by Tami Hoag
Outplayed, Sharon frowned. She couldn’t deny Annie’s statement without coming across as a heartless bitch. What kind of mother would condemn another mother to that kind of suffering?
She flinched as a teakettle suddenly blasted out a shrill note somewhere deeper in the house.
“Oh, feel free to take care of that,” Annie said.
Making a small sound of frustration, Sharon turned and hurried toward the kitchen, leaving the door ajar. Annie followed her inside.
“Sorry if I’m interrupting your breakfast,” she said. “Investigations don’t let us keep banker’s hours, I’m afraid. But I’m sure you know that from dealing with the sheriff’s schedule.”
“I was just fixing myself a cup of tea,” Sharon said, turning off the burner and silencing the kettle.
Her Southern manners would never allow her to make just the one cup. Annie could see that thought process waging war in her head as she stared at the single delicate china teacup sitting on the counter. An heirloom, no doubt, handed down from mother to daughter for three or four generations.
“Would you like a cup?” she asked at last, holding herself stiff in the hope that Annie would decline.
“That would be lovely,” Annie said. “Thank you.”
She watched as Sharon Spicer reached up with one hand to open a cupboard and take down first a saucer and then a cup. She kept her other arm pressed close across her stomach.
“I hope English breakfast is all right,” Sharon said. “I ran out of Earl Grey just last night. I have to go to the store today. It’s always something, isn’t it? Do you care for milk? Sugar?”
Nervous chatter. Her hand was shaking a little as she poured the water. She used both hands to open the packets of the tea bags but kept her left arm close to her body even then, not wanting to move it any more than she had to.
“Just tea is fine, thank you,” Annie said. “How did you hurt your arm?”
“My arm? I don’t know what you mean.”
“You don’t seem to be using your left arm. I didn’t notice that last night. Did something happen?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Sharon assured her with another brittle fake smile. She raised the arm as if to show it still worked. “I just . . . I tripped and I took a fall, and I wrenched it a bit. It’s nothing. Just clumsiness on my part,” she said with a forced laugh. “Trying to hurry to get things done.”
Her respiration was too quick. A flush came to her otherwise pale face. She hadn’t managed to put her makeup on yet, not that it could have done much to hide the fact that her eyes were puffy and glazed from crying.
Son of a bitch, Annie thought, anger stirring. That son of a bitch.
She took her cup and followed Sharon to the table that sat in an alcove looking out on a small swimming pool.
“Isn’t that the way?” Annie said with a friendly smile, as if she was just a neighbor over for a morning visit. “There aren’t enough hours in the day. I know I’m always rushing around the house, trying to get three things done at once. I have a son, too,” she said. “He’s five. He just started kindergarten. That’s almost more than I can manage. You have a teenager. You must be so busy.”
Sharon nodded, touching her hair self-consciously. She had run a brush over it, but it wasn’t the perfectly coiffed and starched helmet of the day before.
“It’s all about managing your time,” she said. “I keep a very strict schedule with Cameron’s school activities, and Kelvin, of course, has a very demanding schedule.”
“And you volunteer as well, I understand,” Annie said.
“Of course. Community service is so important. I’ve become involved with the PTA—”
“Is that how you know Genevieve Gauthier? Through the PTA?”
Sharon faltered. “No. Um, no. I don’t know her at all.”
Annie feigned confusion. “Really? I understood you went to see her in the hospital yesterday.”
“Oh, well, I belong to the hospital auxiliary. I just took her some flowers and expressed condolences on behalf of the auxiliary.”
“That was kind,” Annie said. “I thought maybe you knew her somehow, through the school, or from Houma. I understand she used to work in Houma, and you’re from Houma. Obviously, that’s where you met Sheriff Dutrow.”
“Yes. He was in the police department. I worked there as a secretary. That’s how we met.”
“Genevieve worked in City Hall for a time,” Annie remarked.
