Sinister (Shaye Archer Series Book 2)

by Jana DeLeon

Peter went silent for so long that Jinx worried he’d passed out. Finally, he spoke. “I think he’s been watching me for a long time.”

  “I thought you said you never saw him until the park.”

  “I didn’t see him until then, but I knew he was there. I could feel him looking. It made my arms itch.”

  She knew that feeling well. That feeling is what had kept her safe on the streets. Until now.

  “How long have your arms itched?” Jinx asked.

  “I don’t know. It started at the school carnival. I was a bear in the play. I got to wear a costume and everything.”

  “That sounds cool,” Jinx said, although she’d bet anything that Peter was right—the bad man had locked in on him at that carnival. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  “The babysitter took me to the park today. There was a party with fireworks and everything. Not the big kind, but the little ones. The fireman said the big ones might burn down a house so we could only have the little ones in the park. They just made different-colored smoke and weren’t as good as the big ones that they do at night, but they were still okay.”

  “Did you remember leaving the park?”

  “I think so…I don’t know. I had ice cream and dropped it on my shirt. I didn’t want to get in trouble so I went into the bathroom to get it off.”

  “Do you remember leaving the bathroom?”

  “I, uh…no.”

  Jinx’s heart dropped. He’d sneaked away from the babysitter to clean his shirt and that was probably when the bad man took him. From living with her mother, Jinx knew more about drugs than most people. Peter might not ever remember what happened in the bathroom, but Jinx would bet she knew what had happened.

  The only silver lining in the situation was that the police would be looking for Peter. The missing child of concerned parents was something the cops wouldn’t ignore. If the bad man had left any clues at all, they’d be tracking them down.

  Unlike her. No one would be looking for her.

  “I want to go home,” Peter said, and started to cry.

  “I know you do. I do, too.”

  * * *

  Shaye clutched her enormous cup of coffee and headed into Jackson Square. It was her third already that morning, and she hoped this last cup was the tipping point that gave her sluggish body and mind the perk they both needed. After the nightmare, she’d tried to go back to sleep, but her overactive imagination wouldn’t slow enough for her to drift back off. She’d tried warm milk, carb overloading, and even turning on a shopping channel, but nothing had been able to override her racing mind.

  The dreams were coming more frequently than before. Ever since Emma Frederick’s case. But why?

  Eleonore had suggested that because Emma was being stalked by an unknown assailant, it had put a strain on Shaye’s ability to keep her unknown past from affecting her present. That her subconscious mind was working out in her dreams what her conscious mind didn’t want to address. Shaye supposed that could be true. Or the explanation could be an even simpler one—that Emma Frederick’s situation had fired off memories that had been long buried. That the dreams she was having weren’t fiction created by her subconscious but a flashback of her very real, very horrific past.

  Shaye had put that theory to Eleonore and although she tried to maintain the same expression, Shaye hadn’t missed the flicker in her eyes. Eleonore had already thought it all through, and she knew that what Shaye said was a possibility, probably a better one than the theory Eleonore had set forward, but also a lot more dangerous one. If Shaye was remembering, then the person who’d done the horrible things to her would no longer be a mystery. He’d be exposed, and that could put Shaye in danger.

  But none of that mattered to Shaye. She’d always assumed she was in danger—that the person who’d stolen her past could be lurking around any corner, waiting to finish the job. All of her martial arts training, her careful selection of a place to live, and the best security system she could buy were part of her acceptance and preparation for the day she always thought would come—the day she would meet her captor face-to-face.

  “Shaye?” Hustle’s voice sounded behind her and she turned around.

  He walked up, studying her face. “You all right? You look kinda beat.”

  Someone like Hustle would be able to spot a lie a thousand feet away, so she just gave him the truth. “Rough night.”

  He frowned. “You drink?”

  “Not much, but I’m going to start if I keep having nightmares.”

