by Jana DeLeon
She started to review those twelve names and stopped when she got to number six.
Jonal Derameau.
J.D. The initials on the pentagram. She scanned the other names, but no other first or middle name started with the letter J.
This was it. Her hair stood on end. Her heart raced. And she knew with absolute certainty that she’d found the man who didn’t exist.
She grabbed her phone and sent a text to Jackson.
Need death certificate for Jonal Derameau.
She pressed Send then stared at the phone, waiting for the message to show as Read. It was probably only seconds, but it felt like forever when she received a text from Jackson.
OK. Give me ten.
She jumped up from her chair, too excited to sit. For the first time in her life, she wished she had a treadmill in her house. What she needed was to expend some energy, and pacing her small apartment wasn’t going to get her there. She looked outside. A jog around the block might help, but what if she was half a block away and Jackson sent the certificate sooner than he’d thought? She’d give herself a heart attack sprinting in this heat.
Better she wait inside her apartment for Jackson to send the document.
Ten minutes.
She headed for the kitchen, about to do something she tried to avoid altogether.
Clean.
22
August 28, 2006
New Orleans, Louisiana
Jonal Derameau sat in the big comfortable chair in front of the fireplace and stared out across the expansive and elegant living room of his home. It was still hot outside, but at eighty-eight, his bones grew cold easily, especially in the big drafty house. The fire crackled and danced, casting flickering shadows on the walls surrounding him.
He’d lived a long, satisfying life. Not so much in the beginning. His childhood on the plantation had been the kind of hell described in the worst of books and movies on the subject. But without that beginning to harden his heart, he wouldn’t be here, in this mansion, surrounded by expensive items.
He reached for the glass of whiskey on the side table and paused when he saw the Bible sitting beside it. His maid was the reason he’d started reading the book. The reason he’d stepped into a church five years ago—the first time in his life. Maybe it was his age that caused his heart to soften. Maybe it was the book.
Or maybe he was just tired and ready to let his anger go.
He’d done a lot of things in his life that he regretted, but there were also a lot of things he’d done that he didn’t regret, even though they were immoral. He didn’t regret killing the plantation owners. They were all horrible men who abused their wives, children, servants, and workers. Men like them didn’t deserve to exist on this earth. For what they did to others, especially what the one did to his mother. That man had started looking at his sister the same way when she was only ten. Jonal believed absolutely that they deserved to die. He would never feel one ounce of sorrow over that.
And he didn’t regret taking money from the plantation owner’s son. If he hadn’t been illegitimate, he would have inherited assets from the man, but no court recognized the black bastard son of a rich white man. He did regret the stress and worry the situation had put on the son. He was a smart businessman but emotionally weak. Jonal often wondered how much the stress of dealing with his demands played into the heart attack that killed the man before he ever made his sixty-third birthday.
The grandson had been stoic and put up a good front when Jonal had gone to see him after his father’s death. Jonal knew that his father had told him everything—the poisoning, the payments made over three decades, and finally, the pictures and the film of the grandson with the girl. The grandson knew Jonal’s power over him.
When Jonal visited him after the funeral, the grandson tried to hide his fear. But Jonal was too old and too wise. He’d seen too much fear. He’d lived it too many times himself. But he respected the grandson for his composure. Jonal saw him that one time, to make sure that if he ever needed to call in his marker, the grandson understood his place.
Jonal didn’t need money. The truth was, he hadn’t needed money in many years. The cash he’d taken from the plantation owner’s son had financed his nightclubs, which provided cover for the drugs and illegal gambling. The money he’d taken had multiplied until he couldn’t imagine ever spending it all. Katrina had destroyed the clubs and he’d thought about rebuilding, but he had grown tired of the business. So he retired to his estate on the outskirts of the city, and the man who was almost never seen had disappeared altogether.
It had been a good life. It was time to relax and enjoy it.
But now, he had a problem. For the first time, something weighed heavily on his conscience, waking him from a dead sleep and disrupting his eating habits. He’d tried to ignore it. After all, he’d never had this sort of problem before, but things had changed. And no matter how hard he wished the problem away or how many times he told himself that it wasn’t his to handle, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
It’s because of you that he’s doing this.
He took a drink of his whiskey.
Emile Samba.
He was the reason Jonal couldn’t sleep. He was the reason all the food Jonal used to love now tasted like sawdust. He was the reason Jonal read the book more and more.
Emile claimed he was Jonal’s son, but it wasn’t true. Jonal had many dalliances with many women and had the children to prove it, but he’d paid off the women long ago and the children after that. None of them contacted him. That was the agreement. And even if they’d thought to try, they didn’t know his first name or where to find him. He rarely visited his clubs, leaving their operation to trusted employees who were very well paid and watched by other trusted employees who were paid equally well.
Not a single legal document or deed had his name on it. His attorney had created layer upon layer of corporations and LLCs that it would take a lot of effort to get through, and as Jonal’s sole legal representation, he had the authority to sign documents and process money in the clubs’ bank accounts. Even this house belonged to a corporation his attorney set up. Jonal paid cash for everything, and he’d kept everything he’d made on the illegal business in cash as well, locked away in cement vaults below this very living room.
