Dreadful

by Jana DeLeon

  “That’s unfortunately typical.”

  “Yeah. I have a cousin whose husband abused her. I’d still like five minutes in the room with that guy.”

  Shaye rose from her chair and pulled out her card. “I really appreciate you talking to me. If you think of anything else—even another wild theory—please give me a call.”

  He rose, took the card, and nodded. “I hope you figure out what happened. Maybe if Jenny knew for sure, she could get help. You know, get past this.”

  “I hope so too.”

  “Would you…I mean if you find out something, would you let me know?”

  “Of course.”

  He was still standing there, staring off into space, when she turned around and left. Shaye wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting when she’d walked into Sam Lofland’s offices, but she knew the man she’d met wasn’t it. She also hadn’t expected to get a new line of investigation to follow, but Sam had presented her with an interesting idea as well as a side of Caitlyn that the police reports didn’t reflect.

  If Caitlyn had a secret relationship, was it Garrett Trahan or someone else? The fight with Garrett could have been staged for her friends’ benefit. And someone with Garrett’s means could have easily provided Caitlyn with a second phone. Maybe it wasn’t a new man that Caitlyn was hiding. Maybe it was an old one that her friends didn’t like.

  Either way, her next stop was Garrett Trahan’s office.

  8

  JACKSON LAMOTTE STRUGGLED to contain his anger, but he knew it showed in every square inch of his tense body and tight face. It made him somewhat happy to see Grayson wasn’t doing a much better job hiding his disgust.

  “Sir,” Grayson said. “All due respect, but we’ve been working this case from the beginning and if you do a review, you won’t find something we missed. I assure you.”

  The man behind the desk was the temporary police chief, pulled out of retirement and asked to fill the position until a new one could be selected, something that was taking a long time to do given all the bad publicity the department had recently experienced. He was a fair enough man but strict about protocol. Jackson didn’t have any problem with him, personally or professionally, but he had a problem with the words that had just come out of his mouth.

  “No one is saying you missed anything,” the chief said and sighed. “Look, this is out of my hands. The grandfather has a friend in Congress who made a call to the FBI and they agreed to put some agents on it. None of that is a reflection on me, you, or this department. It’s just a grief-stricken grandparent using every resource to find the people who attacked his son and daughter-in-law and kidnapped his granddaughter.”

  “She doesn’t fit the ‘tender years’ definition,” Jackson said. “And we have no reason to believe she’s been transported across state lines. They can’t claim jurisdiction.”

  “I’m aware of that and so is the FBI, but they also informed me of a case in Alabama with a similar MO.”

  “They think the two are related?” Grayson asked. “Because we conducted a check of other cases and couldn’t find anything that was a good match.”

  “It’s a murder of a parent and the kidnapping of a child,” the chief said. “Look. It’s a reach. You, I, and the FBI all know it, but this is not something any of us get to take issue with. If you told me you had something new, something solid, I might be able to raise enough stink to keep you on. Can you tell me that?”

  Jackson looked over at Grayson, almost wishing that his partner was capable of lying. But Grayson would never risk his job and his pension over a case he’d probably be yanked off of regardless.

  “No, sir,” Grayson said. “I can’t tell you that.”

  The chief gave him a sympathetic nod. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am. The two of you are some of the finest we have here, which is why I put you on this case to begin with. But my hands are tied.”

  “I understand why we have to allow the FBI to take point,” Jackson said. “But why can’t Detective Grayson and I remain on the case?”

  “Simple numbers. You’re too valuable to play administrative assistant to the FBI. You’ll have an information exchange in a couple hours when the agents arrive and make yourself available to answer questions after that. I’ll assign two junior detectives to work with them.”

  Jackson’s jaw was clenched so hard he knew it would be sore the next day. Because he was afraid of what he might say if he spoke again, he just nodded.

  “May I ask what we’re doing that’s a more valuable use of our skills?” Grayson asked. Their slate had been cleared when they got handed the kidnapping and all their current cases reassigned so that they could focus on that one investigation.

  The chief handed Grayson a sheet of paper. “Murder. Just came in. Get over to Metairie Cemetery. A patrol officer will meet you there and take you back to the crime scene. Forensics is already on their way.”

  The chief picked up his phone, and Jackson and Grayson rose, knowing that indicated their dismissal. They remained silent as they walked down the hallway and continued the quiet game as they collected their wallets and weapons and headed out to the parking lot. Once they were in the car, Jackson exploded.

  “Son of a bitch!” he shouted and slammed his hand on the dash.

  Grayson didn’t have to say a word. His expression as he put the car in gear and squealed out of the parking lot said it all.

  “This is a little girl we’re talking about,” Jackson continued to rant. “Not some political power-play bullshit.”

  “You won’t get any disagreement from me,” Grayson said.

  “There’s nothing we can do about it, is there?”

  “Not a thing. If there was, we’d be doing it now instead of driving to Metairie Cemetery.”

  Jackson blew out a breath. He knew Grayson was right. Had known there was nothing to be done about the situation when they were sitting in the boss’s office. The chief wasn’t about to make waves with a congressman, because that would cause problems for the mayor and the governor, ultimately culminating in a storm of shit landing squarely on the New Orleans Police Department. And if he and Grayson kept investigating, the FBI would find out and their jobs would be on the line.

