skirt of green mildew circled the building, and the sheriff’s office sported one window, thick with grime. The door hung when he tried it, and he nudged the dilapidated wood open with his hip.

  Two uniformed policemen sat behind a chest-high counter, their feet on their desks. The young one clutched a coffee cup with both hands.

  The other, only five or six years older, rested his cup on his ample belly. “Help you?” he asked without much enthusiasm.

  “Is the sheriff in?”

  “Who wants to know?” Potbelly didn’t act as if he cared.

  “I’m Detective Remy Steinberg, HPD Homicide.” He flashed his badge and Youngster sat up so fast he spilled his coffee.

  “Houma?”

  “No, sorry, Houston.”

  “Oh.” He leaned back again. “That don’t carry no weight around here.”

  So much for professional courtesy.

  “I’m here checking on my daughter. She was reported missing. Have you discovered any information that might help in locating her?”

  Potbelly set his coffee on the desk and straightened slowly. “We don’t have anything about a, what did you say your name was? Steinberg?”

  “Her name is Hough, Adrienne Hough.”

  “Oh.” Potbelly glanced at Youngster and raised an eyebrow. “We’ve got her listed as a runaway. We don’t spend too much time worrying about runaways. They generally come home with their tails between their legs after a while.”

  Remy forced his teeth to unclench. “My daughter did not run away. She’s an A student only a week from high school graduation. All she had to do was wait seven days and she could have gone anywhere she wanted with her mother’s and my blessing.”

  “You never know about kids. Sometimes they don’t think things out so good. Did you or your wife fuss at her about a grade or say she couldn’t go out one night? She’s probably hung over and will drag herself back, sick as a dog, before school on Monday.”

  Remy swallowed back the words that sprang to his tongue. He couldn’t afford to alienate these two buffoons. He needed their help. “She wasn’t in any trouble. Her mother dropped her in front of the school on Thursday, and she hasn’t been seen since. Even her friends don’t know where she is.”

  “See what I’m talking about?” Potbelly pointed a thick finger at him. “She knew where she was going, but she lied to her mother about it. If we hunted down every kid that lied to his mother, we wouldn’t have time to get any work done.”

  So much for playing nice. Heat raced up the back of Remy’s neck.

  “That’s just it.” Remy leaned over the counter, his voice harsher with each word. “She’s a kid, a minor, and she’s been missing for three days. I can see how busy you are, but have you considered getting off your fat asses and doing some actual police work?”

  He was as out of breath as if he’d run a mile and his heart beat like a snare drum in a rock band.

  A narrow hall led off the main lobby and somewhere near the back of it a door slammed open, crashed against the wall, and bounced back again. He waited to see who belonged to the footsteps stomping toward the front.

  “What the hell’s going on out here?” a voice boomed, just out of sight.

  The two deputies glanced at each other, then at Remy but didn’t say a word.

  The man who rounded the corner appeared to be in his mid-forties and had the wide shoulders and thick neck but soft body of a former athlete gone to seed.

  “How’m I supposed to get any work done if you two jerk-offs can’t control every blockhead who walks in off the street?”

  If the man had been doing anything but sleeping or watching porn Remy would eat his shorts. Hell, he’d eat the sheriff’s shorts.

  “Sheriff”—Remy glanced at the man’s nametag—“Guidry. I’m trying to convince these two gentlemen that it’s not a good idea to let a minor disappear without at least trying to find her. But Deputy . . . Mercier, and Deputy . . . Guidry disagreed.”

  Nothing like a little nepotism to make the world go round. He knew he should have stayed here. He could have been the sheriff and his brother, Marc, a deputy. He had a cousin in Lafayette who could have been the other deputy and Gabby could have been the dispatcher. She could even have brought the baby to work with her.

  Hell, as tough as she was, she could have been the deputy and his mother the dispatcher. Grand-mère had been a little hard of hearing or he’d have put her to work also.

  “Is this about that Hough whor . . . girl? We checked that out. She left under her own steam. We can’t be responsible for runaways.”

  Remy’s blood turned to ice. The counter was the only thing that kept him from punching the sheriff in that dough-like belly. He swallowed down the bile in his throat. He needed these guys help to find Adrienne. “Technically, you can. You have no way of knowing if she left under her own steam or who she left with. It might have been a pedophile. Have you checked on that possibility?”

  “Look, mister.” The Sheriff’s face turned an even darker shade of red. “You can’t come in here and make demands. We have protocols in place. Civilians wouldn’t understand all the steps we’re taking and what we can legally do to find her.”

  Remy hooked his shirt behind his gun and badge. “As a matter of fact, I do. I did my stint in Missing Persons, and I know searching for a minor is always a priority.”

