by Jana DeLeon
He dialed the police department, and the desk sergeant answered. “Hey, this is Lamotte. I need you to do me a favor.”
“I thought you were out sick.”
“I am, but I was doing some research at home and my Internet’s crappy. There’s a boy that died last month. I want you to see if we have anything on him.”
“Give me the name?”
Jackson gave him the name and heard the sergeant typing.
“You still working the kid case?” the sergeant asked.
“Yeah, but it’s going nowhere fast. I’m starting to grasp at straws.”
“Sometimes that’s all we have. Hold on, something’s coming up. Well, what do you know…maybe this is one of those straws that has meaning.”
“You got something?”
“Says here the kid committed suicide.”
* * *
Shaye pulled up to the curb on a less-than-reputable-looking street in the Holy Cross section of the Lower Ninth Ward and Hustle jumped inside. “Your ankle hurting?” she asked, as she’d observed him limping as he made his way over to her car.
“A little,” he said. “I probably overdid it, but I wanted to get there fast, you know, and I didn’t know if you’d be available. When it started hurting too much, I stopped and called you. It’s feeling better now.”
Shaye nodded. She understood the often irrational desire to take immediate action, even when it wasn’t in your best interest physically or mentally. With help from Eleonore, she’d learn to recognize and control those urges…most of the time. Although she supposed given her excursion this morning, Jackson would have claimed differently.
“What did the clinic say about your ankle?” she asked.
“It’s a sprain. Not even a bad one. Should be all right in a week or so.”
“If you rest it.”
“Yeah, they might have said that too.”
He almost managed to sound contrite, and she groaned internally. “God, I’m starting to sound like my mother. Okay, enough about your ankle. Tell me about the skateboard.”
Hustle filled her in on what Reaper saw in the pawnshop window. Shaye punched the address into the GPS.
“He didn’t know for sure if it was Jinx’s board?” she asked as she pulled away.
“No, but the description sounded like hers, and I ain’t seen one like it before Jinx.” He stared out the window and frowned. “Reaper said maybe that guy didn’t get Jinx. That maybe she sold the board and cut out.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t think Jinx would have left without saying something. But maybe I’m fooling myself.”
“I don’t think you are. Look, I found out some things about Jinx last night. I didn’t tell you because you already had enough going on and this morning, I had that, uh, meeting to get to.”
“What things?”
“My mom found Jinx’s aunt. She’s here in New Orleans, and I went to see her yesterday.” Shaye told Hustle about Cora’s search for her sister and niece and how she lost track of Jinx, but left out the worst details of Jinx’s life with her mother. That was for Jinx to tell.
“Cancer.” Hustle shook his head. “That sucks. She’s going to be all right, though?”
“She’s really weak from the chemo, but she’s in remission. And she’s determined to give Jinx a stable home.”
Hustle nodded and was silent for several seconds. “What did you think of her?” he finally asked.
“I liked her. She’s smart and strong and she cares about Jinx. She has the money and the time to give Jinx a good life.”
“That’s cool. Jinx deserves it. She’s a good person. I just hope we find her.”
“We’re not going to stop looking until we do.”
He gave her a grateful look. “Yeah.”
“Here’s the place,” Shaye said as she parked.
The street the pawnshop was located on looked like a war zone. Hardly any of the buildings were fit for occupancy, and the ones that still had four walls standing were so damaged the repairs would cost more than they were worth. A scattered few still had signs for businesses, but there were no pedestrians around. It was the sort of place Shaye would normally avoid in the daylight and the dark, but if there was a chance the pawnshop held a clue that could lead to finding Jinx, then it was worth the risk.
As they got out of the SUV, Shaye thought about Jackson’s comments on her vehicle, and although she’d been slightly annoyed at the time, what he’d said made good sense. Right now, she could have used a nondescript, lower-end automobile, and as soon as she had a chance, she was going to purchase one. They walked over to the storefront and Hustle pointed to the skateboard in the window.
“It’s Jinx’s board,” Hustle said, his voice registering his excitement. “It’s got a deep scratch on the back where she slid across some glass one time. What the hell is it doing here?”
Shaye shook her head. “I don’t know. Let’s go find out.”
She pushed open the door to the pawnshop and headed for the counter. A stocky guy, about thirty years old and maybe six feet tall, gave them the once-over as they approached.
“You looking to buy or sell?” he asked as she stepped up to a glass counter filled with jewelry.
“I’m interested in the skateboard in the window,” Shaye said.
“Fifty bucks,” the guy said.
“Where did you get it?” Shaye asked.
The guy narrowed his eyes at her. “I bought it. Same as everything else in here.”
Shaye pulled out her PI license and showed it to the man. “That board belongs to a missing girl. I’d like to know who sold it. You keep records for the IRS, right?” She doubted most of the purchases ever hit any sort of accounting record, but sometimes even a mention of the IRS had people offering information just so she’d go away.
“This ain’t a business selling information. Our customers want privacy, and that’s what I give them.”
“I can appreciate that. The New Orleans police are looking for the girl, too. I probably ought to let them handle it.”
