Diabolical (Shaye Archer Series Book 3) Read online

  “No. Not after I saw the footage from my security cameras. I’d hoped I was wrong—that an old cop was just being paranoid—but no such luck. I can’t afford for him to know I’m here, and I have to assume he’s watching her when he’s not out doing whatever the hell else evil he’s up to. Both of us in her apartment would be like shooting fish in a barrel.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’ll figure something out. Thanks for the information and watch your back. I know you were already driving the desk, but we were partners for a lot of years. We have no way of knowing how far he plans on reaching.”

  “You know me…three big dogs and too many guns to name. If none of those work, I’ll send Susan after him.”

  “That will do it.”

  “Call me if you need anything else.”

  “I will.”

  “And Beaumont…be careful.”

  Harold tossed his phone on the bed, rose from the chair, and grabbed his duffel bag. It contained what he considered the necessities—a single change of clothes, three pistols, and more ammo than he took to the gun range. He’d hidden his rifles in the attic before he left, not wanting the killer to get his hands on anything that he could use to kill people. If someone were killed with one of Harold’s guns, he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. The three pistols were the only other guns he owned and they were all right there with him, along with holsters for his hip, shoulder, and ankle. The only other item in the bag was his bulletproof vest.

  He pulled it out and ran his hand over it, his fingers dipping into the holes the three bullets had made. He’d been lucky the guy wasn’t a better shot. If he’d aimed just six inches up, Harold’s head would have been gone and the vest would have been cataloged and handed to another detective. They’d allowed him to keep this one. Since it was damaged, it wasn’t as effective as it was before, but Harold was superstitious about some things. The vest had saved his life once before. If he got into a situation again, he wanted to be wearing it.

  He placed the vest on the bed and picked up his phone again. The app for the security cameras was right there next to his in-box and he pressed it to watch the clip he’d saved from the earlier footage. He watched the killer’s back as he crept down the hall toward the kitchen, and the same anger he’d felt when he saw it the first time coursed through him all over again. That man had come there with only one purpose in mind—silencing Harold forever.

  But why the knife?

  That was the one thing Harold hadn’t been able to figure out. He’d expected the killer to whirl around the corner with a pistol, ready to empty a magazine into him. The knife didn’t make any sense, but then, maybe there was no making sense of evil. It usually had its own reasons for things that normal people would never understand.

  When he walked into the kitchen, the hood on the sweatshirt blocked his face from view but as before, Harold could tell the shape of the hood was odd. When the killer came out of the garage and faced the camera, Harold could see why the hood was misshapen.

  In all his years of police work, he’d been cautious but never scared.

  Until now.

  The afternoon was half gone when Shaye pulled into a parking space in the corner of the lot of the apartment building where her biological mother used to live. They were getting a later start than Hustle had expected, but Shaye hadn’t offered an explanation as to why. He could tell by her strained expression that something had happened. Or maybe it was just everything was weighing so heavy on her that she was getting exhausted. Either way, she wasn’t in the same mood as the day before, and that bothered him, but he didn’t want to ask and put her on the spot. Whatever it was, she was still thinking on it hard and he didn’t want to get in the way of that.

  She looked over at him, and he waited for the inevitable question that he knew was coming.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked.

  “That’s the third time you’ve asked me and that’s just in the car. My answer isn’t going to change.”

  “I know. I just don’t feel right having you do my job for me.”

  “It’s your job to get answers, right? You already tried and these people won’t talk to you. It’s Saul’s job to keep the hotel maintenance up, but that don’t mean he’s doing it all himself. I don’t mean no disrespect but you’re not qualified for every job you need done.”

  She smiled. “So what you’re saying is that picking the right person for the job is my job? I guess I can live with that. Is your microphone still in place?”

  He pulled out the collar of his T-shirt and glanced down. “The microphone is in place. I’m sure I want to do this. I have a couple things worked up to tell them depending on my assessment when they open the door. If anything looks or feels weird, I’ll leave and come straight back to the car. Can we get this show going? This tape on my chest itches.”

  She nodded. “Get out before I annoy you even more.”

  He grinned and climbed out of the SUV. Shaye was great but she was a professional worrier. Not that she didn’t have plenty of reason. But she didn’t get these people. She didn’t understand how their minds worked, but he did. His mom had worked hard, often holding down two jobs, but a high school education didn’t get you much in the way of pay. They’d never lived in government housing, but the tiny house she rented was on the same block as a big complex and a lot of HUD homes. He knew these people better than Shaye ever could.

  And no way would they talk to someone like Shaye. Even in jeans and a T-shirt, she would never look like she belonged down here. Everyone would assume she was a cop or social worker, and doors and mouths would shut so fast she wouldn’t even have time to introduce herself. But a skinny kid with long scraggly hair and cheap secondhand clothes wasn’t a threat. Saul had taken him shopping for new clothes, but Hustle had insisted on keeping the jeans and shirt he wore now. They were the last things his mom had bought for him, and he planned on keeping them forever. When they didn’t fit, they would get one last washing, then he’d stick them in a drawer. It was a good thing he’d been so sentimental. No way would his new clothes have passed with these people, and he would have felt guilty tearing them up, even though he had a good reason.