  His face cleared in understanding. “I get those sometimes…I see that man killing my mom. I wasn’t there when it happened, but I know the details. It’s like sometimes they play back in my mind.”

  “That sucks,” Shaye said, both surprised and honored that Hustle had felt comfortable enough with her to share something so personal.

  He nodded. “When you dream, are you remembering what happened to you, you know…before?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “I guess that would make figuring it out easier, huh?” He blew out a breath, and she could see his hesitation. Finally, he blurted out, “Do you ever think maybe you’re better off not knowing?”

  “All the time.”

  “Yeah. Well, coffee should help. I’ve lived for a couple days on stale coffee and biscuits.”

  Shaye’s heart tugged. The thought of Hustle going hungry killed her even though she was more aware than most of the statistics on poverty and homelessness. “I think it’s already doing the trick, but I think I need to eat something so I don’t get tired too quickly.”

  She pulled some cash out of her pocket and handed it to Hustle. “Why don’t you grab us some breakfast from that vendor on the corner? Make sure you get enough. We’ve got a long day ahead of us and if we catch a break, we might not be able to stop and eat again for a while.”

  He hesitated for a moment, then took the money. “What do you want?”

  “I’ll have a ham and egg croissant.”

  He nodded and headed down the sidewalk.

  She’d lied, of course, and he’d known it. She had no problem skipping meals when it was only herself to consider, but she wouldn’t do it while she was working with Hustle. Still, she knew Hustle didn’t feel right accepting handouts, and as far as he was concerned, she was already working for free. But as long as she pretended he was doing her a favor by dining with her, then Hustle would allow it to continue. That was a lie she could easily live with, especially since it meant feeding a hungry teen.

  She walked out of the square and toward the corner where Hustle was getting them breakfast, making a note of the artists lining all four sides, setting up their wares for sale. Today was even busier than she’d expected. The bit of breeze that filtered through the Quarter had brought more people out into the hot day than usual. It would be hard to spot something out of the ordinary, especially when so many things in the French Quarter fell on the wrong side of ordinary to begin with. But she trusted Hustle’s instincts and her own. If something was off in the square, they’d notice.

  “Here ya go.” Hustle handed her a wrapper with the breakfast croissant. “I’ve never had these before. They’re really good,” he said and took a big bite out of a ham and egg croissant.

  “I love croissants,” Shaye said. “My mom makes them from scratch sometimes. They’re even better than these.”

  “I can’t imagine that. Your mom sounds like a nice lady.”

  “She is.”

  “My mom used to bake sugar cookies. They were my favorite. I haven’t eaten them since…you know.”

  “You should sometime. Make it a special occasion and do it in her memory.”

  He almost smiled. “I like that. I think she’d like it, too.”

  Shaye polished off the rest of her breakfast and tossed the wrapper in the trash. “Okay, first things first.” She pulled the cell phone she’d bought the night before from her pocket and handed it to him. “This is on my business plan. I need a
way to reach you and vice versa…in case things get hairy. And this gives you an easy way to take pictures and make notes. I’ve put my number in your favorites so it will be easy to reach me.”

  His eyes widened in surprise. “You’re giving me a smartphone?”

  “I considered carrier pigeons, but I didn’t want to clean the cages.”

  His lips quivered, and the smile he’d been holding back finally broke through. It was thin and tiny, but it was there.

  “So,” she asked, “where do you want to start?”

  Hustle’s eyes widened. “Me? I’m no detective.”

  “Maybe not, but you know where Jinx was working and you’re more aware of your surroundings than the vast majority of people walking around. If something or someone is off, you’ll know. Just trust your instincts.”

  He nodded but didn’t look convinced. “Jinx usually set up across from the church.”

  “Then let’s have a look.”

  They headed up the sidewalk to the west side where Saint Louis Cathedral made up one side of the square. The street in front of the enormous church was blocked for automobile passage, so it provided plenty of room for artists to set up shop. Today, row after row of artists lined the street, filling the entire area with paintings, drawings, sculptures, and offerings of palm and tarot readings.

