In the Shadow of Evil

by Robin Caroll

  Krissy stood in a flash. "Come on, Ms. Taylor, you know a body was in that house. A house that you built. Do you know who it was?"

  "N-no. You'd have to ask the police for that information." Layla glanced across the courtyard, her heart beating double-time. "If you'll excuse me, I have to get back to work." She turned toward her truck.

  "One last question, Ms. Taylor. Do you think someone burned the house you built to make a statement of some sort to you personally?"

  Layla froze, then spun around to face the meddlesome reporter who held the recorder out like a shield. "What?"

  Krissy closed the distance between them. "Do you think someone burned down that house to send you a message? Maybe someone was jealous of your award and wanted to make sure you didn't win on a national level?"

  This woman was unbelievable. Layla glared. "No comment, Ms. Morgan." She turned and marched across the courtyard to her truck. Not hesitating once inside the cab, she started the engine and peeled out of the parking lot. Her heartbeat pounded in her head.

  The nerve of the woman. Stupid reporter.

  Layla gripped the steering wheel tighter to stop her hands from trembling. How dare the woman waylay her like that? Acting all sweet and congratulatory before slamming her. Flattering her to get her off guard, then knocking her to her knees.

  Plain and simple, she'd been ambushed.

  How would the story in tomorrow's paper read?

  Pushing aside the worry, Layla went back to the office and finished her estimates and bids. All too soon a honk sounded outside.

  Layla glanced at the clock. Four already? She shut down the computer, grabbed her coat and attaché, and stomped out the door, making sure she locked Taylor Construction behind her. A blast of warm air hit her in the face as she slipped into the passenger seat of her sister's Jeep. "Sorry. I lost track of time."

  "I just called the hospital." Alana put the Jeep in reverse and eased out of the muddy parking area.

  "How's Ms. Ethel?"

  "Not so good. I talked to her grandson. He said they're discussing moving her to ICU right now."

  "What did he say the doctors think it is?"

  "That's what's so frustrating. The doctors don't have any idea. Her nosebleeds keep coming back. She can hardly breathe. She's wheezing, and none of the test results show anything."

  "I just can't imagine."

  Alana turned the car toward Lake Charles. "Me either. Her grandson says he's really scared. The doctors are baffled so they don't know what to do for her except give her oxygen."

  "We'll just keep praying." But Layla knew that might not be enough to save their dear friend.

  "THIS IS MR. LEJEUNE?" Maddox pointed at one of the framed photographs on the mantel. A man bowling.

  Mary LeJeune twisted in her seat on the tattered recliner. "Yes. That was taken just a few months ago." She sniffled and lifted her teacup, slurping as she took a sip.

  Maddox returned to his seat beside Houston on the couch. He'd done his usual inspection of the living room and found nothing of interest. No dust lined the ceiling fan blades. The LeJeunes collected thimbles from around the world and displayed them. Only photographs of the two of them—no smiling baby photos to indicate children or grandchildren.

  "And the last time you saw your husband was Friday?" Houston asked around the wad of gum in his cheek.

  "Yes." The teacup rattled against the saucer. "He left for work around seven, same as always."

  "Did you talk to your husband during the workday on Friday?"

  "Why, no. Why would I? We never really talk on the phone. Unless I need him to pick up something from the store on his way home. But that's rare. I keep my groceries stocked, you know."

  "What time did Mr. LeJeune normally get home from work?" Maddox interjected.

  "Four forty-seven on the dot. Like clockwork." She glanced at the clock over the mantel. "Right about now." Tears filled her time-faded eyes.

  "All the time? Even in traffic?" Maddox couldn't believe someone's life was so predictable.

  Mrs. LeJeune bobbed her head, the gray tendrils that had escaped from her bun scraped against her leathered face. "No matter what, he pulls into the carport at four forty-seven every day, the same time for the past ten years."

  She took another sip of her tea. "Friday night was just like normal. He came home right on time, we had supper, then he changed into his bowling shirt and headed to the alley at six thirty. Same routine he's had for years."

