Damned (Shaye Archer Series Book 7)

by DeLeon, Jana

“That will be fine, but please don’t get your hopes up. This is a huge long shot. From every direction.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you have private email?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Email me a list of everyone you think was present around the church that day. You don’t have to know the names of the people. The company will do. I’ll start running down employees and see if they can tell me anything.”

  “I…I only know the landscaping company.” He gave her the name.

  “That’s okay,” she reassured him. “It’s a starting place.”

  A tiny flicker of relief passed over Nicolas’s face. Shaye immediately understood its origin. The chances of her finding anything was slim, but at least he was doing something about it. It was only a tiny burden lifted off his conscience, but even that little bit helped. Shaye, on the other hand, was troubled.

  No matter how things eventually turned out, the answer wasn’t going to be a pleasant one. If a victim surfaced whose cause of death matched Nicolas’s description, then hopefully the police would have enough evidence to find her killer. If a victim never surfaced, then he had to allow that the whole thing might have been a horrific prank. Unfortunately, Shaye didn’t think that would happen. If she found nothing, Nicolas would go on believing that a murderer was walking free in New Orleans, probably looking for the next victim God had instructed him to kill.

  She was an excellent judge of character. Nicolas was clearly distraught and the stress he was under was visible. But she didn’t think he was untruthful, fanciful, or dramatic. Whatever reality might be, she knew for certain that Nicolas believed the penitent was telling the truth. And unless he got answers, that confession would haunt him the rest of his life.

  4

  Jackson Lamotte sat on the floral-covered chair, looking at the two distraught parents sitting on the couch across from him. Their sixteen-year-old daughter, Hailey, had been missing since the day before. Normally, when a teen disappeared, it was usually because they were mad at their parents and had left on their own accord. They were usually collected at a friend’s house, but the officer who’d responded to the call had already paid a visit to the known friends and had come up empty.

  In the less common case where the teen had taken off and not informed any of her friends of her plans, she could often be tracked by her cell phone, which was usually always on and mostly slotted into her hand like it had grown there along with her fingers. But a trace on Hailey’s phone had yielded nothing. Either it was out of charge or turned off. It was currently being monitored so that if it came back online, Jackson and his partner Grayson would be alerted. And forensics was working on getting the records from the phone company, but that always took a bit of time.

  Time Jackson wasn’t sure they had.

  Sharon Pitre clutched her husband’s arm as if squeezing it would produce their daughter. Michael Pitre’s expression flickered between worried and agitated, but then, circulation in his arm had probably been cut off a minute or two before.

  “I know this is very stressful,” Detective Grayson said. “But Detective Lamotte and I are going to do everything possible to find your daughter. The picture will help but we also need information.”

  “What kind of information?” Michael asked.

  “Friends, for starters,” Grayson said.

  “We gave that information to the other officer,” Michael said.

  “I understand,” Grayson said, using his most patient voice. “But the officer who took your report is not a detective. We need to cover everything again in case anything was missed.”

  Sharon Pitre shot a frustrated look at her husband and gave them two names and addresses, her voice breaking as she talked.

  “That’s it?” Jackson asked. “Just these two?”

  “She was a shy girl,” Sharon said. “She had trouble making friends.”

  “She was too smart for girls her age,” Michael said. “If I had the money, Hailey would be in a private school with other gifted children. She doesn’t belong in public schools, but business has slowed the last couple years and commissions aren’t what they used to be.”

  Jackson nodded. He had done some checking before they’d left the police station for the interview. He knew Michael was an outside sales rep for an office supply company. Jackson imagined that with more office work conducted online and digitally, it had seriously cut into the sales of office supplies, particularly paper products. Pitre had gotten behind on his mortgage on their previous home and had sold it to avoid a foreclosure. They were renting this house, which was a step down from where they lived before, and the school district wasn’t quite as good, but it was still a decent neighborhood.

  “What about a boyfriend?” Jackson asked.

  “Hailey is not allowed to date,” Michael said. “She is to concentrate on her studies. In order to get a scholarship, her grades have to stay up. I don’t want her saddled with student loans for the first half of her adult life, and tuition at a suitable school is out of my reach.”

  “Does Hailey participate in any sports or clubs?” Grayson asked. “Things that would keep her after school?”

  Sharon shook her head. “Hailey isn’t fond of group things. School let out at three and she came straight home. She sent her father and me a text as soon as she locked the door.”

  “And you both work outside the home, correct?” Grayson asked.

  “I went back to work when we moved here,” Sharon said. “Hailey was older and Michael said she could get her own snack and do her homework until I got home. I’m usually here by six.”

  Michael’s expression flashed with a flicker of irritation. “It was only a couple of hours. Hailey isn’t a baby. She’s a responsible girl. There should have been no problems.”

  “Did you receive a text from her yesterday?” Grayson asked.

  “Yes,” Michael said. “At the usual time. It said she was home and was starting her studies. Her mother asked her to set chicken out to thaw as she’d forgotten to that morning.”

