Sinister (Shaye Archer Series Book 2)

by Jana DeLeon

“The good citizen, of course. If Bobby was attacking a child, then he left the man no choice. I’ll pray for his soul, but my empathy is with the man who shot him and the child who was attacked.”

  Jackson cocked his head to the side, studying Father Michael. Shaye had been watching him closely during the entire exchange and had found his responses credible, so far, but then more than one disturbed individual had managed to hide in the church.

  “Father Michael,” Jackson said, “I have a big problem. You see, my problem is someone’s been abducting kids and I don’t think Mr. Fuller was working alone. I think he was working for or with someone else, someone who knew the kids who were taken.”

  Father Michael stared. “And you think I am the one he was working for? Is that what this is? You’re accusing me of harming children?”

  “Is it such a leap?” Jackson asked. “Jinx, Joker, Peter Carlin, Bradley Thompson …all of those are children who are missing or dead. You know the only person they all had in common?”

  “Oh no.” Father Michael ran one hand through his hair, clearly panicked. “You’ve got this all wrong. I swear. I can explain, but you have to promise not to tell anyone.”

  “I can’t promise you anything,” Jackson said. “This is a murder investigation.”

  “Of course. Okay. I understand. I just wish…this is not how things were supposed to go.”

  “How about you tell me what you know?” Jackson said.

  “Yes. I know or knew all of the children you mentioned, but I was sent here to protect the children. Not to harm them.”

  “I don’t follow you,” Jackson said.

  “The archbishop was worried about the church’s reputation. You know, with all the things that have happened.”

  “You mean things like protecting pedophiles?” Jackson said.

  Father Michael frowned. “Yes, that’s a big part of it. Anyway, I’ve known the archbishop since I was a baby. He was childhood friends with my father, who is a policeman. He came to me and asked me to go to different churches and make sure nothing untoward was happening.”

  Shaye stared at him in surprise. “You were spying on priests?”

  Father Michael winced. “It sounds awful put that way. I prefer to think of it as protecting the weak and preserving the reputation and purpose of the church.”

  “Regardless of what you want to call it,” Jackson said, “you want us to believe that the archbishop sent you to all these churches to get the dirt on the staff?”

  Father Michael nodded. “He sent me to the churches that he’d heard rumors about.”

  “Including this one?” Shaye asked. “Is Bradley Thompson the latest victim?”

  “Possibly,” Father Michael said. “I called the archbishop tonight and let him know my suspicions.”

  “And what will happen?” Jackson asked.

  “The archbishop will visit and conduct an interview. If he feels the indicated is guilty, he’ll ask him to leave the church of his own accord and request that the local police begin an investigation.”

  “How have you managed to hide what you’re doing from spreading throughout the diocese?” Shaye asked.

  “I suspect when my transfer comes immediately following a police investigation, most assume a cover-up is going on.”

  “They think you’re a perpetrator,” Shaye said. “And that doesn’t bother you?”

  “Of course it bothers me, but it’s a small price to pay if I can help save even one child from abuse. My father saw so much on the job…he thought I didn’t know, but I overheard things, and sometimes I’d catch him crying. I saw the archbishop’s request as a call from God.”

  “This is all very interesting,” Jackson said, “but can you prove everything you’re saying? I’m sure you understand why I can’t just take your word for it.”

  “Of course,” Father Michael said. He grabbed a piece of paper and pen from the table and wrote down a number. “This is the archbishop’s private cell. Given the situation, I’m sure he’ll be willing to tell you what I already have.”

  “There’s nothing more you can tell us about Bobby Fuller?” Shaye asked. “Anything at all about his family or friends? Did he have a fishing cabin? Anything that might help us find the missing children before it’s too late?”

  “He had a cousin that stopped by once to drop him off lunch. I didn’t meet him and only saw him from a distance, but his build and movement was that of a young man, possibly even a teen.”

  “Was he driving a vehicle?” Shaye asked.

