False Pretenses (16 page)

Terrell’s eyes narrowed. “BAD had nothin’ to do with it. I did this on my own.”

“Why’d you come forward?”

“It was just a matter o’ time before you found me. I hate lookin’ over my shoulder. I’d just as soon get it over with.”

“All right. Let’s talk about the murder. Where was the scene in proximity to the farmhouse?”

“Fifty yards up the bayou. Why’re you askin’ me what you already know?”

“What kind of rope did you use?”

“Just plain hemp rope from my shed.”

“What was the victim wearing?”

“I didn’t pay attention. I was kinda busy.”

Jude leaned forward on his elbows, his jaw set. “How could you hang a man and not notice what he was wearing?”

“I’m pretty sure he had on shorts and a T-shirt. Yeah, that’s it. I think the T-shirt had somethin’ written on it.”

“Where’d you kill him?”

Terrell’s eyebrows came together. “I hanged him where you found him at the Vincent place. Watched him struggle and kick and choke.” He laughed. “Kind of beats all, don’t it? A black man lynchin’ a white man?”

Jude wanted to grab the guy by his collar and slap the smug grin off his face. Instead he breathed in slowly and counted to ten and then exhaled. “I’m curious how you single-handedly restrained a guy who outweighed you by sixty or seventy pounds, got him to the Vincent farm, and then strung him up.”

Terrell shifted in his chair. “I held a gun on him. He was scared and beggin’ for his life. It was funny. And pathetic.”

“Really?” Aimee pursed her lips. “Because Remy had the mind of a seven-year-old child. A child might beg to go home—or to see his mom or dad. But a child wouldn’t beg for his life. He doesn’t understand death.”

“Well, that’s what happened. You weren’t there.”

And I’m beginning to think you weren’t,
Jude thought.
This isn’t adding up.
“Mr. Terrell, where’s the gun you held on Remy?”

“I panicked and threw it in the river. That was before I decided to confess.”

“What kind of gun?”

“A Glock .45.”

“Let me make sure I understand this,” Jude said. “You never fired it, and there’s no way we could prove you used it in the commission of the crime, and yet you threw a fine gun like that in the river?”

The expression left Terrell’s face. “I said I panicked. Look, I just confessed that I hanged Jarvis. You have to tell the media. People want the truth.”

“Then you’re going to have to plug up the holes in your confession.”

“What holes? I did it. What more do you need to know?”

Aimee folded her arms across her chest. “There’s an aspect of Remy’s death you’re leaving out. Tell us what it is, and we’ll go straight to the media. Every cable channel in the country is on pins and needles, waiting for us to release the name of the killer.”

“I told you I hanged the guy. What more do you want from me?”

“The truth,” Jude coaxed. “So why don’t you stop playing games and just admit you slit his wrists and let him bleed out?”

“Oh, thaaat.” The corners of Marcum’s mouth curled up. “I only did it to tranquilize him so I could get the noose around his neck. It was fun, like killin’ him twice. But I didn’t have any help. I did it all myself.”

“What did you use to slit his wrists?”

“My pocket knife. But I washed it in Clorox. You’re not going to find blood on it.”

“That’s enough.” Jude shot Aimee a knowing look. “We’re done here. Deputy Chief Rivette will see you out.”

“Come on, Marcum.” Aimee stood. “Looks like you’re not going to make headlines after all.”

“But I just confessed
everything!
I’m guilty of a hate crime. You have to arrest me.”

Aimee took him by the elbow. “You’re not the killer.”

“But I
am
the killer. I did it. I hung Remy Jarvis. What part of my story doesn’t fit? Maybe I just didn’t say it right. Ask me again. Let me prove it to you.”

Jude shook his head. “You’re not our guy, Mr. Terrell. There are details we tried to get you to supply. It’s obvious you don’t know. We’re looking for a killer, not someone who’s craving media attention.”

Aimee walked out with Marcum Terrell, and Jude folded his hands on the table and let out a loud sigh. They were right back where they started.

CHAPTER 16

Zoe leaned against the trunk of a massive live oak that shaded the concession patio at Roux River Park. An elderly man, his arms folded and head bowed, was asleep in a white plastic lawn chair next to a picnic table where a woman and three school-age children were eating snow cones. The parking lot was filled with cars, and the swimming pool was packed, but she didn’t see many people walking in the park. Probably too hot.

Zoe came dressed in capris and a tank top and a comfortable pair of walking shoes. She glanced at her watch.
4:50
. Time to get this over with. She breathed in slowly and let it out, then began walking toward the woods and the sign that marked the starting point on Landry Trail.