He was Mr. Derameau to everyone. Only his attorney knew his full name and where to find him. Even the maid knew him only as “Mr. Derameau” or “the mister” and she handled the hiring and payment of any other household help they might need. But now, the man who had been so careful about not leaving a trace of his existence had a problem that could lead right back to him. And the irony was, it was a situation he hadn’t caused. Not directly.
He knew Emile’s mother. She’d worked at one of his clubs serving drinks. Jonal recalled his initial assessment of her as pretty but troubled. The kind of woman that would bring problems, therefore, the kind of woman Jonal avoided. He didn’t know if Emile’s mother had told Emile that Jonal was his father, or if that was a fancy created by Emile, a young man who desperately wanted power and importance. But none of that mattered now.
Emile Samba had managed to do what no one else had done—he’d found Jonal’s home.
Found it and taken something from it. The one thing Jonal couldn’t afford to lose.
Emile had secured a position through the maid, doing landscaping and general maintenance, which gave him access to the house and the grounds. Jonal had never seen him before, so didn’t have any idea of the threat that had walked through the door invited. His heart attack provided Emile with the opportunity he’d been waiting for. Jonal had been hospitalized for over a week, and his maid had spent many hours at the hospital, giving Emile plenty of time to discover the cubby in the floor of Jonal’s office.
You should have destroyed them years ago.
It was a mistake he had no doubt he’d pay dearly for. The film and pictures would have been safe if they’d been stored with the money, and he’
d considered it at length, but what stopped him was the safety of the money vaults, especially in the case of a fire. If a fire broke out, and Jonal didn’t survive, the vaults would protect the money, but the film, pictures, and branding iron would melt. And that’s the way Jonal wanted it.
The son had lived up to his word every single time he’d asked. The least he owed the man was his continued silence, even in death.
Jonal still remembered the look on Emile’s face when he’d confronted Jonal after Jonal returned home from the hospital.
“I thought you were a man of great power,” Emile said, his disgust clear. “But you’re just a common thief, using pictures to steal money. That man paid you for your silence. Even your altar is wrong. You never knew the power of the One. You’re nobody.”
“I never claimed that kind of power.”
“That’s not what everyone says. Everyone says you’re a dark priest. That you can call out for the spirits to surround you and they will. Some even say you caused Katrina. I thought I could learn from you—my father. But you have nothing for me except what I’ve already taken.”
“I’m not your father.”
“My mother told me you were. I haunted the French Quarter waiting to see you, following you a bit more each time, careful that you wouldn’t see me.”
“You’ve wasted your time,” Jonal said. “I’m not your father and I don’t practice what you do. How much money do you want to return the items you stole?”
Emile laughed. “Money? You think this is about money?”
“Then what do you want?”
“What I’ve always wanted—greatness.”
But Emile had taken money as well—two hundred thousand dollars. Enough to keep someone of simple means living well for a long time. Jonal was still too weak to do anything himself, but he’d hired a private detective to locate Emile. It hadn’t been easy. His house was north of New Orleans, on a dirt road in the middle of the woods. The nearest town was ten miles away. The nearest home was five. Jonal wasn’t healthy enough now, but as soon as he was stronger, he would go there.
To fix his mistake.
23
It took Jackson twenty minutes to send a text that he’d forwarded the death certificate. By that time, Shaye had scrubbed her kitchen counters and picked the polish off two fingernails. As soon as she saw the text, she raced to her computer and pulled up the document.
Damn it!
No home address. No parents.
The informant was a doctor at the hospital. Cause of death was heart failure.
Stonewalled again.
Then a thought occurred to her and she looked at the certificate again. That name sounded familiar. She Googled the doctor and saw he was on staff with New Orleans General. His date of Jonal’s death was a couple weeks after she was brought into the same hospital.
The hospital must have gotten information on Derameau. At minimum, someone paid the bill when he died. That person could have been one of his children. She tapped her fingers on the desk. Her chances of getting medical records were absolutely none. The police could request them since Jonal was dead, but they still needed a reason. Hospitals didn’t just trot out confidential records for no reason, and getting a reason meant involving Jackson, who would likely have to involve others in order to get the request processed. Involving others in the police department was the last thing they wanted to do.
She jumped up from her chair and grabbed her car keys and purse, practically sprinting out of the apartment. There was someone who had access to the records. It would be breaking the rules, but Shaye was betting that the rules were the last thing on the list of Clara Mandeville’s worries.
The drive to the hospital provided her with some time to think about everything she knew so that she could explain it to Clara. She was about to ask the woman to risk her job, and that wasn’t something she took lightly. If Clara herself hadn’t been attacked, Shaye wouldn’t have asked at all. But given the situation, she felt Clara had the right to know the facts, however limited, and make her own decision.