  “I didn’t see one. I saw him speaking to Bobby as I was walking home. He had his back to me and walked away from me and around the corner. He could have had a vehicle parked around the block.”

  “How do you know it was his cousin?” Shaye asked.

  “Bobby told me. He was eating lunch on the front porch when I left. I commented on the aroma of the barbecue and he said his cousin had dropped it off for him.”

  “That’s it?” Shaye asked. “You can’t think of anything else?”

  Father Michael shook his head, his dismay apparent. “That exchange was the most words we’d ever spoken to each other. As I said before, he wasn’t much of a talker. I suppose now I have a good reason as to why.”

  “While you worked your street ministry,” Shaye asked, “did you notice anyone else hanging around? Someone you might have seen watching the kids or working nearby? Anyone that gave you pause?”

  “No. I’m sorry. I wish I knew something that could help. The girl, Jinx, is she still missing?”

  Shaye nodded.

  “She was a kind soul,” Father Michael said. “Tough exterior, but she hadn’t been hardened by life yet. I hoped to find an alternative for her that she’d accept. I’ll pray for all of them, and for you.”

  Jackson rose and tucked the paper with the archbishop’s phone number into his pocket. “Thank you for your time, Father.” He pulled a business card out and handed it to the priest. “If you think of anything…anything at all, please let us know.”

  They left the priest’s house and climbed back into Jackson’s car. “Do you believe him?” Shaye asked.

  “Yes, damn it. Which puts us back to square one.”

  “Maybe,” she said and frowned. “The young cousin that Father Michael mentioned…it could have been Rick Rivette. He’s a teen and we know Johnny has interests in the construction business. And I’m certain Rick was lying about knowing who Jinx was. He knew her and he had her skateboard.”

  “Even so, it’s not enough to go after Johnny Rivette, and even if by some miracle of God we could get a warrant, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to be holding the kids at his house. There’s no telling how much property he owns. It could take weeks to run down all the deeds.”

  “And we don’t have weeks.”

  Shaye’s phone buzzed and she pulled it out.

  It wasn’t the same man.

  “It’s from Hustle,” she said, and told him the message.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I think he’s saying it was two different men that attacked him.”

  “They were both wearing a mask. How would he know?”

  Her phone buzzed again.

  The first man held the needle in his left hand.

  Then a second text arrived and panic ran through her.

  I’m going to check something out. Please don’t be mad.

  Shaye showed the phone to Jackson, then texted back.

  Where are you? Don’t do anything without backup.

  She pressed Send and watched as the message was delivered. She stared at the phone, silently willing a response to show, but the message sat, delivered but not read.

  “We have to find him.”

  Jackson shook his head. “We don’t even know where to start.”

  Shaye forced her racing mind to slow down and think. It was possible that the person Hustle was going to check out was someone she’d been in contact with. Someone left-handed. She thought back to her visit w
ith Johnny Rivette. He’d slapped his nephew with his right hand, but Rick had been standing on his right side. She replayed in her mind when she’d pushed her cell phone across the desk to Johnny, and was pretty sure he’d retrieved it with his right hand.

  Then it hit her—the man who’d unlocked a padlock with the key in his left hand.

  She turned to Jackson. “We have to find John Clancy.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Hustle peered around the corner of the building and across the street at John Clancy’s office. It was dark and the padlock was in place, but that didn’t mean no one was watching. If Clancy was the man who’d attacked him and taken Jinx and Scratch, then he knew how to remain hidden better than most.

  He backtracked a block and a half and crossed the street in the middle, where the light from the lamps didn’t meet, then worked his way back up the block to the office, approaching the building from the side. He could pick the lock, but there was a light over the front door. Anyone on the street would be able to see what he was doing, even from some distance.

  When he’d been inside the office, he’d noticed a window behind Clancy’s desk, on the side wall. If he could get it open, that was his opportunity to get inside without being seen. The side of the building was dark, and he could easily duck farther back down the street if he heard a car approaching.