  "Ma'am, has your husband been acting strangely or said anything odd recently?" Houston asked.

  "Like what?"

  "Odd phone calls. Unusual visits." Houston shrugged. "Strange messages."

  "No, nothing like that."

  "Does he talk to you about work?" Maddox remembered to keep talk in the present tense.

  "Not at all. Dennis is real good about keeping his work on a professional level. He doesn't believe in telling tales outside of school. He would never share information like that. His work is confidential."

  They were getting nowhere fast. Maddox took a breath and changed directions. "Does your husband own any guns, Mrs. LeJeune?"

  "He has rifles and shotguns for hunting."

  "And handguns? Revolvers?"

  Mrs. LeJeune patted her bun. "Land sakes, no. Why would he have a gun like that?"

  "No reason, ma'am." Maddox stood. They wouldn't get anything more useful out of her. Just wasting their time.

  Houston stood as well. "As I said, ma'am, we can't positively identify the body we found just yet. We'll have the coroner send for your husband's dental records for consideration."

  Mrs. LeJeune wobbled to her feet. "I'm sure it's my Dennis. He wouldn't break his routine unless someone had stopped him." Her voice cracked.

  Maddox joined Houston at the door. "We'll let you know something just as soon as we can, Mrs. LeJeune. Thank you again for your time."

  They'd barely shut the car doors and Maddox started the engine before they both began talking at once.

  "You first," Houston said as Maddox turned back onto a main road.

  "Dennis is our John Doe." Maddox gripped the steering wheel tighter. "I feel it."

  "Same here."

  "We need to—"

  Houston's cell phone interrupted Maddox. Houston glanced at the caller ID. "It's Margie." He flipped open the phone. "Hey, honey."

  From the corner of his eye, Maddox took in the tightening of his partner's jaw.

  "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry." A long silence on Houston's part, then he continued. "That is horrible. I love you." Houston closed his cell and glanced at Maddox.

  "Everything okay?"

  "That baby Margie was all worried about?"

  "Yeah?"

  "The baby died."

  "From what?"

  "Margie says it's baffled the doctors. Family's calling for an autopsy."

  "Man, that's rough."

  "Yeah. Margie's pretty tore up over it. Baby was only a month old."

  Maddox shook his head. Instances just like this proved his point that there was no big, loving God. No way would anything with a heart let a baby die.

  Houston ran a hand over his face. "Anyway . . . you were saying?"

  "Right." Maddox pulled to a stop at a red light and regrouped his thoughts. "We need to find out if LeJeune was the building inspector who approved that Hope for Homes."

  "Yep. That'd be a connection. A good start. I'll see if Dennis LeJeune had a Smith & Wesson registered." Houston nodded as the light turned green. "I'll get our status updates to the commander."

  "Man, that'd be cold. Shot with your own gun."

  "It happens."

  Maddox shook his head. His mother had been murdered with a knife from her own kitchen. "I know," he whispered.

  ONE MORE.

  He stared at the building, letting his imagination wander. How was he supposed to destroy it?

  After burning the Hope-for-Homes house, setting another building on fire wasn't an option. Too b
ad Hurricane Francis hadn't wiped it out as it had so many others.

  A tree stood off to the side of the main building. If lightning were to hit that tree . . . it could fall right in the middle of the building. With a little help, it could definitely hit the main structure and call for a total replacement. That would be like an act of God. Very ironic.

  He narrowed his eyes. A bayou ran behind it.

  Which could play well in his favor.

  What if the bayou got dammed just a little up from the curve, causing the water to back up and flood the area? The building sat not two hundred yards from the bank. With the hoopla over drainage issues, no one would think twice about the flooding being anything other than a natural occurrence. And with all the rain the area had gotten recently . . .

  His palms slicked with sweat. He had to protect himself. Had to remove every threat so he could get the casino deal. Get his kids. Get out of debt. Start over in life, no matter how old he was.

