by Robin Caroll
"He never hung out his own shingle?"
"Nope." Houston rubbed his chin. "As I recall hearing around town, Layla worked summers with her dad back when she was in high school." He glanced at the report again. "Must've gone straight into the business after she graduated. All her licenses and registrations are up to date and current."
"You said their dad died about nine years ago . . . from what?"
Houston shuffled the papers. "Massive heart attack."
"Ouch."
"Yeah. And their mom was admitted to Westneath about a year or so after that."
"Tough break for the girls." Maddox didn't want to feel empathy for them. They were suspects, after all. But with his own past, he couldn't help it.
"Reports show Alana goes every week to visit the mother."
"And Layla?"
"This is not verified, of course, but records don't reflect she's ever been to see the mother."
That didn't add up. Maddox crossed his arms over his chest. "What's the report on the mother? Dementia? Alzheimer's?"
"Report doesn't say."
"Maybe we should find out. Could be important."
"Yeah." Houston scribbled on a sticky note.
"Is Layla engaged as well?" Just asking the question left a bitter taste on his tongue. Why should he care about her love life? She was nothing more than a suspect . . . a person of interest in his case.
"Not that this report states."
Relief spread through Maddox.
"However, she was linked to one Randy Dean for several months last year."
Maddox didn't like the sting of jealousy stirring in his gut. "Who's he?"
"An electrician. Specializes in those high-dollar alarm system installations. Does volunteer firefighting."
"But they aren't linked anymore?"
"Nope. Report says they broke up about six months ago."
Again, relief filled Maddox. Stupid, betraying emotions.
"But there is something interesting about Layla."
There were a lot of things Maddox found interesting about her, but he wouldn't volunteer that to Houston. "What's that?"
"Guess what her hobby appears to be?"
"Sharpshooting?"
Houston chuckled. "So far out in left field you've made it into right."
"What?"
"Ballroom dancing."
Ballroom danc—The picture of her in a long dress in another man's arms drifted across his memory. Ballroom dancing surely was a contradiction to a building contractor.
Yet . . . it fit her too. He wouldn't have thought that except for the picture. She'd looked graceful and totally feminine.
And beautiful.
Maddox's stomach tightened. "Well, that is interesting," he said with a dry mouth.
"I thought so. She performs with a group called Flows of Grace. Six couples formed together to compete and perform around the state." Houston set the stack of papers on the desk. "And that's all I have, folks."
Maddox made a note of the group's name. "Not much to go on."
"No. What do you make of the article?"
Maddox lifted the paper turned to the local interest section. "I don't see how someone would be so jealous over her getting an award that they'd kill someone and burn down the house she entered."
The intercom buzzed before the receptionist's voice filled their cubicle. "Wallace and Bishop? There's a Ms. Taylor here to see you."
Houston stood and straightened his shirt. "We've seen people murdered with a lot less motive."
Maddox set down the newspaper as he stood. "Let's go find out what Layla has to say."
NINE
"Be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies."
—MOTHER TERESA
"MS. TAYLOR?" THE RECEPTIONIST called out.
Layla stood. The receptionist motioned toward the door where Detective Wallace waited. A buzz sounded, then the click of a security lock disengaging.
He smiled at her. "Thank you for coming in on such a nasty day." His wild-print shirt was untucked, his slacks already wrinkled.
"Did I have a choice?" She pressed her lips together tightly. So much for her speech to herself to keep her attitude in check. "Sorry," she mumbled.
Detective Wallace cleared his throat. "Okay. Right this way." He led her through an open hall. Phones rang. Voices muffled. The stench of burned coffee hovered. Their footsteps were stifled by the brownish carpet.
She followed him through a large room broken apart by workstation cubicles with six-foot walls, creating individual enclosed work areas. Into another hall they went. The reek of old coffee grew stronger. The tan walls closed around her, reminding her of the hours spent hiding in her bedroom as a teen. Hiding from her ranting mother. Layla shuddered.
Detective Wallace waved her into a room outfitted with a long table. Maddox sat on one side, standing as she entered. "Good morning."
Remembering her admonishment to keep her tongue in check, she nodded. "Morning."
Maddox gestured for her to take a seat on the other side of the table. She crossed the room, pulled out the chair, and dropped onto the hard, cold metal. The sooner she answered their stupid questions, the sooner they could get to really working the case.
Almost against her will, her gaze traveled over to Maddox. In contrast to his partner, Maddox was neatly dressed in khakis and a pullover. She just about missed the telling dark shadows under his eyes but registered them as his gaze met hers.
Unease pressed against her chest.
"Can we get you some water? Coffee?" Detective Wallace asked.
"No, thank you." Just get on with it so I can get out of here.
Detective Wallace closed the door and took a seat beside his partner. Maddox tapped a pen against a legal pad. "We have a few questions for you."
Obviously, or she wouldn't be here. "What can I help you with?" She concentrated on the top button of Detective Wallace's obnoxious shirt.
"I'm sure you've seen today's American Press . . ." Maddox looked over papers beneath his legal pad.
"Actually, no, I haven't."