  “What do we do now?” Hustle asked.

  “Let’s just walk around a bit and check everything out. If you see or feel anything funny, let me know.” She looked directly at him. “I mean that. If you feel anything at all you let me know, even if you can’t explain what you’re feeling. Instinct saves lives—you know that. I don’t want you to discount something important simply because I can’t see it.”

  His shoulders relaxed some. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

  They walked among the vendors, Shaye stopping occasionally to look at a piece of art that she found particularly interesting. She picked up business cards from a few people, figuring if she ever had time, she’d commission some paintings for her apartment. She wanted to decorate with local artists’ work. Even Corrine wouldn’t be able to find fault with that artistic vision for her home.

  Hustle glanced at the vendors and stood, shuffling in place, as she spoke with the artists, but his gaze constantly shifted back and forth across the street and the people. Shaye would bet money that if she asked him to draw what he saw, it would be as accurate as a photo. They were stopped at a table displaying decorative skulls when Hustle stiffened. He turned slowly and pulled his cell phone out, pretending to check something, but Shaye heard the click of the camera.

  She wrapped up her conversation with the skull artist and stepped away from the table, Hustle falling in step beside her. “You got something?” she asked.

  “Maybe. I don’t know.” He entered the park and headed behind a hedge, then showed her the picture he’d taken. “I saw that guy talk to Jinx one day in the Quarter. I was going to ask her about it, but I forgot. I saw him again a couple blocks from the dock the day Jinx disappeared.”

  Shaye looked at the image. “The man in the red shirt?”

  “No,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “The other one.”

  Her eyes widened. “The priest?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Holy crap.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  Shaye took a couple of seconds to process the million thoughts she currently had. “Okay, let’s not jump to conclusions. Priests are supposed to help people, especially children, right? So maybe he noticed Jinx was a minor and wanted to make sure she was all right.”

  “Maybe. But what if he’s one of those crazies that hides behind religion?”

  Shaye glanced at the image again and shook her head. “Don’t worry. I’m going to find out which.”

  “Shaye?” The voice sounded behind her, and she and Hustle whirled around.

  “Jackson,” she said, feeling a bit flustered at the sight of him. She’d been wondering when he would contact her, but wasn’t really prepared for a chance encounter.

  “How are you?” he asked, glancing over at Hustle.

  “Fine,” she said. “This is my friend Hustle.” She looked over at Hustle, who’d stiffened.

  Jackson extended his hand. “I’m Jackson Lamotte.”

  Hustle stared directly at Jackson and didn’t move an inch. “You’re a cop,” he said, his tone making it an accusation rather than a statement.

  “He’s different than the others,” Shaye rushed to explain before Hustle took off. “This is the cop who helped Ms. Frederick.”

  “Is that true?” Hustle narrowed his eyes. “You the five-oh that shot the creeper?”

  Jackson glanced at Shaye and must have gathered that the boy was important to her and a flight risk if he said the wrong thing. “That was me,” he said.

  “You get in trouble?” Hustle asked.

  “Not for shooting the creeper,” Jackson replied, “but I caught a good amount of trouble for helping Shaye when the lead detective had told me not to.”

  “He sounds like a dick,” Hustle said.

  Jackson laughed. “He is.”

  Hustle gave him a single nod and finally shook his hand. “I’m glad you saved Ms. Frederick. She seemed like a nice lady.”

  Jackson’s expression cleared in understanding. “You’re the skater that brought her the scarf. I should thank you for helping Shaye with the case.”

  Hustle shrugged. “I didn’t really do nothing.”

  “You gave her important information,” Jackson said, “and a lot of people wouldn’t have gotten involved.”

  “Like I said, Ms. Frederick seemed nice.”

  Recognizing Hustle’s discomfort with the compliments, Shaye shifted the subject. “So, are you down here enjoying the holiday wares?”

