Damned (Shaye Archer Series Book 7)

by DeLeon, Jana

  She let herself in and made her way to the back of the house, where she found Eleonore sitting at the kitchen island eating chips and salsa and Corrine checking the oven. Eleonore looked over as she walked in and shook her head.

  “Your late habits are rubbing off on your mother,” Eleonore said. “She was just starting dinner when I got here.”

  “I got held up in a meeting at the center,” Corrine said. “The tamales just need another ten minutes.”

  “Mexican night?” Shaye asked. “Yum!”

  Eleonore sighed. “If there were predinner cocktails, like the old days, all this waiting would be a lot more pleasant.”

  “Not for you it wouldn’t,” Corrine said.

  Eleonore was an alcoholic. She’d gotten sober decades ago when she finally admitted her problem, but she’d fallen off the wagon last year when Shaye’s past had returned full force. She was sober again, but it was a tenuous thing and the struggle would always be there.

  “I can make virgin margaritas,” Shaye offered.

  Eleonore shook her head. “Best to avoid it altogether. It brings back too many memories—good ones at the bar and not so good ones afterward. So what’s your excuse for tardiness?”

  “A new case,” Shaye said.

  “More insurance work?” Corrine asked, her voice clearly hopeful. Her mother would prefer Shaye do only boring insurance work.

  “No. It’s a private client,” Shaye said.

  “What kind of case?” Corrine asked.

  “I can’t say,” Shaye said.

  Corrine sighed.

  “I mean it,” Shaye said. “Clients have confidentiality. But don’t start your worrying. This case is likely to go absolutely nowhere.”

  “Why is that?” Corrine asked.

  “Let’s just say the whole thing might have been a prank,” Shaye said. “And that’s all I’m saying. Next subject.”

  Corrine frowned. She wasn’t satisfied with the answer but she knew when she’d reached Shaye’s information limit.

  “What’s new with the center?” Eleonore asked, changing the subject. “Do you have an opening date yet?”

  “Sort of,” Corrine said. “The counselors will be able to move out of their temporary offices and into the building in a couple weeks. The dorms are still not complete and I’m ready to strangle someone if I could just latch onto the responsible party. But since they all keep pointing the finger at one another, it would have to be a mass murder for me to ensure I got the culprit.”

  Shaye looked over at Eleonore, who raised her eyebrows. Given the things that Corrine had seen on a daily basis during her time as a social worker, it was difficult to ruffle her feathers. The building contractors must have really mucked things up for her to be this angry.

  “You know how it is,” Eleonore said. “You’ve done enough improvements to this house to know you take a contractor’s estimate and add 30 percent more money and 50 percent more time.”

  Corrine sighed. “I know, but this is not a bathroom remodel in a house that has five others to use. These kids are living on the streets. I want them inside and safe. And I want more time spent on approving foster homes before we toss kids into them. There’s been too many issues with foster parents the last several years. We’re missing things and the kids are paying the price.”

  “You know a lot of the street kids will never stay there,” Shaye said. “They’re too worried about being found. And as much as I support what you’re doing, staying there would allow abusive parents to easily find them. I imagine everyone actively seeking a runaway will haunt the doors to see if their kid is there.”

  “I’ll have security,” Corrine said. “No one will be able to hang around without being noticed. I’ll follow all the laws concerning these kids, but I know their rights and I intend to exercise every one of them. Trust me, I have the best attorneys on staff and they are eager to get started.”

  Shaye smiled. “I’m sure they are. I think it will work out fine. I’m just warning you that getting started might be a little slow. You have to build up a reputation for trust on the street. Then the kids who really want help will ask for it.”

  “And you have to remember that they’re not all like Hustle,” Eleonore said, referring to a street kid that Shaye had met during one of her investigations. Shaye and Corrine had been instrumental in getting him off the street and with a good foster parent, and Shaye and Hustle remained close.