  He pulled open the door to the apartment building and headed down the hallway toward the unit where Shaye’s biological mother had lived. The building was run-down and dingy and he’d been in Dumpsters that smelled better, but none of that bothered him. He’d lived in worse conditions than this, but it was a good reminder of where he could be if he didn’t take advantage of everything Shaye and Saul were offering him.

  He located the apartment across the hall from Shaye’s mother’s old unit and knocked on the door. There was some rustling inside and finally the door opened and a woman peered out at him. She was probably thirty or so, but she looked at least fifteen years older. Drugs aged you fast, and based on the acne she had on her chin and cheeks, Hustle was betting her drug of choice was meth.

  He heard a baby squeal inside and struggled against the urge to shake the crap out of her until she realized what kind of life she was dooming her child to, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. He’d seen it too many times before.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “I was looking for Lydia Johnson.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Yeah, I know. The manager told me.”

  “Then what are you knocking on my door for?”

  “Lydia was my aunt. She had a daughter, my cousin Cindy. Anyway, I was trying to find her.”

  “Ain’t never heard of no Cindy. Ain’t never seen Lydia with a kid.”

  “Maybe Cindy wasn’t with her when she came here. You have any idea where Aunt Lydia was before?”

  The woman narrowed her eyes at Hustle. “If you don’t know where your cousin is, you ain’t seen her in a while. Why you need to find this girl now?”

  “My dad worked road construction and we moved away for a while. Aunt Lydia didn’t
have a phone so I lost track of them. We moved back to New Orleans a couple months ago, but my dad died. He had one of those things at his job—you know, where they give you some money?”

  “Insurance.”

  “Yeah, that’s what the man called it. Anyway, the man said I had some money coming and I thought maybe Aunt Lydia, Cindy, and me could use it to get a better situation, you know? But since Aunt Lydia’s gone, it’s just me and Cindy.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “She died having me. Couldn’t afford no hospital.”

  “Sorry about that, and your dad. You’re young to lose them both.”

  He shrugged. “Shit happens, you know? You just keep going until you can’t go no more.”

  The woman stared at him for a bit, then nodded. “I don’t know the exact address, but Lydia said she used to live in a house on Tupelo close to the river.”

  “You know the cross street?”

  “Around Douglas maybe? I can’t remember for sure, but that sounds right.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  “Good luck finding your cousin. Maybe you can get her out before she goes the way her mom did. If she hasn’t already.”

  The woman closed the door and he headed out of the apartment and back to the SUV. He could have tried the other units, but he didn’t think anyone would know more than what the woman had already told him. He had no way of knowing if the house on Tupelo was where Shaye had lived, but at least it was a start. Assuming, of course, that the house hadn’t been wiped out by Katrina.

  He hopped into the SUV and was instantly greeted by an ecstatic Shaye. “You are incredible,” she said. “I couldn’t even get that woman to admit she knew Lydia.”

  “I don’t look like no threat.”

  “Apparently not. Do you think that story will work again at the other address?”

  He shrugged. “Hard to say. She wasn’t too old and had a baby inside so I figured I’d go with the ‘trying to break out’ angle. They get too old and they aren’t even desperate anymore. They all accepted that’s their life. But if they haven’t gotten to that place, thinking someone has a chance to get away from it gives them that little spark of hope that maybe someday that knock on the door will be their ticket out.”

  Shaye frowned. “I wish you didn’t know all of this.”

  “I’m not mad about it. My moms didn’t always do things smart, you know, but she was a good person and I know she loved me. A lot of people ain’t even got that.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Besides, knowing all this—how hard it is to live this way—makes me work even harder to never be back here. You and Saul were my ticket out. I’m going to make sure you never regret it.”

  “I could never regret knowing you. You’re going to do great things.”

  Hustle looked at the dashboard. Every time Shaye said things like that he felt weird. Not bad weird. More like uncommon weird. He was so used to people blowing hot air about everything that Shaye’s sincerity was something he didn’t have a lot of experience with, especially when she was complimenting him. He liked it but he didn’t wear it all that well. It made him kinda itchy, like the microphone.

  Finally, he nodded. “Just like you. So get to driving. We have a bad guy to catch and your memory ain’t gonna just walk up and write his name down for you.”

  Shaye smiled and pulled out of the parking lot, making her way to Tupelo. She turned onto the street a couple blocks away from the river and drove slowly until they reached Douglas, where she parked at the curb, close to where the streets crossed.

  “Lots of houses are gone,” she said, and he could hear the anxiety in her voice.

  Hustle nodded. It was exactly what he feared—that the place where Shaye had lived with her mother might not be standing anymore. If that was the case, then they were back to zero and just the thought of that had him feeling frustrated and helpless. Shaye had done so much for him and if there was anything he could do to help her, he would be first in line to volunteer. She deserved to know what happened to her, and the man who did it deserved to be tied up and tossed into a river of alligators.

