In the Shadow of Evil

by Robin Caroll

  Should have known. Maddox Bishop and his partner. Just her luck.

  The older detective—the good cop—rushed up the stairs. "Sorry for startling you. Here, let me help." He bent to gather her mug and keys.

  She grabbed her case and straightened. "Thank you, Detective . . ."

  He smiled with the kindest eyes. "Wallace. Detective Houston Wallace."

  "Thank you, Detective Wallace." She took the keys from him and unlocked the door, then waved him inside. "Come on in." She glanced over her shoulder to find Maddox leaning against the bottom of the stair railing. "You too."

  He quirked a single brow at her, but she refused to allow him to put her on edge. Not today. She'd remember what Lincoln said. Maddox was a good cop, interested in getting to the truth. And that's what she wanted.

  As quickly as possible.

  She stomped her muddy boots on the welcome mat. Not that it did any good. The reddish goop stayed adhered. Well, the good detectives could think what they wanted. She wouldn't track mud all over her hardwood. Layla kicked off her boots and let them fall beside the front door before moving to the reception desk where she set her case and mug.

  Detective Wallace glanced at his own shoes, then at Layla's boots.

  She smiled. "Yours are fine. I stepped right into a puddle."

  He chuckled and swiped his feet on the mat. "With all the rain we've had, it's a mess most everywhere."

  Maddox filled the doorway. Not just physically, but the mere presence of him in the room pressed against her.

  She swallowed and backed against the reception desk. Heat fanned the nape of her neck most uncomfortably. Made no sense at all. She was a grown woman, a business owner in a male-dominated field—she could ignore the stupid stirrings in her gut.

  "So, how can I help you gentlemen?" Layla forced her voice not to wobble.

  "We need a list of all the workers you contracted to work on the Hope-for-Homes site."

  Maddox's voice unnerved her more than she was willing to admit. "Of course." She sat behind the desk and wiggled the mouse, waking the computer. She'd created a file yesterday with all the pertinent job information. Anything to make this visit as short as humanly possible.

  Maddox lowered himself to perch on the edge of the reception desk. The heating unit kicked on, blowing a hint of his cologne her way. Just enough for her to detect. Just enough to distract her.

  Layla accessed the file and set it to print. The sooner she gave them the information they needed, the sooner they'd leave.

  And she could return to being a full-functioning adult.

  "Have you met Ms. Caldwell? The lady who was supposed to move into the house?" Maddox asked.

  "Yes." She chanced looking him in the eye. Well, the world didn't spontaneously combust, but she felt affected just the same. "Hope for Homes lets the new homeowner be involved in the interior completion."

  "What'd you think of her? Ms. Caldwell."

  "I think she's a strong, resilient, nice lady." She crossed her arms over her chest. Where was he going with this? "Her kids are well behaved and respectful. She's had a hard life but is doing the best she can for herself and her kids." Layla stood. "Why?"

  "Just wondering what your impression was." Maddox lumbered to his feet, towering over her.

  "Let me get you that printout." She turned and headed down the hall to her office. For once she was glad she'd purchased only one printer for the office and networked all the computers to it. Gave her an excuse to get away from Maddox. Get a little space to clear her head.

  Splinters! The man muddled her mind.

  She snatched the papers from the printer, took a deep breath, then returned to the main office. Layla handed the pages to Detective Wallace. "Here's all the information on everyone involved in the Hope-for-Homes site. I included most of the independents' phone numbers for you as well."

  "Thank you. This is very helpful." Detective Wallace scanned the pages she'd given him.

  Maddox glanced around the office. Just what was he looking for? She took a seat behind the reception desk, putting distance between the detectives and herself.

  "Nice office," Maddox mumbled under his breath.

  "Thank you. I designed it myself." She couldn't stop the pride from filling her voice, but she didn't really try. She'd worked hard to get to her current point in her career and she was proud of herself.

  He looked out the window. "Not too busy today?"

  "As Detective Wallace pointed out earlier, with all the rain we've had lately, everything's a mess." She smiled. "Hard to erect buildings when we can't lay a foundation."

