by Jana DeLeon
“I’m afraid so,” Shaye said. “A fisherman found her near Lake Pontchartrain. The good news is, since they have a body, and it’s clearly murder, there’s an official investigation now.”
“Whatever,” Shonda said. “You think they going to take this seriously? One dead hooker and one missing ain’t even going get five minutes of police time.”
Shaye understood Shonda’s frustration, and in a city with a lot of crime to investigate, she also knew some crime took priority over others.
“I think this time is different,” Shaye said. “The city is worried about public perception more than ever.”
Shonda laughed. “The short version being serial killers ain’t good for business.”
“They just worried about losing the tourists with their big wallets,” Louise said.
Shonda sighed. “We ain’t no better. Who do you think we taking money from? Ain’t all of ’em local.”
“Look,” Shaye said, “I know you don’t have much reason to like cops and even less reason to trust them, but I know the investigating officer. His name is Detective Maxwell and I told him about you two. He’s not interested in busting you for anything, but don’t be surprised if he comes around to talk to you. I can’t make you speak to him, but I wish you would.”
“If you already told him everything,” Louise said, “why do we need to tell it again?”
“Because it’s secondhand information,” Shonda said. “She might have gotten something wrong or forgotten something we said.”
“That’s absolutely correct,” Shaye said, “and to be honest, after everything that happened with me, I’m not exactly on the police department’s list of favorites. I wouldn’t blame Detective Maxwell if he tried to avoid putting my name in his reports.”
Shonda snorted. “Typical. Blame the victim. Like anything that happened was your fault. Hell, girl, you got the worst of it. Fuck the cops. They don’t know. They didn’t live it. I saw all the news stories. I figure compared to the things you gone through, hooking is a trip to Disney.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Shaye said. “What you do is very hard. And very dangerous. Now more than ever. Are you sure you can’t think of anyone you’ve seen Carla with lately that raised any red flags? Any repeat customer?”
“I wish we had,” Shonda said. “Me and Louise done spent every minute we standing here trying to come up with something, but we got a whole lotta nothing.”
“I talked with the manager of the motel where Carla was staying,” Shaye said. “He said she paid a month in advance. And when I searched her room, I didn’t find any drugs or alcohol. The manager said she told him she was making some big changes. Any idea what they were? Or why? I wondered if maybe there was someone new she was seeing.”
Shonda looked at Louise and then shook her head. “Carla never was huge on drugs. She tried the hard stuff a couple times, since Rattler had it and all, but she didn’t like the way it made her feel. Said she was all paranoid and queasy. She smoked a little weed, but she sure enough liked her drink and boy could she blow through a pack of cigarettes. She’d buy smoke before she bought food.”
Louise nodded. “She didn’t smoke while she was working, though. The smell turns some customers off. But if you hung out with her at a bar or something, man, she’d put them away.”
“There wasn’t any sign of cigarettes in her room, either,” Shaye said, “and it didn’t smell of smoke.”
“That’s definitely different then,” Louise said. “But I don’t know if it was ’cause of a new man. If she had someone on the hook, she sure didn’t tell us about him.”
“Nope,” Shonda agreed. “Hell, maybe she was making changes. I figure she could quit Rattler easier than she could quit smoking. Figures that about the time she decides to do better for herself, something bad happens.”
“Do you know anyone who drives a white Corolla?” Shaye asked. “One of the night managers at the motel saw Carla getting into one last week.”
They both shook their heads.
“I mean, I see a lot of white cars,” Shonda said, “and probably a lot of them is Toyotas, but I don’t know anyone in particular that has one.”
“And she never even hinted to you about her plans?” Shaye asked. “Not even making it sound like wishful thinking?”
“No.” Shonda frowned. “I know you think Rattler probably didn’t do it, but maybe you’re wrong. Maybe he found out she was gone for real this time and he killed her. Maybe Mitzi is a coincidence.”
“If Carla had been killed differently,” Shaye said, “I might think so, but given the way it all went down, I doubt it.”
“How did it happen?” Shonda asked. “Can you say?”
“My client wouldn’t mind, if that’s what you’re asking,” Shaye said. “I haven’t given you details because I didn’t want to put that picture in your minds.”
Shonda looked over at Louise, who bit her lower lip. “I want to know,” Shonda said. “If Louise don’t, she can take a smoke break down the block.”
“No, it’s okay,” Louise said. “I don’t want to know, but I think I need to.”
Shaye nodded and repeated Madison’s story. Both their eyes grew wider as she talked, and when she finished, Shonda blew out a breath.
“That’s the craziest shit I’ve heard in a long time,” Shonda said. “I see why you don’t think it was Rattler. He’d have shot her and dumped her, but all that arrangement…that’s just weird.”
“Why would Carla even go someplace like that?” Louise asked. “You don’t ever go to someone’s house, and you don’t bring them to yours. It’s always a neutral location. She knew that.”
“If I knew the answer to that,” Shaye said, “I might be able to figure out who did it.”
“So how come this man’s face ain’t flashed up all over the news?” Shonda asked. “Your client described Carla down to her shoes. Why can’t they do up one of them drawings and put that asshole on blast?”