“Did she? I didn’t know her.”
“Funny how you all ended up here in little Bayou Breaux.”
“Isn’t it?” Sharon took a sip of her tea, burning her tongue and then trying without success to set the cup back down without rattling it against the saucer.
“You said you have questions about this Florette girl?” she asked. “Honestly, I haven’t seen or heard a thing about her since summer. The one time. That was all. That was enough. She’s very fresh. No manners at all. I told Cameron I don’t want him having anything to do with that family. They just aren’t the kind of people I want him around.”
Annie nodded. “I don’t blame you. The Florettes have a chaotic family situation, to say the least. But I can see that it would be difficult for Cameron to avoid them, just based on proximity. They all walk the same way to and from school. Is Cameron home?”
“He’s sleeping in,” Sharon said. “He isn’t feeling well today. He has a delicate stomach.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. I’m sorry he’s not feeling well. I hope I didn’t make a problem for him last night,” Annie said. “I got the impression Sheriff Dutrow expected him to have been somewhere other than the park after school. I didn’t mean to get him in trouble.”
“Oh, no.” Sharon waved off the notion, but she looked away as she did it. Her right hand went to her throat to worry at the simple pearl necklace she wore. “That was just a misunderstanding.”
“He seemed upset.”
“Oh, well.” She forced a laugh. “You know how men can be. Kelvin is very regimented about the order of things—”
“Cameron seemed upset,” Annie corrected her. “He seemed afraid.”
She inhaled sharply, as if startled. Annie had no doubt that on a better day, with better preparation, Sharon Spicer would have fended off all emotion and kept her perfect image squarely in place. But in this moment, caught off guard, she was vulnerable.
“Is Cameron afraid of Sheriff Dutrow?” Annie asked gently.
“No, no! Don’t be silly!” She laughed, shaking her head. “He’s just not used to Kelvin yet, that’s all. Cameron is a very sensitive boy. It’s taking them a while to find their footing, so to speak.”
Annie said nothing for a moment, her gaze steady on the woman across from her. Sharon shifted nervously on her chair and looked out the window. She was probably wishing she had never answered the door, or wishing she could be beamed up into space by aliens. Anything to escape this line of conversation. Unconsciously, she touched her injured arm.
“Does Cameron have reason to be afraid of him, Sharon?” Annie asked softly. “Do you?”
Sharon shot to her feet, the panic clear in her eyes, though she tried to cover it with outrage. “That’s ridiculous! Why in the world would we be afraid of Kelvin? He is a fine man! He is a fine, upstanding leader in this community! I can’t believe you would even ask such a thing!”
“I’m sorry if I misread the situation—”
“You certainly did! Now, I’m sorry to rush you, Detective,” she said curtly, “but I really have to get on with my day. I have to ask you to leave.”
She turned too quickly in her haste to get away from Annie’s scrutiny. Her china teacup flew off the saucer and shattered on the tile floor. Crying out in dismay, Sharon dropped to her knees, scrambling to pick up the shards, cutting a finger in the process.
“
Oh, no!” she cried as she looked at her hand and the blood dripping onto her crisp white blouse.
Annie hurried to the sink to wet a paper towel.
“Here,” she said, handing the towel to Sharon. “Put pressure on it.”
Carefully, she picked up the bits of broken cup and set them on the counter next to the sink, unsure of where the trash can might have been hidden in the picture-perfect kitchen.
“That was my grandmother’s!” Sharon sobbed. “They don’t make that pattern anymore!”
Annie’s heart broke for her. Sharon Spicer was a woman for whom image was everything, and here she sat on her kitchen floor, in front of a stranger, bleeding, crying over a teacup, her whole body shaking with emotions she didn’t dare let go.
Annie knelt down in front of her and reached out to put a hand on her arm.
“Sharon,” she said softly, “it doesn’t matter who he is. It’s not okay for him to hurt you. It’s not okay for him to hurt your son. If that’s what’s going on—”
“No!” Sharon snapped. “No no no no!”
