by Jana DeLeon
Sinister
A Shaye Archer Novel
Jana DeLeon
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Copyright 2016 by Jana DeLeon
Published by Jana DeLeon
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
ISBN: 978-1-940270-31-9
Created with Vellum
Chapter One
Thursday, July 2, 2015
Bywater District, New Orleans, Louisiana
Jinx LeDoux bolted upright, gasping for air, her heart pounding so hard she felt as if her chest would burst. The slightest movement sent shock waves through her head, and her stomach rolled. She felt the bile rise in her throat and took a deep breath, forcing the nausea away.
Something had happened. Something she couldn’t quite remember.
She blinked several times, trying to clear her blurry vision, then realized it wasn’t only her vision that was the problem. Wherever she was, it was almost pitch black.
Wherever she was?
She put her hands on the ground, feeling around for something familiar, something that told her she was safe in the abandoned apartment she’d been living in for the last month, but the floor she rested upon was concrete, not the aged, splintered wood she had grown used to. Slowly, she lifted her hands and reached out until her right hand connected with something hard and cool. She ran her fingertips on the surface, frowning as she felt the chilly, round metal rod. She moved her fingers to the side and felt another, then another as far as she could reach. Panicking, she reached upward and found the same bars about two feet above her head.
She was in a cage!
Then her memory came crashing back in like a tidal wave.
The shadow!
She’d left the docks where she’d been skating Wednesday evening and had been on her way to the apartment when she’d felt someone watching her. Jinx was only fifteen, but she had more acuity than most adults when it came to her surroundings. She’d scanned the street, looking at the shadows for movement, looking into the windows of vacant buildings for any sign that someone lurked behind one of the cracked, grimy panes, but she’d seen no one.
She’d been wrong.
As she’d reached the old abandoned drugstore, a shadow crossed the open door and inched onto the sidewalk. It was only for a second, but enough for her to know that the person who’d been watching her was inside that building. She spun around, ready to run as fast as her legs could take her, when she felt the needle pierce her neck. The last thing she remembered was falling onto the sidewalk.
That answered the question of how, but left a whole lot unanswered.
She got onto her knees and crawled around the structure, trying to determine its size and locate an exit. The door was located on the third panel she searched, secured by a heavy padlock. She tugged on the lock, but it didn’t budge. The last panel yielded nothing more than a confirmation that she was inside an iron cage, approximately six feet square. The concrete floor was completely bare.
Her wrists ached a bit and she rubbed them, feeling the indentations where they had been bound together. Sections of her skin had been burned by the friction caused by the rope. The same indentations and burns surrounded her ankles.
What the hell was going on? Who had done this? And the worst question, why?
She brought her knees up to her chest and circled them with her arms. It was at least ninety degrees outside, but she shook from the chill running through her. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she felt them spill over and roll down her cheeks as she collapsed into sobs. In the eight months she’d lived on the streets, she’d never cried.
Now she wasn’t sure she’d ever stop.
Chapter Two
Friday, July 3, 2015
French Quarter, New Orleans
Shaye Archer waited until he made the first move, but the instant he raised the pistol, she sprang into action. She grabbed the barrel of the weapon with her right hand and yanked it forward, as she stepped to the side, then kicked the man in the groin as he moved forward, off balance. When he doubled over from the groin kick, she planted another knee in his face, dropping him to the ground and causing him to release the pistol.
She sprang back and took aim as he looked up at her and smiled. “You’re improving,” he said as he rose from the mat.
Shaye handed her sensei the plastic pistol. “You think so?”
“Definitely. Your response comes quicker than before.”
“Yeah, well, taking on a serial killer tends to increase reaction time.”
He sobered and nodded. “I’m sure it does. I read about it in the newspaper a couple of weeks ago and assumed that’s why you canceled training for a bit. I found it all, uh…shocking, I guess, although the word seems to fall rather flat given the facts.”
Shaye nodded. Her first case as a private investigator had been a doozy, surprising her, her client, the New Orleans police, and a host of other people who couldn’t have invented a story like the reality she’d witnessed, even if they’d tried.
“It definitely wasn’t something I considered when I opened my agency,” Shaye said.
“How are you handling it?”
Shaye gave him a rueful smile. She’d been asked that question at least a hundred times since the details of the case hit the news, sometimes by people who were genuinely concerned, but mostly by news reporters. They’d camped out on the sidewalk outside her mother’s house in the Garden District and in front of her apartment in the French Quarter, shoving a microphone in her face every time she had to pass them.