  Focus, that's what he had to do. He'd already eliminated all the other buildings. Had killed Dennis to keep him quiet. Now he was so close to reaching his goals. His dreams. The desires of his heart.

  And he deserved it all.

  He let out a long breath and started his car. He'd do what needed to be done. He wouldn't back down now.

  He was in—all or nothing.

  EIGHT

  "Ignorance is preferable to error."

  —THOMAS JEFFERSON

  THUNDER RATTLED THE WINDOWS. Layla shoved the pillow over her head. Maybe if she was still enough, got it quiet enough in the room, she could fall back asleep.

  Another roll of thunder shook the walls just as the phone rang.

  She threw the pillow across the room and glared at the clock at her bedside. Five twenty-one. Who in her right mind was awake at such an hour? Certainly shouldn't be her. Maybe it was all a bad dream. She groaned and rolled onto her stomach, burying her face in the mattress.

  Just thirty more minutes, God. That's all I'm asking.

  The phone rang again.

  So much for going back to sleep. Layla flipped over and reached for the receiver. "Hello."

  "Good morning. Were you asleep?" Alana's voice grated against Layla's sleepy nerves.

  "It's not even five thirty—what do you think?" Thunder boomed outside.

  "Sorry. I forgot to check the time before I dialed."

  Layla yawned and pushed to sitting with her back against the headboard. She laid her head against the leather and closed her eyes. "Question is, why are you up and calling me so early?"

  "I take it you haven't seen the paper yet?"

  "I haven't seen anything other than the clock." And then she remembered. Krissy Morgan. Ambush. Layla sighed and rubbed a hand down her face. "How bad is it?"

  "You know there's an article about you?"

  "Yeah. A reporter accosted me yesterday." She yawned again before telling her sister the details.

  "It's pretty bad."

  Layla opened her eyes and drew her knees to her chest. "Read it to me." She rested her chin on her knees. Lightning flashed, filling the room with light before plunging it back into darkness.

  "Um, it's kinda long."

  Her heart slammed against her ribs. "It's more than just a little filler article?"

  "Layla, it's half a page."

  She swallowed the groan. "How bad?"

  "Well . . ."

  "Just tell me."

  "They talk about your award, launch right into the house burning and a body being inside, insinuate that maybe this was all done against you personally, and end with posing the question of will this disqualify you from being eligible to win a national CotY."

  This time she didn't even try to stop it—she let out a loud groan.

  "And the reporter closes with stating that even if you aren't disqualified, this certainly should kill any chances you have of winning the national."

  And the surprises just kept coming.

  Lightning flickered, followed by a ripple of thunder.

  "They won't disqualify you, will they?"

  Layla licked her lips. "I don't know." Surely they wouldn't . . . Could they take away the regional award? A weight sat in her stomach like lead.

  "But the house burned after you'd completed it. There's got to be consideration for something like this happening, right?" The panic in Alana's voice came through loud and clear.

  "I'm sure it's all fine. Krissy Morgan just wrote it with that slant to get attention." Probably trying to make a name for herself and using Layla to do it. The nerve.

  "Can you find out?"

  Layla smiled. "It's gonna be okay. If there's a problem, NARI will contact me. Don't sweat it."

  "Well . . . if you say so."

  Layla jumped on the opportunity to change the subject. "What time is Cameron supposed to get back?"

  "He hopes to return in time for supper. We won't miss your performance tonight."

  "I know you're anxious to see him."

  "You have no idea." A chirping sounded in the background. "Oh, that's him calling on my cell now."

  "Bye." Layla hung up the phone, then rested her head against the cold leather. Problem was, she did have an idea how Alana felt about Cameron.

  She had felt that way about Randy.

  Or thought she had.

  Layla pushed back down to a prone position and laid her forearm over her forehead. God, this day has got to get better. Please.

  She dozed until thunder shook her awake again. Lightning split the darkness.

  She shoved out of bed and staggered to the bathroom. No way would she waste good anger and aggravation by getting depressed.

