by Rick Reed
Jack asked, “And did you take impressions of Officer Barbierre’s boot soles?”
The tech said, “Size-thirteen Wolverine brand. They look new. No breaks or cuts in the lug soles, nothing stuck between the lugs like gravel etcetera.”
“In your opinion would those boots have even fit together on the seat of that chair?” Jack asked, and the tech smiled.
“No, sir. The boot prints on the chair are five point five inches wide at the sole. That’s eleven inches total if he was standing at attention, feet together.” When he said this he deliberately turned his back to the hanging body. A squeamish look was on his face. “I don’t think—” he said, and was interrupted by Chief Whiteside.
“That’ll be all, Kurtis. Wait outside until I need you.”
“Yes, ma’am. I mean Chief Whiteside,” he said and scurried back through the door.
“Okay. So he didn’t use the chair seat to stand on. He could have stood on its side, and the leg broke and he hung. It still isn’t anything but a suicide.”
“What convinced you?” Jack asked to be fair.
“Isn’t it obvious?” she asked. “Barbierre killed Detective LeBoeuf and tried to pin it on Blanchard. When he found that you two were investigating the case he got nervous. He must have followed you to Cotton’s. When you left, maybe he tried to get Cotton to tell him what you talked about. Barbierre shot him and tried to make it look like the same type of murder as Detective LeBoeuf’s. He had access to the gun that was stolen from your car.”
Jack and Liddell were silent. She had a point. Cotton didn’t seem like someone you could threaten.
“Don’t you see?” Whiteside said. “When I let you go Barbierre got scared that we were going to start looking at him. He’d stolen your gun and maybe the camera. Maybe he thought you had taken pictures at LeBoeuf’s house. According to you he arrived at the scene a minute after you got there, but maybe he didn’t know how long you’d been there. He lied to Troup about you being in the house when he caught you. He may have had a romantic interest in LeBoeuf and she rejected him. Things got out of hand. He killed her and tried to cover it up. When you showed up he saw an opportunity to pin it on you.”
“Some of that makes sense, Chief,” Jack said. “But it still doesn’t explain why he would kill himself. You yourself said we have no evidence that he killed her. Barbie, excuse me, Officer Barbierre would have known that. So why kill himself?”
“Guilt,” she said. “He didn’t want to get caught,” she said. “He was proud, arrogant. Barbierre thought of himself as a one-man police department. But he admired Bobby Troup. With Troup investigating the LeBoeuf and Walters cases Barbierre knew it was just a matter of time before he got caught. Shame, guilt, fear of humiliation, fear of prison. Take your pick.”
Jack felt sorry for her. She was the Chief of Police, and so the buck would stop with her whether Barbie was a killer who had committed suicide or if he’d just committed suicide or if persons unknown had killed him. Any way you went about it, this wouldn’t look good for her or her department. If the killer struck again it would also kill her career.
He wanted Barbie to be the killer, but her theory was weak on motive. A detective had to look at everything from a defense attorney’s point of view. A detective had to determine what was exculpatory, or that which proves innocence, as well as inculpatory, or that which proves guilt. You follow the evidence, but with an eye on how the resulting case would play out in a court of law and to a jury. And Jack could see a big piece of exculpatory evidence.
“I suppose you don’t want me to tell you about the rope,” Jack said.
Whiteside put her hands on her hips and got in Jack’s face. “I don’t want you to tell me anything, mister. You’re done here. Not another word. Get out of my crime scene. And as a matter of fact, you and your partner get the hell out of Dodge, ASAP.”
Liddell took Jack’s arm and pulled him toward the door. Outside the house they ran into the crime-scene tech that Whiteside had run off.
“Can I talk to you for a second,” the tech said. He led them around the side of the house and introduced himself. “I’m Kurtis, Kurtis Dempsey. My brother is with the Sheriff’s Department. He said he met you.”
“Yeah. Jon right?” Liddell said.
Kurtis cast a nervous glance toward the back of the house.