  “I don’t know how you do it where you’re from . . .”

  “Houston.”

  The sheriff’s nose wrinkled as if even the name smelled bad. “Well, there you go. We do it a bit different here. She’s seventeen. That’s not a kid. That’s a grown-up. And she’s free to leave town if she wants.”

  Remy clenched his hands into fists, but kept them below the counter. “Seventeen is not an adult. Not even in Louisiana. And she didn’t leave town on her own. Wherever she is, someone took her there. I’d like to know what you plan to do about it.”

  The sheriff hiked his pants up a notch. “Look, Mr. Hough—”

  “Steinberg. Detective Remy Steinberg.”

  “We have several avenues of investigation open. We’l
l let you and the girl’s mother know immediately when we hear something.”

  Remy jammed his hands into his pockets to keep from putting them around the fat prick’s neck. “See that you do.” He spun on one heel and headed out of the building.

  The door jammed when he slammed it and he kicked it shut. He could hear the sheriff’s voice inside the building.

  “Thinks he’s some kind of ‘hot shit’ detective. Coming in here and making demands. Let him sweat. The petite pute will be back when she runs out of money.”

  Remy sat in the car a full five minutes. His hands were shaking too hard to drive. He debated using those shaking hands to reach into that lowlife sheriff and yank his sorry excuse for a heart out through his chest.

  The only thing that kept him from doing it was knowing that they’d throw his butt in the slammer and that wouldn’t help find his daughter.

  Good thing he had Adam and Ruben working on this thing because he couldn’t expect any help from those yahoos.

  Called his daughter a little whore, did he? Remy took a deep breath of pure fury. They might have gotten a free pass for now, but he’d deal with them just as soon as he had Adrienne home safe. Then that sheriff might not have enough teeth left to call anyone names.

  The image of that douche bag drinking his dinner through a straw for the next six months was the only thing that let Remy move on.

  Checking out Danny Cryer was at the top of his list, but he supposedly lived with his mom in Lafonte, and it was essential he get the kid alone.

  That left Jean-Paul Dupre.

  The boy lived on the other side of town, but in Comeaux, that meant fifteen minutes.

  It wasn’t totally dark by the time he got there, but the shadows were longer and the bullfrogs had started their chorus.

  Remy stepped out of the car and took a deep breath. He’d forgotten how sweet the air could smell when the magnolias were in bloom. Okay, so he didn’t hate everything about Louisiana. As long as he could stay away from the swamp, the state had some good qualities. It got plenty hot, but in the evening a breeze came in from the Gulf and cooled things off.

  In the winter, when folks in the north were shoveling snow, people in Louisiana were fishing, playing golf, or just relaxing.

  The music, the food, and the majority of the people, all called to him. For every lowdown son-of-a-bitch, there were ten good folk, willing to offer a helping hand. He’d just happened to land in an area populated by the bottom feeding one percent.

  And no matter how much he loved the rest of the state, that fucking bayou waited, ready to eat you alive.

  Jean-Paul’s house had a run-down, tired look, and so did the woman who answered the door. “Is Jean-Paul home?” he asked.

  “Remy?”

  “Yes.” Who was this woman? Was he supposed to know her?

  “Don’t you remember me? I’m Yvonne. Yvonne Landry.” She smoothed back her stringy hair.

  Hell no. The Yvonne Landry he remembered had exhibited more life than any woman he’d ever met. Always the first to laugh, to dance. To try something new. They were fifteen and at some outdoor birthday party when she’d reached down and cupped his business, giving it a little squeeze, then winked and ran off laughing.

  He couldn’t walk for several minutes or he’d have followed her. If he had, would his life be different? Would hers?

  But Gabby had strolled past about then and started a conversation. And that had been that. He’d never truly looked at another girl again, although Yvonne had made several not-so-subtle passes at him over the next few years.

  And even at fifteen, he’d been smart enough to realize that Yvonne might be a tempting appetizer, but Gabby was the Full-Meal-Deal, never leaving you wanting more.

  He searched the woman’s face for some remnant of the girl he knew. “Why, hi, Yvonne. I didn’t realize this was your house. How great to see you again.”

  She stepped closer, too close, and put her hand on his arm, a hint of alcohol on her breath. “I heard about your daughter. I’m so sorry. You must be beside yourself. Have you learned anything?”

  He shifted on his feet so that her hand fell away. “That’s why I’m here. I’m talking to all her friends. I understand Jean-Paul was her lab partner, so they sat next to each other every day. Maybe he noticed if something was bothering her. Is he your son? Is he here?”

  She didn’t answer, just called over her shoulder. “Jean-Paul.”

