by Jana DeLeon
“Thanks for letting me know. I was going to question him again, but I think you’ve got it covered.”
“I’m going to tail him tonight. I don’t expect much given that it’s Christmas Eve, but there’s something about him that doesn’t add up for me. It’s like Parks. I’m not saying he’s our guy, but he had opportunity and access. I can’t tie him directly to Carla, but I can put him in the vicinity.”
“Let me know if I can help. And please be careful. I don’t think he’d hesitate to take a shot at you too.”
Shaye signed off and guided Jackson’s truck away from the curb and toward the apartment building, recalling the background information she’d dug up on Jason Parks. It was scant, at best, and nothing in it indicated he had tendencies toward violent crime, much less serial. But sometimes people with the darkest secrets managed to hide them the best.
Maxwell’s interview with the Realtor had been interesting. She hadn’t believed him when he’d said he was out of town that night, but it was a gut feeling, not something she could prove. At least Maxwell had managed to put his car nearby. She doubted watching him tonight would yield anything, but she appreciated Maxwell’s sense of urgency in catching the killer.
She parked in front of the building and headed for the maintenance room. The door was closed, as before, so she knocked on it and waited. Several seconds later, she heard rustling inside and when the door opened, Jason peered out at her.
“You’re that PI lady,” he said.
She nodded. “Do you have a minute? I have a couple of follow-up questions.”
“Um, I guess. If it doesn’t take too long. I’ve got a leak up on five and I need to figure out where it’s coming from before there’s more damage than I can repair.”
“This shouldn’t take long. I just wanted to let you know that the police found the woman who was attacked in the empty apartment.”
“So she’s okay? That’s good.”
“I’m sorry. I should have been more specific. They found her body.”
His eyes widened slightly but he didn’t say anything. Despite the fact that the room was quite cool, Shaye saw tiny beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
“Anyway,” Shaye continued, “the woman’s name is Carla Downing. I think you might know her.”
“I don’t think so.” He was trying hard to keep his expression neutral but Shaye knew he was lying.
“Really? Then maybe I was wrong. You stay at the Franklin Motel sometimes, right? One of the regulars said he saw you talking to her.”
“He must have been mistaken. I don’t know any Carla Downing.”
“Tall, blonde, thin. Worked a corner not too terribly far from here?”
He shook his head. “Look, I’m sorry the woman died, but I didn’t know her. If that’s all, I’ve got to find that leak.”
“Yeah, sure. I didn’t mean to hold you up. Merry Christmas.”
He pushed by her, not even meeting her gaze, and hurried out of the office and down the hallway. Shaye followed him into the lobby, noting that he kept glancing back to see if she was behind him. When she stepped outside the building, she turned to look and saw him standing next to a large plant, watching her. She lifted her hand to wave and gave him a smile before climbing in the truck. By the time she took her seat and glanced back over, he was gone.
She pulled out her phone and called Detective Maxwell.
“I think you need to bring Jason Parks in for questioning.”
22
Shaye put down her cell phone and scratched another person off her list of Realtors. This one had shown the apartment two weeks prior but had been at a conference in New Mexico the night of the murder, a fact she easily verified by the drunken selfies the woman had posted on her Facebook account. Of the seven Realtors she’d managed to get hold of so far, all of them sounded appalled that someone had acquired a key to the unit and committed a crime, and none of them could think of any other way into the apartment except for those already known to Shaye.
She hadn’t specified what kind of crime had occurred, even though they might put two and two together once the news broke. A couple had commented on the increasing problem with vandalism in empty units, so she guessed most of them were thinking along those lines. Several hadn’t answered and she’d gotten voice mail, indicating they’d be returning to business on the twenty-sixth.
She moved to the next number on her list and punched it in. The message that the phone number was no longer active played. She checked to make sure she’d punched it in correctly and frowned when the numbers matched. What Realtor changed phone numbers with no forwarding message?
She did an Internet search for the Realtor, Ramona Babbage, and a picture of an older woman with long blond hair and a little too much eye makeup flashed up with a link to an old listing. Shaye noted the broker and accessed his site, figuring the woman’s current contact information would be available. But when she clicked on Ramona’s name in the Realtor list, there wasn’t any updated contact information.
Ramona Babbage had been dead for two months.
A knock sounded at her front door, and Shaye checked the cameras she’d recently had installed and saw Jackson standing outside. She hurried to the door to let him in and motioned him to her computer before he could even get in a hello.
“That woman showed the apartment two weeks ago.”
Jackson stared at the screen. “I know Realtors are pushy and don’t like to give up on a commission, but isn’t that taking things a little too far?”
“Ha. It’s definitely above and beyond the job description.”
“What else do you know about her?”
“Nothing. I had just found this when you knocked.”
“Then let’s see what else there is to find.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Shaye slid into her chair and Jackson pulled another up beside her. She accessed the software she used for background checks, typed in the name, and hit Enter. “Now we wait.”