She’d said nothing, of course. Years of experience had taught her that the quickest way to get rid of a media storm was to ignore it and pray that something else news- or gossip-worthy happened to redirect their attention. In her case, it required both news- and gossip-worthy, since anything that involved Shaye Archer, mysterious adopted daughter of heiress Corrine Archer, was both gossip and news. Fortunately for Shaye, a state representative had been caught in a less-than-desirable position with his daughter’s nanny, and the reporters had flocked to his mansion several blocks from her mother’s home.
Sensei Markham had been teaching her Muay Thai and Krav Maga for the last five years. He wasn’t looking for the latest gossip to pass on. When he asked her a personal question, it was out of genuine concern.
&n
bsp; “I’m doing good,” Shaye said.
He raised one eyebrow. “You sure?”
“It was difficult, of course, and it took some time to process, but overall, I’m happy with the way I handled things. Even happier with what I accomplished. Emma Frederick can move on to the great life she deserves without looking over her shoulder and without thinking she’s crazy.”
He nodded. “That is definitely a good thing. Although when you told me you were opening your own agency, I thought you intended to continue the same type of work you did for Breaux Investigations. If you’re planning on going toe-to-toe with serious bad guys, then I think we should concentrate more on close combat training.”
“I think that’s a good idea.” Her brush with a serial killer had turned out all right, but the next time, she might not be as lucky. Any edge that she could gain might be the difference between walking away to take another case or leaving in a body bag. She’d thought she understood the risks from taking these types of cases, but if she was being honest with herself, she’d been unnerved by Emma and her stalker. The reality of digging into that kind of disturbed person hadn’t been anything like it looked on television, and neither the classroom nor years of therapy had prepared her for the wave of emotions she’d experienced after it was all over.
“Good,” Sensei Markham said. “We’ll start on that next week. In the meantime, I want you to up your strength training. The stronger you are, the more effective the strike.”
Shaye sighed. “You know I’m dying to spend more time at the gym.”
He raised one eyebrow. “‘Dying’ is the operative word here.”
“Low blow. I’ll put in one more hour a week. Satisfied?”
“It’s a start. You’re doing good work, Shaye, like I always knew you would. Just be careful, okay?”
She nodded and grabbed her gym bag, giving him a wave over her shoulder as she exited the building. It was eight o’clock on a hot, humid summer night and the French Quarter was already alive with the sounds of the Friday night party crowd. That party would carry through to the wee hours of Saturday morning, leaving many regretting the night before and others itching to do it all over again.
A group of college fraternity boys whistled at her as she walked by. She smiled but kept walking. Most single women her age were probably on a date or getting ready for one, but dating wasn’t on Shaye’s list of things to do. Not on a Friday night or any other. Right now, she had a filing system to get in order and a new printer that still needed to be set up. That, microwave nachos, beer, and reruns on the Syfy channel were about as much excitement as she wanted.
She rounded a corner and headed for her apartment. It was much quieter blocks away from the partiers down on Bourbon, but the streets weren’t empty. Some of the faces, she saw on a regular basis and knew they lived in the area. Others were vacationers, sporting cameras and stopping every few feet to take pictures of the next historical structure.
The figure leaning against the lamp pole at the corner immediately caught her eye. He was tall and thin and wore a hoodie. Periodically, he glanced down the street, but she couldn’t get a good look at his face because he was standing in a shadow. The skin on the back of her neck prickled, and even though other people milled around, she knew he was looking at her.
She shifted her duffel bag on her shoulder, putting her hand underneath it. That way she could unload it easily or use it as a weapon, depending on which made more sense. Increasing her pace, she closed the gap to the corner, poised to strike as soon as the man in the shadows made his move. But when she drew within ten feet of him, he stepped out of the shadows and looked directly at her.
“Hustle?” The boy’s long blond ponytail was hidden under the hood of the sweatshirt, but there was no mistaking the light green eyes and gaunt facial features of the street kid she’d met when working Emma Frederick’s case. “Is everything all right?”
He glanced nervously up and down the street. “You said if I ever wanted help…”
“Of course. Do you want me to call my mother?”
His eyes widened. “No. I mean, I don’t want help for me. Not exactly. Shit. I don’t guess I know where to start.”
Shaye was all too familiar with that feeling. “Tell you what. There’s a burger joint half a block away. It’s got the best onion rings in the French Quarter and I’m starving. How about I buy us dinner and you tell me what you need my help with?”
He hesitated before answering, and Shaye could tell that his desire for help was warring with his inclination not to trust anyone. Finally, he nodded.