Clara was sitting up in bed, sipping water and watching television, when Shaye entered the room. She smiled as Shaye approached the bed, then her expression sobered. “You didn’t come just for a visit.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Did you find something out?”
Shaye nodded.
“Then you best tell me.”
Shaye told Clara about the shop and what the woman had said about the goat mask and Derameau, then explained about the initials on the pentagram and the death certificate. She paused when she finished. Clara stared at her, frowning. Shaye felt her spirits fall a little. Even as she’d told Clara what she knew, Shaye herself had seen how flimsy her facts were. She was making an enormous leap to assume that the man was a Derameau. That Jonal Derameau, in particular, was the father in question. That finding any of the Derameau children might lead to the discovery of the man.
“I know it’s a long shot,” Shaye said. “And I don’t have anything else to offer you but a feeling.”
“You think you’re on the right track?”
“I do.”
Clara nodded. “Then I guess we need to get this Derameau’s medical records. There has to be something in them that can get you closer.”
“That was my thought, too, but I’m also worried about your job.”
“I’m not likely to have a job or a life if he gets another crack at me. I got away once. He won’t let that happen again. And quite frankly, I’m not interested in spending the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. That stalker darn near sent poor Emma Frederick into a nervous breakdown. I’m too old for that crap.”
Emma Frederick had been a coworker of Clara’s, and Shaye’s first investigation after opening her own agency. Emma was being stalked, but the police didn’t believe her and she didn’t know who the stalker was. Shaye had ultimately figured out who was stalking Emma, and Jackson had killed the stalker, but Emma’s nerves had been pushed to the breaking point. When it was over, Emma moved to another state, looking forward to a new start.
“It was hard on Emma,” Shaye agreed. She’d seen firsthand when the strong nurse had reached the end of her rope.
Clara narrowed her eyes at Shaye. “Hard on you, too. Someone may not be playing around with you, but you’ve got nine years of walking around not knowing if you’re looking that man in the face. Not knowing if he installed your cable or served you coffee. I’ve thought about it time and time again and each time I do, I wonder how you deal with it.”
“I had a choice to live with uncertainty or to hide away inside a fortress and not live at all. I didn’t see the second as an option.”
Clara reached out and squeezed her hand. “Neither do I. Now, hand me my robe. We’ve got work to do.”
Jackson and Grayson were running down leads on a homicide at a local nightclub when his cell phone vibrated. He pulled it out and saw Corrine Archer’s name in the display. Jackson hadn’t heard a peep out of Shaye except the thank-you text she’d sent after he’d forwarded the death certificate, and that had been at least an hour ago. He quickly answered, praying that Shaye hadn’t done something risky.
“I think I found her,” Corrine said, her normally even-keeled voice now high-pitched.
It took Jackson a moment to realize what she was talking about. “The girl that Clancy sold?”
“Yes. I can’t be sure, of course, but I found one who fits the criteria, is still missing, and she looks like Shaye. A lot. I sent her information to your and Detective Grayson’s emails.”
“That’s great. Thank you. I’ll check it out now.”
“Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do,” Corrine said. “It feels better doing something.”
“I understand that completely, and I’ll let you know.”
He disconnected the call and accessed his email, relaying the call to Grayson. When the image appeared on his phone, his jaw dropped just a little.
“Wow,” Grayson said. “That girl looks a lot like Shaye.”
Jackson nodded. “Enough to be sisters.” He scanned the attached report filed by CPS. “Looks like her aunt and uncle are a nasty piece of goods, but smart enough to avoid leaving any real evidence. The girl wouldn’t talk, so CPS couldn’t move forward with a case.”
“Typical,” Grayson said. “So now what? We have a potential ID for the girl, but leaning on the aunt and uncle isn’t going to give us anything. She probably ran away. Knowing where she might have run to doesn’t give us anything, either, because we already know that Clancy is the one who grabbed her.”
“No, it doesn’t move the case forward,” Jackson agreed, “but it does support my theory that this guy was trying to pick up where he left off.”
“What’s your theory on the chances this girl is still alive?”
Jackson shook his head. “With Clancy all over the news, her chances are really low, but we can’t stop looking until we’re sure.”
“I’m not stopping by choice. I just don’t know where to look.”
“Yeah,” Jackson said, frustration coursing through him. “Me either.”
Reagan walked around her stone prison, then stumbled and caught herself against the wall to keep from falling. She leaned against the smooth stone, waiting for the dizziness to pass, but it continued until she finally sank onto the ground.
The hamburger had been drugged.
She’d taken a small drink of the water, then waited for thirty minutes to see if anything happened, but when nothing changed, she took a bite of the burger. It had only taken twenty minutes to feel the effect of the drug. She knew the routine. He’d give her the drugged food, then return that night. She wouldn’t be completely passed out, but she’d be so looped she couldn’t stand without help. Then he’d inject her with something and almost everything went dark. Weird images and sounds would pop up in her mind as she started to regain consciousness, but they were fleeting and she couldn’t get her conscious mind to grab hold of them long enough to create a lasting picture.