  “I know they’re not all like Hustle,” Corrine said. “But I still believe most of them can be helped. You just have to guide me in screening out the bad apples.”

  Eleonore was heading up the psychiatric division of the center and had handpicked the counselors and worked with them on the more difficult cases. “My people know what they’re looking for. If they spot someone questionable, they’ll inform me.”

  During one of Shaye’s investigations of missing street kids, one of the perpetrators had turned out to be a kid himself. Sociopathy and plain old evil didn’t discriminate when it came to age. All three of them were aware of the horrible things that kids could do. Fortunately, those cases were the minority. Still, emotional or mental issues were common in street kids, usually because of the things they’d endured before they’d chosen to live on the streets.

  Eleonore’s staff would try to ensure that any horror they’d experienced didn’t affect the rest of their lives and more importantly, the other kids staying at the facility. Shaye was a living testament to Eleonore’s ability. Corrine had saved Shaye’s life, but Eleonore had given it back to her.

  “So what’s the hunky Detective Lamotte up to these days?” Eleonore asked.

  Shaye grimaced. “Hunky?”

  Eleonore waved a hand at her. “Whatever you call good-looking men these days.”

  “Hot,” Corrine said. “One of the teens in the group counseling session last week said I was hot enough to be a cougar. I almost died right there. The counselor explained why it was inappropriate, but I don’t think he cared. Or any of the rest of them standing there. They thought it was hilarious.”

  “You are pretty hot for an older woman,” Shaye said.

  “I’m not that much older,” Corrine said. “But I’m far too old for teens to be gawking at. Where do they come up with these things?”

  “Movies, the internet, other teens,” Eleonore said. “I wish someone would call me hot enough to be a cougar.”

  “If you’d let me take you for one of those makeovers I keep suggesting…” Corrine said.

  Eleonore cringed. “I’ll just stick with old lady looks.”

  Shaye laughed. “I tell her the same thing all the time.”

  “That you’ll stick with old lady looks?” Eleonore asked.

  Finally, Corrine couldn’t hold it in any longer and started to laugh along with them. “I know it sounds funny now, but I swear when it happened I was mortified.”

  “You need to get out more,” Eleonore said. “With a man. And I’m not referring to a contractor. I mean a man with the potential for romance.”

  Corrine shook her head. “You know my stance on that one.”

  Shaye felt her heart tug. “It is possible to find a man who’s not only there for the money. I found Jackson. Or he found me. Whatever.”

  “Jackson is one of the last good ones,” Corrine said. “Don’t you worry about me. I’m not lonely. I have a beautiful daughter that I force to eat with me once a week and a best friend who hates dealing with dirty dishes and wouldn’t miss a meal she didn’t have to prepare. I’ve got all the companionship I need.”

  “All you’re missing is a dozen cats and a closet full of bathrobes,” Eleonore said.

  Corrine looked slightly horrified. “I wouldn’t even go onto the patio in a bathrobe, much less out of the house.”

  “You wouldn’t go onto the patio without full makeup,” Eleonore said.

  “I’d go out there with a cat,” Corrine said. “Maybe I’ll consider one. Just one.”

  Eleonor
e smiled. “Every collection starts with the first.”

  8

  Hailey Pitre woke in a panic. Her head throbbed and her body ached like she’d been in the same position for far too long. She pushed herself up and as her hands struck the cool stone, her fuzzy mind cleared enough for her to realize she wasn’t in her bedroom. She put her arms in front of her and moved them around, trying to connect with something, but all she found was open air. It was pitch-black in the room so she couldn’t see anything.

  Her heart began to race as she forced herself onto her knees and started crawling, her bare feet feeling every bump and crevice in the floor. She hadn’t gone far when her head connected with a stone wall, and she yelled out as the throbbing launched into full-blown migraine. A wave of nausea passed over her and she struggled to maintain control of her stomach. She turned into a sitting position and clutched her head as the room started to spin.

