Diabolical (Shaye Archer Series Book 3) (3 page)

“Uh, sir,” Jackson said. “I hope you don’t take this as disrespect, but are you sure it’s safe to put Vincent on the Clancy files…given that Ms. Archer is one of the victims?”

“I’m aware of the potential for problems, and rest assured that the last person I want picking my job performance apart again is Senator Archer. We spoke at length yesterday. I’m rather hoping to avoid a repeat. Frank will limit Vincent’s access. Mostly he’ll be scanning and filing. Given his recent propensity for avoiding any real work, I don’t anticipate his sneaking documents home and attempting to decode them himself.”

A wave of relief passed over Jackson. “No, sir. Probably not. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For trying to keep Shaye’s name out of the news. I know it’s going to happen. We can’t keep it a secret forever, but if she just had more time to process…”

Bernard tilted his head the side and studied Jackson for several seconds. “At first, I thought you were only infatuated with Ms. Archer. Not that I blamed you, of course. She’s a beautiful young lady. Intelligent and intriguing. But I misjudged you.”

Bernard rose from his desk and Jackson stood with him.

“Be very careful,” Bernard said. “Women like Shaye Archer come with a high price tag. You might find it’s one you’re not willing to pay.”

Jackson knew he wasn’t talking about money. Shaye probably had more money than she’d ever use. Bernard was talking about her history, her notoriety. The fact that if he were involved with Shaye, it put him in the spotlight as well, likely for as long as he was willing to stand there. Spotlights didn’t just click off on women like Shaye. They tended to follow them quietly around, just waiting for the next event that needed to be highlighted.

“I can afford it,” Jackson said.

Bernard nodded. “Maybe you can. Go see Grayson. He’ll fill you in on your new assignment. Turn over anything you have on your current cases to Maxwell.”

Jackson nodded and left the chief’s office. Grayson wasn’t at his desk, so Jackson headed for the break room. Grayson was pouring a cup of coffee and gave Jackson a nod as he entered.

“You talk to Bernard?” Grayson asked.

“Just left there. Thank you for requesting me. You don’t know how much…” Jackson trailed off, frustrated with himself for sounding so weak. He’d given Vincent entirely too much control over his emotions.

“You might not be thanking me after you see our caseload. We drew a couple nasty ones and we’ll be helping out with the Clancy investigation as needed.” Grayson studied him for a moment. “I requested you because I like what I’ve seen out of you and unlike Vincent, I want you to share your insight with me. Anything seems off to you, let me know. I don’t think my radar’s as finely tuned as yours, but I’ve got more years making the pieces fit. I think we can do some good work together.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Grayson nodded. “Frank said he has something he needs to show us.” He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and handed them to Jackson. “Would you mind getting a folder from my desk? It’s labeled ‘Clancy.’ I’m keeping it locked up because it’s got some information on Shaye. I need to run and talk to the forensic team before we see Frank.”

Jackson took the keys and looked at the odd-shaped piece of metal Grayson used as a key fob. “What is this?”

“Huh? Oh, I’m not sure. Something my dad’s company used to make.”

“Used to?”

“He died when I was in college, and my mother sold the company. He used to have that on his desk at home, so I kept it.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Grayson waved a hand in dismissal. “They’re both gone now. They were older when they had me. I think maybe they hadn’t been able to have kids before but I never asked. Meet you back here in a couple minutes?”

Jackson nodded and headed to Grayson’s desk to retrieve the file. When he got back to the break room, Grayson was already there waiting on him. Grayson took the file and headed down the hall toward the conference rooms. Jackson fell in step beside him, a silent war being conducted in his mind. The question he’d been wanting to ask since he’d left Bernard’s office was on the tip of his tongue, but he knew it was a place he probably shouldn’t go.

Unable to squelch the desire, he finally blurted out, “Did Vincent do something to prompt these changes? I mean, other than the usual?”

Grayson looked over at him and smirked. “You caught on to that, did you? Radar.” He shook his head. “You didn’t hear this from me, but word is Vincent went to IA and said you’d given classified information to Shaye Archer. He got IA riled up and one of the suits called a meeting with Ms. Archer today.”

Anger coursed through every square inch of Jackson’s body. It was one thing for Vincent to mess with Jackson. It was completely another to drag Shaye into his games. “That lying son of a bitch. What happened?”