The guy shuffled around a bit. “Hey, how about I give you the seller’s name and you take the board…on the house.”
Shaye held in a smile. “That’s very generous of you.”
The guy smirked and went to retrieve the skateboard. He handed it to Shaye.
“Are you going to check your records?” she asked.
“Don’t need to,” he said. “The seller was Rick Rivette.”
Hustle stiffened, and Shaye knew he recognized the name. “Did he tell you where he got it?” Shaye asked.
“No. And I didn’t ask.”
“Part of your policy?”
He smiled. “Seems like a good one.”
Shaye nodded. “Thanks for the board and the info.”
He turned around and walked into an office behind the counter, not bothering to respond. Shaye headed outside, Hustle right on her heels. Before he even shut the door to her SUV, Hustle was already ranting.
“That piece of shit, Rick Rivette!” Hustle clenched his hands. “If he hurt Jinx, I swear to God…”
“Slow down. We don’t know how he came to have the board. Tell me who he is.”
“Johnny Rivette’s nephew. He’s sixteen or seventeen and nothing but a thug.”
Shaye frowned. The name sounded familiar but she couldn’t place why. Then suddenly it hit her. “Johnny Rivette was arrested for racketeering, but the prosecutor couldn’t make the case.”
“That’s the one. New Orleans’s own godfather, ’cept he’s not big enough to run the French Quarter. He just lords over this side—Bywater, the Ninth Ward.”
Shaye looked down the street and bit her lower lip. The situation was far less than optimal. One didn’t just accost a gangster’s nephew and start demanding information. On the other hand, Rick was the only lead they had. She considered her options and finally settled on the play she thought would work best.
“Do you know where t
o find Johnny Rivette?” she asked.
His eyes widened. “Are you shitting me?”
“I wish I were.”
He shook his head. “You can’t just walk up on Johnny Rivette and get information out of him like you did that pawnshop guy. Rivette ain’t afraid of no police or the IRS. The devil himself probably couldn’t even get Rivette to flinch.”
“I don’t plan on threatening him. I’m hoping he’ll give me the answers I want out of the goodness of his heart.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “Man, I don’t know what you been smoking but if you think he’ll tell you something, then I ain’t gonna stop you. He has a place in Bywater in one of the old warehouses. I think he lives there. I’m sure he does business there.”
“You know where it is?”
“Yeah, I can show you.”
“Then let’s get going. We’re burning daylight.”
Chapter Twelve
Corrine pushed open the door to the police department and rushed inside, Eleonore right behind her.
“Ms. Archer.” The desk sergeant jumped up to greet her. “They’re waiting for you in the conference room. Let me take you back.”
Corrine glanced over at Eleonore as they walked down the hallway and into a conference room that already contained Police Chief Bernard and a man and woman Corrine didn’t recognize. They went silent when Corrine and Eleonore entered the room.
“Has something happened to Shaye?” Corrine asked. “Someone tell me something?”
It couldn’t be about Pierce. Corrine had talked to her father just fifteen minutes before she’d gotten the call from the police, asking her to come down to the station.
The chief shot a dirty look at the other man, then looked back at Corrine. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Archer. Nothing has happened to Shaye. That should have been conveyed to you when you were requested to come here.”
“I don’t understand,” Corrine said. “Whoever I talked to said it was important that I get here right away.”
“And it is,” Chief Bernard said. “Please, won’t you sit down and let us explain. This is Detective Grayson, who didn’t do a very good job when he spoke to you, and this is Dr. Melissa Wells, our medical examiner.”
Corrine shot at look at Eleonore as they took seats at the conference table. She didn’t need to spell things out for her friend. When the chief of police calls you in for a meeting with him, a detective, and the medical examiner, something was seriously wrong. Chief Bernard took a seat across the table from Corrine and Eleonore, and Grayson and Wells followed suit. All of them kept glancing at one another. Corrine felt her back tighten. Whatever was going on, she wished they’d just spit it out.
Chief Bernard opened a folder and looked across the table at Corrine. “Ms. Archer, do you know a woman by the name of Lydia Johnson?”
Corrine slowly shook her head. “It doesn’t sound familiar, but over the years, I’ve seen hundreds of people, if not more.”
“I understand,” Chief Bernard said. “I don’t think she was a client of yours, but I wanted to verify whether or not you knew her before I explained the situation.”
“Please,” Corrine said. “I can tell something is wrong. Just tell me. As long as my family is safe, I can deal with anything else.”
Chief Bernard nodded. “Two days ago, paramedics responded to a 911 in the Lower Ninth Ward. A woman’s body was found in an alleyway, a needle in her arm. She was already dead when the paramedics arrived, and no ID was on the body. The body went to the morgue and police canvassed the area with photos to see if they could get an ID on her. When her body was processed by the medical examiner, her DNA was entered into our database.”
“You use it to match missing persons,” Corrine said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Chief Bernard said. “Detective Grayson located a bartender who identified the woman as Lydia Johnson. In a kitchen drawer where she lived, officers found an expired driver’s license that provided a physical match.”
“I don’t understand what all this has to do with me,” Corrine said.