  What was wrong with her? The hit hadn’t been that hard, but her head hurt so bad. Even worse than that one time she’d drunk whiskey with Marcy and Gina. Marcy had stolen it from her father’s liquor cabinet and insisted that they all do shots. Hailey and Gina hadn’t been as excited about the prospect as Marcy, but neither had wanted to tell her no. Hailey’s room had whirled all night and she’d been so sick her mother had kept her home from school for two days. With the help of a heating pad, she’d managed to fake a fever and convince her mother she had the flu, but Hailey had promised herself right then that she’d never drink alcohol again.

  And she hadn’t.

  But something was seriously wrong. She didn’t know where she was or how she’d gotten there. The last thing she could remember was putting the chicken in the sink to thaw. Then something…a phone call?

  Her phone!

  She felt her pockets for her cell phones but neither was there. Had her parents discovered her secret cell phone? Had they seen the texts between her and Hudson? She always deleted everything but she knew there were ways to retrieve them. But even if her parents had found out about Hudson, that didn’t explain where she was. Their house didn’t have a space with stone floor, and this one had no light coming in at all. Like a basement. And besides, her father was strict, but he wasn’t crazy. He wouldn’t lock her in a cold, dark room.

  She turned around to face the wall and balanced herself against it to pull herself up. Rubbing her hands across the stone surface, she inched down the wall, looking for a light switch. She found the first corner and turned. Then the second. Then the third.

  That’s where she found the door.

  It was made of a thick, heavy wood. As she passed her hands over it, feeling for the doorknob, a splinter jammed into one of her fingers, and she cried out. She yanked her hand back and stuck the finger in her mouth, trying to suck the splinter out. She managed to get the tiny shred between her teeth and pulled, wincing as it tore her skin. Then she patted the door rather than rubbing her hands on it until she located a knob. She twisted it and it turned easily in her hand, but the door wouldn’t budge. She couldn’t find a dead bolt anywhere along the edge, so it must be on the other side.

  She was trapped.

  She’d been panicked before but now she was on the verge of a breakdown. There was absolutely no explanation for the situation she was in, except that someone had put her here and intended for her to stay. She’d been kidnapped. She was a hostage.

  All the things that happened to young girls raced through her mind. Her parents made her watch the evening news with them. Her father thought it was important that she understand the things happening in society, but so many times, the things she’d seen had given her nightmares. Now she was living one of those nightmares. She was going to be one of those horrific, sad stories that everyone watched on television and shook their heads about before going on with the rest of their evening.

  Because it wasn’t happening to them. Because it wasn’t really real.

  But this was real. And she wasn’t prepared to deal with it. She started to sob, her entire body shaking with the effort, and slid down the door back onto the ground. She drew her knees up to her chest and circled her arms around them.

  What had she done to deserve this? Where had she gone wrong?

  If only she could remember.

  9

  Shaye pulled into Jackson’s apartment complex at 11:00 p.m. It would have been late for most people, but Jackson had texted Shaye when he was on his way home from work thirty minutes before. Shaye knew that meant he’d caught a bad case and figured he had been working nonstop all day. She was loaded with leftovers from Corrine and wanted to drop them off so at the very least, he could have a decent meal before getting some sleep.

  He smiled when he opened the door but she could tell he was exhausted and worried. She gave him a quick kiss and headed to the kitchen to unpack the food. He lifted the lid on a container of tamales and gave a sigh of pleasure.

  “I owe Corrine big-time,” he said as he grabbed a fork and started eating right from the container. “I think I remember lunch, but I’m not certain.”

  “Let me heat that up,” Shaye said.

  “It’s good like this,” he said as he grabbed a beer and a diet soda from the refrigerator. “Hell, it’s great like this. What else is in there?”

  “Chips, queso, tortillas, black beans, and pineapple cake.”

  “Okay, maybe heat the queso while I polish these off.” He handed Shaye the soda and sat at the kitchen table with the container of food.