Grayson let out a single laugh. “Your lady friend told them both off so bad that the suit left here with his tail tucked between his legs. Then she marched straight into Bernard’s office, and I don’t know what was said, but I would have paid money to hear it. Bernard came out of there apologizing all over himself and yelled at Vincent to get the hell in his office before Ms. Archer had even gotten two steps away.”

Jackson grinned. “Good for her.”

“Good for all of us. We could hear Bernard yelling clean through the walls, but couldn’t make out what he was saying. After five minutes or so, Vincent came stomping out and left, then Bernard called me in to tell me he was moving Frank to run the Clancy files and Vincent would be driving a scanner into retirement. I figured it was as good a time as any to ask if he would transfer you.”

Jackson shook his head, still smiling. “I wonder what she said.”

“Well, given that the two of you are friends, I was kinda hoping you’d find out and tell me. I wouldn’t repeat it, of course. But I have to admit to wanting to know really bad.”

“So do I.”

Grayson pushed the door to the conference room open and walked inside. Frank was working at one end of the table and looked up as they walked in. He was the only person in the room.

“Lamotte’s official,” Grayson said. “Bernard just gave the word.”

Frank nodded and motioned for them to come over. “Elliot figured out the code for another notebook. That’s four he’s been able to decipher so far. It looks like Clancy changed the code every year but some of these are repeats, like he used the original code for repeat buyers.”

“Repeat buyers?” Jackson asked.

“Yeah,” Frank said. “Elliot found the same names in journals with purchases that are years apart.”

Jackson felt his excitement grow. “You have names for the buyers? We can start looking for them?”

“Not exactly,” Frank said. “Clancy didn’t put ‘John Smith’ in the books. It’s all nicknames.”

“Oh,” Jackson said, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice.

“Don’t despair, Detective,” Frank said. “Every little step gets us one spot closer to figuring out a twenty-year horror movie. Anyway, here’s what I wanted to show you, and this is for you two only. Bernard’s already approved your working this.”

Grayson and Jackson nodded.

Frank pointed to a notation in one of the journals. “I matched this buyer amount and date with the transaction in the seller journal for Lydia Johnson.”

Jackson drew in a breath. “You found the man who bought Shaye?”

“His nickname,” Frank reminded him.

Jackson leaned over and read the word Frank had written above the coded buyer name.

“Diabolique,” Jackson said.

“Several of the nicknames have been in French,” Frank said.

“But you don’t know anything else?” Jackson asked. “Nothing else we could use to go on?”

“Oh, there’s something else all right,” Frank said, his voice grim. “That’s why I sent for you. Take a look at this.” He pulled another journal over in front of them and pointed.

“That’s the same name,” Grayson said. “A fifteen-year-old girl. So this buyer had at least two transactions with Clancy.”

“This one was in June.” Frank flipped the notebook to the front cover and indicated the date in the upper right-hand corner.

“
O
h my God
.” Jackson’s stomach rolled. “He bought her last month. Another kid is probably going through the same hell that Shaye did. We have to find her.”

Grayson nodded, his expression a mixture of disgust and anger. Jackson looked down at the journal again.

Diabolical.

D
r. Warren Thompson
turned off the television and placed his reading glasses on the end table. He waited a bit before rising from the recliner, allowing his aging eyes to adjust to the dim room. The clock on the far wall began to chime midnight, and he realized he’d been asleep for two hours already. The book that had sounded so interesting in premise hadn’t turned out to be nearly as good in execution, and he’d ended up watching television before dozing off. His back and knees protested as he rose, never letting him forget the forty-two years of work and four years of residency he’d put in before finally admitting his body no longer allowed him to practice medicine the way he wanted.

So two weeks ago, he did what he never thought he’d do. He retired.

The first week was all right. It felt more like he was on vacation really, but as Sunday approached and he wasn’t preparing his clothes for the upcoming week, the reality of long days with nothing to do stretched in front of him. The second week was a harsh and lonely awakening. His wife, Marie, had passed away five years before. He’d thought he handled her death well, but looking back, he realized he hadn’t planned for this reality.

He sighed and headed upstairs, turning off the living room light as he went. Marie had warned him about living only for her and the job. When it was finally clear that the cancer she’d fought so bravely was going to win, she’d made him promise that he’d take up a hobby and make some friends outside of work. Now, with the days and weeks stretching before him, and endless cycle of Netflix, books, and his recliner, he had to admit that Marie had been right.