  “And was the chicken thawing?” Jackson asked.

  Sharon nodded.

  “You told the officer who filed your report that Hailey’s purse and cell phone were also missing,” Grayson said. “Have you discovered anything else that’s missing since you called the police? Clothes, backpack?”

  Michael straightened and flashed an angry look at Grayson. “My daughter is not one of those emotionally unstable children who run away when they have a dispute with their parents. Hailey knew that all the decisions we made were in her best interest.”

  “Okay then,” Grayson said. “I’d like to have a forensics team go over the windows and doors of your home. We didn’t spot any sign of forced entry in our review, but I would prefer specialists go over everything as well.”

  “Is there anywhere else you can think of that Hailey might have gone?” Jackson asked.

  “No,” Michael said firmly. “Hailey obeyed our instructions. She would not have left this house unless someone forced her to do so.”

  Jackson looked at Sharon. “If Hailey decided to disobey, is there someplace she would have gone—a store, café, library?”

  Sharon glanced at her husband before shaking her head. “Hailey went to school during the week and to church with us on Sundays. Sometimes, on Saturdays, she went to Gina’s house to help her with schoolwork. But usually, Gina came here after school if she had an exam to prepare for. Hailey always helped her with her science tests.”

  “What church?” Jackson asked.

  “Merciful Trinity,” Sharon said. “Just a couple blocks over.”

  Grayson rose from his chair and Jackson followed suit. “If you hear from Hailey, call me immediately.”

  “Yes,” Michael said.

  “And if you think of anything else that might help, please call,” Grayson said.

  “Of course we’ll call,” Michael said, his frustration evident in his voice “We want our daughter back. If th
ere was something we knew that could make that happen, we’d tell you.”

  “I don’t mean to upset you, sir,” Grayson said. “Detective Lamotte and I will be working full time to find your daughter, but we don’t know her like you do. Even things you think are insignificant might help us locate her.”

  Michael barely nodded.

  They exited the house and headed for the car.

  “Whew!” Jackson said as he climbed inside. “I feel for the guy with his daughter missing, but I don’t like him.”

  “His obvious superiority and condescension make it difficult to,” Grayson agreed.

  “Why are you bothering with a forensics team? No one broke into that house and you know it. That girl lived under a microscope every day. It’s far more likely that she’d simply had enough and walked.”

  “I agree, and that’s what worries me. This isn’t a safe place for an inexperienced teen to wander around, and it doesn’t sound like Hailey had much of an opportunity to develop street smarts.”

  “Probably not. Hopefully, she’ll be hiding in one of these friends’ closets. I know they’ve already denied any knowledge, but teens don’t always tell the truth.”

  Grayson nodded. “I’ve seen it before. A teenager hid his friend for over a week in his bedroom. His parents had no idea and only figured it out because food kept disappearing from the pantry when none of them were home.”

  Jackson looked at his notes. “Then I guess we better go see if Marcy’s or Gina’s pantry has some gaps.”

  “Not in only one day. Not most girls, anyway. A teen boy can put gaps in a pantry in thirty minutes.”

  “Well, she left that house to go somewhere, and I don’t think she was forced. There’s no sign of struggle. Besides, what kind of abductor waits for his victim to get her purse and cell phone? And we know she made it inside the house because the chicken was thawing.”

  “I’ll be interested to see the trace on her phone. In the meantime, we’ll run down the obvious places. She probably chose to leave the house and I seriously doubt it was the first time, but something could have happened to her afterward.”

  Jackson nodded. No city was safe for a young girl to wander about, and the fact that Hailey had been missing overnight bothered him. He hoped she was hiding at a friend’s house. Because a lot of things could go wrong on the streets of New Orleans, especially for a young, naive girl.

  Nicolas wheeled himself out of the cathedral and into the courtyard. He’d passed his absence off to Father Malcolm and Father Bernard as needing to get out for some air and to calm himself down. It wasn’t a lie but it wasn’t the whole truth, either. And he hated lying to the priests, even by omission. Despite the fact that he was certain he was doing the right thing, he still felt guilty.

  So he’d spent a good bit of time in prayer when he’d returned to the church, then an hour poring over his favorite historical texts in their private library after he’d finished his administrative duties in the business office. But he felt only marginally better as he wheeled himself down the walkway to the building that housed the priests’ living quarters. He was still convinced he’d done the right thing, and he was fairly certain that was the crux of his despair. How could doing the right thing be in such huge conflict with his vows? In seminary, they’d been required to ponder such things so many times, but nothing of this magnitude. But then, how could the church have prepared him for the uncertainty he now had about every choice he’d made, when before, he was just as certain they’d all been absolutely correct.

  Time, he kept telling himself. Time and prayer would restore things back to normal. And the likelihood of anything like this happening again had to be small. He’d just been unlucky. In the wrong place at the wrong time. It sounded good, anyway, but he was certain that if Father Malcolm or Father Bernard had been taking confession that day, they wouldn’t have heard the confession Nicolas had. Someone had taken advantage of the fact that his lack of mobility would prevent him from identifying them.