“It’s complicated,” Shaye said. “My client has a disorder where she can’t remember people’s faces. So while she remembered everything Carla was wearing and even her hair color and style, she wouldn’t be able to tell you anything about her face. The same for the killer. She can describe his clothes, but he had on long sleeves and gloves. Aside from his height, build, his hair color, and the fact that she feels like he was white, she can’t offer anything else.”
“Can’t remember faces?” Louise asked. “What kind of crazy shit is that?”
“Unfortunately, it’s real,” Shaye said. “And a lot of her life is fairly miserable because of it. She’s sick over this, but she’s done everything she could do, including hiring me when the police didn’t have enough evidence to open a case.”
“That’s seriously fucked up,” Shonda said.
“Oh my God,” Louise said. “If she can’t recognize him, then he could be standing right next to her and she wouldn’t know to run or scream or anything.”
Shonda narrowed her eyes at Shaye. “Does he know she saw?”
“I’m afraid so,” Shaye said.
“That woman in some serious shit,” Shonda said. “And this guy crazy. You looking out for her, right?”
“I’m doing everything I can,” Shaye said.
Shonda nodded. “Me and Louise keeping our ears to the ground. We hear anything, we calling you first thing. And we being extra careful. Gonna be super-extra careful now.”
“That’s good,” Shaye said. “And if for any reason it’s an emergency and you can’t reach me, call the police and ask for Detective Maxwell. I promise you, he’ll help.”
“If you vouching for him, then I guess we okay with it,” Shonda said, “but if it’s all the same, I’ll just keep praying we ain’t got no emergency.”
“Me too,” Shaye said. “I’m going to head home. Stay safe.”
“You too,” Shonda said. “And thanks for telling us about Carla.”
Shaye nodded and headed up the sidewalk towa
rd her SUV. As she walked she became increasingly aware of how the street had thinned out while she’d talked to Shonda and Louise. Over half of the cars that previously lined the street were gone, and the people who were hanging around outside the bars had drifted off home, leaving the area dark and quiet. She picked up her pace, the unwelcome quiet unnerving her.
Stop being foolish. You’re not the target.
But she was helping Madison. What if one of the people she’d spoken to was the killer? The maintenance guy? The parking attendant? The Realtor? Any of them had opportunity. At this point she’d only be guessing at motive, but she’d bet it was psychologically motivated, which made the killer much harder to identify. Profit motive was infinitely easier to pin down.
As she approached her vehicle, she frowned. It looked odd. Then she realized one side was sitting lower than the other, and it wasn’t the street. The back tire was flat. Of all the times and places to have a flat tire, this had to be one of the worst. She looked back at the empty street and ran through her options. She had roadside assistance, but how long would they take to get to her? The quickest way to get out of there was to change it herself.
She opened the back of her SUV and pulled out the jack and the spare. She positioned the jack under the car and began to lift it. The seconds ticked by into minutes as she struggled to loosen the lug nuts and remove the flat tire from the vehicle. When she finally managed to get it off, she pushed it to the side and let it rest against the curb, not wanting to think about the fun time she was going to have lifting it into the back of the vehicle. The spare was smaller and lighter. She made short work of getting it in place and started to put the lug nuts back on.
Then a cool breeze blew across the back of her neck, and she stiffened.
She had no concrete reason to believe it, but somehow, she knew someone was watching her. And crouched on the ground, her back to the sidewalk, she was completely vulnerable. As she started to rise, the gunshot rang out and the bullet tore through the door of her SUV just inches from her head.
16
Shaye dropped flat onto the pavement and rolled under the vehicle, then scanned the street for movement as she pulled her pistol from her waistband. Her heart pounded so loudly in her chest that it brought tears to her eyes. She heard shouting in the distance as more gunshots pelted the side of her SUV. One hit the concrete next to it and took a bounce underneath, sending her scrambling for the other side.
She dragged herself out from under the vehicle and crouched behind the tire on the other side, dragging in air in short, ragged breaths. The shooter wouldn’t be able to see her, but he was smart enough to guess where she was—basically, in sitting duck territory. Panicked, she scanned the street, looking for somewhere to run to, some object large enough to hide behind and put more distance between her and the shooter. But the nearest automobile was thirty yards away, and the lights were out in all the stores across the street.
She leaned down and inched forward, holding her breath, and looked underneath the vehicle, hoping to catch sign of movement, but the street appeared empty. Then she saw a silhouette appear from behind a Dumpster about halfway up the block and begin moving her way. She positioned her pistol in front of her and took aim at his feet, then paused. What if it wasn’t the shooter?
A second later, another shot rang out and the streetlight on the corner exploded, casting her into darkness. Shit! Now it was too late to take a shot. She squinted, looking into the inky black, but with the dark clouds overhead, she couldn’t see anything. She rose into a crouch and scanned the streets to the left and right again. The air got still, and then she heard it.
Footsteps coming her way.
They were faint. So faint she couldn’t hear them when the wind was blowing, but now she was certain. He was coming for her.