  He slumped to one of the chairs facing the desk. "Guess so. Must be bad for business. All the rain, I mean."

  She shrugged. "Nature of the industry. Always slow in the beginning of the year, then we get swamped early spring to late fall."

  "So, that's pretty much normal?"

  What was he trying to ask? "Yes."

  "Says you were the site foreman on the job." Detective Wallace lifted his eyes from the papers.

  "That's correct."

  "Is that common practice?" Detective Wallace took the other seat in front of the desk. "For the contractor to also act as the site foreman?"

  "It depends."

  "On?" Maddox's stare pinned her to the chair and made her want to fidget.

  She forced herself to remain calm. "A number of things. In this particular instance, because it was a Hope for Homes—a charity—we didn't want the extra expense of a site foreman."

  "Do you act as foreman on the majority of your jobs?"

  "No."

  "But this one you did?" Detective Wallace asked.

  "Yes. As I said, because we didn't want the extra expense." The way they kept badgering her . . . made her sweat, and she'd done nothing wrong. She'd saved the project a good chunk of money. "A lot of contractors often act as site foremen on their jobs."

  "How many? How often?" Maddox's questions came as rapid-fire as nails from her air gun. His cynicism annoyed her.

  "I don't know." Her hackles rose. "You'd have to ask around."

  "How about on yours?"

  "I don't know, exactly. I'd have to pull records." What was their deal? She'd saved a charity project money. What was the crime? It wasn't like it was a shady business practice or anything.

  "Just give us a ballpark. Ten percent? Twenty? Fifty?" Maddox's arms were crossed tight over his chest.

  She swallowed. Hard. "If I had to guess, I'd say maybe fifteen to twenty percent."

  Detective Wallace scribbled in a little spiral notebook. "So, it's fair to say that it's not all that common. In your particular business."

  "Fifteen to twenty percent isn't rare, Detective."

  "Oh, of course not." Detective Wallace smiled, but this time she didn't see the kindness in his eyes.

  She stood. "If that's all, I have to get some work done."

  Both men took the cue and stood. Maddox glanced out the window again, then smirked at her. "Yeah, I can see that." The men exited without further conversation.

  She fisted her hands stiffly at her sides. In her profession she'd been exposed to the worst sexists in the state. Men who thought women should stay at home, preferably barefoot and pregnant. Construction workers were awful—viewing women as objects, not people. She'd had her fill of them.

  And Maddox Bishop came across as bad as a male chauvinist, as she'd seen in a long time. He reminded her of Randy.

  The phone rang, pulling her from her thoughts. She grabbed the receiver. "Hello."

  "Layla, you okay?" Alana's voice was laced with concern.

  She steeled her emotions. "Yeah. What's up?"

  "I'm on my way to the hospital."

  Layla's heart and stomach collided as she gripped the phone tighter. "What's wrong?"

  "It's Ms. Ethel."

  Layla let out a slow breath. Her sister should've known better than to scare her like that. "What's wrong with her? We just saw her at church yesterday."

>   "She got really sick last night. Had trouble breathing. Couldn't stop her nosebleeds. They admitted her from the ER."

  "I'll definitely be praying for her. What do they think she has?"

  "They don't know. They're running tests, but she's not doing so well. I'm going to see her this afternoon. Do you want to go with me, Layla?"

  "It's that bad?"

  "If she doesn't improve, they're talking about putting her in ICU. They have her on oxygen, but her levels are dropping fast."

  "Yeah, I want to go. But can't until later."

  "I'll swing by and pick you up around four."

  "Okay." Layla hung up the phone and ran her teeth over her bottom lip. Sweet Ms. Ethel. Kind. Gentle.

  At her desk Layla bowed her head and lifted Ms. Ethel up before the throne.

  "HAVE SOME INFO ON your John Doe." K. C. Casteel's voice came through loud and clear over the connection.

  Maddox shoved the receiver between his chin and shoulder and grabbed a pen and paper from the mess on his desk. "Shoot."

