by Jana DeLeon
Emma hopped into the car and gave it another try. The engine roared to life and she grinned at Jeremy as he closed the hood. “Lifesaver,” she said.
Jeremy smiled. “All this flattery is going to ruin me.”
“I’ve never had that happen before,” Emma said. “Is it common?”
“I wouldn’t say it’s common, but it happens. When was the last time you had the car in for service?”
“Last month. They did an oil change and the usual once-over.”
Jeremy nodded. “Most likely, it got knocked loose. Or someone removed the terminal and didn’t tighten it well when he put it back on. Make sure you get that tightened before you drive it anywhere else.”
“Absolutely! Thanks again, for everything.”
“You have a nice night, Miss Frederick. What’s left of it.”
Emma shut the car door and backed out of the space. She could see Jeremy in her rearview mirror, still standing where she’d left him, watching her drive away. As soon as she rounded the corner, the smile she’d forced for the old security guard vanished and her anxiety shot up another notch.
Maybe Jeremy was right and the terminal was loosened during her last service, but she didn’t really believe that. The service had been over a month ago. What were the chances that it just happened to pick now to pop off? Emma had never been a big believer in coincidence.
It was him.
Clutching the steering wheel, she fought back the anxiety that threatened to take over. She had to remain calm. Scared people made mistakes, and she wasn’t about to become the ditzy heroine who ran back into the spooky house.
Still, when she got to the hotel, she would valet her car. Damn the twenty dollars a day plus tip.
She refused to be scared. But she was going to be careful.
Chapter Four
Shaye hesitated in front of the door to the police station. The morning work crowd hustled down the sidewalks, hurrying to make the nine o’clock shift. Artists, toting their wares, made their way toward Jackson Square, hoping to make some money off the tourists. Everything was so normal, except for the part where she was standing in front of the police station.
Shaye hadn’t been in this building for nine years, and if she was being honest, she didn’t really want to go inside now. But that same honesty forced her to admit that she’d accepted long ago that if she hung her hat out as a private investigator, the odds of her needing to pay the occasional visit to the New Orleans police was going to be high. Before she could find a reason to put it off until after lunch, Shaye pushed the door open and stepped inside.
A bench sat against the wall on the left side. A reception desk stretched across the right side, separating the tiny lobby from a sea of desks occupied by police officers. A lot of New Orleans may be just going to work, but the police station was already jumping. Three drunken young men sat at one desk, their fraternity letters emblazoned on their shirts. One of them caught sight of her and nudged the others, causing them to break out into “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling.” Clearly they’d seen Top Gun one too many times.
Two women, either prostitutes or exotic dancers, sat at another desk, their expressions shifting between anger and boredom. At some desks, people talked in raised voices, maybe a decibel below screaming, while others leaned across the desk, whispering and looking embarrassed.
Shaye scanned the faces for the policeman she’d come to see, but she couldn’t locate him.
An older man with silver hair, what was left of it, studied her over the reception desk. “Can I help you?”
“Uh, yes,” Shaye said. “I’d like to speak to Detective Beaumont.”
“A lot of people would, but he retired last year.”
“Oh.” Shaye was a bit taken aback at first, then she chided herself. Detective Beaumont had sported a full head of gray nine years ago. It shouldn’t be a surprise that he’d retired. Unfortunately, that left her with no one to talk to…no one she trusted, anyway.
“Would you like to talk to someone else?” the sergeant asked.
“I guess so. I’m looking for someone who can talk to me about David Grange’s murder.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You with the paper? Because we don’t just hand out information to reporters.”
“No. I’m a private investigator. I was hired by the deceased’s wife.”
The sergeant raised one eyebrow, his expression clearly shouting “bullshit.”
Shaye reached for her purse and fumbled with her wallet, trying to pull out her ID. Finally, she managed to get the identification out and presented it to him. The sergeant leaned over to look at the card, then looked back up at Shaye.
“You’re a little young, aren’t you?” he asked.
“I’m twenty-four. Some might consider that young, but I’m legit.”
The man shook his head. “Pretty girl like you…why would you want to be a PI? Chasing down cheating husbands and insurance fakers? It’s a thankless job.”
“I’m not looking for thanks. I’m looking for the truth.”
He snorted. “Girl, you got a lot to learn, and I’m betting it’s going to be a bumpy ride. But what the hell do I know? Thirty-two years at this job and I still get up and drive to work every day. I’ll get you someone to talk to.”
He turned around in his chair and yelled, “Vincent! Someone here needs to talk to you.”
A heavyset man with short silver hair and glasses looked over at Shaye and frowned. “Send her back!”
The sergeant turned back around. “That’s Detective Vincent. He was the senior officer on the Grange murder. I’m sure he can help you.” But his tone when he delivered the last statement didn’t instill confidence.
Shaye took a deep breath and walked past the reception desk and into the sea of police officers and criminals, preparing herself for the complete waste of time that talking to Detective Vincent was probably going to be.