Even from the grave she’d managed an “I told you so.”

Without Marie or his work, to say Warren was at loose ends would be an understatement. His children, one son and one daughter, were successful, busy people with their own lives and responsibilities and didn’t have time to coddle a bored, lonely old man. His grandchildren were starting their careers and one granddaughter was pregnant. He was going to be a great grandfather. That made him smile. Marie would have loved it, especially as it was her favorite granddaughter who was pregnant. Warren knew you weren’t supposed to have favorites. At least that’s what people said, but he also figured they were all liars. Human beings connected with each other on different levels. Why should it be any different just because they were blood?

He climbed into bed and reached over to turn off the lamp. The silence gave him pause, as it always did. Marie had been a noisy sleeper, her snoring interrupted only by her tossing and turning. When he was working crazy hours during his residency, sometimes Warren had slept in the spare room just to get a good night’s sleep in. But over the years, he’d grown so used to her nighttime activity that now it felt odd to be so still and surrounded by quiet.

He deliberated turning on the television, but decided against it. Sleep didn’t come as easily as it once had. The noise would be worse than the silence. And the news had been filled with stories of that despicable excuse for a human being John Clancy. The only moment of pleasure he’d derived from the stories was when they highlighted the private detective who’d helped expose Clancy.

Shaye Archer was the only patient he’d treated who’d ever given him nightmares. She still remained the worst case of abuse he’d ever seen, and knowing that she’d grown up to be a beautiful, successful, and compassionate young woman made him extremely happy. But that didn’t mean that seeing another news story, covering the same tired information, would help him sleep. So he rolled over and closed his eyes, trying not to think of all the things he didn’t have to do the next day.

He had just dozed off when he heard a noise downstairs.

He jerked upright, then stilled again to listen, but only the gentle whir of the ceiling fan broke the silence. Had he dreamed it? He didn’t think so. He’d barely been asleep, and his racing heart was a clear indication that he hadn’t imagined it, either. Perhaps the noise was outside, but even as the thought crossed his mind, he dismissed it. Now that he was alert he recognized the sound. It was the creaking of a loose floorboard in the kitchen. His Labrador had passed a couple years before and could no longer be blamed for noises in the night. The skies were clear and there wasn’t a breath of wind. That left only one explanation.

Someone was in his house.

He looked at the security panel in the hall, its green button the only light in the dark, and silently cursed himself for forgetting to set the alarm. He grabbed his cell phone off the nightstand and called 911. Then he swung his legs over the side of the bed, careful not to make a sound, and eased the drawer of the nightstand open. The loaded pistol lay at the back of the drawer where it always had. Warren couldn’t even remember the last time he’d removed it, and hoped it was still in good working order.

The 911 operator answered and Warren whispered to her his name and address and told her there was an intruder in his home. The operator immediately dispatched the police and told him to stay on the line until they arrived. Walter moved to the far side of the room, between the bed and the wall, and crouched down, aiming the pistol at the door. If anyone entered the room expecting to find a helpless, sleeping old man, they were in for a rude awakening.

Another creak filled the still air in the house and Warren knew the intruder was coming up the stairs. He sucked in a breath and clenched the pistol with his right hand, his left hand still clutching the cell phone.

“Mr. Thompson? Are you still with me?” The operator’s voice sounded as if it was being broadcast in stereo and Warren hurried to disconnect the call before the intruder could zero in on his location.

Faint footsteps echoed on the bare hardwood floor of the hallway, approaching the bedroom. Warren crouched even lower, until he could barely peer above the top of the bed. His heart pounded so hard that his chest started to burn. He tried to take a deep breath to calm his nerves, but he couldn’t do it. His chest ached and his vision blurred as he struggled to take in air, but it was as if he were underwater. He was drowning in an open room full of air.

Sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes, making his already blurry vision even worse, then his arms went limp and the pistol that had been trained on the door fell over onto the bed, his hands so weak he could no longer hold it.

He was having a heart attack.

What were the fucking odds?

* * *

R
eagan Dugas lifted
her head and groaned. The headache that had been plaguing her for days had grown in intensity until now she felt as if her skull were being pulled apart. She struggled to push herself up from the stone floor but barely made it halfway before she started retching.

He’d drugged her again.

