by Jana DeLeon
21
Shaye pushed herself away from her desk and leaned back in her office chair. She’d been searching for any information on the mysterious Derameau for two hours already and had exactly nothing. The name wasn’t common, but it wasn’t exactly uncommon, either. She’d called every Derameau she could find a phone number for but no one claimed any knowledge of a relative who’d fathered many children and practiced the black arts.
It didn’t help that in addition to not knowing the man’s first name, she also had a limited idea of his age. The woman at the shop said the man who bought the goat mask was young, maybe twenty, which meant his father could have been forty or so years old up to who knows how old. Men didn’t have the same reproductive limitations as women. So if he’d been forty back then he might be midfifties and up now.
Which meant he might be dead.
She did a quick mental calculation. If the man purchased the mask sixteen years ago and he was approximately twenty years old, then that was thirty-six years. Add a little for margin of error and you had someone who was born sometime within the last forty years. She grabbed her phone and called Jackson who answered on the first ring.
“I need a huge favor,” she said.
“Did you find out something?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. It’s a long shot and really thin, I mean paper thin, but I have a feeling about it.” She told him about her conversation with the shop owner’s daughter and the potentially fictional Derameau. “The guy who bought the mask is him…the man who bought me. The height and build was right and the dead eyes. I just know it’s him.”
“The woman was certain it was the mask that belonged to her grandfather?”
“You should have seen the look on her face when I showed her the picture. She was frightened.”
“Okay, so what do you want me to do?”
“I’ve run down every Derameau that I could find and haven’t gotten any closer to locating the man who might be the father, but if he wanted to keep a low profile, then there might not be anything to find. Unless he’s dead.”
“The one time you can’t hide from paperwork. So you want me to check the death records for any males with the last name Derameau who died in the last…forty years? More?”
“I think forty years should cover it.”
“No problem. Give me some time to arrange it and I’ll call when I have something.”
“Thanks. And Jackson?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful. You don’t know who you can trust.”
“I will.”
Shaye tossed her phone on the desk and blew out a breath. Now what? She’d pursued this line of investigation as far as she could without help, and she had nothing else.
You’ve got the house.
She reached for her mouse and brought up the pictures she’d downloaded to her computer. On the big monitor, the house looked even more dark and depressing than it did when looking at the pictures on her cell phone. She clicked through them one at a time, studying every detail captured, silently willing her mind to zero in on something and unlock another door to her past.
Her frustration grew as she moved through photo after photo without even a flicker. She tapped on her desk and stared out the front window. Maybe the photos wouldn’t work. Maybe she needed to be inside the house for her mind to really process what she was seeing. Maybe she had to feel it in order to remember it.
But revisiting the house presented a problem as well. Clearly, her captor was targeting the people from her past. She had to assume he was watching her as well. He could have been the one who came in the house when she and Hustle were there. If that was the case, then he was aware of it already and he might be watching it, waiting for her to return.
He can’t be everywhere at once.
That was true, but since she couldn’t know for certain where he was, she had to assume that he might be watching her. That meant not taking unnecessary risks. Even if she got desperate or foolish enough to consider doing something stupid, she’d made promises to her mother, her grandfather, and Jackson, and she wasn’t about to go back on her word. Still, that didn’t mean she could sit inside her apartment and wait for something to happen.
Jackson wasn’t an option. He was working and wasn’t her personal bodyguard. Besides, she needed him down at the department doing exactly what he was doing. Harold wanted to keep a low profile, and hanging out with her was the last thing that would accomplish that. And then an idea struck her. She might have been annoyed with Pierce for hiring someone to follow her, but the idea of paid protection wasn’t exactly a bad one. Not if she controlled the game.
She grabbed her phone and started scrolling through her contacts. When she’d been on an insurance fraud case for Breaux, the detective agency she’d worked for before going solo, she’d met a guy who owned a private security firm. He was former military, and “imposing” was the most polite way to describe him. Surely no one could complain if she had an armed, qualified bodyguard.
Her cell phone rang and she saw her grandfather’s name pop up on the screen. She answered the call and could tell immediately that something was wrong by his clipped tone.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news about the house,” Pierce said.
“You couldn’t locate the owner?”
“No. That was easy enough, and he was quite willing to sell. The lawyers insisted I send an inspector over there to assess the structure since I specifically told them I wanted it to remain intact until further notice.”
“Of course.” Lawyers didn’t like anything that was a potential liability.
“The inspector just called…I’m really sorry but the house burned to the ground last night.”
Shaye clutched the phone, her mind trying to process what her grandfather had just said. “How? There wasn’t even a storm. The house didn’t have power.”
“I don’t know. The fire department put the fire out early this morning, but they told me they won’t bother with an investigation. The house was unoccupied and probably should have been condemned. The owner collected on it after Katrina, so not like he can process another claim for the same property that he’s already been paid for.”
“They don’t care why it caught fire?”