Struggling, wincing in pain, she got to her feet and turned around in a circle like a caged animal looking for a way to escape.
“Sharon—”
“You don’t know anything about us!” she shouted. “How dare you come into my home and-and judge me, and judge my family—”
“I’m not judging you at all,” Annie said. “I just want you to know, if you need help, I can help you.”
“I don’t need your help.” She all but spat the word. “You come into my home and insult me that way—”
“Honestly, that is not my intent.”
“I have half a mind to call Kelvin and report you! You need to leave right now!”
Annie moved to stay in front of her, trying to make eye contact, to connect emotionally. What a clusterfuck she’d have on her hands if Sharon called Dutrow. And that threat was very real, she knew. It wasn’t at all uncommon for the abused woman to take the side of her abuser, trying to deny her situation, trying to win points with the man who hurt her.
“Sharon—” She reached out a hand only to have it batted away.
Sharon was hyperventilating now, on the brink of full-blown panic. She gasped a breath and shouted, “GET OUT!”
“Sharon, let’s sit back down so you can catch your breath—”
“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!!!”
Wild-eyed, Sharon lunged forward. Shocked by the outburst, Annie stumbled backward, slamming into the counter.
“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!!!”
As her emotions coursed through her like a flash flood, Sharon Spicer lashed out physically, striking before Annie could think to defend herself. Her half-made fist connected like a hammer, hard enough to hurt, catching Annie on the side of her nose and smashing her upper lip against her teeth. The taste of blood was instant.
Sharon gasped in shock at what she’d done. She backed away quickly, looking at the hand she’d used to strike Annie as if it was not her own.
“Oh, my God! Oh, my God! I’m so sorry!” she said, gasping, tears rising, terrified of what she’d done and of the emotion that had driven her to do it. “I’m so, so s-sorry!”
She reached out toward Annie with her injured hand, blood from her cut finger dripping on the floor.
Annie touched her swelling lip gingerly with one hand and waved off Sharon Spicer with the other.
“It’s all right,” she said. “You’re upset.”
“I’ve never done anything like that in my life!”
“Emotions sometimes overwhelm us,” Annie mumbled, fingering a tooth. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”
She went to the sink, wet another paper towel, and pressed it carefully to her lip. Sharon stood watching, trembling.
“Please don’t tell Kelvin,” she begged. “I didn’t mean to do that. I just— I don’t know what happened! Please don’t tell him. Please don’t!”
“I won’t tell Kelvin,” Annie promised, perversely glad to have a bargaining chip. “Your secret is safe with me.”
THIRTY-SIX
The protection of our children and families is of paramount importance to the Partout Parish Sheriff’s Office,” Dutrow said. He paused to look right and then left, giving all cameras the opportunity for a profile shot. “I’m a family man myself. I cannot abide the thought of harm coming to a child under my watch. That is why I’m here this morning with Chief Earl to announce that the Sheriff’s Office will offer full support to the Bayou Breaux Police Department in the search for this missing girl, twelve-year-old Nora Florette of Bayou Breaux.”
He pointed to the blown-up school photo of the girl that was being held by Chief of Police Johnny Earl, who was standing beside him on the front porch of a house that needed paint.
“A joint agency ground search will be getting under way shortly. I’ve called in our drone team to lend support from the air, and we’ll be bringing in our search dogs. Our mounted patrol and water search-and-rescue team have been alerted should the search area expand beyond the city limits. We need to bring this young lady home to her family.”
Nick paused just long enough to take in that much of the press conference on the TV in the break room as he poured himself a cup of strong coffee. He was glad for Dutrow to have the distraction of horning in on Johnny Earl’s media spotlight. The sideshow would keep him out of Nick’s hair, at least for part of the day. He would have to make the most of that time.
