by Jana DeLeon
Shaye felt a blush creep up her neck. No matter how much Eleonore had worked with her, Shaye still found compliments uncomfortable. On one hand, it pleased her to know she was appreciated, but deep down, there was some dark part of her that whispered that she didn’t deserve them.
“I’m glad you laughed,” Shaye said. “I would have had to return the retainer if you hadn’t.”
Emma smiled, then sobered. “Do you think it means something that none of David’s coworkers or old military buddies contacted me?”
“No. I was more interested in if someone had. Staying away seems normal under the circumstances.”
“And if someone had gotten in touch?”
“If it was a simple ‘sorry and let me know if I can do anything,’ then I still don’t see any cause for alarm. But this guy is playing with you, and sitting down with you for coffee would be another ego boost for him.”
“Oh. That’s a horrible thought. I’m glad they all stayed away.”
“Me too, but if anyone shows up, you let me know.”
Emma nodded and rose from the bed. “Let’s go look at my old bedroom.”
They headed down the hall and into the bedroom that Emma had occupied as a child. Emma opened the closet door and pushed the clothes aside to show Shaye the panel at the back. Shaye got on her hands and knees, slid the panel back, and peered inside.
The room was narrow and dark, and Shaye imagined Emma huddled in the far corner, hearing the whistling on the other side of the thin plaster wall, her pulse racing. If hiding in this room had been the only thing that could save Shaye from an attacker, she probably would have died. Even now, her breathing was somewhat shallow.
She backed out of the closet and looked over at Emma, who was fingering the edge of a lamp. “Is it supposed to be for winter storage?” Shaye asked.
“I don’t really know. I found it when I came to live with Aunt Margaret. She’d only recently moved in and didn’t even know about it.” Emma gave her a sad smile. “I was only five when my parents died and I came to live here. I thought it was the coolest thing ever. How many kids had a secret room in their closet?”
“Narnia.”
“Exactly. Except no cold and no witch. I used to crawl inside and stay there for hours, reading books with a flashlight. Even though Aunt Margaret never had children, somehow she knew to leave me alone when I was there. That somehow I felt safe, and inside the closet, I could work things out.”
“You’re lucky you had your Aunt Margaret.” Something Shaye knew firsthand.
“Extremely lucky.” Emma looked back at the closet and frowned. “But now it doesn’t feel safe. I mean, it saved my life, but I didn’t feel safe in there. I was scared to death. I can’t even imagine crawling back in there.”
Shaye knew exactly how Emma felt and didn’t blame her one bit. “Let’s see the rest of it and get out of here.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
They finished with the upstairs, then Shaye checked out the backyard and immediately saw what Jackson had meant when he said an intruder would have left prints if entering through the back of the house. The giant oak trees created shade over a good two-thirds of the backyard, leaving much of the ground bare. There was no way to approach the house from the back without creating evidence of passage.
As Shaye exited the house, she caught sight of something sitting on the steps leading up to the front porch. She walked over and saw it was a card in a bright pink envelope. She picked it up and checked both sides, but didn’t see anything to indicate who the card was for. Behind her, Emma closed and locked the front door and Shaye turned around.
“I found this on the steps,” Shaye said.
Emma turned and looked at Shaye’s outstretched hand. Her eyes widened and her hand flew up over her mouth. “It can’t be,” she whispered. “Open it.”
Shaye opened the envelope and pulled out a birthday card. Before she even opened it, she already knew who it was from.
Happy Birthday, my darling. David
“He was here,” Emma said. “I told you he’s following me. There’s no other way he could have found me at the repair shop.”
Shaye frowned and stuffed the card back in the envelope. “Can I keep this?”
“Yes, please. I don’t ever want to see it again. I don’t want to see any of that stuff again.”
Shaye slipped the card in her duffel bag. There was really little purpose in keeping it, except that she didn’t want Emma to have to deal with it. The likelihood of finding a print for the stalker was low. He had been clever so far, so Shaye couldn’t imagine him slipping and leaving a print on the card. And the card would have been handled by any number of store employees and however many people pulled it off the shelf to look at it, then put it back.
“Stay calm,” Shaye said. She looked up and down the street, but didn’t see anyone holding an “I’m a stalker” sign. Still, leaving the card on the porch steps when they were inside was brazen.
Unless he’d had someone else do his dirty work again.
“Too bad Mr. Abshire is busy in the backyard. He might have seen who delivered the card.”
“Oh! That’s right. The stalker could have sent someone else, like he did with the skater kid.”
“Did the skater kid give his name?”
“No.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Maybe fifteen or so. Long dirty blond hair in a ponytail, and I mean dirty blond both in color and in condition. He looked like he needed a good scrubbing. His eyes were light green and he had a tattoo on the back of his hand—an eyeball. It didn’t look like professional work, and to be honest, it was a little creepy.”
“What color was it?”
“Black. Why, do you know him?”
“No, but I think I’d like to meet him.”
“You think he knows more than he was telling?”