She wondered if the mystery man was already waiting for her at the first turn. She hadn’t seen anyone enter or leave the trail in the ten minutes she’d been standing near the concession patio. Her stomach felt as if an army of tiny soldiers were marching on it. Was it over-the-top reckless, meeting a stranger at a secluded place? She reached into her pocket and felt the mini can of pepper spray. There wouldn’t be a whisper of a breeze in the woods—should she need to take aim. Why was her heart beating so fast? All she had to do is tell the truth for a change.

Zoe stopped in front of the attractive cement marker trimmed in red brick.

Landry Trail 2 1/4 miles

Children under 16 must be accompanied by an adult

Stay on designated pathway

Could she go through with this? An image of Pierce popped into her mind. She had to do this. If he found out she’d lied to him from the beginning, how could he ever believe anything else she told him—especially that she loved him with all her heart? And who would patronize Zoe B’s once word got out that she was a thief and a liar? They would both lose everything. It was too late to turn back. She had to silence this man. Or be ruined.

Zoe walked past the marker and onto the trail, instantly hit with the scent of damp earth and the noticeably cooler temperature of dense shade. If she remembered correctly, the first turn was about fifty yards ahead. She walked slowly on the uneven earthen path, glad that she had thought to wear walking shoes, listening for footsteps behind her or any sign that someone might be following her from behind the trees.

She felt a sharp prick on her neck and slapped the spot. Why didn’t she think to put on insect repellent? Though the chances of her getting West Nile virus were slim compared to the harm this man could do with what he knew.

Zoe stopped and breathed in slowly and then exhaled slowly. She just needed to stay focused and look confident. Tell him that she had confessed everything to Adele, that the law couldn’t touch her because the statute of limitations had run, and that there was nothing he could hold over her head. Then hope he believed her and would leave her alone.

Jude went into the conference room and looked down at the table, facts and photographs from the Jarvis case spread out from one end to the other. His eye fell on the photos of the shoe prints cast at the scene.

He took his cell phone off his belt clip and punched in the speed-dial numbers for Chief Detective Gil Marcel.

“This is Marcel.”

“When are we supposed to get the analysis of the shoe impressions?” Jude said.

“It’ll be at least Monday, Sheriff. Maybe longer. I told them to put a rush on it, and that if they didn’t believe it was high priority, to turn on CNN, Fox, and every other cable channel.”

Jude sighed. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

“Sorry our suspect turned out to be a fruitcake with a pathological desire for notoriety.”

“I’m sorry too. What else have you learned about him?”

“Terrell worked at a food chain warehouse until a year ago. He got into an altercation with black coworkers who said he wasn’t doing his share of the work. He left and never went back. He’s definitely unstable, but nothing leads us to think he’s capable of murder. We’re looking into who Terrell’s been talking to and where he spends his time. If there’s a connection to the case, we’ll find it.”

“We don’t have time for
ifs
. Race relations in this town just got shoved back thirty years! There’s no way Marcum Terrell did this, so find out who did. I want his head on a stick!”

There was a long moment of dead air.

“Yes, sir,” Gil finally said. “We’re on it.”

“Gil, wait …” Jude switched the phone to his other ear. “I didn’t mean to bark. I’m just feeling the heat. The governor called a few minutes ago—right after the mayor called—right after Police Chief Norman called. In fact the phone hasn’t stopped ringing.”

“I know there’s a lot of pressure to make an arrest, sir. And we’re working around the clock and using every available resource to find whoever’s responsible. We don’t owe anyone an apology for doing our job.”

“No, we don’t. Is anyone in the black community talking?”

“Not really,” Gil said. “I haven’t sensed people holding out. It seems to me that they genuinely don’t know who’s responsible. They’d have to be nuts not to share information with us when there’s talk that angry whites are about to march across the railroad tracks.”

“We need to partner with Chief Norman’s officers and make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“We are, sir. But it’s hard to do anything about rumors.”

Zoe stopped on the earthen trail, the forest denser than she remembered it, the canopy tighter. She listened carefully, but the only sound was birds chirping. Perspiration rolled down her back. Had the walk required that much effort? Or was it just that, without a breeze, even the shade was stifling in this humidity?

She fixed her gaze on the bend in the trail up ahead and couldn’t seem to move her feet. What happened to the confidence she’d brought with her? Was this insane? Was it too late to turn back? Her heart began to pound and then pound wildly, like the rhythmic beating of a tribal drum. How did she talk herself into this? Suddenly it seemed like a very bad idea.

She started to turn around and go back, but in the next instant was in a choke hold with something sharp pressed against the side of her neck.

“Make a sound and you’re dead,” said a male voice. “Keep your hands where I can see them and move forward nice and slow. I’ll guide you where I want you to go. Got it?”