  He crept up to the window and pushed up on it. It held firm, which he expected, so he pulled the long piece of scrap metal he’d taken from the construction site and stuck it under the window ledge, then he pulled down on the metal, using all of his body weight to force it up. He hung there for a moment, then he heard a pop as the ancient latch gave way and the window shot up an inch.

  He pushed the window up, peered inside, and then jumped up, pulling himself through the opening. As soon as he got into the room, he closed the window and pulled out his cell phone to use as a flashlight. He started with the desk. Maybe he wouldn’t find anything, but if Clancy was hiding something, it probably wouldn’t be at his house, which is the first place the police would search. At minimum, he might find other projects Clancy was scheduled to work on—buildings that hadn’t yet been demolished and provided him a place to hold the kids.

  He riffled through the notebook in the top drawer, but it only contained accounting information, and none of the references were other job sites or addresses. The other drawers contained office supplies and coffee mugs. He left the desk and went to the file cabinet, jimmying the lock. The first three drawers held files related to the job—people he paid, instructions for the jobs, and paperwork from the city.

  The bottom one had some parts for heavy equipment and a locked metal box at the bottom. He pulled the box out, figuring it held cash, and picked the lock. He opened the lid and his jaw dropped.

  It was the mask.

  “You’re making this too easy.” The office light came on and John Clancy stepped through a doorway that led to the back of the building and office, a gun leveled at Hustle. “I figured after two failed attempts, I wouldn’t get another chance at you. Not that it matters. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be soaking up sun far away from New Orleans. But since it’s your fault I had to close my business early, it will be nice to take care of this loose thread.”

  “You killed my friends,” Hustle said. “Was I supposed to let that go?”

  “I didn’t kill your friends. I sold them. Unless a buyer screws up, I don’t know what happens to them, and I don’t care. I supply a product.”

  Hustle stared at him. He’d seen awful things done to his mother by her ex-boyfriend and he’d seen worse on the streets, but this man was something beyond anything he’d encountered before. “You’re a monster,” he said.

  Clancy shrugged. “I’m sure some will think so. I consider myself a businessman. I saw a need and filled it. And because the business was off anyone’s radar, the IRS, state, city, and that piece of shit Johnny Rivette couldn’t all take a hunk of it until there was barely anything left for me.”

  “Where is Jinx?”

  “Dead, probably. Or maybe not. She wasn’t bad-looking.”

  “You son of a bitch!” Hustle knew he didn’t stand a chance against the firearm, but none of that mattered because Clancy was going to kill him anyway. Hustle launched himself across the room at him.

  Clancy fired, and Hustle felt the bullet rip through his side. He leaped at the man, tackling him at the waist, flipping them both backward over boxes. Clancy managed to keep hold of the gun and lifted his arm, trying to get another shot off. Hustle straddled him, holding his arm back so that he couldn’t shoot, but he wasn’t going to be able to hold him for long.

  Clancy, who’d been clutching the firearm with both hands, let go with his right hand and clocked Hustle on the side of the head. Hustle’s head exploded in pain and he loosened his grip on Clancy, who managed to yank his arm from Hustle’s grip and push himself backward. Clancy leveled the gun at him.

  Hustle stared at him, his vision blurred. “I’m sorry, Jinx,” he whispered.

  * * *

  Jackson disconnected the call and looked over at Shaye. “Clancy wasn’t home.”

  As soon as Shaye had made the left-handed connection, Jackson called for assistance. A patrol car was only a block away from Clancy’s building and had checked it. They’d gotten no answer, then roused the manager from bed and convinced him to open the door. Clancy wasn’t there, and by the look of the open, emptied drawers, it looked as if he’d packed in a hurry.

  “He’s making a run for it,” Shaye said.

  “We’ll find him. At least Hustle didn’t get to him first.”

  Shaye worked to control her frustration, but she was losing ground fast. Would they catch Clancy? He had a head start and probably had been planning his escape for a long time. He had to know he couldn’t get away with what he was doing for long. Then a thought ran through her mind, and she grabbed Jackson’s arm.