  Shaye popped the bowl of queso in the microwave and set the timer, then placed the rest of the food on the kitchen table and pulled out the cake. “How big a slice do you want?”

  Jackson glanced at the container that held a quarter of the cake that Corrine had baked and frowned. “Just bring the whole thing over. I’ll know more once I start eating.”

  Shaye shook her head and slid the container on the table, then grabbed the steaming queso before taking a seat across from Jackson.

  “I take it you caught a bad one?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Missing girl. Sixteen. It will be on the news tomorrow. I hate it when it’s kids. Especially girls.”

  Shaye’s stomach clenched. “Me too. You have any leads?”

  “Not really. We’re at that point where everyone looks suspicious and no one looks more suspicious than someone else.”

  Shaye frowned. “When did she go missing?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. Sometime after school. We know she made it home because she put chicken out to thaw per her mother’s instructions, but after that, nothing. Her purse and phone are gone. No sign of forced entry. No indication that she’s a runaway.”

  Shaye nodded, feeling a tiny bit relieved. At least the missing girl wasn’t the one Nicolas was concerned for. The confession had been before this girl disappeared.

  “You have that look,” Jackson said.

  “What look?”

  He studied her a couple seconds more, then nodded. “You got a case.”

  “Sort of. Do you know if there have been any female victims found recently that were strangled?”

  “Not offhand, but with an average of ten murders a month, I don’t hear about them all. Is that what your case is about?”

  “I think so.”

  Jackson frowned. “Strangulation is a fairly specific form of death to not be certain about it.”

  “Yeah. It’s sort of a weird situation. My client is afraid a crime was committed but he only knows the how, not the when or the who.”

  “Did he report it to the police?”

  “No. He can’t. He shouldn’t have reported it to me, either.”

  Jackson stared at her for several seconds, then groaned. “Damn it to hell.”

  “A fairly accurate sentiment given the circumstances.”

  “Those vows are a thorn in the side of law enforcement. Do you think there’s anything to your client’s story?”

  “I don’t know. He feels the person was telling the truth but he has
no means to identify them, so I’m starting in a big hole. At this point, I figured finding the victim would probably be easier. And at that point, the police would be handling it, so my work would be done and his conscience would be clear.”

  Jackson nodded. “I guess it’s something that he hired you, at least. Most stick to their vows like glue. I can’t wrap my mind around it myself, but whatever. I’ll check tomorrow and see if anything matches. Unless it’s a state secret, I should be able to give you basics.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You know, it could have been someone just messing around. That would be optimum. Not that messing with a priest that way is cool by any means, but you know…”

  “The alternative is a murder. I’d be happy with uncool prankster myself.”

  “But the priest doesn’t think that’s it?”

  She shook her head. “It’s just a gut feeling, of course. But he thinks it’s real.”

  “I’m hoping his gut is off.”

  “Me too.”

  10

  Wednesday, May 18, 2016

  French Quarter, New Orleans

  Because Father Bernard had excused Nicolas from confessional duties for the rest of the week, he had the opportunity the next morning to call Shaye and see if she could meet with him. It would be far easier in person to have a conversation about what she’d discovered and what had transpired with him the evening before. He struggled a bit to move from the bench at the foot of his bed and into the wheelchair. He had no issues falling asleep, but the sleep was often restless and filled with confusing dreams. It was draining him, making him weaker. Something had to give or he would fall behind on his physical progress.

  As he wheeled himself out of the church and toward the street, he glanced around, looking to see if someone was watching. Clearly, the penitent had seen Nicolas meet with Shaye in the café because they’d sent the note. Had they been watching the church, waiting for him to exit? Were they watching now?

  For this reason, Nicolas had derived a plan for this meeting. His attorney had a conference room that he was happy to lend to Nicolas. He was certain the staff might have some questions when they caught sight of Shaye, but he didn’t worry about them asking. Nicolas’s estate was a big account for the firm. They wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize their stewardship.