“The Chief was a little hard on you in there, Kurtis,” Jack said.
“She’s okay, I guess,” he said. “But she’s dead wrong about Barbie killing himself.”
Jack said, “Why do you say that, Kurtis?”
Kurtis swallowed, looked around, and said, “When you guys came up, I was collecting this.” He showed Jack two evidence bags.
One bag contained dirt mixed with something white, the consistency of baking soda. The other contained strips of something like bamboo or shoots of grass.
“What is this?” Jack asked.
The tech lowered his voice but he was obviously excited. “I found this on the floor in the kitchen. And there was more of it on the floor near Barbie’s body.”
“Do you know what it is?” Jack asked.
“Its soil and some plants and chips of paint. I think the white stuff is a fertilizer. The pieces of plant look like sugarcane. The chips of green paint might have come from farm machinery, like John Deere stuff. I think this stuff came from a sugarcane field. It hasn’t been in here long.”
“Did you check Barbie’s boots?” Jack asked.
“Yeah. They had some grit on the bottom, but none of this stuff. And this didn’t come from the ground around here. I can tell you that for a fact.”
Jack appreciated the information, but he asked, “Why aren’t you giving this to your Chief?”
The tech shot an angry look toward the back of the house. “Because she won’t look at it. You heard her. She’s made her mind up this is a suicide. And it might disappear before it goes to the lab.”
Kurtis took a business card out and wrote on the back. “My work and personal cell number if you need anything else,” he said and handed the card to Liddell.
Chapter Twenty-one
Evie came out of the shower to find her clothes missing and Ubaid holding open a thick pink robe.
“Wear this, and we’ll do something with that hair,” Ubaid said and smiled.
Evie slipped into the robe and pushed long dark locks of wet hair from her face. She asked Ubaid, “Where are my clothes?” Her clothes weren’t much, and they smelled bad, but they were all she had.
“You have clothes laid out on the bed. But now we are going to do something with your hair.”
Evie cooperated with Ubaid drying her hair, pulling it back from her face and braiding it, but she didn’t want new clothes or to look beautiful. She just wanted to go home. She was mad at herself for getting mixed up in this. She had only wanted to find out about her mother. They had promised to tell her. They had lied.
Something trilled. Ubaid took a cell phone from a pocket. She stepped out of the room, and Evie could hear her talking softly. Ubaid came back in the room and her whole demeanor had changed. Nothing about her was smiling now. When she spoke, she sounded reserved, flat, the smile forced. “Beautiful. Just beautiful. Now we put on some makeup and do something about those clothes.”
Evie turned to Ubaid. “My dad doesn’t let me wear makeup.”
“Just a little to bring out your eyes,” Ubaid said. “You’ve worn makeup before, haven’t you?”
Evie hadn’t. She sat at the small makeup table and allowed Ubaid to apply eye shadow and lip gloss.
Ubaid examined Evie’s reflection in the mirror. She patted the long braid that ran down Evie’s back and smiled. “Now for clothes.”
“Ubaid. Can I ask something?”
Ubaid’s smile faltered. “Yes. But let’s get some clothes on you first.”
Evie let Ubaid help her slip into the beautiful blue gown that was laid out on the bed. She had shaved her legs during her shower and had been unab
le to resist a dab of the perfume set on a glass shelf beside the vanity. Ubaid led Evie to the floor-length mirror and Evie could hardly believe the reflection was hers. She looked like a grownup woman. Felt like one. The feeling was both thrilling and terrifying.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked Ubaid.
Ubaid said, “I must—” but was interrupted by a soft knock at the door.
* * *
Papa sat on the purple velour seat of the heirloom chair as the girl across from him sat on the side of the bed, feet barely touching the floor, wearing a $2,000 silk evening gown. A pair of expensive high heels, silk and the same color as her dress, lay on the floor where she had kicked them off. Papa knew her as Evelyn Blanchard, but he had given her a new name. A new name for a new life. He was waiting patiently for her to repeat it back to him.