“No one sustained a loss. In the big scheme of things, it’s better for everyone if homes in that shape go away. All they do is invite drug dealers, squatters, and injury.”
Shaye knew he was right, but it was still frustrating. No way was she willing to believe this was an accident.
“I knew you wouldn’t be satisfied with the department’s stance on the matter,” Pierce said, “so I have my attorney looking for an arson investigator.”
“Thank you…for everything.”
“I’m really sorry, honey. If there’s anything else I can do, you’ll let me know?”
“Yes.”
There was a couple seconds of silence, then he cleared his throat. “How are you doing? I mean, other than this?”
“I’m doing fine.”
“Have you made any more progress?”
“Unfortunately, it’s very slow going. I don’t really have anything to report.”
She hated lying so she’d carefully couched her words so that they weren’t necessarily a lie. The investigation was going slowly. And she didn’t have anything to report because she, Jackson, and Harold had agreed to keep everything a secret, at least until they uncovered the mole in the police department.
“Try not to let it get to you,” he said. “I know it sounds trite but I’m really worried about you.”
“I know you are, but I promise I’m all right. And if I’m ever not all right, then I have you and mom and Eleonore to put me back in line.”
“Well, don’t make it a full-time job, okay?”
“I’m not making any promises.”
“I didn’t figure you would. I’ll let you know when I hear something about the arson investigator. I have to run.”
She
disconnected the call and tossed her phone onto the desk. One more avenue of investigation gone. The masked man was either ahead of her or right behind her, sealing off potential angles of detection. She had to get ahead of him, but he had all the advantages.
After all, he knew more about her than she did.
Grayson stepped up to Jackson’s desk and shook his head. “Reynolds said the forensics team didn’t come up with crap from the hospital garage, and the security cameras are old and blurry. All they could make out was that the guy ran south after Ms. Mandeville got away. They searched the streets and parking lots south of the hospital and questioned everyone they could find, but no one was out at that time of the night and none of the businesses with cameras caught anything. Wasn’t a lot of them to begin with.”
“It was a long shot given the time of night.”
“Yeah. What was Shaye’s take on it?”
“She doesn’t know what to think. She’s freaked out, of course, and glad Clara got away, but beyond that, she’s as in the dark as the rest of us.”
“She’s taking extra precautions, right? Her place is secure? She carries her weapon? Not going anywhere alone?”
“She knows the score, probably better than any of us. Think about it, she’s been living in this city for nine years now, not knowing if the guy who did that to her was walking past her on the sidewalk.”
Grayson nodded. “Gives a whole other meaning to the words living nightmare. Listen, I’ve got to go over some paperwork with Frank for some cases we need to close out. It will probably take an hour. Why don’t you grab some lunch? Maybe we’ll catch a break and have something to look into this afternoon.”
“Sounds good,” Jackson said.
He waited until Grayson left for the conference room, then quickly processed Shaye’s request. He had no idea how long it would take to finish. There were too many variables—amount of data, number of jobs ahead of him in the queue, how well their Internet was running today, and that was always questionable.
His cell phone rang, and he saw Shaye’s name come up on the display. Worried about two calls back to back, he grabbed it up and answered on the second ring.
“The house I lived in with Lydia burned down last night,” she said.
“What?”
“Pierce just called. His lawyers wanted an inspection and instead of a house, the inspector found a smoldering pile of ash.”
“Were any other structures affected?”
“Nope. Just that one. Not a cloud in the sky last night and no power on at the property. No footprints in the dust, either, so no one had been squatting there. This can’t be a coincidence.”
“It’s not very likely.”
“Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that we lost another avenue of investigation. I’ve got to go. I need to figure out another way to prompt my mind into giving up its secrets.”
She disconnected and Jackson frowned. He hated the sound of defeat in her voice. Shaye wasn’t the kind of woman who gave up easily. If she was getting discouraged, she might lose patience. If she got impatient, she might take bigger risks. One slip was all it took for the wrong person to make the right move.
He rose from his chair and as he grabbed his car keys, Sergeant Boyd stepped up to his desk.
“Hey, I saw Vincent in the Ninth Ward late last night,” Boyd said. “Are you guys working something over there? I got an assault at a jazz bar down that way. Thought I’d see if you knew anything.”
“You haven’t heard?” Jackson asked. “I’m not working with Vincent anymore. I’m partnered with Grayson now.”
Boyd smiled. “That’s great! Hell, I bet you did a song and dance over that one. Grayson’s a good cop. You should do well with him.”
“Thanks. It’s nice to actually do my job and not take any shit for it.”
“Good luck and congratulations.”
Boyd continued across the floor, and Jackson headed outside and into the parking lot, mulling over what Boyd had said. Why would Vincent be in the Ninth Ward late at night? His house was in the opposite direction. He was a known cheapskate, so no way was he paying bar prices for drinks, and besides, if he was going to do that, there was a bar around the corner that all the cops went to because they got a discount.