As she approached his desk, he grabbed a stack of folders in one of the metal chairs and shoved them into the only bare corner of his desk. He motioned for her to take the seat and plopped back into his chair, glancing at his watch and then his computer screen.
“I’m Detective Vincent,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“My name is Shaye Archer. I’m a private investigator, and I was recently hired by Emma Frederick to look into some things concerning her late husband, David Grange.”
The detective’s eyes widened slightly when she threw out the private investigator part, but he managed to force the bored look back into place. “I don’t know what it is you or the Frederick woman needs to know. The man’s dead and she killed him. From where I sit, it seemed like a good idea. Not sure what more there is to investigate.”
“Ms. Frederick thinks she’s being stalked.”
Vincent sighed and slumped back in his chair. “This again?”
“Are you the officer she spoke to a couple of days ago?”
“I’m afraid so. Look, I listened to everything she had to say, drove to her house, and me and my partner checked every square inch of the place. There was no forced entry, and Ms. Frederick told me she’d changed the locks after the other incident. I can’t make something out of nothing.”
Shaye’s back tightened and she struggled to maintain her cool. “Ms. Frederick saw someone in her house. How can that be nothing?”
Vincent shook his head. “Emma Frederick is a nice woman who went through something horrible. Regular people aren’t prepared to be attacked, much less kill their attacker, especially when they’re married to him. I’d be more worried if she didn’t have some trauma after what she’s been through.”
“You think she imagined it.” No wonder Emma had been so worried that Shaye wouldn’t believe her. Someone was stalking the woman, and the cop who should be trying to figure out who it was didn’t even think there was anything to investigate.
“Of course she imagined it. What other possible explanation is there?”
“I
don’t know. I suppose someone could have been in her house but you failed to find the point of ingress.”
“Got yourself a live one, Vincent,” said a young policeman at the desk next to Vincent’s. He looked at another cop standing next to him and grinned.
Vincent shot them a bored look. “I didn’t fail to find anything because there wasn’t anything to find.”
“Maybe. But I’m being paid to make sure.”
“So make sure. It’s not my dime.”
His dismissive tone was the last straw for Shaye. Since when had the burden of proof shifted to the victim? “And if I find something you missed?”
Vincent’s jaw flexed. “Look, you seem like a nice girl. You should be down in the Quarter, partying with your girlfriends and looking for a husband to get you that piece of the good life.”
Even though she knew he’d said it to get to her, Shaye bristled. “The day I need a man is the day I check myself into a convent.”
Vincent smirked. “But yet you’re here needing something. And I’m a man.”
Shaye smiled. “I’ll acquiesce to the first comment. I’m not convinced of the second.”
“Ooooh.” The other cops sounded off in tandem as Shaye rose from the chair.
“Thank you so much for your time, Detective Vincent. Since that’s all you gave me.” She slung her purse over her shoulder and headed for the exit.
“You go girl,” one of the prostitutes said as Shaye passed. “Don’t take no shit from a man or you’ll end up like me.”
Shaye gave her a nod and picked up her pace, letting the door to the station slam shut behind her. To hell with the cops. Hoping for some help from Detective Beaumont had been a reach to begin with. She had no reason to expect a cop who didn’t even know her to offer up information. Before she’d even said a word to Detective Vincent, she’d expected him to scoff at her profession and the case, but she hadn’t expected the level of derision he’d shown toward her client. Clearly, Vincent had problems with women, and even more of a problem with someone finding out he’d been wrong.
Shaye had every intention of making that potential problem a reality.
###
As the precinct door slammed shut behind Shaye Archer, Detective Jackson Lamotte sat at his desk nearby watching as two rookie cops starting razing Vincent. It wasn’t smart of them. Vincent had rank and could make their jobs miserable, a fact he knew all too well since he’d been partnered with Vincent a year ago. But he couldn’t blame them for their delight. Vincent was a sexist asshole and a lazy cop to boot. Sure, he’d taken down his share of bad guys back in the day, but now he seemed content with cruising straight into retirement on past performance.
Jackson had known exactly how things would go the moment Shaye sat down at Vincent’s desk. At least, he’d known how things would go from Vincent’s end. With her cool demeanor and quick comebacks, Shaye had surprised him. For someone so young, she wasn’t easily intimidated.
He looked out the window and watched as she crossed the street and went into a café. Vincent’s irritated voice sounded behind him as he argued with the rookies. Jackson glanced back and decided the argument would probably take a while, and then Vincent would need a break to recover from his hard morning. Vincent always needed a break, and lately, every morning was hard. Basically, unless dispatch forced Vincent off his desk, Jackson wouldn’t be needed or missed. Maybe when the man retired, Jackson would get to do actual full-time work again. Shuffling paper at his desk was getting old.
He rose from his chair and grabbed his cell phone and wallet out of his desk drawer. No one even looked his direction as he wove in between the desks and made his way out of the precinct.
It was too late for the work crowd and too early for the tourists, so he easily spotted Shaye at a table in the back corner, sipping on a latte. Only one other table was occupied—two old men arguing over gas prices and the best place to get a haircut. They barely nodded as he made his way past them. Shaye, however, was another story. Her gaze locked onto him as soon as he stepped in the café, and never wavered as he walked directly toward her. Her eyes widened for an instant as he stopped at her table, but she recovered quickly.