Zoe nodded and put her hands up. He grabbed her hair from behind and pushed her forward. She took a step and then another and another. Why the show of force—to intimidate her? To establish the upper hand?

When she got to the bend on the trail, which angled left, he yanked her hair and forced her to the right and off the path, deeper into the woods. The ground beneath her was soft and muddy. Mosquitoes swarmed around her and lit on her exposed skin. She endured the bites, not daring to move her hands to swat the culprits—or to reach in her pocket for the pepper spray.

Finally the man pulled back on her hair until she stopped, the knife blade now pressed between her shoulder blades.

“I’m not resisting,” she said. “There’s no need to bully me.”

“I’m going to turn you around. If you make a sound I don’t like, I’ll push this blade all the way through you. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

He spun her around, his hand holding tightly to her wrist, and she looked up into the face of—Angus Shapiro. “
You?
It was you who left the notes? Why? What do you want from me?”

“Oh, I think you know.”

“Is this about the ring? Because I told Adele the truth. She knows everything.”

“I don’t know anything about an Adele or a ring. I want my money.”

“Money?”

He laughed. “Don’t play dumb with me. You pulled a fast one when your parents died. You collected the inheritance money and split before I got paid. But I always knew I’d find you one day.”

“What are you talking about? My parents aren’t dead. Frank and Raleigh Sieger live in Devon Springs, Texas.”

“Nice try. But your maiden name was Benoit, and your parents were Pierre and Violet Benoit. You grew up in Dallas. Your parents made their living trafficking heroine. They owed me almost a hundred grand when they died in the house fire. You should’ve paid me before you pocketed the inheritance money and split.”

“No, you’ve got the wrong person. I changed my name from Shelby Sieger to Zoe Benoit. The real Zoe Benoit is out there somewhere. Their daughter is out there. It isn’t me! I didn’t inherit anything.”

Shapiro rolled his eyes. “Give me a little credit, will you? I just happened to be in Lafayette a couple weeks ago and read a feature story in the Sunday paper about an eatery called Zoe B’s that was celebrating its tenth anniversary.”

Oh no,
she thought
. Why did I let Pierce talk me into doing that interview?

“What made my ears perk up,” Shapiro said, “was that the young entrepreneur’s parents died tragically in a house fire in Texas. And that she took her inheritance, moved to Les Barbes, and started an authentic Cajun eatery called Zoe B’s. How she went from the name Zoe Benoit to Zoe Broussard when she married her husband, Pierce, and never even had to change the name of the eatery. Any of this sound familiar?”

Zoe locked gazes with Shapiro. What could she say? Was she finally caught in her own web of lies?

“Cat got your tongue, Zoe?” He tightened his grip on her wrist and held the knife blade to her cheek. “Okay, this is what you’re going to do. You’re going to wire the hundred grand your parents owed me to my offshore account. This is your lucky day. I’ve decided not to charge you interest or carve you like a totem pole—
if,
and
only
if you do what I say.”

“Please, you’ve got the wrong person,” Zoe said, her voice quivering. “Years ago I-I read about the Benoits dying in a house fire and their daughter, Zoe, surviving. I grew up with an abusive father, and I’d been planning to change my name and start a new life. I liked the name Zoe Benoit and I wanted to pass for Cajun, so I changed my name to that and kept the story about my parents dying in the fire. That’s the truth. I swear.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence. You knew your parents owed me money. You wanted to keep it for yourself.” He pushed the tip of the knife into her cheek, and she felt the sting as it pricked her skin. “You skipped out and stuck me with a debt that almost got me killed. Now you’re going to pay that debt.” He touched her bleeding cheek, then wiped his finger on her tank top. “Or you’re going to die.”

Zoe felt light-headed and wondered if she was going to faint. What had she gotten herself into?

“Believe me, you don’t want to mess with me. I’ve got a real mean streak.”

“If I cashed in everything we have, I couldn’t come up with a hundred thousand dollars. I’m not even sure I can borrow that much. We just took out a business improvement loan so we could repaint the building and update our kitchen.”

“Figure out something. You have until the banks close on Monday. Just be sure it’s ready to wire.”

“What account number?”

“You’ll hear from me again before then.”

“There’s no way I can get that much money without my husband knowing about it, especially if we have to sign something.”

“So tell him. But I’ll be watching and listening. If either of you goes to the cops—or tells someone else who does, I’ll know. And it’ll be the last thing you ever do. Oh … did I mention I’m really good at disguises? And accents. Angus Shapiro isn’t my real name either. So going to the cops won’t get me caught. It’ll just get you killed.”