He got into his car and backed out of his space. The more he thought about it, the more it bothered him. Vincent was one of the names on his list. One of the men who was there when Shaye was found and had access to the Clancy files. What if he wasn’t as lazy and inept as everyone thought? It would make a great cover. If everyone thought you’d checked out until retirement, then they stopped counting on you for anything and didn’t go looking for you when they needed something. All of which left Vincent with plenty of time inside and outside the department to pursue something else.
As Jackson pulled out of the parking lot, he saw Vincent’s car at the light ahead of him. Speak of the devil. Probably taking one of those two-hour lunches he was famous for. Vincent went left at the light and Jackson floored his vehicle, barely making the corner before the turn signal expired. He was going to find out where Vincent went when he left the police station.
It was long overdue.
He put a car in between them that went the same direction as Vincent for a good six blocks before turning off. Jackson slowed as soon as he saw the car signal and took his time accelerating. A truck pulled out of a side street in front of him and he breathed a sigh of relief. His car was nondescript, so it blended well in traffic, but Vincent had been in it plenty of times. If he was paying attention, then he’d recognize the car. Jackson hoped he wasn’t paying attention.
Vincent made a right turn onto a side street and Jackson continued past, then turned right on the next street and increased his speed so that he made it to the end of the street before Vincent disappeared. There was no sign of Vincent’s car at the end of the street. He cursed and looked again, but Vincent’s car was nowhere in sight.
He turned right, and when he got to the street Vincent had turned on, he slowed and looked down it. His pulse quickened when he saw Vincent’s car parked midway down. He floored his car and made a hard right onto the next street and screeched to a halt at the curb. He jumped out of his car and ran the block back to where Vincent was parked and crossed to the side opposite of his car.
They were outside the busy area of the French Quarter, but it was lunchtime, and hole-in-the-wall restaurants dotted every street surrounding downtown. Plenty of people milled around, looking at menus in windows or standing outside chatting. Jackson fell in step behind a group of women and skirted the far side of the sidewalk, scanning the opposite side of the street as he went. When he reached the spot opposite Vincent’s car, he ducked inside a retail shop and moved to the front display, where he had a clear view of the street.
Directly across from him was a sandwich shop. Next door was a bar, then a café. Retail shops made up most of the rest of that side of the street that he could see. He shook his head. The most logical conclusion was that Vincent was in the sandwich shop. It was probably the cheapest po’boys in the French Quarter or the one that gave him extra shrimp. Either way, Jackson had likely wasted his lunch hour tracking Vincent to his eating spot.
He was about to leave when he saw Vincent come out of a shop two doors down from the sandwich shop, carrying a plastic bag. Jackson looked at the name of the shop and frowned. Spirits and Spells. The first word could also be alcohol, but the second didn’t fit that product line at all. He waited until Vincent got into his car and left before exiting the store and crossing the street.
The shop was dark and smelled old, like most of the buildings in the French Quarter. The shelves were filled with some things he’d seen in horror movies and a lot of things he didn’t recognize at all. But then, this wasn’t exactly his knowledge base.
“Can I help you?”
A voice sounded behind him, and he turned to find a tall Creole man standing there.
“I was just looking around,�
�� Jackson said. “You have some interesting things here. What are they for?”
The man stared at Jackson, his blank expression not wavering even a twitch. “If you don’t know what they’re for, then you’re probably in the wrong shop.”
“Witchcraft?” Jackson asked.
“Witchcraft, sorcery, black arts…whatever you want to call it. If that’s your bent, we can hook you up.”
“You don’t really believe in that stuff, do you?”
The man raised one eyebrow. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be standing here.”
“I guess not,” Jackson said. “Well, thanks for the information.”
He headed out of the shop and down the street. He needed to find out who owned the shop and see if he could get the names of employees. The man he’d spoken to had fit the physical description of the man with the goat mask, but his eyes had been different from the drawing made from Clara’s description. Granted, eyes could change and depending on circumstances, a person might see things differently, but for whatever reason, Jackson didn’t think he was the guy. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t someone else connected with the shop.
The one thing Jackson knew for certain was that in all the time he’d worked with Vincent, the man had never once indicated an interest or participation in the black arts. No one else in the department had ever mentioned anything of the sort, either, and if cops knew something like that, it would have made the rounds.
Vincent had just moved up to the top of his list.
It was almost three o’clock, and Shaye was ready to climb the walls when she finally got a text message from Jackson.
Check your email.
She ran to her computer and accessed her email, then let out a whoop when she saw the file attachment from Jackson. It was the list she’d been waiting on. She opened it and gave it a quick look. A little over a hundred names. More than she’d thought, but it didn’t look as if Jackson had filtered it. Given the short text, he probably couldn’t risk looking at the file himself.
She printed the list, then started down it, drawing a line through all the females. Then she made a second pass and reviewed the names more closely, eliminating those with a birth year that made them too young to have been the father. She crossed off several more, then did a quick count. Only twelve names remained. One of them might be the man who’d fathered a monster.