  And that bothered him the most. Because it was insidious.

  He opened the front door and rolled into the common living room that they shared. Each of their apartments had a small living space, but this one was larger and allowed for them to sit and visit with one another and visitors. It was open to a kitchen with a small dining area, something they did not have in their apartments.

  Fortunately for Nicolas and Bernard, Malcolm was an excellent cook and actually enjoyed the process. Nicolas was handy enough to help prep for Malcolm as he’d always done for his mother but couldn’t be depended on to cook much beyond grilled cheese sandwiches, which he’d lived on most of his time in seminary. Bernard’s great-grandmother had been full-blooded Italian and he could make a mean pasta, but the food was so heavy, they reserved it for special occasions. Nicolas had been watching his diet ever since the wreck. It was too easy to gain weight when your movement was so restricted.

  Country music was blaring on the radio and Malcolm stood at the kitchen island, chopping onions. He looked up when Nicolas entered and turned down the volume on the music before he called out an enthusiastic hello. Malcolm smiled as he issued the greeting, but his eyes also searched Nicolas’s face for the strain he’d clearly been under the past couple days.

  “Are you feeling better after this morning’s walk? So to speak, I mean,” Malcolm said.

  Nicolas nodded. “That and a good bit of prayer have improved my outlook.”

  “Excellent. Dinner should help as well. I know we’re supposed to watch our calories most of the time, but I thought your favorite would cheer you up.”

  “You’re making enchiladas?”

  Malcolm smiled. “I thought you might be willing to make a dietary exception.”

  “Okay. But just this once.”

  Malcolm laughed. “You’d eat enchiladas every day if I’d make them.”

  “Probably, but then you’d need a trailer to get me around. Do you need any help?”

  “No. I finished up early so the prep is already done. Your mail is on the table. This will be ready in about an hour.”

  “That gives me time for a shower. Thanks, Malcolm…for everything.”

  Nicolas gathered the mail from the table and continued down the hallway to his quarters. There were four apartments on the first floor and another four on the second floor. At one time, attendance had been so great that six apartments had been occupied. Now St. Mary’s could get by with only two priests, but Bernard had argued that three were necessary to give the appropriate amount of focus to the congregation as well as the business end of things, which seemed to increase in time consumption every year.

  The apartments on the second floor were all furnished but remained closed unless a visiting priest was in residence. The unoccupied apartment on the first floor had been repurposed as a small gym, complete with a treadmill, stationary bike, and weight machine. Nicolas had paid for the extravagance himself, with some argument at first from Bernard. When Nicolas insisted that it was his circumstances that made the equipment necessary, Bernard had acquiesced. Malcolm and Bernard had both dropped their gym memberships and enjoyed the option of a workout right in their own home and more often than before, as it was now possible to sneak in some exercise in between their duties. Bernard had thanked Nicolas so many times for insisting on the room that it had become a joke between Nicolas and Malcolm.

  He entered his apartment and decided to check the mail before showering. It was just after 4:00 p.m. and that way, if anything needed addressing during regular business hours, he still had time to make a phone call. The first couple of envelopes were junk mail—offers for things that were completely unsuited, like women’s shoes and lingerie. He wondered briefly if businesses bothered to screen addresses before they did mail-outs, but he doubted it. The next letter was an account statement from his attorney that he received monthly. A quick check of the bottom of the paper let him know he still had plenty of money, and he tucked the paper back into the envelope for fi
ling.

  When he saw the handwriting on the next envelope, he sighed.

  He was deliberating whether he wanted to open the letter at all when there was a knock on his door. He called out for the person to enter and Father Malcolm stepped inside.

  “I apologize for the interruption,” Malcolm said, then noticed Nicolas’s expression. “Is everything all right? Did you receive bad news?”

  “I’m sure it’s not good news, but I haven’t actually opened it yet.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “This is from my third cousin. He and his parents are the only living relatives I have, although my parents never spoke to them and I’ve never met them.”

  “Then what do they want from you?”

  “Money.”

  Malcolm frowned. “It seems forward to ask a stranger for money, even if you’re related.”

  “It is forward, and I know we’re not supposed to judge, but the reason my parents had nothing to do with them is because of the way they chose to live. They’re all addicted to drugs. And despite many offers of help in the form of rehab and counseling, they have refused. They only want cash, and I know it will go straight up their arms. I’m sure they’re suffering in their own way, but I cannot be party to their deaths.”

  “Of course not. I’m sorry you are in that position. Would you like for me to address the letter for you?”

  Nicolas hesitated for a moment. He’d had his attorney handle these for the past year, thinking that if his family understood that they would receive no access to Nicolas, they would find someone else to beg money from. And the letters had lessened, but he still received one every couple months.

  “You know what,” Nicolas said, mind made up as to how to proceed from now on. “I’d love for you to address it for me. Please put it into the kitchen garbage.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.” He handed Malcolm the letter. “Now it’s my turn to apologize. You came here clearly seeking something and the conversation has become about me once again.”