  “Does anything look familiar?” he asked.

  She scanned the street up and down, her brow wrinkled in concentration, then shook her head. “Nothing stands out. I was really hoping something would.”

  “If the house is still here, it probably looks different now. And all the trees and stuff is grown up a lot from back then too.”

  “That’s true,” she said, sounding a little more optimistic. “Where do you want to start talking to people? I mean, do you get a feel for any house over the other?”

  Hustle studied the structures that Shaye had charitably referred to as houses. Run-down was a polite way of describing them. Beaten down by time, weather, and lack of maintenance was more accurate. Most were probably rentals and the tenants were paying with vouchers. The question is, which ones might have been there long enough to have known Lydia and returned after Katrina.

  A house with peeling white paint and ugly green trim caught his eye. There were pot plants on the sloping front porch. People didn’t like to cart pot plants around because they were heavy and messy. Usually, the people who had them had been in one place for a while.

  “I’ll start with that one,” he said.

  Shaye nodded. “I’ll circle around and park far enough back where my car isn’t as noticeable. Be careful, and if anything feels wrong, get out of there.”

  “I will,” Hustle said as he climbed out of the SUV. She didn’t have to tell him twice. He’d been stalked and almost killed. If anyone knew when to run, he did.

  He walked up the broken concrete that made up the sad path to the house and stepped onto the porch. The boards creaked under his weight and he prayed that the rotted wood held while he was standing there. He knocked on the door and listened for any sign of movement inside. After a minute or so of nothing, he knocked again. This time, he heard rustling inside and the door opened a crack.

  The woman who peered out at him was probably in her fifties. The deep wrinkles on the sides of her lips were a dead giveaway for a long-term smoker, and if they hadn’t been there, the smell of stale smoke coming off of her would have been enough to know. Her hair looked as if it hadn’t seen a brush in a while, and her ratty T-shirt had worn spots and stains down the front.

  “What do you want?” she asked, one hand on the door, ready to slam it at any indication of trouble, the other arm reaching toward the wall where she probably had her hand wrapped around a bat or some other form of protection. It was a position Hustle knew well as he’d seen his mom do it any time someone came knocking that she didn’t know.

  “I’m looking for Lydia Johnson,” he said.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why you looking for her?”

  “I’m her nephew. My dad moved us away years ago and I lost track of her and my cousin. We moved back a couple weeks ago and I’m trying to find her. She used to live around here, but I can’t remember where exactly.”

  The woman studied him for a while, sizing him up as far as threats went. His lie and his appearance must have registered favorably, because she answered. “Looks a lot different now than it did when Lydia lived here.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. I was just a little kid then anyway, so my memory ain’t that good. Besides, looks like Katrina did a number down here. You said ‘when’ my aunt lived here. She don’t anymore?”

  The woman shook her head. “Moved a couple years before Katrina. Said she got an apartment. Smaller and on higher ground. Don’t have to rain for an hour around here for shit to flood. Streets back up quick.”

  “You don’t happen to know where the apartment is, do you?”

  “If she said, I don’t remember. Been too long. ’Sides, it might not be standing anyway. Not like these slumlords keep anything up. Probably caved right in when Katrina hit.”

  “That’s true enough.” He looked up and down the street. “Which house was i
t? I mean, if it’s still standing.”

  The woman pointed across the street and down the block. “That blue one with the weeds tall as the porch. It’s been abandoned since Katrina. Not fit to live in, but then a lot of these places aren’t.”

  He looked at the house and frowned. “Doesn’t look familiar, but I guess I shouldn’t expect it to. Was my cousin still with Aunt Lydia when she moved?”

  Based on the date the woman had given him, Hustle already knew Lydia had sold Shaye before she moved, but he wanted to know what she’d told people.

  The woman shook her head. “Lydia said social workers took Trina. I remember her saying she was trying to get her back, but I never saw Trina again. I guess she couldn’t make it happen.”

  He struggled to control his anger. That junkie had sold her daughter to Clancy and then blamed her disappearance on the government. He’d bet money she never told the government she no longer had a child, otherwise her benefits would have been reduced. If asked to produce her, Lydia would have just borrowed someone else’s kid. He’d seen it done before.

  “I remember my dad said some people went and talked to her about Trina,” he said, and sighed. “I guess my chances of finding either one of them ain’t that good.”

  “Not unless you know someone down at the government. Ha.”

  “No, and I ain’t trying to. Not in this lifetime. Thanks for your help.”

  She nodded. “Good luck,” she said before closing the door.

  He headed back down the steps and started walking toward the house the woman had indicated. Storm clouds were forming overhead and his shirt was sticky from perspiration as the humidity level spiked.

  “Circle around the block and park on the street behind the house,” he said, hoping that the feed was still working and Shaye had heard him.

  He wasn’t afraid the woman would be a problem, but he didn’t want her spotting Shaye’s vehicle, either. They might need more information, and if the woman caught sight of Shaye or her car, she would know something was up besides the story Hustle had given her. That was a sure way to make her forget everything she ever knew about Lydia.