“Great,” she said and started walking toward the diner.
Hustle fell in step beside her. “I heard you got the creeper. Is that lady okay?”
“Yes. Ms. Frederick has moved to another state and is making a fresh start.”
“I’m glad. I wish someone would have been able to help my moms.”
“So do I.”
When Shaye had met Hustle during the Emma Frederick case, he confided in her that his mother had been murdered by an ex-boyfriend who’d stalked her. His father had never been around, so Hustle had become a ward of the court and had been placed in a home with a foster parent who’d beaten him. He’d been on the streets ever since. The fact that he’d sought her out for help told Shaye that whatever was bothering Hustle was no small matter. And it was personal. He wouldn’t risk trusting someone else unless it was important.
She pulled open the door to the burger place and walked inside, heading for her preferred table along the back wall. The regulars were finishing up their dinner and heading out, so the tables nearby were empty. She pulled out a chair facing the plate-glass storefront and waited as Hustle glanced around the tiny restaurant, then pulled out the chair next to her and sat, tugging the hoodie off his head.
An older woman shuffled over with a pad and Shaye ordered a burger, onion rings, and a vanilla malt. Hustle hesitated and Shaye urged him on. “The burger is really good. Real beef. Not that fake stuff.”
“Got that right,” the waitress said.
“I’ll have the same thing she’s having,” Hustle said, and the waitress headed off for the kitchen. Hustle watched her walk away, then glanced at the front door.
“Don’t like your back to an opening?” Shaye asked. “Me either. That’s why I always sit at this table.”
He nodded. “You got street smarts.” He looked down at the table and she could see a flush creeping up his neck. “I looked you up on the Internet. One of the kids from the neighborhood skates with us sometimes and he let me borrow his iPhone. I hope that don’t piss you off.”
“Not at all. I’m used to it.”
He looked back up at her. “I’m sorry about what happened to you. I’ve seen some bad shit, but…”
Shaye felt her heart tug at the empathy in his voice. This kid had so many obstacles in front of him every day, but none of them had hardened him. It told her what kind of teen he was and hopefully what kind of man he would become. “Thanks. I was lucky. I mean, after.”
“With the lady that took you in. Yeah, she sounds really great.”
“If you want her to help you, she will. And she’ll make sure what happened before doesn’t happen again. You have my word on that.”
A flicker of hope flashed in his eyes but it was gone so quickly, Shaye almost wondered if she’d imagined it.
He shook his head. “I don’t need her kind of help. I need yours.”
“Mine? As a private investigator?”
“Yeah. I mean, I ain’t got no money or nothing, but I didn’t know who else to ask.”
“Don’t worry about that. Just tell me what’s wrong.”
“My friend Jinx is missing.”
“Is Jinx a, uh…” Shaye trailed off, not sure how to ask if Jinx was a street kid like Hustle without offending him. “Is she in the same situation as you?”
“She’s on the street, yeah.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Do you stay at the same place? I mean, at night?”
He shook his head. “You don’t tell no one where you stay. That’s the quickest way to get robbed.”
Shaye took a minute to consider how horrible it must be for sleep to be the enemy. She had her own issues with the dark, but they never included someone robbing her in her sleep.
“Okay,” she said, “so how do you know she’s missing?”
“We was supposed to meet yesterday to skate but she never showed. Never showed today, either.”
“Maybe she’s not feeling well or something else came up?”
“I went to her place. She wasn’t there.”
“So she told you where she stayed at night?”
He shook his head and looked down at the table again. Shaye studied him for a moment, trying to figure out what was wrong, when she finally realized he was embarrassed. Jinx was more than just a friend. He had feelings for her.
“You followed her?” Shaye asked.
He nodded but didn’t look up. “About a week ago. She said she thought someone was watching her at Jackson Square. She reads cards for people. I was worried so I hung out in the square all day. She didn’t know.”
“And did you see anyone watching her?”
“No. And she was careful going to her place.”
“But not careful enough that you couldn’t track her, which means someone else could have as well.”
He looked up at her and gave her a single nod, looking miserable.
“Did you find anything at her place?”
“She wasn’t there, and neither was her board.”
“Maybe she got scared and changed locations.”
“Her clothes was still there and her blankets. She wouldn’t have left them. It’s too hard to come by something decent.”
Shaye wished she didn’t have to agree with him and there was a simple explanation, like his friend had found somewhere she liked better, but Hustle was right. As hard as things were to come by, no one living on the street would leave them behind without a good reason.