She held her arms across her chest and deliberately didn’t look at him. Even mad she was beautiful.
Papa had one chance, one showing, to get the investors’ attention. They would come in two days to view, and if they liked, they could “sample” the goods. If the investors rejected her, she would need to be disposed of. It was a business decision. He had been nice to her up to now, but he would have to be curt. If she didn’t change her attitude, if she continued to sulk, she wouldn’t like what would happen next.
“Your name is an important part of your new life. Your past is inconsequential. You will have the best clothes, the best food, attend fine parties, and make important and rich friends. But you must accept your new name. You must forget Evelyn Blanchard ever existed. Do you understand?”
She was mad, but he could see she was more frightened. Her will was bending to his demands.
“Jacqueline. My name is Jacqueline,” she said, and a tear ran down one cheek.
Papa’s deep laugh startled her, and she came off the bed so fast she almost fell.
“Jacqueline. That’s your name. It’s a good name. A refined name. And you will be a refined young lady. We will teach you, Ubaid and I. And you must strive to learn. Much depends on it. Your life and your father’s life depend on you now.”
She refused to look at him and tears flowed freely.
“Smile,” he ordered.
She forced a smile through the tears.
Satisfied, for now, that she would cooperate, he got to his feet and patted her on the head. He was incredibly big. He wore a purple silk suit with wide lapels, lighter colored purple pants, and even his shoes were purple. His head was bald or she thought he would have purple hair as well. He walked with a cane made of very dark wood with a silver handle in the shape of a skeleton.
He stopped at the door and gave Ubaid instructions. Evie/Jacqueline was to be put in a new room. Given new clothes. And watched. He shut the door behind himself and Evie could feel the floor move under her feet with his heavy steps in the hall.
While Papa had been present, Ubaid stood motionless, eyes cast down, moving when Papa directed her to do something, like move a strand of hair that had fallen over Evie’s ear or change some jewelry—a necklace, a ring, a bracelet.
Now her voice had taken on a forceful tone, one that demanded if not obedience, compliance. She took Evie into the dressing room and helped her remove the expensive jewelry, placing each piece on a silver tray. She put the tray in a wall safe and closed and locked it. Next came the silk evening gown, leaving Evie wearing her skivvies only.
“Where are my clothes?” Evie asked Ubaid.
“You will find appropriate clothing in the drawers of that dresser.” She pointed to a low dresser/bench at the back of the dressing room.
Evie opened one drawer after another and found jeans, a multicolored tie-dyed T-shirt, and sandals. She dressed quickly and asked, “Am I going back to the room?” She didn’t want to go back to that dank, depressing room after being here, being able to take a long hot shower with sweet-smelling shampoo and body wash. She had to admit that she felt grown up wearing the gown and jewelry and being made a fuss over, but it was scary too.
Ubaid took her by the arm. “We must hurry. Do not speak.”
“You didn’t tell me why I’m here,” Evie said.
“You know why,” Ubaid said softly. “Don’t ask more questions of me, child.”
At the bottom of the stairs she was led down a different hallway where Ubaid stopped and knocked on a door.
“Come,” Papa’s deep voice came from inside.
Ubaid led Evie in and stood her in front of Papa, who was sitting at a massive desk. Behind his desk were three large windows with the blinds closed and the curtains blocking what light might filter through.
“You are to be honored tomorrow evening,” Papa said.
Evie didn’t understand. Had she won an award of some kind? Was she being presented to the President? Or was this weirdo going to try something with her? If he thought he could he had another think coming. He was bigger, but she knew where a man’s weak spots were. Her father had taught her that much when he thought she was getting to the age she could date. Not that he would let her date yet.
She stepped forward, facing Papa. “What’s going to happen to the other girls?” she asked. “Where are you taking them? What’s going to happen to me? Are you a kidnapper?”
He laughed that deep laugh of his with a twinkle in his eye.
“The buyers will love her,” Papa said. “You’ve done well, Ubaid. Very well indeed.”