“Can I help you with something?” she asked.
“No. But I think I can help you.”
She gave him a disgusted look. “Take a hike, perv.”
Jackson let out a single laugh. “Shit. No, that’s not it.” He pulled out his ID and held it out for her to see. “I’m a detective.”
“That’s too bad.”
“There’s days I feel the same way. I heard your exchange with Vincent. Do you mind if I sit down?”
She studied him for a moment, then pointed to the chair. “Suit yourself.”
As Jackson pulled the chair out and sat, a waitress sauntered over and smiled at him. “Your usual, Detective?”
“That would be great,” he said. “Thanks, Christi.”
“First-name basis?” Shaye asked.
“Café…police station. Seems a natural progression.”
“I suppose so.”
Christi returned with a large mug of black coffee and sat it in front of him. He added a packet of the fake stuff and stirred. “About Vincent, I would apologize for his behavior, but I don’t figure you’d care, and he’s not my responsibility.”
Shaye raised one eyebrow. “Honest and direct. That’s something I don’t get often.”
“Yeah, well, I’m lazy and lying requires too much effort.”
Shaye’s lower lip trembled and he could tell she wanted to smile, but he hadn’t completely breached her defenses.
“I’m glad you stopped across the street,” he continued. “I probably wouldn’t have followed you more than a block. Maybe less.”
The smile finally crept through. “So why are you expending so much of your valuable energy pursuing me into coffee shops?”
“Emma Frederick hired you?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me why exactly?”
Normally, Shaye would never give out information about a case, but Detective Lamotte wasn’t just anyone, and given that he’d heard her conversation with Vincent, he already knew most of it. The case part, anyway.
“She’s being stalked.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because she said so. Look, Detective Lamotte—”
“Call me Jackson.”
“Okay, Jackson, I don’t know when the police department’s policy changed from helping victims to mocking them, but I don’t like it. Emma Frederick is a nice woman who is scared to death, and you guys are telling her she’s imagining things.”
He understood her anger, but he didn’t think she was right. Not completely. “In my job, I’m not allowed the luxury of what I believe to be the case. Only what I can prove.”
“Which is a great concept if I were gathering evidence for a murder trial, but my goal is to prevent her from being murdered. Consider my services a preemptive strike.”
“The implication being that the police arrive at the party after it’s already over.”
She held her hands up and tilted her head to the side. “You said it.”
And unfortunately, there was a huge element of truth in the statement. Cops rarely actively prevented crime. They investigated it. Past tense. But if someone had the means to hire a private investigator, they could go on the offensive. “I’ll be the first to agree that having someone check into things gives Ms. Frederick an advantage most don’t have. But I also know more about the situation than you do. You see, Detective Vincent is my partner.”
“And you’re sitting here with me. Are you trying to piss him off?”
“Not directly, but if that’s a side effect of our conversation, I’m okay with it.”
She smirked. “We can both agree on that. Have you been partners long?”
“A year, but it feels like a ten-year journey through hell.”
“I can imagine. Did you work David Grange’s murder
?”
Jackson nodded. “And I checked out Ms. Frederick’s house after she came in and claimed someone had been inside the night before.”
Shaye shifted in her chair, and Jackson could tell she was dying to let a million questions fly, but she was still playing it cool. He had to give her credit. She was doing a credible job of it.
“Is it like Vincent said?” she finally asked.
“Yeah. Not that he knows firsthand, mind you. He pretty much stood around in the living room and nodded. I did all the heavy lifting.”
“And there’s no way someone broke in?”
“There’s always a chance. Locks aren’t perfect. With the right tools, an expert could be inside in a second. But…”
“Nothing was stolen, so that lets out professional thieves, and locksmiths don’t usually let themselves in strangers’ houses simply to terrorize them.”
“Pretty much. None of the windows had been messed with, and I couldn’t see signs of tampering on the door locks, either. A pro wouldn’t leave signs, but most break-ins aren’t conducted by pros. No footprints in the backyard, and we’d had heavy rain earlier that evening. The backyard is covered with shade trees, so grass is at a premium. There’s no way to get to the back door without leaving footprints across the lawn.”
“So he entered through the front door.”
“If he entered, that’s the only option that I can see, but it’s not a great one. The front porch is visible by at least eight houses on the block, and Emma herself said she always leaves the porch light on.”
Shaye sighed. “You don’t believe her either.”
“I believe Emma thinks someone was in her house that night. I believe she thinks she’s being stalked, and she may be right.”
“But?”
“But if someone is stalking her, there’s no way it’s her husband. David Grange is dead. I saw the body myself, and trust me, no one comes back from a severed carotid. Not after he’s bled for as long as he did. I understand you believing that Emma is being stalked. She’s your client and it’s your job to take her at her word unless you have good reason not to. But given the evidence, you can’t possibly believe her stalker is David Grange.”