Chief Bernard glanced over at the medical examiner. “We also got a hit on her DNA. It wasn’t a hundred percent match, but it indicated a strong familial relationship. I’m sorry to tell you this, but Lydia Johnson was Shaye’s mother.”
Corrine gasped and her left hand flew over her mouth. Eleonore grabbed her other hand and squeezed. “Oh my God,” Corrine said as she looked back and forth between the medical examiner and Chief Bernard. “You’re sure?”
Chief Bernard looked at the medical examiner, who cleared her throat.
“Given the circumstances, I ran the tests three times to be certain,” Dr. Wells said. “I’m positive the tests are correct, and given the strength of the match, I have no doubt that Ms. Johnson is Shaye’s mother.”
“When Dr. Wells called me with her findings,” Chief Bernard continued, “I sent my detectives back to Ms. Johnson’s house to do a more thorough search.” He pulled an old piece of wrinkled paper out of the folder and pushed it across the table to Corrine. “They found this.”
Corrine pulled the paper over in front of her and stared down at it. “It’s a hospital record.”
She ran her fingers over the worn document.
Baby Johnson
Mother Lydia Rose Johnson
Father Unknown
Born August 5, 1991
Corrine choked back a cry. “She didn’t even name her.”
“I’ve already checked birth records,” Chief Bernard said. “There’s no record of Lydia Johnson giving birth. The detectives also found this.” He pushed a yellowed photograph over to Corrine.
The girl in the picture was probably two years old, but there was no doubt in Corrine’s mind that it was Shaye. The eyes, chin, and nose were the same even today. Tears welled up in her eyes and she felt Eleonore’s arm slip around her shoulders as they started to fall.
“But Shaye was educated,” Corrine said. “She knew how to read. Knew basic math.”
“Schools in the Lower Ninth probably would have let her in without any records,” Chief Bernard said. “There are lots of home births in the ward. Not a lot of recordkeeping. We’ll attempt to locate school records, but I wouldn’t expect much with the damage from Katrina.”
“I appreciate anything you can find,” Corrine said.
“You can keep those documents,” Chief Barnard said. “I’ve made copies for our records.”
“Thank you.”
Chief Barnard glanced at Detective Grayson. “There’s something else that is likely to arise. I’ve issued a gag order on my department and Dr. Wells has done the same, but the likelihood of this remaining a secret is probably slim.”
Corrine’s stomach turned and resentment coursed through her. “And everyone will be dissecting Shaye’s life all over again.”
“I’m so sorry,” Chief Barnard said. “What you’ve accomplished with Shaye is extraordinary. She’s a remarkable young woman and I wish she didn’t have to deal with what’s coming. I know processing through this will be hard, but if you need anything at all, please let me know.”
“Thank you for giving this your personal attention and for attempting to keep it confidential,” Corrine said. “If that’s all, could I please have a moment alone with Eleonore?”
“Of course.” Chief Barnard rose from his chair and ushered the detective and medical examiner out of the room.
Corrine managed to hold it together until the door closed behind them, then she collapsed onto the table, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.
“You’ve faced worse than this,” Eleonore said, her arm draped across Corrine’s shoulders. “We always knew this day might come.”
“What if she remembers?” Corrine cried. “What if her mother is the one that did all those things to her? Or allowed them to happen? Same thing.”
“Shaye can handle it.”
Corrine choked back a cry and rose up to look at Eleonore. “You can promise that?”
> “Yes, I can, and you know I would never lie to you. Shaye is so much stronger than I think either of us knows. We’ll handle this, the three of us. Just like we have everything else. One day at a time, Corrine. We’ll get through it one day at a time.”
Corrine leaned over to hug her friend. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“That makes two of us.”
* * *
Jackson entered the police station, and the desk sergeant gave him a once-over.
“I thought you were sick,” the desk sergeant said.
“I started feeling better,” Jackson said as he scanned the room, praying that for once Vincent had found something to do outside of the station. The room was oddly empty, only a couple of officers at their desks. “Where is everyone?”
“Vincent’s out to lunch and to ‘look into’ some leads on your case, which in my estimation means he’s hitting the casino after he eats his way through enough food for three people. Everyone else is probably holed up in closets and break rooms discussing the latest news.”
“What happened?”
The desk sergeant glanced around and leaned toward Jackson. “We’re on gag order, so no repeating this.”
“Yeah, sure.” Probably another illegal indiscretion by a local politician. He looked up as the hallway door opened and gave a start when Corrine Archer rushed by him, closely guarded by Eleonore Blanchet.
Shit. It must be something involving Pierce Archer.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Jackson motioned to the desk sergeant to continue.
“Cops brought a junkie to the morgue couple days ago. Turns out it was Shaye Archer’s mother.”
Jackson straightened as if he’d been slapped. “They’re sure?”
“The medical examiner has been in the chief’s office all morning. Grayson and his men searched her apartment and brought some stuff back with them. Chief Bernard wouldn’t have called Corrine Archer to the station unless he was sure.”
A million thoughts ran through Jackson’s mind, and all of them concerned Shaye and how she was going to take the news. “This is going to get out,” he said.
