Bayou Betrayal (17 page)

“Are you working anywhere here?”

“Not yet. As I said, I've only been here a month or so.”

Very strange that the two new customers of Fenton's both had moved to town recently. And both came to town right before Monique did.

“Can we see the shed?” Bob asked.

“Of course.” Haynie jumped up and led them to the back door.

The little shed sat perpendicular between the house and the bayou. This property, unlike so many others in the row of homes, had a decent-sized backyard, and no boat dock or pier. The outbuilding, in the same white siding as the house, had a single, sliding door.

Haynie gestured to the closing. “There was a padlock here, but they tore it right off.” He shook his head.

Gary stared at the area. Sure enough, the flimsy metal had been contorted so a lock could be removed. He slipped on a pair of gloves and tested the density of the metal. Weak. Even a kid in middle school could've broken into the shed.

He slid the door open. Sunlight flooded the space, reflecting the little particles dancing in the air. No stale stench assaulted his senses, however. Only a subtle undertone of grease.

A manual lawn mower sat on one side of the building, while hand tools hung on a Peg-Board on the opposite side of the wall, with an empty worktable beneath.

Haynie motioned to the table. “That's where the diesel and battery charger were.” He pointed to a vacancy on the Peg-Board. “And that's where the voltage meter hung.”

Gary studied the table. No layer of dust coated the top, which meant no outlines of a gas container or battery charger were visible.

“How did you keep the fuel stored?” Bob asked, inching his massive shoulders into the cramped space.

“In one of those red, double gas cans.” Haynie gave a nervous cough. “Well, I don't know why they're still called cans. They're plastic.”

Bob gave a noncommittal grunt. “How were you doing the testing on the fuel?”

“I hadn't started yet. That was my future project, to set things up.”

“You know, Mr. Haynie, I'm just a sheriff's deputy, so forgive me if this question seems elementary, but wouldn't you have to have some sort of chemistry background to break down and analyze the fuel for duplication purposes?”

“No, not at all.” The man's eyes flickered. “Right now, over the Internet, you can order all kinds of kits and testing systems. They come with detailed instructions. Just last month, I was able to duplicate the refinement of certain battery acids and build my own rechargeable batteries.”

Still sounded like Greek to Gary.

“Why would you store fuel so close to a battery charger?” Bob interrupted the chemistry lesson.

The excitement fled from Haynie's face. “It was unplugged. Why wouldn't I?”

“Because fuel is, I don't know—flammable? And a battery charger? Even my mother would know to keep the two apart.”

“Well, I didn't even think about it. Besides, once I began my testing of the fuel, I would've had to move the charger anyway.”

Bob grunted again, but said no more.

“I think that's all for now, Mr. Haynie.” Gary pulled off his glove with a pop and shoved it into his pocket. He held out a business card. “If you think of anything else that could be important, please give me a call.”

“Sure will. Thank you, deputies.”

Gary didn't bother to correct Haynie. Better if the man didn't realize Bob wasn't on the force.

Back in the car, Bob cracked the window. “Strange little man, wouldn't you say?”

“I think he comes across that way because of his stature.”

“Or lack thereof.” Bob shook his head. “Still, something's not right about him. I'll be interested in seeing his background report.”

“Me, too.”

But as he turned into the sheriff's office parking lot, Gary had to admit he was more interested in seeing Monique on their date.

He needed to make sure he didn't let himself fall, though. Not while her relationship with God was unresolved.

If only his heart would listen.

T
he lawyer must cost a fortune.

Monique sat flanked by Felicia and Luc in the very lush conference room of the Hudson Law Firm. For such a little town, Lagniappe sure had an abundance of attorneys.

She shifted in the leather chair. The rollers stuck against the plush carpet. She let out a long breath, unease settling between her shoulder blades, still not sure if she was doing the right thing.

“How'd you sleep last night?” Felicia asked.

“Fine, once I fell asleep.” Monique forced a little laugh. “But the security company came out first thing this morning and installed my new alarm system. It's pretty cool. They left right before the car company delivered my rental.”

“Good. I'm sure you feel better now that you have the security system and wheels, yes?”

“And I'm still going to adopt a dog when I leave here.”

Luc opened his mouth, but was cut off by the door swinging open with a muted whoosh.

An elderly, distinguished-looking man with gray hair waltzed in and took the head chair. “Sorry I'm running a little late.” He set down his attaché case. “Good morning, Felicia and Luc. And you must be Monique? I'm Marshall Hudson, legal monitor of the Trahan estate trust.”

“Monique Harris. Nice to meet you.”

“Let's get down to business, shall we?” He withdrew a file from his case and perused the information. “Now, let me make sure I have this right—Monique, you've discovered you're the biological child of Justin Trahan?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have proof of this?”