  After thirty minutes of hot water pelting down on her and singing at the top of her lungs, she dressed, feeling much better. The storm continued to rage outside, but she'd choose to ignore it.

  The phone rang just as she pulled on her socks. Probably Alana calling her back. Layla fell across the bed, took in the time—7:52—and grabbed the receiver before it rang again. "I'm fine, really."

  "Layla?" The masculine voice sent her to her feet.

  "Sorry, thought you were someone else. Yes, this is Layla. Who is this?"

  "Detective Maddox Bishop."

  Oh, joy and rapture. "Yes, Detective, what can I do for you?"

  "We'd like you to come down to the sheriff's office this morning. To answer a few questions." He let that sink in for a minute. "We can come pick you up if that'd be more convenient."

  A veiled threat? Agree to come in, or we'll come and get you? "No, I can drive myself. What time?"

  "How about nine?"

  "Fine."

  "See you then. Just ask for me or Detective Wallace."

  She let the phone fall back to its cradle and sank to the bed. Thunder growled outside her window. Today just wasn't her day.

  "BALLISTICS CAME BACK." HOUSTON grinned across the desks at Maddox.

  "Hey, don't keep me in suspense."

  "Slugs taken from our John Doe match the Smith & Wesson found at the scene."

  Maddox leaned back in his chair. "Big surprise."

  "Forensics can't pull the serial number. Too much damage."

  "What about registrations to Dennis LeJeune?"

  "His wife was right—only rifles and shotguns had been registered to him. Not a single handgun. So that's a dead end."

  "Unless it was an illegal and he's been hiding it from his wife."

  Houston shrugged. "Then we'll never know."

  Maddox glanced over the random pieces of paper covering his desk. "Dental records?"

  "Delivered late yesterday afternoon. Casteel says he'll call us today as soon as he knows one way or the other."

  "Guess we just wait now."

  "We did get the reports back on the Taylor sisters."

  Maddox wove his fingers together and supported the back of his head in his hands. "Do tell."

  "Alana Taylor, twenty-five, has a bachelor's in psychology. Father died about nine years ago
. Mother's mentally ill and lives in Westneath Nursing Home." Houston flipped a page. "She was right about when she opened Second Chances, but what she didn't volunteer is that the land it sits on was once the family home."

  "She got the house and land?"

  "Her sister and her. Layla signed it over to her a few years ago."

  Maddox dropped his hands to his desk and sat up straight. "She gave her sister the family real estate to use for the rehab program?"

  "Looks that way." Houston turned to another page. "According to federal records, everything about Second Chances is on the up-and-up. Files the right paperwork on time. Only has licensed employees. Properly accounts for all federal funds."

  "So, the program is clean?"

  "Looks that way. She and her sister are members of Eternal Springs Christian Church."

  Great. Religious women. Maddox suppressed his moan.

  "Oh, and she's engaged."

  "Really? I didn't notice a ring."

  "Well"—Houston tossed the stack of papers across the desk—"according to this report, she's been engaged to Cameron Stone for four months."

  Name didn't ring any bells. "Should I know who he is?"

  "Some computer genius type. Writes software programs. Works in Lake Charles."

  "Like Bill Gates? Is Stone rich?"

  "Not really. Makes about ninety grand a year."

  Maddox scrubbed his face with his hand. "Interesting."

  "Yeah." Houston reached for another stack of papers. "Now, about Layla. Twenty-nine years old, licensed contractor. Opened her own business five years ago."

  "Yet she signed over the family real estate to her sister."

  "Her father apparently left her some land on the bayou just outside of Eternal Springs. She built a house there just before she opened Taylor Construction."

  "She lives out in the bayou alone?"

  "It would appear." Houston flipped to the next sheet. "Better Business Bureau has no open complaints on her. She's a member of several of the local business-owner organizations. Has a good reputation in the industry, which is really saying something since she's a woman in such a male-dominated field."

  "I'd say."

  "But she followed in her father's footsteps. He was a contractor, worked for various locals over the years."