To Write a Wrong

by Robin Caroll

  Holding the receiver tightly, she punched in the numbers for Hayden’s cell.

  A chilly, black silence surrounded her heart.

  He answered on the second ring. “Hayden Simpson.”

  “It’s Riley. I think someone’s here—in your mother’s house,” she whispered.

  “Is Mom awake?” His voice was calm.

  She answered quickly, trying to drown out her choking, beating heart. “Yes, she’s okay. She’s grabbing her gun out of the safe.”

  “Look, I’m on my way. Go back to Mom’s room. Tell her not to play Annie Oakley. You both wait in her bedroom until I get there. Do you understand?”

  Creak. Creak. Creak.

  “Riley? Did you hear me?”

  “Yes.” She’d never had fear hold her in its icy grip so tightly before.

  “Then go. I’m already in my car and will be there as soon as I can.”

  “Okay.” She headed toward the hallway again.

  Creak. Creak. Creak.

  “Hayden?” she whispered.

  “Yes?”

  “Please hurry.”

  Lord, please let them be safe. Keep Mom and Riley under Your veil of protection. Let me get there in time. Please, God, watch over them.

  Hayden punched 911 into the cell phone and informed Dispatch to get a unit to his mother’s house immediately, then closed his cell phone.

  Thank goodness it was the dead of night. Little to no traffic meant he could get to them faster. Just let me get there in time, God. His heart raced inside his chest as he switched lanes to get around a compact car. Protectiveness seeped into his very bones.

  His tires nearly hydroplaned over puddles in the road from the storm. The moon still hid behind the clouds. Lightning threatened as it lit up the sky.

  Thoughts tripped over each other in Hayden’s mind. Somebody was in the house? How did that happen? Who? Why?

  Whipping his cruiser into his mother’s driveway, he registered the scene: front porch light on as usual, no motion detector lights on from the rear or side of the house, and no strange vehicles in the vicinity. Hayden slammed the gear into Park. He didn’t even take the time to remove the key from the ignition as he withdrew his 9mm Beretta and crept toward the house.

  Crouching low, he circled the front and went toward the back of the house. Nothing. He continued his circling, every muscle in his body on alert, until he reached the front door. He looked right and left. No movement. He used his key and unlocked the front door.

  With a practiced eye, Hayden glanced around the living room. Nothing moved or seemed to be amiss. Right hand armed with his handgun, he spun around to face the kitchen area. Nothing out of order there either.

  He crept down the hall toward the bedrooms, stopping to check out the bathroom. Nothing unusual. He made it to the master suite. He pushed the door open all the way and entered. “Mom? Riley?”

  The end of a snub barrel met him at eye level. Then Mom lowered her weapon. “Did you find anything?”

  “Nothing outside. I wanted to check on y’all first before I went through the whole house.”

  “We’re fine. Go see.” His mother shoved his arm.

  He caught sight of Riley over his mother’s shoulder. While strong—she’d have to be as the sister of an FBI agent—her face drew pale and her chin trembled for a moment. He wanted to comfort her but had to check out the rest of the house. “Be back in a minute. Stay here.”

  Slowly, he walked through the house until he made it to the den. With his toe, he pushed open the door standing ajar and slipped inside. The smell of Riley permeated the room. He didn’t know what perfume she wore, but the scent filled his senses in an intoxicating way. Back to business, Simpson. Hayden looked over her room but found nothing amiss. He stopped when he glanced at her bed.

  The covers were wadded up on the floor, as if she had literally fallen out of bed. The imprint of her head remained on the pillow, along with a single strand of hair. For a moment he was tempted to reach out and take it. Just being in this woman’s space had a strange effect on him. He shook his head, about to leave, when he spied it.

  A leaf. Wet. Muddy. Fresh.

  Hayden tightened his grip on the gun and inched the patio door open with his foot. He whipped onto the patio, holding his stance with his firearm extended. The motion-detector light now blazed from the corner of the house, illuminating the backyard clear to the bayou. Someone had definitely been out here since he’d pulled up.

  The wail of a siren pierced the chorus of the night.

  Focused on the darkness, Hayden refused to leave his spot. The intruder had to be close if he’d slipped out of the house after Hayden had arrived on-site. Close and brave, or very stupid. Just one little movement, he’d be all over the intruder, if he could just see . . .

  Lights strobed, blue flashes clashing with lightning popping across the sky. Sirens howled as a cruiser sloshed and splashed down the driveway.

  Hayden held firm, waiting . . . watching . . . praying. Just one little movement. One indication someone was still out there.

  “Commissioner?” The call came from the patio. Officer Gaston.

  “Don’t step out here. Protect the den. It has evidence we need to retrieve. Call the crime unit out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Still not budging, Hayden considered scenarios. Was someone targeting his mother’s house because of his investigation? Did they think he had put information here? The perp had to be long gone by now, but Hayden couldn’t make himself move. Not yet. Not until he’d made sure no one crouched behind the front row of trees.

  “They’re on their way, sir. I’ve also cordoned off the den.”

  “Good. Have you double-checked the house?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  At least his mother and Riley were safe. “Get some floodlights out here.”