She swallowed the lump caught in her throat. “Yes. We had a saliva DNA paternity test performed well over six months ago. The test is ninety-eight percent accurate.”

“Good.” He nodded and made notes with his Cross pen. “I'll need a copy of that, for the files, of course.”

“It might take me a little while to obtain copies.”

“Oh?” He glanced up and removed his wire-rimmed glasses, shoving the end of the earpiece into his mouth.

“Her house burned down with everything inside,” Luc offered.

“Ah. Well, just contact the testing company and request a copy.” He looked back to the file and made additional notations.

“Yes, sir.” Sheesh, he made her feel like she was in elementary school and had been sent to the principal's office.

“Luc and Felicia, you aren't contesting this, correct?”

“Of course not.” Felicia tossed her slick hair over her shoulder.

Mr. Hudson smiled. “I just have to ask, you understand.”

“We're not contesting,” Luc affirmed.

“Good.” The lawyer flipped pages in the file. “It will be no problem to add Ms. Harris to the fund as an equal shareholder.”

“That's what we want.” Felicia patted Monique's knee under the table.

“Now, there is a question about the special trust fund.” He lifted his gaze to Monique, and set his glasses on the table. “After we receive the documentation on the paternity test, we'll need you to decide what you want to do with those funds.”

“What're you talking about?” Monique looked from the lawyer to her cousins. “I don't understand.”

“Neither do I.” Luc swiveled his chair toward Mr. Hudson. “What special trust fund?”

“You don't know? I was sure your grandfather had told you…” The lawyer flipped through more pages in the file. “Ah, here it is. Almost four decades ago, Beau Trahan contacted this firm and requested a special trust fund be created for any heirs that came forward with legal proof of paternity by his brother, Justin Trahan.”

“I had no clue.” Felicia looked across Monique to her brother. “Luc, did Grandfather ever tell you this?”

“No.”

“Well, it states that in the event legal proof is provided to establish an heir of Justin Trahan's, that heir is entitled to the full amount set aside in the special trust fund. If more than one heir is established, they are to split the fund equally.”

“This is separate from the Trahan estate trust?” Luc asked.

“Of course. Your grandfather set this up to protect any children Justin might have.”

Luc tented his hands over the table and leaned forward. “What happens if no heirs come forward?”

“According to the draft drawn upon Beau's request, if no heir presented legal proof of Justin's paternity by the time Justin turned seventy-five, then the funds would revert to Justin independent of any of the funds held in trust by this law firm.”

“And what would happen to the money if no heir came forward and he was incarcerated at the time the trust matured?”

Glancing back over the paperwork, Mr. Hudson hesitated. “Well, I suppose we'd have to double-check the legalities, but it would either be held in Justin's name until death or release, or it would revert back into the Trahan estate trust.”

“How much is in this fund?” Felicia squeezed Monique's knee.

Mr. Hudson slipped his glasses back on and peered at the file. “As of the end of last quarter, just last month, the fund's balance was over two million dollars.”

 

Well, well, well. The self-proclaimed vagabond Kevin Haynie sure had failed to tell Gary about his stay in a Louisiana federal penitentiary. Gary would just bet the man got plenty of fodder for his novel there.

He tugged the rest of the report out of the packet. Haynie appeared to have served an eight-month sentence for a drug-related charge. Not too long an incarceration, but any time inside normally had cons avoiding all law enforcement like the plague upon release. So why had he filed a report about stolen property when it didn't amount to a loss of more than a hundred or so bucks at most?

Gary checked the dates in the report. Haynie had been released eleven months ago. Had served a six-month probation period with no violations reported by his parole officer. Gary made a note to check with Jon Garrison, the new parole officer for Vermilion parish. Maybe he could get copies of the parole officer's personal notes.

It was possible Haynie had become overcautious since his release. It happened in a few instances, where cons became so accustomed to guards, wardens and parole officers that they ran to local lawmen over every little thing. Haynie sure fit the profile of that type of con. But his failure to mention his prison record was enough to raise Gary's suspicions.

Bob ambled into the office carrying a coffee cup. “I'll be glad to wrap up this case. My stomach can't take the food here much longer.”

Gary glanced up and shook his head. “Why don't you try eating some of the seafood rather than burgers and fries?”

“Well, Mike said I should really try the double bacon cheeseburger.”

Gary's stomach turned just thinking about the fat content. He dropped Haynie's report on Bob's temporary desk. “Got the goods on Haynie.”

“Clean?”

“Nope.”

“Really?” Bob set down the cup and snatched the folder. “Drugs? I'd never have guessed it.”

“Actually, it fits him. Keep reading. He got a lighter sentence because he made a plea with the U.S. Attorney's Office, meaning he rolled on someone. He's a snitch.”

