Bayou born, p.23
Bayou Born, page 23
After a lingering assessment, he nodded and let me take point. Having Miller at my back gave me the courage to grip the doorknob and wrench it open onto a bloodbath. Crimson smears covered the walls and floor. The sheets were soaked, and red tipped the glassy teeth of the shattered window.
“Let’s clear the room.” I checked the hall to ensure it had remained clear. “I go left. You go right.”
We entered together. I jerked aside the curtain hanging from the ceiling while Miller checked behind the door. We cleared the bathroom as a unit, as though we had worked together for years instead of minutes, then shut ourselves in the suite while I made the call down to the station to report Jane’s disappearance.
All the while, I wondered if it was smart leaving demon blood smeared across so many surfaces, but the cherry on top of today would be getting charged for evidence tampering by a pissed off police chief champing at the bit for revenge and a means of salvaging his career.
The first cop arrived less than five minutes later. He’d been one floor down, sitting with Buck’s sister while he was in surgery. The doctors were inserting a metal rod through his shattered femur, and I winced when he mentioned screws. Buck might never walk without a limp, and that was on me.
Shoving that guilt, that regret, down until I could breathe again, I focused on making an exit.
The lies I told the officer came easier. Maggie had been wrong about me. It turned out I was a good liar after all. Was my demon heritage to blame? Or was I simply getting better with practice? I didn’t want to think too hard about either option.
I told the officer I’d bumped into Miller in the elevator. I claimed he’d been on his way up to relieve Thom, that we had discovered the scene together and called it in immediately. After promising to fill out a report and fax it over from my shared home office—I wasn’t tempting fate by stepping foot inside the department today—he released us to get serious about locating Jane without thinking to ask where Thom had gone.
Figuring there was safety in numbers, I ditched Portia’s SUV and called shotgun in Miller’s. I had to move a tablet and a stack of papers out of my way first. The FBI logo winking up at me gave me pause, as did the six-by-nine copy of Robert Martin’s yearbook portrait and the candid shot of his vehicle. I climbed in and balanced the pile on my knees while I fastened my seatbelt. “How far did you get with the Kapoor situation before I called?”
“I got in and got out with what we needed before he cleared the first-floor residents.” Miller smiled like the cat who ate the canary. “Turns out the apartment complex has been undergoing renovations. The day the incident was reported, only one section of balconies was accessible. The lower floors had all been sandblasted and repainted. Their balconies were covered in plastic sheeting and taped off besides. That left the fourth floor as the only viable option. All I had to do was beat Kapoor there and canvas the residents with apartments facing the road. I found Mr. Arnold Brashear on my second knock.”
“Smart,” I praised him. “Very smart.”
“I was prepared to tell him I worked for White Horse and that we had taken on the Claremont case, but he was happy to invite me in and chat me up without me flashing my credentials.” He tapped the photo. “He positively ID’d Robert Martin and his vehicle.”
“Kapoor won’t be far behind. Once he catches wind of the APB out on Martin, he’ll want to seize control of Maggie’s case and tie them together as tightly as possible.” Miller rolled his hand, waiting for me to elaborate. “Turns out Maggie made a call the night she disappeared. She left a voicemail IDing Robert Martin as the man who drove her to the clinic. Proof he was the last person to see her.” Not that we’d had much doubt about his involvement. What we lacked was motive. “What are the odds Jane is involved in these disappearances?”
“High,” he said without missing a beat. “Chances are good she’s been studying you since her breach. That explains how she knew to go for Maggie, but not why she chose the Claremont girl.”
“I have a theory about that.” I massaged my aching forehead, each thought a shard of glass embedded in my temples. “War recreated my—breach?” He nodded that I had it right. “She wanted to draw me out, see what makes me tick.”
“Okay, I’m with you so far.”