  But knowing all of that didn’t make the pill any less bitter to swallow.

  “We did good work on this,” Grayson said. “The FBI has resources we don’t. Maybe they’ll be able to break something. Maybe comparing it to that other case.”

  “You know that other case is just a bullshit excuse for them to pull rank. The best chance that girl has is if whoever took her decides to make a ransom request. I was praying for that call before. I’m going to pray even harder now.”

  Grayson nodded, but Jackson knew that the more time that passed without the phone ringing, the less likely it was that this was a case of a kidnapping for ransom and more likely it was something personal against the father or mother and the girl was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “Grab that paper the chief gave us and see what we have to start with,” Grayson said. “Get us up to date while I drive. This victim deserves the same level of investigation as Brianna LeBlanc, regardless of what we think we ought to be working on.”

  Jackson grabbed the paper from the dash where Grayson had tossed it. The senior detective was right. Again. Putting less than a hundred percent into this case wouldn’t do any good for Brianna LeBlanc or the family of the current victim.

  “Let’s see,” Jackson said as he scanned the printed sheet. “Victim is a white male, midthirties. Found in Metairie Cemetery by a photographer taking some pictures for a local publisher doing a book on New Orleans sightseeing spots.”

  “Probably not what they had in mind for people to see,” Grayson said.

  Jackson nodded. “Photographer freaked and called the cops. Patrol took the call, got a look at the body, and called downtown. Wounds on the back and front of the head and no apparent weapon. That’s it.”

  “Okay. Forensics
should be there by now. We’ll see what they have to say, then get an address for the vic and check out his place.”

  The patrolman who took the initial call was waiting for them in the parking lot. Jackson recognized him as Keith Walker, one of the younger guys. He was an up-and-comer who had his sights set on Homicide one day. He’d asked Jackson to lunch a couple months before to get his advice on the career path, and Jackson had found him serious but likable, and decided he would probably accomplish everything he had set out for.

  “Detectives,” Walker said, looking slightly confused.

  “The FBI moved in on the LeBlanc case,” Grayson said. “So we’re up.”

  Walker’s eyes widened. “Wow. I’m sorry. I mean, not sorry to work with you but sorry about the FBI.”

  “Everyone’s sorry,” Grayson said. “Except the FBI.”

  “One would argue they’re the sorriest of all,” Jackson grumbled.

  Grayson shot him a look, and Jackson forced himself to focus on the case they were now assigned. “Regardless, the decision is above all our pay grades, including the chief, so here we are. What can you tell us?”

  “The victim is a white male, midthirties. Found approximately an hour ago by a photographer taking pictures for a book. He got one look at the body and ran. I was first on the scene. The body was facedown across a crypt slab, and I could see the wound on the back of the head. I checked for a pulse, but he was gone. The body was cold and the blood already clotted. I immediately radioed in for the forensics team and secured the scene. Forensics arrived about ten minutes ago, and I came up here to wait for you guys.”

  “That’s good work securing the scene,” Jackson said. “If you can take a few more minutes from patrol, you’re welcome to observe.”

  “Really?” Walker could hardly contain his excitement. “That would be great. I mean, not great that someone died, but to watch you two work a scene would be awesome.”

  Grayson shot an amused look at Jackson, but Jackson knew his senior partner hadn’t forgotten working his way through the ranks to homicide detective, and how much any little peek into that world meant when you were writing tickets for speeding and jaywalking.

  Walker motioned them to a path on the left, and they headed out. Several minutes later, they arrived at the scene, where the assistant medical examiner greeted them.

  Grayson looked at the body, still slumped over the crypt marker. “Messy one.”

  The AME nodded. “Head wound. Lots of blood.”

  “I assume that’s cause of death?” Grayson asked.

  “Can’t see a better one, but of course, I’ll do an autopsy,” the AME said. “In any event, it wasn’t accidental. No blood on any of the crypts or other objects he could have fallen on. Whatever hit him left the scene, and since weapons don’t walk away on their own…”

  Grayson nodded. “I don’t suppose we got lucky enough to find an ID.”

  “Buy a lottery ticket on the way home tonight, Detective,” the AME said. “His wallet and cell phone were still in his pocket. The victim’s name is Cody Reynolds. Age thirty-six. Home address in the warehouse district. We’ll do a quick sweep on the items at the lab, but I don’t anticipate they hold any forensic evidence. You should be able to pick them up in about an hour.”

  “Hmmm, now I don’t know whether to be happy about that or not,” Grayson said.

  Jackson nodded. Robbery would have been the easy way out on motive, but harder to find the perp. When it was personal, that meant poking into every avenue of the victim’s life, hoping to find that one person mad enough to kill them. And in this case, lure them into a cemetery and kill them.

  “Perfect place to kill someone,” Jackson said. “No cameras. No witnesses.”

  Grayson sighed. “Yeah. Perfect. Well, let’s find out where Mr. Reynolds lived. Maybe our luck will hold, and we’ll find the reason someone wanted him dead.”