  Jackson frowned. “I wish I were. Unfortunately, I’m working.” He looked at Hustle. “Maybe you can help.”

  Hustle put his hands up and stepped back. “I don’t know nothing about nothing, especially no crimes.”

  “It’s not like that,” Jackson said. “A fisherman pulled a boy out of the lake yesterday.”

  “That’s horrible,” Shaye said. “And you think Hustle might be able to identify him?”

  Jackson shook his head. “His prints came up. I talked to his parents this morning, but they haven’t seen him since he ran away six months ago.”

  “He was on the street?” Hustle asked.

  “As far as we know,” Jackson said. “That’s the problem. Since we don’t know where he was, we don’t have a place to start looking for information. I came to the square today hoping I could find some kids who knew him and were willing to talk.”

  Hustle looked over at Shaye, uncertainty written all over his face. She gave him an encouraging nod and he looked back at Jackson. “You got a picture or something?”

  “Yeah. His name was Josh Thibodeaux.” He reached into his back pocket.

  “I don’t know anybody with that name,” Hustle said, “but people on the street don’t usually go by their real name.”

  Jackson handed the printed photo to Hustle, who drew it close to his face and studied it. “This looks like Joker. I mean, Joker looks rougher, but if you grew this guy’s hair out some and gave him a scar above his right eye, then it would be him.”

  Jackson looked excited. “The boy had a scar above his right eye. I noticed it myself.”

  Hustle nodded. “Somebody told me his stepdad clocked him—split his forehead.”

  “That explains a lot,” Jackson said, clearly disgusted.

  “What do you mean?” Shaye asked.

  “Let’s just say his parents didn’t react the way you expect parents should when they find out their child is dead. Vincent said it was shock, but I didn’t think so. I knew it was something else. I just couldn’t put my finger on what.”

  “Did he drown?” Hustle asked.

  Jackson glanced at Shaye, then shook his head. “Someone shot him. We don’t thin
k it was accidental.”

  Hustle’s eyes widened. “You’re talking murder? Joker was murdered?”

  “That’s what we believe. Can you tell me anything about him—what he did for money, where he hung out, who he hung out with?”

  “Oh, man, murdered…I didn’t know him, really, but I think he hung in the Tremé. He was an ace card player. There’s a bunch of musicians there that have regular card games.”

  “You never talked to him?” Jackson asked.

  Hustle shook his head. “I only seen him once. My friend talked to him a couple times. She told me about him.”

  Jackson perked up. “Do you think your friend would talk to me?”

  Hustle’s expression grew dark. “Probably, but she ain’t around.”

  Shaye instincts went on high alert. “Jinx knew Joker?” she asked.

  “Who’s Jinx?” Jackson asked.

  Shaye looked at Hustle. She didn’t want to betray his trust, but at the same time, Jackson’s case had sent her instincts into overdrive. “Is it all right to tell him?” she asked.

  Hustle glanced at Jackson, then back at Shaye. “I guess so.”

  Shaye filled Jackson in on the missing Jinx. He listened intently, glancing over at Hustle every once and a while. When she was done, he blew out a breath.

  “I don’t like it,” he said.

  “You think they’re related?” Shaye asked.

  “Don’t you?” Jackson asked.

  “Shit…yes.”

  Hustle stared at them. “You think the same guy that killed Joker took Jinx? Why?”

  “Call it a feeling, intuition, instinct,” Jackson said, “but I bet we’re right.”

  Hustle nodded. “I can buy that. You don’t make it long on the street without instincts. Shaye’s got good ones.”

  “Yes, she does,” Jackson agreed.

  “So how do we proceed?” Shaye asked.

  “I’ll keep working my homicide. With a body, identification, and a set of parents, however uninterested, my case will stay open until the chief deems it cold.”

  “But you can’t do anything about Jinx?” Hustle asked.

  Jackson looked pained. “No. Not officially. But if Corrine can come up with an identification, then I can try to make a case with my boss.”