“Think about it. As well documented as my case was, she had step-by-step instructions. The Claremont girl was bait. War used the high-profile disappearance to catch my attention.” She and Angel shared a similar build and hair color. That must have been intentional. “All she had to do once Rixton and I were assigned to the case was dunk herself in the swamp that night, ensuring no one could tell more than she was a female in distress. She was hedging her bets. Between the case and the link to my past, she was guaranteed I would show up or hear about it and hunt her down afterward.”
“Initiating first contact allowed her to manipulate the circumstances, ensuring a favorable outcome,” he murmured.
“I was so desperate for answers that I welcomed her. Heck, my dad hired a security detail for her.” A chill settled in my bones, and I had my phone in hand and his number dialed before Miller’s lips parted. I held up my finger and didn’t breathe until his voice came on the line. “Dad?”
“Hey, baby girl.” A television blared in the background, the sports announcer’s voice familiar. “Hold on.” He covered the mouthpiece and called, “Harry, turn that down. Luce is on the phone.”
“You’re with Uncle Harold?” I melted into my seat with gratitude he had taken my advice. “Good. Stay put. Don’t go home yet. It’s not safe.”
“What aren’t you telling me?” His voice went stern. “Where are you?”
“I’m following a lead on Maggie’s case. I’m with Miller, from White Horse. There was an incident at the hospital. Jane is missing.” His shouted what made my eardrum ring. “We have people on it. There’s no reason for you to get involved at this juncture. I called the station, and Miller called Cole. We’ve got the situation covered.”
“Where is Cole?” He heaped a whole lot of suspicion into three little words.
“Not here.” I sank my nails into my palm. “I haven’t seen him for a few hours. Listen, that doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that I’m fine, and I’ve got someone watching my back. Just stay with Uncle Harold, okay? Don’t go out after dark, and it wouldn’t hurt my feelings if y’all finished watching the ballgame with a couple of shotguns on the table next to the pita chips and hummus.” A twinge hit me as I remembered I had no idea if mine had been retrieved. I was attached to that gun, damn it. “Promise?”
“I don’t like this,” he grumped. “You will explain yourself. I’ll give you twenty-four hours, and I expect contact every eight hours, or I’m coming after you.” He made it an order. “Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” I couldn’t fight my smile. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
We each ended the call before the other heaped on more ultimatums.
Miller cocked his head, staring at the phone with curiosity. “You really love him, don’t you?”
“He’s my dad.” I let him hear my fierce pride in the man who had raised me. “He’s the best man I know, and I would do anything to live up to his expectations.”
After absorbing my declaration, Miller pulled out of the parking lot. “What’s our next move?”
“We go after Robert Martin.” It was the only option available to us that made sense. “He’s in this up to his neck, and War needs a safe haven to run to while she recovers from her injuries. As chewed up as Thom and Santiago were, there’s no way she slipped past them without sustaining damage.”
“I agree on all points.” He picked up speed. “You mind doing the legwork to pin him down?”
The urge to call in and ask for backup twitched in my fingers, but this wasn’t my case. The department, and soon the FBI, would be searching for Martin. Thanks to our pit stop at the hospital, they had gotten a head start on the manhunt. Meaning we might be picking through their sloppy seconds or even thirds.
“Not at all.” I dialed up the front office at the John W. Rosen Elementary School and waited for the secretary to answer. “Hey, Megan. It’s Luce Boudreau. Can you do a favor for me?”
“The police are here,” Megan blurted. “They’re in a meeting with Principal Higgins.”
That right there was why I made her my first call. Small towns do love their gossip.
“I’m calling in relation to that.” Sort of. “Can you tell me if Robert Martin is on the campus?”
“Sure thing.” She pitched her voice low. “The police already had me check his records. He’s been absent for the last two days. It’s odd because he otherwise had perfect attendance. Five years, and he never called in. He didn’t this time either. He just didn’t show up for his class.” She hesitated. “Should I be telling you this? Are you sure you wouldn’t like to talk to one of the officers?”