Papa put his hands out and held her at arms’ length. He looked her up and down, nodding approval, his eyes stopping at places that made her face fill with heat.
“Take her to her room,” Papa said.
Without speaking, Ubaid took Evie by the arm and led her away.
* * *
Ubaid led Evie down two sets of stairs into what had to be a basement, but unlike basements Evie had ever seen. This one had painted walls with chair rails, and wood paneled ceilings and carpeted floors. Definitely not the concrete prison she’d come from. They stopped at a wooden door with a keypad lock. Ubaid entered a code, and Evie heard the locking mechanism whir. Several doors lay ahead, and Ubaid opened one of these and led Evie inside.
“This is your room now,” Ubaid said.
Evie checked out her new accommodations, which took about three minutes. A rollaway bed with a mattress sat in one corner. The bedding appeared clean, and the room didn’t smell of sweat and fear. The door to a bathroom stood open, and she could see a sink and a toilet and a shower stall. She turned to ask Ubaid a question but she was gone and the door was shut. She heard a lock turn.
She went to the bed, lay back on the mattress, and stared at the ceiling until the lights blinked out. She waved a hand and the lights came back on. If she turned over in her sleep she wondered if the lights would come on. But at least she had lights.
She lay still and thought and the lights blinked out again. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but she would never be found here. She’d read about stuff like this on the Internet. White slavery, that’s what it was called. They would kidnap women, children, sometimes men and boys, and sell them on the black market.
She was going to be sold. A sex slave. And she hadn’t even kissed a boy. Jamie Thibadeaux didn’t count, because he had kissed her first, and Jamie Thibadeaux’s breath stank.
She closed her eyes and tried not to be scared. This was crazy. All she had wanted to do was to meet her birth mother. She’d always been curious about her and had never seen a photo or a letter or anything personal until she found the box in her closet. Her father had gotten rid of all her mothers’ things before she was even old enough to have questions. She knew he didn’t do it to hurt her. He did it because he was hurt. And he didn’t want her to get hurt.
In that shoebox, she’d found pictures and other things that she later found out were amulets. She knew her father wouldn’t have owned stuff like that, so it must have belonged to her mother. She’d looked the amulets up on the Internet and learned about gris-gris and Voodoo dolls and spells and chants
and rituals. Was her mother involved with Voodoo? She didn’t know then, but she had heard of a place where she could find out more. That was how she found the plantation and Marie Laveau. Marie was nice to her. Marie had promised to tell her things about her real mother. And then she had been taken to the concrete room where she’d spent the last four days.
In her mind she conjured up the pictures she had found in the shoebox. In a couple of the pictures she had recognized her father, alone, fishing on the end of a pier, or making crazy faces into the camera. But there was one picture that showed a woman holding a newborn. She had examined the woman’s face and compared her own in the mirror. They were different, but similar. They had the same eyes and high cheekbones. She’d always thought her shoulders were too wide for her body, but they were identical to those of the woman in the photo. Her grandmother had once told her that her mother was Creole, and her mother’s side of the family was part French and part Choctaw. That accounted for the high cheekbones. In the photo her mother had long, thick black hair, with a braid down almost to her waist. Her father said that her mother was gone, but he’d never said if she was alive or where she might be. She had never believed her mother was dead. Her mother had simply left her behind. She needed to know why? Where had she gone? Did she ever think about her daughter? Did her mother ever love her?
Her last thought before drifting off to sleep was that she still hadn’t found her mother, and now she was going to lose her father too. If she didn’t cooperate, they would hurt him. If she did cooperate, she would never see him again.
Chapter Twenty-two
Liddell drove on autopilot as he talked to Marcie on Jack’s cell phone. He was holding it away from his ear, and Jack could hear enough to know Marcie was giving a rundown of everything she and Katie had been doing for the last two days. Liddell ended the conversation by assuring his wife that he and Jack were in no danger and would be wrapping this up soon.