  "Fifty-five to sixty-year-old Caucasian male. Approximately five-feet-ten inches tall. Slight frame. Probably weighed around 150 pounds."

  Maddox finished scribbling the information and tapped the pen against the desk. "Cause of death?"

  "A .357 bullet to the chest. Slug retrieved. Secondary gunshot wound to the head was delivered postmortem. That slug was also retrieved. Embedded in Mr. Doe's skull."

  What? "Shooter nails the guy in the head after he was already dead?"

  "Guess someone wanted to make sure he wouldn't recover."

  People were crazy. Maddox knew that, of course, but the level of violence some sickos took never ceased to make him shake his head.

  "Time of death is between eleven thirty and midnight on Friday," the coroner continued.

  Maddox scribbled faster.

  "Talked to the police chief. Arson department determined regular gasoline was the accelerant used to start the fire. I concur that the body was soaked in it prior to burning."

  "Someone shot the guy in the chest, then in the head to make sure he doesn't get up, then soaks him in gas and sets the house on fire?"

  "Those are the facts, Detective."

  They were dealing with one sick puppy. Maddox dropped his pen to the desk. "Anything else?"

  "Nothing of remark. I'll send you a copy of my report this afternoon."

  "Thanks, K. C., I appreciate you getting to this so quickly."

  "Yeah, well, you can owe me a venison backstrap."

  Maddox laughed. "As soon as I get a buck, you'll have it." He hung up the phone, then gave Houston the details.

  "Let's search missing persons to see who matches John Doe's description." Houston plopped behind his desk in the shared space and opened a search on his computer.

  "I don't recall any new postings of missing persons, though."

  "It's a start." Houston's fingers flew over the keyboard as he entered the information on John Doe into the state's missing persons' database.

  "I suppose." Maddox flipped through the case notes. "Hey, ballistics is back. Revolver at the scene was a Smith & Wesson. Forensics will test to see if it's a match to the recovered slugs."

  "I'm betting it's 100 percent. Any hits on the serial number?"

  "Shaved off, but forensics is working on it to try to pull it off anyhow." Maddox turned the page to the notes Houston had typed up earlier. The ones from their visit with Layla Taylor this morning. "What was your impression of Layla?"

  Houston hit the ENTER button, then met Maddox's glance over their desks. "I think we make her nervous." He shrugged. "Could be just because she was talking to police. Makes some people jumpy."

  "Could be she knows something." Maddox leaned back in his chair.

  "I'm more interested in her sister's Second Chances. Known druggies working on people's houses? What's up with that?"

  "I sure wouldn't want them anywhere near my place."

  "Me either. Makes me wonder if home owners are even told the druggies are on their property."

  "I'll check into that." Maddox lifted his pen and scribbled a note. "Still, strikes me as too fishy about Layla being the foreman on the job. And the contractor."

  "We could do a little checking into the sisters' backgrounds."

  Maddox scrawled another note on his page. "I think I will. Did you notice the pictures Layla had on the desk?"

  "No. Something I should be aware of?"

  "Just a little out of character, I think."

  "How's that?"

  "There was a picture of her with some guy. She was wearing one of those long dresses, and they were dancing."

  Houston chuckled. "Ain't nothing wrong with dancing, Bishop. You do your fair share of belt-buckle shining."

  "Yeah, but it's odd. She's a contractor. A builder. Works in a man's world. But she gets all gussied up in a long dress and dances?" He shook his head. "Just seems odd. She's like a contradiction. I think she's hiding something. I can feel it."

  "Maybe, but my gut doesn't think so."

  "Your gut's too busy thinking about your next meal."

  Houston chuckled and rubbed what his wife dubbed his beer gut. "You got a point with that, partner?"

  Before Maddox could reply, Houston's computer beeped. "Okay, let's see what we've got." He turned back to the monitor. "Just two hits."

  "Give 'em to me."

  Tapping filled the cubicle as Houston accessed the database. "First one is a Milton Ward. Retired oilfield worker. Reported missing by his son two weeks ago." He squinted at the screen. "Just outside Orleans Parish."