Maddox's head jerked up. "You haven't?"
"No." Just answer their questions. Don't elaborate.
"Did you speak with a . . ." Maddox flipped papers. "A Krissy Morgan?"
"Yes. Yesterday." Oops. Just yes or no.
Silence fell over the table. Tension so palpable it took on a life force of its own. Layla went back to staring at Detective Wallace's button.
Maddox sighed. "So you know about her possible theory that someone burned down the house because of you."
"I—yes." She gripped her hands together in her lap under the table.
Maddox tapped his fingers on the table. Annoyingly so.
She chanced looking at him again.
Fire flickered in those true-blue eyes of his. "Well, what do you think about that?"
Letting out a slow breath, she struggled to keep her anger in check. "I think she's nuts. The only ones who care about the CotYs are contractors, and I don't know a single one who'd burn down any building. Period."
Detective Wallace scribbled on a legal pad, then set down the pen. "Have you had anyone make threats, even in jest, against you? Anyone with an ax to grind against your business?"
"No."
"What about someone personally?" Maddox jumped in.
"Excuse me?"
He set his elbows on the table. "A boyfriend? An ex?"
Randy was the only guy she'd really dated. He probably didn't even know what a CotY was. "No boyfriends—past or current."
"Someone who might want to see you fail?"
Now that list could be long and distinguished. Many, many men didn't think women belonged in the construction industry. But someone who would go to such extremes? "Not that I'm aware of." Not exactly a simple no, but it was the best she could do.
"Any competitors who'd like to steal some of your business?" Detective Wallace asked.
"Not that I ca
n think of."
The frustration coming off the two of them slammed against her. She couldn't help it. She couldn't help them. They needed to realize they were barking up the wrong tree. That stupid Krissy Morgan . . .
"Who is Dennis LeJeune?" Maddox asked.
That snapped her attention to him. "An inspector."
"Was he the inspector on the Hope-for-Homes site?"
Where was this going? "Y-yes."
"So, you know him?"
"Of course. I know all the inspectors. So does every other contractor in the parish." She couldn't imagine not knowing the inspectors. It was almost part of her job.
"Is he a friend?"
She shrugged. "He's a business associate."
"What's your impression of him?"
Her impression? Of Dennis? Layla licked her lips. "Well, he's been an inspector for years. He's tough . . . by the book. A real stickler. He's well respected in the industry."
"A stickler?"
"Doesn't let anyone get away with anything." She'd veered far off her yes or no answers.
Maddox leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table again. "And you know this from personal experience?"
Oh, as if. "No. Like I said, he has a reputation because of his toughness."
"Where were you between eleven thirty and midnight on Friday?"
They thought she was a suspect! Her stomach balled into a tight knot.
"Ms. Taylor?" Maddox pierced her with his eyes.
Splinters! Think. Friday . . . Friday . . . And then she remembered. "I was at the home of Jeffery Davis." She and Jeffery had been practicing while his wife cheered them on.
Detective Wallace's pencil scraped against the paper.
A knock sounded against the door. Detective Wallace stood and cracked the door, whispering to the person in the hall. Layla felt Maddox's hot stare. She avoided eye contact, studying the nicks in the table.
"Well, thank you for coming in, Ms. Taylor. That's all the questions we have for now." Detective Wallace opened the door all the way.
She glanced up, catching a silent exchange between the two men.
Whatever.
She stood and pushed her chair back under the table.
Detective Wallace motioned her into the hall. "Let me walk you out."
Maddox said nothing.
She shook Detective Wallace's offered hand at the door to the reception area.
"Again, we really appreciate you coming in on such short notice."
"Happy to help." Well, that wasn't the whole truth, but she had shown up. Only to find they thought she was a suspect.
He gave her a final nod, then hurried out of sight.
She ducked out into the downpour, rushing to her truck. Somehow she was left feeling like they wouldn't really get to the bottom of this anytime soon. Not if they thought she had anything to do with this.
Thanks to Krissy Morgan's stupid article, Layla's name and reputation would be tarnished until the truth came out. No one would want to hire her for fear something might happen to his project.
Maybe she'd do a little investigating herself. She knew the people in the business better than the detectives, that much was certain. Maybe she could just ask around. Get her ear to the ground. See what she could find out.
She smiled as she started her truck, imagining what Maddox's expression would look like if she solved the case.
When she solved it.
"CASTEEL CALLED. POSITIVE ID of John Doe." Houston hurried down the corridor, returning to their cubicle.
"Dennis LeJeune?" Maddox paused in front of his desk.
"Give the man a gold star."
Maddox sat opposite his partner. "We need to trace Dennis's steps those last few days."
"Yep." Houston's fingers flew over his keyboard. "Am requesting the records of all the buildings he inspected over the last twelve months."
"Wonder how many of them were built by Ms. Taylor?"
Houston paused in his typing and met Maddox's stare. "She bugs you, doesn't she?"
Maddox made a pfffing sound. "She's a person of interest in this case."
"Oh, you definitely find her interesting, don't you?" Houston crossed his arms over his chest and grinned.
