by Jana DeLeon
Eleonore shrugged. “I know my limitations. I tried to handle it my way but when I picked up the bottle again, I knew I needed more than what I and my addiction therapist could provide.”
“Fine. You’ve convinced me. But I want to be official. That way I’ll stay focused. So let’s make an appointment and I’ll go to your office for a session, just like all your other clients.”
“Good. Then I can bill you just like all my other clients.”
Corrine laughed, then the real reason for her malaise crept back into her mind and she sobered. “I think Shaye is hiding something. I know you can’t tell me what you guys talk about, but you’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”
“Yes. And even if confidentiality didn’t apply, I couldn’t tell you what is going on with her right now anyway as she hasn’t spoken to me about it.”
“But she’s keeping up her sessions?”
Eleonore nodded. “I’m just agreeing with you that she’s distracted by something she’s not yet talking about.”
Corrine bit her lower lip. “If she’s not talking about it to you, it’s bad.”
“Not necessarily. Shaye is an adult now. She’s trying to handle more on her own. Perhaps she’s simply seeing if she can sort things out herself without relying on my help. If it looks like whatever she’s mulling over starts to burden her, then I’ll press her on the matter.”
“You don’t think there’s anything wrong between her and Jackson, do you?”
“No way. She lights up if I just say his name. That man is the third-best thing that ever happened to her, and if he keeps it up, he might knock me out of second place.”
Some of the tension in Corrine’s shoulders dissipated. “I didn’t want to like him—cop and all—but it’s impossible not to. She’s happy with him and it’s genuine. More importantly, she trusts him, and I was afraid that was something that might never happen.”
“It’s a good thing, and he’s very smart about the relationship. He gives her space to let him in rather than pushing. He accommodates her quirks without question or hesitation. And he protects her without being overbearing. I think she made an excellent choice. I don’t think we could have done better if we’d built a man from scratch.”
“If we could build perfect men from scratch, we wouldn’t be sitting here drinking cocoa.”
“I’m pretty sure the perfect man has already been built. She’s called ‘woman’ but you keep turning down my offers of marriage.”
“You snore. Besides, I don’t want to live with anyone who might want to borrow my shoes.”
Eleonore laughed. “One day, Corrine. One day the right man will turn up in your life, and you’ll be completely dumbstruck by it. I, for one, can’t wait to see it.”
“Really? And you’re what—gunning to be the cat lady?”
“I’m allergic to cleaning litter boxes. But I’m open to the idea that there’s a man somewhere who could tolerate all my bad habits and still want to be around me for extended periods of time.”
“You make it sound so romantic.”
“Romance and love are two different things.”
“So true. Well, for the moment, we can be happy that Shaye has both.”
Eleonore lifted her cocoa in salute. “Here’s to it lasting.”
Shaye spent the rest of the afternoon talking to residents in the apartment building where the murder occurred and then headed back to her apartment to do administrative work on the case. Three couples resided on the same floor as the empty unit but none of them shared a wall, and none saw or heard anything. The rest of the interviews went along the same lines—no one heard anything at the time of the murder, and the only people they saw in the building that night were other residents. One resident thought he saw Jason that night, which didn’t fit with his claim that he’d left work at five thirty, but the resident also agreed that he might have been wrong as he’d only seen the person in question from the back.
The manager of the tow truck company told her no vehicles had been towed for over a week, so that eliminated the car as a means of identification. Given how careful the killer had been about everything in the apartment, she doubted he would have overlooked the problems a vehicle with an expired parking ticket might create, but it was still a box that needed to be checked off. Now she would move forward under the assumption that the victim had ridden with the killer to the building or had been close enough to walk.
She’d also run background checks on Trenton Cooper, Jason Parks, and Danny Suarez. Cooper had a clean record and had indeed purchased a small plantation earlier that year, but a quick satellite view of the place showed her that it would be easy for him to be in residence and for no one else to know. The property was in the middle of a ton of wooded acreage, and the lake that butted up against it only had a couple of houses with direct access. And even if someone had seen Cooper in town that day, it still didn’t mean he didn’t drive back to New Orleans that night. His home in New Orleans was a historical in the Garden District, not too far from Corrine’s. Shaye made a note to ask her mother if she knew the Realtor.
The only tidbit of dirt she could find was an accusation of abuse by a woman who claimed she used to date the Realtor, but she couldn’t offer any proof and had no injuries, so no charges could be pressed. A tiny article with the story appeared in a local newspaper, but it was the only black spot she could find. Still, a woman with an abuse claim was interesting. She’d checked the woman as well and found she’d gone on to marry a local doctor. If the other angles of investigation didn’t yield a solid lead, Shaye planned on arranging a chat with Cooper’s accuser.
Parks, the maintenance guy, had some minor items—a DUI and petty theft—but they were a couple years back and it looked as though he’d been clean since then. But the check had yielded one curious item. Parks’s address was listed in a rundown area of the Seventh Ward. The property was registered to a Cora Parks, his mother. But Cora Parks had passed away a year ago and the property had been condemned by the city shortly thereafter. Which made her wonder where Parks lived now. Perhaps Cooper’s insinuation that the maintenance man was living in empty units wasn’t a big stretch.