“Explains why he's a
gypsy,
too.”

“Right. In most drug cases, you turn over evidence on a dealer, distributor or manufacturer, and you're a dead man. He has to keep moving.”

Bob shook his head. “Better keep looking over his shoulder.”

“Yep.” Something niggled against his subconscious. Something about Haynie, but what? “I think I'm gonna run back out to talk to Haynie again. Shake the trees and see what falls.”

“Mind if I ask Mike to take me out to Fenton's place again? I still think there's some connection between father, son and Ms. Harris.”

“Go for it.” Gary informed Missy where he'd be and headed to the cruiser.

The afternoon sun heated the asphalt of the parking lot. Spring would arrive in Lagniappe before they realized it, wreaking havoc on Gary's allergies.

The drive to Haynie's place passed in a blur as Gary considered where he'd take Monique tonight. Cajun's Wharf had recently completed some renovations, trying to draw in a more upscale crowd. Maybe he should call and make reservations?

He pulled into the driveway and immediately noticed the absence of the sedan. Could Haynie be out looking for part-time work? Buying or selling something? Who knew? Gary knocked on the door. No response. He rapped a little harder. Still not a sound from inside.

Wouldn't hurt to look around again.

Moving to the backyard, Gary stared at the distance from the shed to the bayou. Possible escape route for the thief? No, not a chance Haynie wouldn't have heard the boat engine. No mistaking the noise for a coon. When Mike had come out and filed the report, he'd checked for tire tracks around the shed, but nothing had been detected. So the thief left on foot? Toting a battery charger, voltage meter and twenty-five gallons of fuel? Not hardly. Seemed more like Haynie was lying about the whole deal. But why?

Gary went back to his car, but he still couldn't figure out what kept bugging him. He started the car, his stomach rumbling. He'd better swing by his mom's for lunch. She'd left a couple of messages on his voice mail that he hadn't returned yet. He glanced at the clock. His mother would be home. Tuesdays and Thursdays were her days off from the diner.

He'd barely put the cruiser in Park when his mother came out of the house. “It's about time. I was ready to file a missing persons report.”

He chuckled and kissed her proffered cheek. “Sorry, Mom. Been hectic.”

“Working on Monique's case?”

“Yeah.” He tossed an arm around her shoulders as they headed into the house. The aroma of fresh-baked bread filled the air. His stomach growled.

“How's it going?”

“You know I can't give you details.” He slumped into a kitchen chair.

“I'm assuming you're hungry?” She didn't wait for an answer, just began preparing him a thick turkey sandwich made on homemade bread. “I like that girl. There's something about her that's special.”

“I know.” He spoke more to himself than his mother.

But she didn't miss a beat. She plopped the plate in front of him and took the opposite chair. “Son, do you have feelings for her?”

“I hate to admit it, but I do.”

“Why would you hate to admit that? She's lovely.”

He sent up a silent prayer, then took a sip of milk. “Because she isn't a Christian, Mom.”

His mother shook her head. “Boy, that girl knows God just as surely as you and I do. I can tell these things.”

He swallowed the bite of sandwich and took another drink. “She flat-out told me she wasn't on speaking terms with God.”

Della laughed. “Son, you truly can be dense, can't you?”

“What?”

“We all get mad at God sometimes. That's natural. And I don't think it riles the good Lord up any, either.”

“Yeah, but she's not talking to Him. That's different than being mad.”

“You think?” His mother wiped crumbs into a paper napkin.

“Yes.”

“I disagree with you there, son.”

“In what way?”

“When you were a teenager and I wouldn't let you do something, you'd get angry with me, yes?”

“I suppose.”

She chuckled. “Oh, you were mad all right. Trust me.”

He snickered. “Okay, yes, I'd get mad at you. I remembered we'd argue till you'd order me to go to my room.”

“That's because you drove me to the edge, boy.” She chuckled and shook her head. “And then hours later, I'd call you out for supper. You'd come dragging up to the table and plop down. And what would you do?”

“Eat?” He finished off his sandwich and gulped down the rest of his milk.

“Yeah, you'd eat all right. But in silence. You wouldn't say a word to me.”

“You'd sent me to my room.”

“And you were mad and refused to talk to me.”

“So?”

“Did you love me any less then?”

He pulled himself up. Had he? He'd been mad when she wouldn't let him do things his friends got to do. He'd felt left out, like his friends were making fun of him behind his back because his mommy wouldn't let him go. But he knew now it was because they couldn't afford for him to go to the movies or such. She hadn't done it to be mean.

“No.”

She cackled. “Don't lie. At the time, did you love me less?”

“I don't know, Mom. Maybe. What's the point?”

“That you might have felt like you loved me less, but as you grew and matured and understood things, you didn't love me any less, right?”