Maddox wadded up a scrap of paper and tossed it across the desk. It hit Houston before falling to the floor. "Puh-leeze. Give it a rest."
Houston cocked his head and chuckled. "She's really gotten under your skin."
"Man, I think those bright shirts have damaged your brain. Why must you wear things like that?" Maddox sneered but heat had already crept across the back of his neck.
"This shirt was a gift, I'll have you know."
"Margie has better taste than that." Maddox snorted. "Well, then again, she did marry you."
Houston laughed. "The boys got it for me."
"They should have better taste," Maddox mumbled. But at least the subject of his interest in Layla had been dropped.
"Did you hear about the upcoming memo?"
"What?"
Houston's face was somber. "The commander'll be sending a memo around next week. About the future of the department."
Maddox's stomach squeezed. "Think he's gonna announce he's running for sheriff?"
"Don't know." Houston clapped Maddox's back. "Don't sweat it. You're a shoo-in if he does."
Maddox nodded, but any words were caught in his chest.
"Anyway," Houston continued, "we already got confirmation back from the bowling alley. Workers remember seeing LeJeune there, but his team left around ten. By all counts, he should've been home before ten thirty."
"That's interesting. What about others there? Anybody see him leave with someone?"
"According to all reports the uniforms got, LeJeune was seen getting into his car alone about ten to ten fifteen. Nobody saw him after that."
That was no help. Maddox reached for the papers filling his in-box. Memo, tossed on the desk. Softball team-forming flyer, wadded up and thrown in trash. Memo, tossed on desk. Reports.
He stopped flipping and began reading. That familiar stirring churned in his gut. "Hey, Houston. Got the report back on those three druggies from Second Chances who worked at the site."
"Yeah?"
"First one, Sam Roberson."
Houston swiveled in his chair. "Whoa! Sam Roberson, the dentist?"
"No, his son. Sam Junior."
"Ah. Heard something about his boy getting into some trouble over in Orleans Parish."
"Apparently it was drugs." Maddox continued reading. "Shows the judge released him from the program two months ago. Now he works full time at J. B. Carpentry."
Houston scribbled in his notebook. "We'll visit him."
"He was released right about the same time the house was completed." Maddox turned the page. "Next up is Darren Watkins."
"Don't think I know him."
"Name should be familiar. Kid's got quite the rap sheet."
"Really?"
"Two counts of assault. Five counts of drunk and disorderly. One count of possession, but that was when he was a minor so the details are scrubbed. Three counts of domestic assault."
Houston scratched his head. "And a judge gave him rehab?"
"After a four-month stint at the parish jail."
Houston pushed his pen across his notebook. "Where is he now?"
"Still at Second Chances. Papers here say the judge hasn't released him from the program yet."
"We'll talk to him today."
"Along with Alana Taylor." Maddox leaned back in his chair. "Wonder why she didn't mention him when we talked to her before?"
"Maybe he's been a model patient in rehab?"
Maddox snorted and grabbed the papers. "Right. And I'm the Queen of Sheba."
"Who's the third candidate in our lineup today?"
Maddox smiled. "Kenny Lindsay. No previous record. Judge released him from the program almost three months ago."
"Where is he?"
"Last report shows he left to
wn. Went back to the Baton Rouge area." Maddox shoved the papers into the file. "And that's the hits for today."
"Why don't we start with talking to Mrs. LeJeune, then interview Sam, then run by Second Chances and talk with the Watkins character?"
Maddox stood. "We haven't left yet?"
TEN
"Enemies are so stimulating."
—KATHARINE HEPBURN
DARK AND DISMAL. SEEMED the weather mimicked the sentiments of her heart on this January afternoon. Even though it was Tuesday, it felt like Monday all over again.
Even Alana had called with bad news. Fred had traced the drugs Gavin used back to the Ike Thompson site. One of the crew remembered a stranger talking with Gavin off to the side. Now Gavin's probation officer had pulled him from the program. Alana was beside herself.
Layla rested her chin in her hands, staring at the computer screen with Taylor Construction's schedule. She'd received umpteen calls this morning—all asking or commenting about that stupid newspaper article. But the calls that worried her most were the ones from clients. Two had already called and delayed their upcoming remodeling projects. If a couple more did the same, her business could be in for some rough months.
She couldn't blame them, really. If they believed what that nervy Krissy Morgan implied in the article, Layla's doing any work for them could put their project in danger of being destroyed. Who wanted to take that risk?
Understanding that didn't make it any easier to accept.
Do what needed to be done. Wasn't that her motto?
Layla lifted the phone and dialed the number. She would call every independent she'd contracted on the Hope-for-Homes site. There had to be an answer somewhere. She just had to find it.
"J. B. Carpentry."
"May I speak with Jonas, please?"
"Hang on."
Layla glanced at her notes while she waited on hold. She knew every name on the list—knew these people personally—and just couldn't believe any of them would burn a home.
"Jonas Baxter."
"Hey, Jonas. It's Layla." She smiled and leaned back in her chair.
"Hi, Layla. Sorry to read that article about you in the paper. Nasty business."