  Jackson nodded. “I’ll get him run through the system. See if anything pops. He has a military tattoo on his arm.”

  “Big guy, too.”

  “Someone got the jump on him,” Jackson said. “Given that it’s impossible to walk silently on all these dead leaves, I’m going with he knew the person he came here to meet and didn’t feel threatened or he wouldn’t have had his back to them.”

  “That narrows down the field, at least.”

  “Maybe. Or our luck might run out, and Mr. Reynolds might have been one of those popular people with a football stadium of friends.”

  “Then we best get going. It will take a while to alibi them all.”

  JENNY RUSHED out the back door of the bar and past the dumpster. Then the alley went fuzzy and Marisa was there, trying to get her to go back inside. But Marisa’s voice was all wrong. Not the calm, soothing voice she usually had. This time she sounded panicked. Jenny saw the back door to the bar open, and she went inside. Rick was there, and Marisa whispered something to him. His eyes widened, and he pushed past them, headed for the back door.

  Then it all faded to black.

  JENNY WOKE up from her nap as exhausted as when she’d gone to sleep. It had been that way too much lately. No matter how tired she was, or how quickly she fell asleep, it wasn’t restful. She awakened feeling as though she’d been ill or run a marathon instead of been asleep. Her body ached and her legs cramped sometimes. Her mother gave her potassium for the cramps and it helped some but didn’t take away the pain completely.

  And then there were the dreams. No matter how tired she was, they always came. At first, it had been only one every week or so. Then every week had turned into every night, and finally, she couldn’t sleep at all without memories of Caitlyn occupying her subconscious. Somewhere in all that jumbled mess was an answer. She just had to remember the right thing.

  She pushed herself up into a sitting position, trying to think about what she needed to do that afternoon, but she couldn’t remember what day it was. Not that it mattered much. Nothing mattered much since Caitlyn had disappeared. She’d dropped out of school her last semester. Her parents had been supportive, of course, but they were also grieving. It was hard for three devastated people, all living in the same space and sharing the same sorrow, to be much comfort to one another. And her parents had never been the huggy, feely type.

  It had taken her a year before they managed to get her back to school to finish. The university had accommodated her back into the classes and dorm, and she’d managed to fumble through the semester with barely passing grades. But she’d graduated, and that was all that mattered. At the time.

  She knew her parents had hoped that going back to school meant she was healing. That she was making the move to going out on her own, but every time she thought about leaving her parents’ house and being responsible for her own home, bills, meals—not to mention having a job and all the responsibility that came along with that—she started to panic. Then she started having panic attacks.

  So she stayed. Right there in the house she’d grown up in. In her childhood bedroom.

  And for a while, she’d worked at the local hardware store as a clerk. She wasn’t setting the world on fire, but it was low stress and within walking distance, which was important since she’d never learned to drive and still wasn’t interested. She’d changed up her bedroom—a fresh coat of paint in a sunny yellow on the walls and new linens for the bed and bathroom. She’d even picked up some good used bedroom furniture from a family who was moving.

  And then her father had died.

  The coroner said it was a heart attack. That he had a family history of heart problems, but Jenny knew he’d never been right since Caitlyn disappeared. She’d never heard of someone actually dying of a broken heart, but maybe that wasn’t as impossible as it sounded. Her mother said she couldn’t manage the upkeep on the big house they lived in, nor could she afford it. So they’d moved from the one place of stability she had into a tiny old structure that had once served as a church but had been remodeled into a home decades before.
r />   Unlike their other home, this one was outside the city limits and came with some land. The previous owners had kept chickens and horses and maintained a decent-sized garden, but Jenny’s mother hadn’t wanted any of that. She’d grown up poor with her hands in the dirt and never wanted to live that way again. She sometimes said she might be poor now but at least her hands were clean. Jenny knew her mother didn’t like the house all that much, but it had been cheap. The money she’d banked from the difference in price between the old house and the new one would take her through retirement. And Jenny too, assuming she stayed. What happened after that was a huge question mark and something Jenny worried about as her mother seemed to slip away a little more every day. The house and the retirement account would come to her, but the Social Security that made up the difference in their bills would go along with her mother.

  Unfortunately, the move meant Jenny was also dependent on her mother or friends for a ride. She had an old bicycle that she used to pedal into town sometimes. When the weather was nice, it wasn’t a bad ride. In fact, Jenny enjoyed it. But her grief over her father and the situation with the commute both pushed her to quit her job. She wasn’t reliable, and the owners needed someone they could depend on. So now she sat out here with her mother. Mostly silent. Both of them lost in their thoughts.

  She pushed herself out of bed and reached for her shoes. She hadn’t bothered to take off her clothes before she’d lain down to rest and she was sure they were all rumpled, but with only her mother to see her, it hardly mattered. And her mother barely acknowledged she was there. She headed downstairs into the kitchen and pulled out some items to make a sandwich. Her mother was on the back porch in her rocking chair, the place she spent most of her waking hours, staring out into the woods as if a better life were going to materialize from the trees.

  Jenny pushed open the back door and stuck her head out. “Momma, I’m making a sandwich. Would you like one?”