Think!
Her cell phone was propped against the curb where she’d placed it for additional light while she was changing the tire, but if she could slip around the back of the vehicle and snag it, at least she could call for help. She knew it was reaching. Odds of a cop getting to her before the shooter did were practically nil, but at least they’d have a record of what happened, especially since she had no intention of going out quietly. He might end up killing her, but no way was she going to make it easy. She had seventeen rounds in her Glock, and she would go down firing every one of them.
She clutched her gun and stayed stock-still, trying to keep her attention on the footsteps. They disappeared every time the wind whipped up, but when the sound carried back to her again, she could tell they were closer, maybe thirty feet away. She closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath and slowly blowing it out. She had only one chance to hit him, because shooting would give away her location and she had no doubt he’d return fire.
The footsteps sounded again, this time so close she steadied herself and prepared to whirl around the side of the vehicle and open fire. Then they stopped. She stopped breathing, trying to get a fix on the shooter, and then she realized why he’d paused. Sirens sounded in the distance. She put her finger on the trigger, ready to fire if he made a last desperate move, but a second later, she heard retreating footsteps.
He was running away.
She slumped against her SUV, still clutching her pistol in ready position, and it wasn’t until the police cruiser pulled up behind her, the car’s lights blinding her, that she lowered her weapon. Her relief was so overwhelming that she could feel tears pooling in her eyes.
“Ma’am?” The cop driving the car approached her. “Are you all right? Have you been shot?”
“I’m fine,” she said as she held one hand up to block the light from the headlights from her face. “I don’t think my SUV fared as well, though.”
“Do you mind stepping back here and putting down your weapon?” the cop asked.
“Of course not.” She moved deliberately, keeping the gun pointed at the pavement. When she reached the cop, she held it toward him, and he took it from her and took a good look at her.
“Ms. Archer?” he said, his eyes widening.
“Yes. I’m sorry, do I know you? It’s hard to see in the light.”
The cop waved and behind him, the bright lights went out to be replaced by a flashlight that lit up the area with a bright, but not blinding, glow. She had seen the cop before but hadn’t met him. He was young, probably midtwenties, and looked incredibly stressed.
“I’m Officer Freed. This is Officer Lincoln.”
“Looks like your vehicle took some hits,” Officer Lincoln said, stepping around from the side of the vehicle. “Might just be body damage, but you should have the shop give the whole thing a once-over.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Officer Freed asked. “I can call an ambulance.”
“I’m not injured,” she said, “but I’m not convinced I’m all right.”
He nodded. “Can you tell us what happened?”
Shaye recounted her walk back to her SUV and the subsequent shots fired, then her narrow escape. Freed looked over at Lincoln, and she saw him swallow.
“That was good thinking,” Freed said. “But you didn’t get a good look at him?”
“Nothing more than a shadow,” she said. “I couldn’t even guess at his height.”
He frowned. “Can I ask why you’re out here this time of night?”
“Working on a case,” she said. “I needed to talk to some women who work in this neighborhood, and they only work the night shift.”
Even though she was deliberately vague, she knew Freed could make an educated guess as to what kind of “working” women she was down here talking to. She heard a noise behind the cops and looked over to see a small crowd of people gathered on the sidewalk. Shonda and Louise were standing just behind two men, looking around them. Their eyes were wide with fright. She looked directly at them and gave them a tiny nod, hoping to convey that she was all right. But even though she was walking away tonight, all three of them knew how bad this was.
They all shook their heads. “We all came from the club up the block,” one of the guys said. “Heard the shots and one of these gals ran into the bar and called you guys, but wasn’t nobody stepping outside to get a look.”
“Well, the show’s over,” Lincoln said. “It’s best if you get back inside. Even better, might be a good idea to head on home for the night.”
The crowd mumbled a little among themselves and started walking away. Shonda shot one last look at Shaye, and she mouthed a thank-you before Shonda turned and hurried up the sidewalk to catch up with Louise.
“I see you were changing a flat,” Lincoln said. “I’d offer to finish it up for you, but I think one of those shots took out your spare.”
“We can call a tow truck,” Freed said. “And we’ll give you a ride home. No use waiting on the tow. He can get the SUV to whatever shop you use, and you can take them the keys tomorrow. No one will be driving it anyway until they get that tire fixed.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
Freed handed her pistol back to her. “I know you have a job to do, and apparently it brought you here tonight, but I don’t have to tell you how badly this could have turned out. Lots of people down here are hopped up on drugs. You never know what they might do.”
Shaye nodded but she didn’t respond. She didn’t believe for a minute that the shooter was a random junkie. And someone interested in robbing her or raping her or stealing her car wouldn’t have shot her until they were done with the task at hand. She’d been targeted. Whether by coincidental opportunity or by deliberate stalking was the piece of the puzzle she didn’t have an answer for. Either way, the situation had just gone from bad to worse.
She was on the killer’s radar. Right along with Madison.
He watched from an abandoned building a block away as the police cruiser drove by. She was inside. Shaye Archer. Woman of the people. Or nosy bitch, depending on your perspective.