  A crash of thunder boomed. Lightning split the skies. A raindrop plopped on Hayden’s arm. Another. Two more. Four. Eight. Too many to count.

  And then the clouds opened, dumping rain. So much for preserving possible evidence for the crime unit.

  The bayou had, once again, taken what she wanted.

  Failure.

  It had been many years since he’d had to swallow that particularly bitter pill. He hadn’t liked the taste in his younger days; he certainly didn’t enjoy it now.

  He rolled an executive pen between his thumb and forefinger as he stared at the phone set to speaker. “You believe you did the right thing in frightening her? Weren’t you instructed to locate and eliminate her?”

  The weasel’s voice cracked. “I needed to verify I had the right person. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for the wrong woman’s elimination, right?”

  Had this imbecile gone stupid? Using sarcasm . . . with him? Who did he think he was? He would be eliminated as soon as he completed the assignment.

  If he completed the assignment.

  “I, uh, confirmed it’s positively her.” Backpeddling little son of a . . .

  Failure.

  He tossed the pen onto his desk. “In getting caught, you’ve put her on alert.” He sat forward, glaring at the phone. “In addition to encouraging her to be more cautious, you involved the local police.”

  “How was I supposed to know she was staying at the house of the police commissioner’s mother?”

  It took all his willpower not to raise his voice. He wouldn’t allow that. Losing self-control would imply he wasn’t in command.

  Failure.

  “Now that you are aware, you’ll have to make adjustments to complete your assignment in a timely fashion.”

  “About that . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, uh . . . now that the police are involved . . . uh . . . we need to dis
cuss my fee. Renegotiate.”

  “Are you out of your mind? They’re only involved because of your inability to follow simple orders.”

  “But there are risks now, you know. Ones that weren’t there before. I have to take more preventive measures because of the dangers of getting caught.”

  “Because you created them!” He’d done it—lost his composure.

  Failure.

  “That’s not the point.”

  Not the—“Listen, you little puke, I hired you to—” He stopped. Took a slow breath in through his nose, then exhaled with a long hissing over his teeth. “I hired you to do a job. You’ve already failed in your objective once. Don’t make that mistake again.”

  He pressed the button, disconnecting the call, and then sat back in his leather chair.

  The nerve! Lowlife.

  He should have hired a professional. He hadn’t because they were harder to dispose of when tying up loose ends. But they were less inclined to fail since their reputations were on the line.

  Too late now. He’d deal with the situation as best he could.

  His gaze fell on the magazine lying open on his desk. On her article. If only she hadn’t poked her nose where it didn’t belong. Digging up ghosts who should stay buried and chained in the tomb.

  If she continued writing about this, somebody would take an interest. If that happened, somebody could piece together the inconsistencies. The chance of exposure was possible. No way could he allow that. He trembled as rage washed over him.

  Epic failure.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You are always righteous, LORD, when I bring a case before you. Yet I would speak with you about your justice: Why does the way of the wicked prosper? Why do all the faithless live at ease?”

  JEREMIAH 12:1

  “Has the crime unit reported anything from last night?”

  Officer Fontenot scrambled to sit up straight, failed, and stood instead. “Uh, no, sir. Not yet. I’ll call for a status update right now.”

  “Do that.” Hayden nodded, and biting his lips to hold in the chuckle, he entered his office and flipped on the light.

  A new folder sat on his desk, wearing a yellow sticky note that read: “Research you asked for on Davis Ellington’s father.”

  Hayden slipped into his chair and woke up his computer, then opened the folder. According to the file, Robert Ellington died two years and four months ago due to congestive heart failure. He had been diagnosed with heart disease nearly three years ago. No indication of foul play in his death.

  Buzzz!

  Hayden reached for the phone and answered the intercom call. “Yes?” He continued reading about Robert Ellington, who had served on the Louisiana Health Care Commission.

  “Line one is a Riley Baxter for you.” Greta, the dispatcher, always had a cheerful tone to her voice, no matter the circumstances.

  “Thank you.” He pushed the button and lifted his pen, flipping his notepad to a clean piece of paper. “Riley, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

  After last night’s episode, he had no idea what to expect. But if nothing was wrong . . . “It’s okay.”

  “Did you find out anything from last night?”

  Direct. He liked that. “We’re waiting on the crime unit’s report. As soon as I know something, I’ll pass it on to you and Mom.” Which would give him a legitimate excuse to call her.

  “I appreciate that.”

  Her hesitation was heavy. “Riley, is something else wrong?”

  “I just wanted to ask . . . to remind you . . . about Angola. My interview.” Her stammering tugged the corners of his mouth into a smile. “I don’t want to bug you, but could you please call them and see if you can help me get in and conduct the interview with Jasmine’s father?” Her words tripped over one another.

  “I have the note on my desk.” He grabbed the note stuck sideways on his calendar and squinted to read his own handwriting. “Armand Wilson, right?” The name sounded familiar to him. Wilson . . . Armand . . . Armand Wilson . . .

  “Yes, that’s right. I really, really appreciate this, Hayden. I know you’re busy being the commissioner and all, so I’m so grateful for you making the call.” Again her sentences ran together as she spoke in one breath.