“Good. Gives me time to grab some cookies. You didn’t eat them all, did you?”
“If I’d eaten them all, I wouldn’t fit through my front door. Corrine’s putting out more cookies than Famous Amos.”
“I swear I’m going on a diet after the holidays,” he shouted from the kitchen. “That includes New Year’s, though.”
“Really? You’re going to do the totally cliché New Year’s resolution thing to eat better?”
He popped back in the office and pushed a bottle of water in front of her. “Why not? I’m a regular guy. Might as well do regular guy things.”
She laughed. “You’re anything but regular, but I’ll see your resolution and match it with my own. Of course, we might have to hide Corrine’s cookie sheets.”
“Preemptive strike. I like that.”
Shaye’s computer signaled that the search was ready and they both leaned forward to see the results. Name, address, and all the usual things popped up. She had a couple of arrests for minor things—an assault that appeared to be the result of a bar fight and a possession charge for heroin that happened during a bust at a previously known drug bar. Other than that, a handful of parking tickets. Cause of death was an OD.
“Cocaine” Jackson said. “Not exactly mother of the year material.”
“Mother of the year?”
Jackson pointed at the screen. “A son. Michael.”
Shaye looked at the notation and felt her pulse tick up a notch. “He would be in his midtwenties.”
“See if you can find him online.”
Shaye did a quick Internet search but couldn’t find any references to or images of Michael Babbage. “Figures.”
Jackson pulled out his cell phone. “Let me try.” He called the police station and asked for a driver’s license search. A minute later he disconnected and shook his head. “No license issued to a Michael Babbage. At least not in Louisiana.”
“Let me check for an obit. Maybe there’s a husband.”
But th
e search didn’t provide anything.
“A lot of people don’t have one published.”
“Still, no record of marriage might mean she was single. Michael might have lived with his father. A lot of boys make that choice when they reach teen years.”
“A lot of single mothers do as well. Check the address. Someone had to deal with the house and her belongings.”
Shaye did a search on the address and Jackson took a look at the map.
“Older building. Probably a rental, and not the best area of town,” he said. “Bars, tattoo parlors, pawnshops.”
“There’s no phone number associated with the address, but landlines are becoming less common these days.”
“Well, we know she had a cell phone, and someone used it to access that apartment. I can’t think of any legitimate reason for someone to steal a dead woman’s phone and use it to access an empty unit. Can you?”
She shook her head. “Maybe we should check the apartment out.”
“Assuming we could even get in. If it’s a landlord situation, I’ll need a warrant.”
“Let me check the tax records.” Shaye accessed the property records and pointed to the screen. “It’s a corporation, so unless Ms. Babbage is the owner, which I doubt, the rental theory looks good.”
“It’s highly unlikely any of her things are still there. My guess is the landlord cleared it out as soon as he was aware of her death.”
“Wouldn’t he have to hold her belongings for her son? At least we could get a line on Michael.”
“We should definitely look into it. Day after tomorrow.” He pointed at his watch.
“Crap!” She jumped up from her chair. “We have to be at my mother’s house in thirty minutes. I’ve got to shower and put on something besides yoga pants or she’ll complain until next Christmas.”
“I need to grab my clothes out of the car and hit the shower myself. Meet you back here in twenty.”
Shaye hurried into her bedroom and jumped in the shower, glad that she’d washed her hair that morning and that it hadn’t endured any tragedies during the day. She’d run a brush through it and twist it into one of those fancy comb things that Corrine kept buying for her, then she’d throw on her newest pair of jeans and the blue sweater Corrine gave her for her birthday and she’d be set. Well, maybe she needed shoes. The brown boots would be great.
While she got ready, the facts of the case kept running through her mind—the Realtor, Jason Parks, Trenton Cooper, the motel, the white car, Carla’s pregnancy. So many moving pieces, but she knew the answer was in there somewhere.
She was close. She could feel it.
He walked into the building and headed directly for the front desk. The security guard—James, according to the nameplate—looked up at him and smiled. “Merry Christmas,” James said. “Can I help you?”
He pulled out his gun and fired one round into the guard’s chest. The guard’s eyes widened and he staggered back two steps before crumpling onto the floor in a heap. He hurried behind the desk and accessed the security footage, deleting the last ten minutes of recording, then pulled the lever for the fire alarm.
As the alarm began to sound, he picked up the phone and made the call he’d been waiting to make all day long.
23
Madison poured herself a glass of eggnog and grabbed a container of cookies that Eleonore Blanchet had brought earlier. She claimed Corrine Archer was baking her into the next size up and that Madison would be saving her a really expensive alteration bill. After Shaye left, Eleonore had sat with her in the living room and they’d talked. At first, she’d asked Madison about her condition. Being a doctor, Eleonore was familiar with the disorder, but she wanted to establish the severity that Madison was dealing with. Usually, explaining her condition was difficult but given Eleonore’s credentials, it was easy.
Then they talked about Madison’s family. That part was more difficult.