“Maybe. If he’s a street kid, probably. They don’t miss much, but they’re not exactly big on volunteering information, either.”
“So what do we do now?”
“We get back into our cars and head back to New Orleans.”
“But we were going to talk. If he’s following me…”
“That’s why we’re going to meet at Landry’s. There’s a parking lot next door and plenty of people around. He won’t make a move in public. That’s not his play.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want you taking any chances. If you think he could come after you…”
“If he’s been watching, then he saw the sample books. He has no reason to think I’m anything but what I’m putting myself out to be.”
“I guess,” Emma said, but Shaye could tell she wasn’t convinced.
“After lunch, you’re going to change hotels.”
“He’ll find me again,” Emma said, sounding totally defeated.
“Maybe, but it will probably buy you a few days. You told me you picked a hotel close to your job. When he realized you were no longer staying in your home, those are probably the first places he checked.”
A flush ran up Emma’s neck and cheeks. “I’m so stupid! I’m sure you’re right.”
“You’re not stupid. You just don’t think like a criminal. That’s a good thing.”
“Seems like it would be an advantage right now.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got that part covered. Let’s go get something to eat.”
Emma nodded and headed to her car. Shaye tossed the sample books and her duffel bag into her car and hopped inside. As Emma pulled away, Shaye started her car and headed down the street.
He was getting bolder.
That gave Shaye more opportunity to expose him, but made it that much more dangerous for Emma.
###
He lowered his binoculars as the cars rounded the corner and disappeared from view. The attic window was tiny but provided a perfect view of Emma’s house. He could even see inside the open windows. It had been so kind of Mrs. Pearson, the homeowner, to go see
her new grandchild in Arizona, and so unfortunate that she’d returned home before his work was finished. In a day or two, her family would grow concerned and the police would pay a visit, but there would be nothing to indicate he was there, except Mrs. Pearson, and she wasn’t going to talk.
Emma wouldn’t return to the house. Not to live. Not even to stay overnight.
She had done everything she could to keep him out—set the alarm, rekeyed the locks—but there was no lock he couldn’t pick. He’d learned that skill long ago, when it was the only way to buy his freedom. And the alarm was a joke. Most home alarm systems were. Even commercial systems were lacking, which was good. After all, a man had to make a living, and working a regular job wouldn’t allow enough time for his hobbies.
He smiled. Every man needed a hobby.
He wondered about the woman who’d met Emma at the house. Mama would say she was just another whore, but he couldn’t manage his life with such a simplistic viewpoint. Even a whore could put a kink in his fun, and that just wouldn’t do. The fabric sample books implied interior decorator, but her casual jeans and tennis shoes didn’t convey that at all. Even stranger, the “decorator” had kept the card he’d left on the steps. Why would she do that?
He supposed she could have seen Emma’s panic and offered to get rid of it for her, but he’d fully expected Emma to run to the police with what she thought was hard evidence. It wouldn’t be, of course. A card owned by Emma and found on her property was hardly a smoking gun. The cops still wouldn’t have anything to go on, and the last time he checked, they didn’t offer bodyguard services, anyway.
He frowned, thinking about the decorator again.
Something told him she needed a closer look. He had big plans for Emma, and no one was going to get in his way.
Chapter Seven
Shaye pulled up to the curb just down the street from Andy’s Auto Repair and parked. The street was the usual mix of old buildings, some residential, some retail, some commercial. Shaye had never been interested in travel—too much change too fast. Too many unknowns, but she wondered how many cities offered the same sort of eclectic blend within a one-block radius, especially in areas with no high-rise buildings.
She walked down the sidewalk toward the café that Emma had been walking to when the skater had accosted her. A couple of teens were standing on the corner, so she headed toward them. They stopped talking as she approached and gave her a once-over.
“Hi, guys,” she said. “I’m looking for a skater who lives in the area. Dirty blond hair in a ponytail. Maybe fifteen.”
One of the teens narrowed his eyes at her. “You a cop?”
“Do I look like a cop?”
“No, but that don’t mean nothing. Why you looking for this skater dude?”
Shaye pulled out her license and showed it to the boys. “I think he saw the man who’s stalking the lady who hired me.”
“No shit!” The second teen shook his head. “That’s fucked up. If some dude was stalking my moms, I’d cut him.”
“Is that what you’re going to do?” the first teen asked. “You gonna cut him?”
“Unless he presents a threat, that would be illegal,” Shaye said.
“But he’s stalking some lady, right?” the second teen said. “So if you find the dude, then he might try to attack you. Could you cut him then?”
“I’d probably just shoot him,” Shaye said, assuming the blunt truth would work best with these two.
The two boys looked at each other and nodded.
“Badass,” the first one said.
“I think I’ve seen the dude you’re looking for,” the second one said. “He hasn’t been around too long. I seen him before at the docks. That’s where the skaters do their thing.”
“Thanks,” Shaye said. “I appreciate it.”
“No problem,” the first one said.
“I hope you get him,” the second teen said. “The stalker, I mean.”