  He grinned, able to clearly visualize her face filled with the animation present in her voice. “I’ll phone the warden as soon as we hang up.”

  “Thank you. I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”

  Shaking his head and chuckling, he accessed his computer and found the phone number for Angola State Penitentiary. He dialed the number and opened a search engine while he waited for the call to connect. Armand Wilson . . . why did the name sound so familiar? He’d do a search as soon as the—

  “Warden’s office, how may I help you?”

  “This is Police Commissioner Hayden Simpson over in Hopewell. Is the warden available?”

  “Hold, please.”

  A rap sounded at the door. Hayden glanced up just as Bob stuck his head inside, waving a folder. Hayden motioned him inside.

  “How may I help you, Commissioner?”

  “Good morning, Warden. I need a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I have a journalist friend who has been interviewing one of your inmate’s family members. She’d like to interview the inmate but hasn’t been cleared for visitation. I was wondering if perhaps there was a way to speed up the process.”

  “Who’s the inmate?”

  “Armand. Armand Wilson.”

  “Hang on a minute.”

  Hayden covered the mouthpiece and looked at Bob. “Whatcha got?”

  “Crime unit’s report.” He tapped the folder.

  “And?”

  “Nothing of use.”

  He’d been afraid of that. “What about the prints on the patio door?”

  “All accounted to your mother, sister, you, or Riley Baxter.”

  And it’d been too wet outside to gather any evidence the rain hadn’t washed away. For now, the case was—

  “Commissioner? Sorry to keep you waiting. I had to look up the inmate.”

  “No problem. I appreciate you taking the time, Warden.”

  “Armand Wilson’s not on any restricted visitation and is an exemplary inmate. I’ll authorize this visitor. A lady, you said? What’s her name?”

  “Riley Baxter.”

  “Riley?”

  “Yes, Riley. R-i-l-e-y.”

  “Got it. When will she be here?”

  He hadn’t asked her, but from her call a few minutes ago and the eagerness in her voice . . . “How about tomorrow morning?”

  “Fine. She’ll need to be here before one thirty because that’s the latest the bus makes its final departure to the visiting areas.”

  “Great. I’ll let her know.” He jotted down the time on the corner of his notepad. “Thank you, Warden. I owe you.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll make sure the right people are notified.”

  Hayden hung up the phone and took the folder Bob handed him. As Bob had said, no forensic evidence was recovered at the scene. Whoever had been in his mother’s house was either very smart, or very lucky. He shut the folder and plopped it on the edge of his desk. “I just can’t figure out why someone would target my mother.”

  “Maybe her house wasn’t a target, per se, but was accessible.” Bob leaned back in the old chair facing Hayden’s desk.

  If only he could consider that. “In a rainstorm. In the middle of the night.” He shook his head. Convenience or opportunity weren’t considerations either.

  “I took the liberty of scheduling routine patrols by the house.”

  Mom wouldn�
�t appreciate it, but safety was paramount over what she wanted. “Thanks.”

  Bob nodded toward the other folder on the desk. “Anything interesting in Ellington’s file?”

  Actually . . . he flipped through the papers and found what niggled against the edge of his subconscious. “Ellington’s father, Robert, served on the Louisiana Health-Care Commission.” He pushed the folder to Bob. “I’m not exactly sure what that commission is, but Nichols was in the managed health-care business. I can’t believe that’s just a coincidence. Do some digging and see if you can find a connection between the two, will you?”

  Grabbing the folder, Bob stood. “I’ll get right on it.” He paused at the door. “Don’t forget to call Ms. Baxter back.” He gave a rare grin before ducking out of the office.

  Hayden lifted the receiver and punched in Riley’s number. She answered and his heart kicked. Just at the sound of her voice.

  He was in trouble.

  Riley toyed with the laminated edge of her press badge clipped to her jacket. The smooth plastic against her fingers seemed out of place contrasted with the harshness of the prison. She’d opted for jeans, a simple cotton blouse, and a lightweight suit jacket. Professional, yet not overbearingly so.

  “Remember, a guard will be in the room the whole time.” The seasoned guard’s stare washed over her. He smiled wide, the crow’s-feet deepening as he patted her shoulder. “You’ll do fine.”

  She didn’t know what Hayden had said, but the warden had personally met her upon her arrival, informed her that he had arranged for her to interview Jasmine’s father in a private room, and gave her the sweet guard as a personal escort. Totally different than when she went for Simon Lancaster’s appearance. She didn’t know whether to be alarmed or impressed to rate an escort.

  Cha-clink!

  She jumped when the sound echoed off the quiet walls, her spine stiffening as the electronic door of bars disengaged and slid apart at an agonizing snail’s pace. Her heart skipped a beat as the door clicked into an open position. A whoosh of frigid air blasted against her face, kissing the errant strands plastered against her cheek.

  The guard touched her shoulder again and gestured toward the long hall. She dragged in a long, ragged breath, let it out slowly, and proceeded. Her pulse hammered despite her attempt to self-calm. Riley discovered her feet were reluctant to move, as if she were the prisoner condemned, not the man she was set to interview.