Eleonore asked a lot of questions about how Madison had learned to cope and walked through the stages of her life with her parents and then into college. Madison had hesitated at first, but Eleonore had made her feel so comfortable that she’d finally opened up and unloaded on the therapist just how much she resented her parents and the way they’d dismissed her as an embarrassment. Eleonore had stressed that her parents’ issues were about their own shortcomings and insecurities. Madison knew that, but hearing someone like Eleonore Blanchet say it gave it more weight.
Once she had a basic understanding of her past, Eleonore began to ask about her current situation. It was a long conversation with a lot of fits and starts and crying mixed in. Eleonore was so calm that Madison managed to make it through her story but when she was done, she was utterly spent. Eleonore reassured her that the police and Shaye were going to find the killer and that she was safe in her apartment. Then she’d taught her some relaxation techniques and ways to help focus her mind when she was in a high-stress situation.
Most importantly, she’d agreed to take Madison on as a client, and starting the first week of January, Madison would spend one hour a week with Eleonore. For the first time since she’d seen the murder, Madison had hope that if the police could find this guy, she might be able to get a firm grasp on a normal life for the first time. She just prayed that Detective Maxwell and Shaye could catch the guy before she ran out of relaxation techniques.
She sank into her recliner and looked at the shades, wishing she had the nerve to turn off the lights and raise them. She missed her view, but sitting in the dark was something she still couldn’t imagine. Not while he was still out there. She grabbed the television remote and turned it on to the festivities in New York City. Personally, she’d do most anything to stay out of the cold, but the snow made a pretty blanket over the city with all the Christmas lights reflecting off of it. Maybe one year, she’d take a trip there just to see the Christmas festivities. New York was even easier to get lost in than New Orleans. And she’d heard the food was stellar, so there was that.
She took a bite of a cookie and sighed. No matter how much she tried to convince herself that she was doing fine, the reality was she was often lonely. Not all the time. She was too much of an introvert to not appreciate her freedom and the silence she had to work in. But sometimes that silence was deafening. A reminder that she had no one.
Shaye had invited her to Christmas Eve celebrations at her mother’s house tonight, and Eleonore had seconded that invitation. But as tempting as it was to spend the evening with good people she admired and respected, Madison couldn’t bring herself to intrude on their family event. And beyond that, she’d have to leave the building, and that meant putting herself and Shaye’s family in danger. She would never be able to live with herself if something happened to any of them because of her. Logically, she knew the situation wasn’t her fault, but if she drew a killer to their home, then that would be.
Things could be worse, she decided as she pulled her fuzzy blanket over her legs. She had a beautiful apartment that was paid for and already increasing in value. She had a container of incredible cookies and a decent carton of eggnog. Her bills were paid. She had money in the bank. And she had very competent people looking out for her. She ate several more cookies and had almost polished off her eggnog when she finally dozed off.
The fire alarm sent her bolting out of her chair.
Out of reflex, her hands flew up to cover her ears, the piercing sound so loud against the background of near silence. Her cell phone rang, and it took her a second to realize what the sound was. Then she grabbed it off the end table and seeing that it was security calling, pressed it tightly to her ear so that she could hear.
“Ms. Avery. This is Wanda. There’s a fire in the building. You need to take the rear stairwell out.”
“Oh my God. Where’s the fire?”
“We’re not sure. The fire department is on the way. Throw on some shoes, grab a coat, and hurry.”
Madison bolted for her bedroom, pulling on her tennis shoes
in record time. She yanked her jacket off the hanger and grabbed her purse from the kitchen counter on her way out, shoving her cell phone in it as she went. Fortunately, she was still wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt from earlier. She’d lost the bra hours ago, but didn’t figure anyone would care given the hour and the situation. She ran down the hall to the rear stairwell that Wanda had indicated and hurried down the stairs as quickly as she could go without tripping.
What if the whole thing burned down?
She tried to force that thought out of her head. The last thing she needed to do was stress over something that might not even happen. It could be a problem with the alarm system. The system was new. Sometimes they needed to work out the kinks. And besides, all the high-rises were built with fire suppression systems.
As that thought went through her mind, the sprinklers in the stairwell came on, showering her with water. She slowed long enough to pull her hood over her head, then continued her flight down the stairs, wishing for the first time that she lived on a lower level. Her thighs started to burn and she could feel her calves tightening. Tomorrow was not going to be a good day for legs.
Finally, she reached the ground level and pushed the button to unlock the emergency exit door. She practically ran out of the building, then slid to a stop and looked around for other residents. There weren’t many, but she’d seen a couple of moving vans over the last week, so she knew some were occupied.
But the street was empty.
Then she remembered—Christmas Eve. They probably weren’t home. Most people had friends and family they were celebrating with, many in other cities. And if any were at home and on lower levels, they would have gotten out a lot quicker than she did. Maybe they were around the front of the building. That’s probably where she should go. She set out down the sidewalk at a half-walk, half-jog pace and heard a voice call her.