“So do I,” Shaye said, then headed back to her car. The docks were only a couple of blocks away. With any luck, the skater would be doing “his thing.”
It took only a couple of minutes to drive to the dock, and Shaye’s spirits lifted a bit when she saw several skaters using the concrete forms as their own personal obstacle course. She parked and headed for the docks, easily spotting the long blond ponytail as she walked. When she got close to the docks, she stood and watched until the boy looked her way, then she motioned to him.
He stopped skating and stared at her for several seconds, but didn’t move. Probably deciding whether to approach her or flee. She must not have looked threatening, because he finally picked up his board and shuffled over to her.
“Who are you?” he asked, stopping about ten feet away.
“Shaye Archer.” She pulled out her license and showed him. “I’m a private investigator. I’m hoping you can help me.”
The boy held up his hand. “Look, I ain’t know nothing.”
She smiled. “You don’t know what I’m going to ask.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want no trouble is all. I don’t like the cops.”
“At the moment, I’m not crazy about them myself. Look, there’s a lady I’m trying to help because the police won’t. You brought her a scarf this morning.”
He gave her a wary look. “Yeah, I remember. She acted like I held out a snake or something. She’s not saying I stole it, is she?”
“Nothing like that. The man who gave you the scarf has been following her.”
His eyes widened. “He’s a creeper? Oh man. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known that. No wonder she was scared. Shit, I feel bad now.” He looked genuinely upset.
“It’s not your fault. You were just being nice.”
He shrugged.
Shaye pulled out her cell phone and opened an image she’d loaded of David Grange. “I wanted to know if this is the man you saw.”
She turned the phone around to show the boy. He squinted at first, then finally moved closer. Shaye knew David wasn’t the man the boy saw, but wanted to give him a starting point for a description. When he frowned and continued to look at the photo, she started to wonder.
Finally, he shook his head. “It wasn’t him, but the dude looked a lot like him.” He pointed to the phone. “This guy has a square jaw. The other guy didn’t.”
“But he looked like this—a lot or a little?”
“Enough to be related. I mean, dude had on sunglasses, but yeah, I can see where people might think they were the same guy. Unless they was looking really close.”
Related.
David had told Emma that he had no living relatives, but then he probably hadn’t told her he’d abuse her either. What if everything he’d told her was a lie? A brother would be a good choice to seek revenge for Emma’s killing David. In fact, it was the most logical speculation she’d come across so far.
“What’s your name?” Shaye asked.
The boy hesitated for a moment. “Everyone calls me Hustle.”
“You live around here?”
“You’re standing on my front porch.”
Shaye glanced around, but all that stretched for a hundred yards was dock and parking lot. “You live on the streets? How old are you?”
“Old enough.” His jaw set in a hard line.
Shaye held in a smile. She’d used the same line on Jackson Lamotte, and had probably been as irritated by the question as Hustle was now.
“Look, I’m asking because I know a social worker. If you’re underage, she can help.”
He took a step back and pulled up his shirt to expose three long scars running across his belly. “Last time someone ‘helped’ me, they stuck me in a house with the guy who did this.”
Shaye’s stomach rolled. “Your foster parent did that?”
He dropped his shirt and looked away.
Shaye knew this kid—not personally, of course, but knew him from so many of the stories that Corrine had told her about the cases she worke
d. It wouldn’t do any good to detain him. If they put him in a group home or new foster home, he’d only be there as long as it took to get away. If Corrine hadn’t taken her in, and Shaye had experienced more trauma in a group or foster home, Shaye had no doubt she would have done the same thing. There were plenty of great foster parents and lots of good people working in group homes, but in every crowd, there were the ones that weren’t so great. Weren’t so nice.
“Where are your parents?” she asked.
“Never knew my pops. My mom got killed last year by her ex-boyfriend. Said he was gonna get her for breaking it off with him, and he did. The coward did that shit while I was in school, wasting my time in history class when I could have protected her.”
Shaye’s heart ached for this boy. She knew better than anyone what it felt like to be physically beaten down, to be afraid of everyone you came in contact with. But she’d had Corrine. This boy had been dealt the horrible blow of his mother’s murder, then an abusive foster father. She wanted to do something to help him, but she knew he wouldn’t allow it. Couldn’t, because he couldn’t afford to trust her, either.
She pulled out her wallet and emptied it of the eighty dollars in cash inside. She handed it to Hustle. “Take this. Get something decent to eat.”
He looked at the money and frowned. “Why you giving me money?”
“Because when I was fifteen I had no one, but a social worker took me in, gave me everything I needed to get healthy and get an education. She even adopted me. I was lucky. And I’d like to call her to help you, but I know you won’t accept it. So the least I can offer you is money for food.”
“You was on the street?”
She nodded.
He studied her for a couple seconds more, then took the cash and stuffed it in his pocket. She pulled out a business card and handed it to him. “This is my cell number. If you change your mind, call me. Anytime.”
He took at the card and nodded. “Thanks,” he said, then dropped the skateboard and took off.