  “Hustle wouldn’t have gone to Clancy’s house. He would have gone to his office.”

  “Where?” Jackson started the car and squealed away from the curb.

  Shaye gave him directions as he wheeled the car around the corner and called for backup to the construction site. She cursed silently, chastising herself for not thinking of it sooner. Sure, at this time of night, a normal person would have been at home asleep, but all signs pointed to Clancy not being normal at all. And Hustle was a kid, not a seasoned investigator. He would have returned to the place he knew Clancy frequented.

  Whatever he was, he’d fooled Shaye, and that pissed her off.

  “No one told me this job would put me in front of so many sociopaths,” she said.

  “That’s the small print no one wants you to know about,” Jackson said. “If you keep taking on criminal cases, you’re bound to run up against evil.”

  “Turn here,” she said. “It’s at the end of the block on the left.”

  “There’s a light on,” Jackson said. He parked halfway down the block and jumped out of the car, his pistol in hand. Shaye pulled her nine millimeter out and followed him down the sidewalk. They were halfway to the building when a shot rang out.

  Jackson sprinted for the building, Shaye right on his heels. When they got to the door, they could hear a scuffle going on inside.

  “Stand back,” Jackson said, and launched himself at the door.

  The door splintered and Jackson fell inside. Shaye ran in behind him just in time to see him lift his pistol and fire at Clancy, who had a gun leveled at Hustle. The bullet hit Clancy in the throat and he dropped the pistol, clutching his throat with both hands. Hustle jumped up and ran over to Clancy.

  “Tell me where she is!” he demanded. “Tell me!”

  Clancy’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth, but all that came out was a gurgle, then blood poured from his mouth and his body went limp.

  “No!” Hustle pounded on the dead man. “You have to tell me!”

  Shaye went over to Hustle and pulled on his arm. “
He’s gone.”

  The teen went still for several seconds, then his shoulders slumped and he started to weep. “He said he sold her. Like a fucking dog. He sold her and now we’ll never know who it was he sold her to.”

  Shaye’s blood ran cold. Of all the things she’d imagined could be happening, that was one that had never crossed her mind. She bent down to try to comfort Hustle and that’s when she saw blood seeping from his side.

  “Hustle, you’re bleeding,” she said. “Were you hit?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said.

  “It does matter,” she said. “Let me see.”

  Jackson, who’d been on the phone with the police, stepped over to them. “An ambulance is on the way. Let us check you out.”

  Hustle rose and started to lift his shirt, then winced. Shaye reached over and gently lifted the fabric away from his side.

  “It’s a flesh wound,” Jackson said. “You were lucky.”

  “Don’t feel lucky. Didn’t find Jinx.”

  “We need to search the office,” Shaye said.

  “I did that,” Hustle said. “Found his mask in the bottom drawer of that file cabinet locked in a metal box.”

  “Where is it?” Shaye asked.

  “I dropped it when I tackled him,” Hustle said. “Should be over there somewhere.”

  Jackson scanned the floor, then got down on his knees and looked under the desk. “Here it is.”

  He rose, holding the box in his hands, and showed it to Shaye.

  She looked at the purple and white and was unable to control the chill that ran through her. Leaning closer, she noticed something underneath. “There’s something under the mask.”

  Jackson grabbed a pencil from the desk, stuck it into the eyehole, and pulled the mask out of the box, placing it on the desk. A piece of paper was underneath.

  “It’s phone numbers,” Jackson said. “Five of them.”

  “You’ve got to let Detectives Grayson and Elliot know,” Shaye said. “One of those people might have paid for Peter Carlin.”

  “I’ll call them now and get a trace on these numbers.” Jackson pulled out his cell phone and Shaye heard him asking for the trace. As he was talking, the paramedics arrived and Shaye helped them with Hustle, who cooperated but barely. He insisted on walking himself to the ambulance, and the paramedics cleaned and put a temporary dressing on his wound.