  Maddox laughed as he made notes of the information. "Might help if you actually wore your glasses."

  "Shut up." Houston leaned closer to the monitor. "Second one is Dennis LeJeune. Reported missing by his wife Friday." He leaned back in his chair and stared at Maddox. "Guess what Mr. Dennis LeJeune does for a living?"

  They'd been partners long enough for Maddox to know that look. Houston had found a connection. "What?"

  "He's a building inspector." Houston snatched a sticky note and scribbled. "Got the home address. Lives just outside Sulphur."

  Maddox shoved to his feet and grabbed his coat. "We haven't left yet?"

  SEVEN

  "A man should look for what is, and not for what he thinks should be."

  —ALBERT EINSTEIN

  "LAYLA? MS. LAYLA TAYLOR?"

  She turned around at the woman's voice. A young woman hustled across the parking lot after her. Layla waited, shifting her bag with her take-out lunch to a more comfortable position, and took in the woman's appearance: short, auburn hair, a little on the heavyset side, smiling mouth too big for her round face. Layla didn't recognize her.

  "Hi." She stood before Layla, catching her breath before extending her hand. "I'm Krissy Morgan with The American Press."

  What did the Lake Charles newspaper want with her? "Yes?"

  "First off, congratulations on winning the CotY regional award. That's quite an accomplishment."

  Layla's smile widened automatically. "Thank you. I'm honored by the award." The exposure was already starting? Awesome.

  "And I understand this means you're up for a national CotY as well?"

  "Yes. The national winners will be announced at the NARI gala in the spring."

  "If you have a moment, I'd love to talk with you a bit. Get a comment from you on the story we'll be running tomorrow."

  Layla's heart shot into her stomach. This was more than awesome. This could really put her business over the top. She tightened her grip on her bag. Who cared if her shrimp po'boy got cold? Or if she froze, for that matter? "Of course."

  Krissy waved her toward a park bench in the Eternal Springs courtyard. The wind gusted, nearly stealing Layla's breath. She set her sack on the bench beside her and tried to gather her thoughts. It'd be awful to sound like an idiot in her quote. That would do her business no good.

  Sitting beside her, Krissy pulled out a noteboo
k and a small digital recorder. "Do you mind?"

  "Of course not." She sure didn't want to be misquoted. Layla curled her hands in her lap, then splayed her fingers loosely over her legs. She hoped she didn't look uncomfortable or nervous. Lord, I could really use a little peace right now.

  "How do you feel about having been awarded a regional CotY award?"

  Layla inhaled slowly. "So many wonderful contractors entered. I'm honored just to be in their company." That sounded good, right? She sounded intelligent, knowledgeable, and she'd plugged the organization that put on the awards. She let out a breath. This wasn't as difficult as she'd imagined.

  "Sounds exciting."

  "It is." Layla nodded. "It's the highlight event of the year for every contractor I know."

  "Let's move on, shall we?" Krissy smiled, but it was more like a bared-teeth grimace of one competitor to another before a big bout.

  Splinters of apprehension darted through Layla. "O-kay."

  "The project you won the award for . . . isn't it a Hope-for-Homes house?"

  Those splinters sprouted into full two-by-fours. Layla licked her lips and wiped her palms against her jeans. "Y-yes."

  "Wasn't it, in fact, the house that burned down late Friday night?"

  How could she get away without making a scene?

  "Ms. Taylor, wasn't it the house that burned down late Friday night?" Krissy held the recorder closer to Layla.

  "Y-yes."

  "How do you feel about that?"

  Was this woman for real? How was she supposed to answer something like that?

  The recorder pushed almost in her face. "Ms. Taylor?"

  Layla's mouth felt stuffed with cotton. "Horrible, of course. I hate that any building burns, but especially a house. Someone's home." She needed to get away from this woman . . . fast.

  "Wasn't a body in the house when it burned, Ms. Taylor?"

  This was going from bad to worse. Enough was enough. Layla struggled to her feet, gripping her bag like a vise. "I couldn't say."