Danny Suarez had a sealed juvenile record, but based on his adult one, Shaye had a good guess as to what it might contain. Suarez was a confirmed pothead. Either the parking lot company didn’t test or Suarez was a pro at getting around such things. He lived with his parents in a middle-class area of Uptown. Shaye wasn’t ready to eliminate anyone from her suspect list completely, but she put Danny at the bottom. She’d never known a pot smoker who had a rage issue. Most were too chill to do more than change the television channel. Not saying it couldn’t happen, but she wasn’t betting money on this time being the case.
She saved her notes on the three men and leaned back in her chair. On paper, Cooper and Parks were both decent suspects. Both had access to the apartment and neither had an alibi for Friday night. Means and opportunity were covered. The problem was motive. Based on all the reading she’d done on serial killers, Shaye knew there was no one kind. They didn’t share the same motivations and thought processes any more than the average sane individual did. And doctors had mixed opinions on how their minds got to that point and whether or not they could be treated.
Shaye believed serial killers fell into two camps—those who were born and those who were created. Based on the case studies she’d read, she absolutely believed that some people were born without a conscience. John Clancy might have been one of those people. The way he’d callously sold human beings, even young children, knowing full well what was likely to happen was something that most people didn’t have the stomach for. Maybe there was something in Clancy’s past that had stripped him of his feelings, but maybe he’d been that way since the day he took his first breath.
Other serial killers were made, usually by extreme abuse most often suffered at the hands of their parents or someone connected to them. If the abuse allegation against Cooper was true,
then it might indicate a problem with women. Everything Shaye could find on Parks indicated he’d lived with his mother in less than optimum circumstances. And she’d died recently. It could have been the catalyst that sent him over the edge. So motive could be as simple as some emotional damage that tied directly to women. Prostitutes were easy targets, so perhaps it was simply an efficient choice.
The problem she had was that for either of them to choose a location for a murder that would be tracked directly back to them was the height of stupidity. That didn’t automatically mean they were innocent. If private investigating had taught Shaye one thing it was that most criminals either weren’t that bright—and thank God for that—or were so egotistical they thought they wouldn’t get caught.
So the only thing she had to go on was her gut, and right now, it wasn’t telling her anything one way or another. She’d found Parks pleasant enough, if not a little nervous, but that could be for a number of reasons that had nothing to do with being a murderer. Cooper was every bit as defensive and abrasive as she’d expected him to be, but being a douche wasn’t a crime.
She glanced outside as the last of the sunlight disappeared and the streetlights blinked on. Time for the next round. She opened her desk drawer and pulled out her nine-millimeter. When she’d first started investigating, she’d been assigned mostly insurance cases and hadn’t bothered with a gun. But now she didn’t leave home without it. Her martial arts training was great, but it wasn’t a good defense against a bullet. And these days, it seemed that everyone was carrying.
Tonight, it was especially important that she stay alert because the area of town she was going to wasn’t exactly the shopping district. But she needed to figure out who the victim was and without a body, she had to find someone who knew the woman was missing. If the victim was a working girl and Shaye could find her regular area, then other girls might have noticed that she wasn’t around.
She shoved her gun in her waistband, grabbed her car keys, and headed out. There was a lot of ground to cover and no way she could get to it all in one night, but she was going to talk to as many people as she could. Hopefully, one of them would know something.
The first area was a couple blocks from the apartment building. She started there using the theory that the woman had walked to the building or the perp had picked up a victim close to the building to minimize the potential of being seen with her. Cameras were a growing part of every urban area, and the smart move would be to avoid as many as possible if he’d picked the woman up in his automobile.
At the first location, she found two women who were willing to talk, but neither of them could think of anyone they knew fitting the description Shaye gave and who had recently gone missing. Shaye thanked them for their help and headed to the next stop.
Three hours later, she pulled up to what would probably be her last round of the night. It had been a long day. She was getting tired, and the areas she was covering were the kind of places you needed to visit when you were firing on all cylinders. Tired was weak, and the slightest sign of weakness was an opportunity to become a victim.
There were two women standing in front of a bar at the last location. Shaye parked in the first available spot on the street and made her way back to where the women were standing. One was a tall, curvy black woman. The other was blonde and white and stick-thin. They both gave her wary looks as she approached. She pulled out her ID and showed it to them, but they barely glanced at it.
“You 5-0?” the blonde asked.
“She’s private,” the black woman said. “But they all in bed together.”
“I’m not in bed with anyone,” Shaye said. “I’m working for a private client who witnessed a woman being attacked last Friday night.”
The black woman lifted an eyebrow. “Sounds like a job for the cops…oh wait, they don’t actually do anything.”
“The police did investigate,” Shaye said, “but by the time they arrived, the crime scene had been cleaned.”
“So what do you want from us?” the blonde woman asked. “If that woman got hurt and wanted the cops to know about it, she would have told them herself.”