“I wouldn’t want to interrupt.” I thumbed through the stack of papers on my lap and found what I needed. Martin’s home address was on the second page of the file Miller had compiled. “Thanks for your help.”
I ended the call before I got caught buttering up the staff.
“He’s not at work,” I told Miller. “Looks like we’re making a house call.” Martin’s neighborhood was part of the beat I shared with Rixton. I could have navigated there with my eyes shut. Since Miller didn’t stop me, I flipped through the rest of the materials on my lap. “What’s this?”
“A copy of the crime-scene photos from where the severed leg was recovered. Took me longer than expected to gain access to those files.” His turn-of-phrase had me thinking his methods might not be exactly legal. Oblivious to me mentally sticking fingers in my ears, because I did not want details, he continued, “I was printing the set when you called. I brought them along just in case.”
“You’re hoping I can ID it if it’s Maggie’s.” I thumbed the yellow tab and reached for that calm, cold place in my middle. Pulse steady, I turned the page and studied the image. “No jewelry, birthmarks or—wait. There’s mud on the toes, but see this? They’re painted.”
“Okay.” He sounded unconvinced. “What does that matter?”
“Maggie is allergic to the dibutyl phthalate in regular nail polish, and she can’t sit still long enough to apply water-based polishes. They’re more, well, watery.” I tapped the image. “These toes are painted, that means they aren’t hers.”
The grim set of his jaw told me he had followed that information to its logical conclusion. “Then there’s a good chance it belongs to Angel Claremont.”
The cold, rational part of my mind agreed, and it wasn’t bothered by the butchery. Emotion was required before regret or disgust or sorrow could manifest, and I had yet to shrug back into that frame of mind. As I thawed, I found no scrap of happiness over Maggie being spared. A young woman had, at best, lost a limb. At worst, she had lost her life, chopped up for spare parts War sprinkled like breadcrumbs in a trail I was meant to follow.
“Do you think she’s alive?” I forced myself to ask him. I trusted his gut more than mine right now.
“Yes.” His thumbs kneaded the steering wheel. “War will have done her homework. She’ll know there are tests that can determine if the victim was alive when the leg was severed. She’ll want you to hope.”
I braced my head against the window and zoned out while he drove. All these years, I had pined for answers. Ignorance had been bliss, but I’d had tunnel vision and hadn’t enjoyed that window of happiness. Thanks to history lessons with Portia and Cole, I possessed more information than I could process. My brain rebelled against the volume I had absorbed, the knowledge so foreign and impossible as to be alien.
Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.
Miller parked on the curb in front of a modest house in an older subdivision that fit with what I knew about Robert Martin. No crime scene tape clung to the doorway, and I spotted no signs of forced entry. The Feds must not have breached the house, hoping he might return here. Or perhaps they might have temporarily dismissed the location after learning he’d had two days in which to disappear. Maybe they knew something we didn’t. Probably a lot of somethings, actually. The quiet street might also indicate a dispute over where the department’s jurisdiction ended and the FBI’s began. Maggie was still Canton PD’s case, after all.
Whatever the reason for our good fortune, we planned on making the most of the opportunity.
“Sit tight.” Miller claimed the laptop. “Let me email Cole our coordinates and attach the Martin files.”
Used to covering my and Rixton’s bacon with dispatch before exiting the vehicle to answer a call, I sat tight and scanned the area for signs one of the harbingers of the apocalypse was bedding down in the nondescript house, that a super gator might be prowling the backyard or that kidnap victims might be held inside, but the blandness of the neighborhood made it impossible to imagine anything so extraordinary might occur here.
War had chosen her mark well. Given her name, I assumed strategy was her strength, and she had certainly flexed those muscles so far. She had fooled us. Me most of all.
“Ready?” Miller muted his phone, and I did the same. We got out, and he circled around and opened the SUV’s rear hatch. He lifted the flap covering the tire well and withdrew handguns from a padded case for each of us. “Here’s an extra clip.”