She never knew when the food he brought her would be laced with whatever put her out, but she always knew when he’d done it. The headaches were awful, but they weren’t the worst part. She checked her legs and chest and found three new puffy red lines cut into the flesh of her abdomen. Right next to the new marks, old ones were in various stages of scarring, each set of three giving her a clue as to the length of her captivity. She had no idea exactly how long she’d been trapped in the tiny room. With no light and no watch, every minute was the same. Except when he came. The endless minutes in a dark hole were bad, but they weren’t as bad as the man.

The last thing she remembered of her life before was sitting at the construction site and watching skaters at the docks. She was pretty sure the skaters were street kids, and she’d wanted to go over and join in, but had been afraid to approach them. In hindsight, she probably should have. Maybe they would have warned her that someone was kidnapping street kids.

The man who’d grabbed her that night on the dark street wasn’t the same one who held her captive now. She’d overheard a conversation between the man who grabbed her and someone else she couldn’t see. A lot of what they were saying didn’t make sense, but enough did. Those men kidnapped kids and sold them, and the man who had her now had bought her from them.

When that realization had hit her, she’d cried until she had no tears left, then she’d gotten mad. Mad at her dad for leaving. Mad at her mom for hooking up with a man who beat her to death. Mad at her aunt for marrying a perv who’d crawled into bed with her and wouldn’t get out until she threatened to scream. Ever since she’d hit puberty, men had looked differently at her, including the one who’d killed her mom. Whenever it happened, she felt the need to shower. It was only a matter of time before one of them forced himself on her. She was surprised it hadn’t happened before her uncle made his attempt.

So she’d left.

But now she wondered about her choice. That woman from social services, who’d visited after her mom died, had given her a card. It was tucked in a pocket of the backpack she’d taken when she left her aunt’s house. She’d even pulled it out once. But she hadn’t called. The horror stories she’d heard about foster care had trumped what she thought she’d encounter on the streets.

She’d been so very wrong.

* * *

S
haye pulled
a brush through her wet hair and tossed the towel on the side of the tub. If she didn’t do laundry soon, that towel would be the only semi-clean thing in her apartment. The last time she’d visited, Corrine had suggested that Shaye hire someone to take care of the domestic things that she didn’t want to be bothered with. That was Corrine’s polite way of saying Shaye was a slob, but then Corrine was anal to the point of arranging her clothes by season, purpose, type, then color.

Shaye supposed she should look for a cleaning service at least. It didn’t take a lot of time to clean her apartment, but it was time she’d rather spend doing other things, and her list of things to do had grown astronomically over the last couple weeks. The five-person crew that cleaned Corrine’s house was too much for Shaye’s tiny apartment, but maybe they could send only one or two of them. She made a mental note to call and ask.

She headed out of the bathroom and into the living room, plopping down on the couch. It had been a long, exhausting, frustrating day, filled with disappointment, anger, and douche bags. Every time she thought about that stunt Vincent had tried to pull, she got angry all over again. Which only pissed her off even more because then Vincent had gotten to her more than once. Given her penchant for perfect recall, Vincent’s action had managed to ruin her entire afternoon.

She turned on the television and scrolled through the options, finally settling on a forensics show. The things that could be accomplished with science today amazed her almost as much as the blatant stupidity of many criminals. Of course, stupid criminals weren’t something she was going to complain about. It was the smart ones who were the real problem.

She glanced at her laptop and thought about checking email but she didn’t feel like it. There wasn’t a single thing she could think of that couldn’t wait until tomorrow. Besides, if it was an emergency, her cell phone was never far away. She leaned back on the couch and watched as a crime scene unit processed a bedroom where they suspected a murder had occurred.

In minutes, she drifted off to sleep.

T
he stone floor
was so cold she couldn’t sit on it without shivering. She hadn’t seen the sky in years, but she knew right now it was swirling with angry gray winter clouds. When the man came, the freezing air blew in with him. New Orleans wasn’t as cold as the places she’d seen before on television—the ones covered in snow and ice—but sometimes you needed a coat and heat or a stack of heavy blankets to keep warm. She didn’t have any of that.

For all she knew she wasn’t even in New Orleans.

When she’d first been taken, she’d been drugged for a long time. A girl at school said she wasn’t supposed to know about drugs but she’d seen her mother take the different-colored pills, then act weird and sleep for a really long time. One time her mother had been especially aggravated with her and she’d told her to take one of the pills. She didn’t remember going to sleep, but she was sick to her stomach when she woke up and her head felt like it would explode.