“Not if she wasn’t able to,” Shaye said.
The blonde woman’s eyes widened. “You think somebody got killed?”
“It’s possible,” Shaye said. “But no body has turned up and no one has filed a missing persons report for someone fitting the description of the victim.”
The black woman stared at her for several seconds. “So you out here walking the streets at night because you think one of us got capped? You trying for sainthood or something? Wait…I know you. You’re that rich white woman that crazy man held hostage. You busted that asshole selling kids.”
The blonde woman whipped around and stared at Shaye. “It is you. I didn’t recognize you with the ball cap. Didn’t read your ID.”
Shaye hesitated for a moment, wondering whether her identity helped or hindered her ability to get information out of the two women. Finally, honesty won out. “Yes. I’m Shaye Archer.”
The black woman nodded. “Name’s Shonda. This is Louise.”
Louise’s eyes widened. “You gave our real names.”
“It’s okay,” Shonda said. “She ain’t trolling the streets trying to bust us for something. If she said a girl was hurt then I believe her. What can you tell us?”
Shaye gave them Madison’s description of the woman. As she talked, they glanced at each other and Louise bit her lower lip.
“That sounds like Carla,” Louise said, shooting Shonda a worried look. “I told you she didn’t go back to Rattler.”
“Well, how was we supposed to know that?” Shonda asked. “That fool been back and forth with that asshole for a year now.”
“Carla fits the description I gave you?” Shaye asked.
“Oh yeah,” Shonda said. “Down to that outfit. I helped her pick out them shoes. I ain’t got the balance for those high heels, but Carla was graceful like.”
“When was the last time you saw her?” Shaye asked.
“That night about ten,” Louise said. “We was all working.”
“Did you see who she left with?” Shaye asked.
“No,” Louise said. “Shonda and me both had regulars come by. By the time I got back, Carla was gone. Shonda came back after that. Since Carla never came back that night, we figured she’d either hooked a live one or called it quits. It was a slow night.”
“And you never saw her again after that?” Shaye clarified.
They both shook their heads.
“Does she have a cell phone?” Shaye asked.
“One of them prepaid jobs,” Shonda said. “I called the number but it doesn’t go through. Lots of times, she didn’t have the money for service.”
“Did she have a car?” Shaye asked.
Shonda snorted. “Can’t afford no car on what we make. We use the bus. If it’s a good night, we take a cab home. If not, it’s a long walk in uncomfortable shoes. I gotta ass you can bounce quarters on, though.”
“Not me,” Louise said. “I just got blisters.”
“I’d probably have blisters as well,” Shaye said, and pulled out her phone to make notes. “What can you tell me about me about Carla? Do you know her full name?”
“Carla Downing,” Louise said.
“Where did she live?” Shaye asked.
“She usually stayed at the Franklin Motel when she and Rattler was on the outs,” Shonda said. “I didn’t ask, but I assumed she was there this time.”
“Did you try calling the motel for her?” Shaye asked.
“I did,” Louise said, “but some guy told me they can’t give out information about their guests. I didn’t figure it would make a difference if I went there.”
“Probably not,” Shaye said. “What about this Rattler? Do you know his real name? Can you tell me where he lives?”
“Don’t know his real name,” Louise said. “Everyone calls him Rattler on account of the snakes. He’s
always got one wrapped around his arm. Real creepy.”
“He’s straight up crazy is what he is,” Shonda said. “I don’t know where he stays. Somewhere in the Ninth Ward is all I know.”
“Does he have a job?” Shaye asked.
Shonda snorted. “If you call slinging coke for the Gravediggers a job, then yeah.”
Shaye stiffened. Everyone in New Orleans had heard of the Gravediggers, mostly from the evening news. And none of it was good. They were the most violent motorcycle gang in the city, and there was no shortage of bodies attached to the members.
“What does Rattler look like?” Shaye asked.
“Besides creepy?” Louise asked. “Tall, skinny, brown hair. Nothing to look at really.”
“That’s true enough,” Shonda said. “If he didn’t have that snake, probably no one would give him a second glance.”
“What about tattoos?” Shaye asked.
They both nodded. “He got them on both arms,” Shonda said, “and something on his back. I only seen part of it at the top of his shirt.”
“None on the face?” Shaye asked.
“No,” Louise said, “although it might be an improvement.”
“Ha,” Shonda said. “Ain’t no improving on that one. He’s bad straight to the bone. I always said things was gonna end bad for Carla if she didn’t leave that one alone.”
“She said she was done with him for real this time,” Louise said.
“She been saying that ever since the night she hooked up with him,” Shonda said.
Louise frowned. “I know, but this time felt different. There was something about the way she looked and sounded that made me think maybe it was true this time. You think he killed her?”
“I don’t know what happened,” Shaye said, “but I’m going to try to find out.”
“But he look like the guy your witness saw, right?” Shonda asked.
“My witness didn’t see much,” Shaye said. “He was tall and lean with brown hair, but he wore pants and a coat, so she couldn’t see his arms. She can’t describe his face, so it leaves things a little open on that end.”