  The boy who strolled down the hall wasn’t particularly tall or short, fat or thin. He’d have to be described as average in every way, from limp, brownish hair, to eyes closer to tan than brown. He hadn’t inherited any of the life force Yvonne had exhibited at his age.

  Yvonne bent her head Remy’s direction. Disdain coated her voice as she said, “This is Mr. Steinberg, Adrienne’s father. He wants to ask you some questions.”

  She pivoted and was gone before her last words faded from the air.

  Remy smiled, but the kid didn’t say anything. He simply stood and stared at him, as if waiting.

  “Hello, Jean-Paul. I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances. I understand you’ve been Adrienne’s friend for a long time. I’m wondering what had been going on with her over the last few months. Did she have any new friends? Was she dating anyone?”

  “She was friends with Evie, but that was a step up from the girls she used to run around with. She never mentioned any dates to me.”

  The boy’s voice was soft, with no animation. Was he the same kid who had telephoned so excited? Remy couldn’t tell.

  “What about her personality? Had that changed any?”

  “She was pretty quiet.”

  “Do you think she might have been depressed?” Damn, this was harder than digging crabgrass.

  Jean-Paul studied the ground. A line of ants crawled across the front step and he dragged his foot across the line, killing two or three. The ants simply adjusted their path and kept going.

  “Could be, I guess. She never said.”

  Yeah, like teenagers always said, ‘I’m suffering from depression.’

  “When did you notice she had gotten quiet?”

  “Maybe last fall. Before that, she was always laughing and talking. But she was a good lab partner. Really smart.”

  “If you had to guess, where do you think she is?”

  “I dunno, the swamp maybe?”

  What the fuck? He’d expected New Orleans, or even New York.

  “Why do you say that? Had she expressed an interest in the swamp?” Remy’s heart rate surged.

  The kid shrugged. “No. But where else around here could a person disappear?”

  Chapter 8

  Remy drove a block before he pulled over. His hands shook and he broke out in a sweat. The sheriff’s words had made him angry, but Jean-Paul’s had shaken him to the core. Was his daughter’s body floating somewhere in the swamp? Had alligators already destroyed all traces of her? He shoved those thoughts to the back of his mind.

  He couldn’t tell her mother that and he sure as hell couldn’t go there himself. He had to believe Adrienne was still alive.

  The only thing he could do was press on. If he quit, he’d go crazy, and so would Gabby.

  He glanced at the dashboard clock. It wasn’t much past seven o’clock. A little early on a Saturday night to expect much action at a place called Fat Mike’s, although it might be best to already be there when Danny Cryer came in. Blend into the background.

  If the guy came in at all.

  He started for Lafonte, but stopped long enough to fill up. He couldn’t afford to be low on gas if he had to follow the guy somewhere. While inside, he grabbed a hundred-year-old tuna sandwich from the cooler and a Nutter Butter Bar.

  Not a good idea to drink on an empty stoma
ch, and if he wanted to fit in at Fat Mike’s, he needed to drink plenty. Still, he’d have to find a way to pace himself if he was going to last all night.

  The sky was full dark with a quarter-moon showing between heavy clouds by the time he reached Lafonte and found Fat Mike’s at the end of a two-lane blacktop sprinkled with life-endangering potholes.

  What a dive. He’d been to worse places, but not by choice. Even the overhead sign was missing letters, telling him he was ‘at ike’s.’

  He searched the buckled asphalt of the parking lot until he found a level spot and to park and keep an eye on the place while he ate his sandwich. The bread was soggy cardboard and the tuna had never seen an ocean. He lifted a corner of the bread and sniffed the filling. Not too bad. If he threw up later, at least some of the beer would go with fake tuna.

  The parking lot was less than half full and pick-ups seemed to be the transportation of choice. One guy strolled in hitching up his jeans and slicking back his hair. Five minutes later a couple appeared, arms and tongues entangled.

  Shit. How was he going to recognize the Cryer kid?

  Too late to worry about that now. He hefted himself out of his car, pulled a Saints ‘gimme cap’ low on his forehead, slipped on a pair of fake glasses, and brushed the crumbs from his shirt.

  Showtime.

  The inside of Mike’s was every bit as bad as Remy feared. Neon beer signs, obscured by grime and a thick haze of smoke, provided most of the light. That part was a plus.

  Nothing he had planned would hold up to bright light.

  He hadn’t been inside two minutes and his nose and eyes stung from smoke fumes. Generations of spilled beer caused his feet to stick to the floor with each step.

  The bar curved at the far end and two empty bar stools waited. Perfect. He’d have a view of the whole room and a nearby trashcan meant he could dump a half-finished beer without notice, if he was careful.