He hoped to hell Gus would have already put his call in to Owen Irvin at the Houma PD before he had to load horses up for the search. There was no way in hell Keith Kemp wasn’t going to go to Dutrow about what had transpired at the Gauthier house the night before. He might have already done so. It seemed clear to Nick the two had already had a conversation about his possible exit from the department. “I can’t wait for Dutrow to get rid of you . . .”
Despite the reassurance he’d tried to give Annie, his usefulness as a scapegoat was not going to outweigh the trouble he would be in if he found something on Kemp, and Dutrow would choose his friend over his resident pain-in-the-ass detective.
They seemed an odd pair, Nick thought as he took his coffee and headed back down the hall toward the bullpen. Dutrow, so controlled and so controlling, so by the book. Kemp struck him as more of an opportunistic animal, not smart but cunning. He was more of a coyote to Dutrow’s police dog. They didn’t seem to have much of anything in common, yet here they were. Dutrow had whistled, and Kemp had come running.
“I got your porn site set up, boss!” Dixon called as Nick walked into the bullpen.
“Damn, Winn-Dixie!” Stokes said, swiveling around on his chair. “You been working on that all this time and you didn’t hook me up?”
Dixon rolled her eyes. “Well, I just figured Pornhub is probably your home page, Chaz, so you don’t really need my help.”
Stokes gave her the squint eye. “You been looking at my screen saver?”
Nick cut him a glare. “I catch you looking at porn in here, you won’t have a willie left to whack off. My office, both of you. Now.”
“It’s a joke!” Stokes called.
“It’s not funny. I’m in no mood for your juvenile sense of humor.”
They followed him down the narrow hall and into his office, where the kitten was on the floor playing with a wadded-up piece of paper, batting it with his paws and chasing it around the room. At the sight of the people, it flattened its ears and dashed sideways like a crab, going for the cover of the desk.
“Did you have any trouble cracking into Perez’s laptop?” Nick asked.
He had called Dixon in to work in the middle of the night, setting her to the task of finding out what the cameras in the Gauthier house had recorded. She had focused not on the cameras themselves but on Roddie Perez’s laptop, in search of not only the recordings but anythin
g that might show how and where the recordings might have been uploaded to the Internet with the intention of making money.
“His password is one, two, three, four,” she said. “We’re not exactly dealing with a mastermind here.”
She took a seat in Nick’s chair, waking up his computer with a wiggle of the mouse. She looked like she’d been up all night. Her short red hair stood up from too many finger combings. Her eyes were bloodshot but still bright with the energy she drew from the challenge of the puzzle she had set out to unravel.
“He has files with hours and hours of what was recorded on the cameras in the Gauthier house—and several other houses, by the way.”
“No surprise there,” Nick muttered. “Every property Carville owns is being searched today.”
“I haven’t gotten through it all yet. That will take a while. I went directly to the stuff he had uploaded to the porn site. Most of what’s recorded is everyday stuff—Genevieve getting up in the morning, dressing, getting undressed at night, masturbating. People get off on that, I guess. I fast-forwarded through most of it for the sake of time. I didn’t see how any of that would be relevant to the murder investigation with regards to finding any suspect other than Genevieve herself.”
“Unless a subscriber to the website became fixated on her,” Stokes suggested, “and somehow found out where she lived. We could be looking at Carville or some crony of his. I wouldn’t put it past him to share her address.”
“Let’s pursue that,” Nick said. “Carville’s circle.” Nick turned to Dixon again. “Did she look high in any of it?”
“Yeah. In some of it. Like I said, I fast-forwarded through most of the everyday stuff. I downloaded what looked to me to be most pertinent pieces onto this thumb drive for easy access,” she said, plugging the drive into the computer.
“Did she have any visitors?” Nick asked.
“One so far.”
Dixon opened the file, and the monitor came alive with the grainy black-and-white images of Genevieve Gauthier and a white male undressing each other at the foot of her bed.