“I can appreciate a guy willing to share his toys.” Grateful as I was to be armed, my fingers itched for my service weapon. “I’ll circle around back and—”
“No.” He slammed the hatch and paced up the sidewalk. “We go in through the front. Together.”
I caught up to him. “We do that, and we risk her slipping out the back.”
“We don’t do that, and we’re toast. Cole is the only one of us who can take on a daughter of Otilla and live to tell the tale.” He deferred to me. “Unless you’re willing to unpack Conquest?”
“That’s not an option.” I hoped I was telling us both the truth. I wanted her buried so deep nothing short of my death would unleash her. “We’ll do this your way. The victims are our primary concern.”
“Wrong.” He edged in front of me when we reached the door. “Staying alive is our primary concern.”
Live to fight another day was solid advice, and I couldn’t argue against his logic even when a part of me hissed running was cowardice.
“You want to do the honors?” He glanced over his shoulder while pounding his fist against the door. “People respond better to pretty women with badges.”
Unsure I believed him on either point, I lifted my badge and held it up to the peephole. “Officer Luce Boudreau with the Canton Police Department.” I gave it a full minute. “Mr. Martin, we need to ask you some questions. Open the door.”
Miller paused his banging and leaned closer, pressing his ear against the wood. “I hear movement. No footsteps. Scraping.” His nostrils flared as he pressed his nose to the seam in the door, and his pupils dilated. “I smell old blood.”
“Check it.” I trained my weapon on the door at chest height. We didn’t get lucky with the lock. It was engaged. That meant we couldn’t fudge our way inside by claiming it had been open when we arrived. Odds were good we weren’t the first to give it a spin, but we would be the last. I turned Miller’s earlier question around on him. “You want to do the honors?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” He used his shoulder as a battering ram, and wood splintered. “It’s coming from over here.”
The interior was as bland and tidy as the exterior. Standing in the living room, I couldn’t hear or smell what had set Miller on high alert. I let him lead with his keen nose and sharp ears while covering us from the rear. Ambush was a popular wartime tactic for a good reason. What some might view as cowardice, others considered the best use of resources, even if the supply expended was human life.
After clearing the house, we entered the garage. The space hadn’t been converted structurally, but pegboard covered the walls, and interlocking foam squares cushioned the concrete floor. Tools hung from hooks, and a large workbench occupied the center of the space. Next to that Martin had peeled up a four-by-four section of foam, and under that we discovered a hatch set into the foundation.
I spat out a curse. “It’s an in-ground storm shelter.”
“That’s a thing in garages?” He squatted and tested the latch then ran his finger over a keyhole. “This unit is new. The manufacturing date and brand is printed right here on this sticker.”
“From what I remember, these units run larger than typical shelters. The capacity is around eight to ten people.” He quirked up an eyebrow. “Dad went through a baby proofing phase after my adoption was finalized. Part of his upgrades to the house included us sitting through a presentation on these things. They’re usually added-on after construction, and that jacks up the cost.” I toed the edge with my shoe. “The installers cut through the slab with a diamond blade wet saw, use a backhoe to scoop out all the dirt then lower the unit into place and bolt it down. All without wrecking the garage.”
“What I’m hearing is this will require finesse.”
“Finesse. I like that.” I shot him a grin. “How good are you at safe-cracking?”
The house creaked behind us, the protest of old floorboards under new weight, and I whirled toward the door, raised my gun and waited. A full minute lapsed before my arms got shaky. Taut with nerves, I had reached the edge of my endurance for the day. I was about to suggest we sweep the house again when a boxy tomcat with lush midnight fur strutted out with a smirking twitch of his whiskers. His tail, what was left of it, pointed straight up in the air. Scars crisscrossed his face, and his eyes gleamed emerald in the low light. All of that I could overlook except for . . . those.
“Miller?” I kept the gun trained on the demon cat. “Is this a friend of yours?”
“Meow.”
“Think about it,” he said, a smile in his voice. “It’ll come to you.”
