Where The Devil Won't Go: A Lucas Peyroux Novel (2 page)

Chapter 3

Missing persons files from across the
country for the past year monopolized the rest of the day. I’d pulled the ones
with the matching criteria of race, weight, height, and hair color. CSU
couldn’t offer anything useful, and DNA results wouldn’t come back for a week.
Tara unofficially let me take lead as she typed up paperwork on three other
cases, which were denied my involvement. Our River Doe would appear on the
evening news, so we expected to be flooded with tips and leads to follow in the
morning.

Before heading home, I stopped at the Crescent
City Firing Range near Headquarters to test if I still had my nerve. The
outside of the building looked like it could be an adult video store you see
from the highway. It needed a new paint job, new façade and a new sign. The empty
lot insured I would have fifteen minutes of alone time before closing. The
owner would give me thirty minutes if I needed it.

My
muscles tensed while checking the Glock, a piece that rested comfortably at my
side since the Academy. The poster of the generic black-silhouetted target
loomed twenty yards down the line as I put my headphones on and slapped in the
magazine. I had just taken a piss, but needed to go again. If there was
anything else I could do before shooting, I couldn’t think of it.

As I raised the gun with both hands, the
target blurred into Cozy Robicheaux being held by that madman. I had never
believed that a memory or a hallucination could actually take the place of true
vision, but here she was, standing before me, innocent and scared. After
blinking her away, the target came into focus and I exhaled, firing six rounds
in succession with no hesitation—easy, when no lives are on the line. My
lungs took air again and I lowered the gun, hoping the cluster on the target
was wrong.

The sheet of paper raced towards me,
stopping with a ripple and a nice grouping of six bullets to the left of the
target’s head. My head swiveled around as if there would be gawkers laughing at
me. The harder I focused, the worse I did as two more targets offered a similar
result. Being alone, I allowed myself to curse and slap my face to wake up my
aim. The closer the distance, the better I did, but that hardly put me at ease.
How the hell do you compensate for that kind of drifting on the job? I had to
fix this fast.

#

Lush shrub bushes and oak tree leaves
surrounded my house right off Magazine Street. Huge tree roots caused sections
of broken sidewalk to dip and rise, creating an obstacle course common to the
Uptown area. My living room window glowed with permanent light from the corner
lamp, a menial constant that gave comfort.

As soon as I shut the front door my wife
accosted me with an embrace. “How was it?”

“Good. It was good.” My hands traced her
slender torso, stopping at her hips. I pecked her lips with a smile and she let
go. “Alicia here?”

She gave a quirky half-smile and
shrugged. “In her room talking with Jane on the phone.”

“Of course.”

“I saw you and Tara at the Moon Walk on
the news. That’s your case?”

“Yeah.
Nothing much to
it right now.
Doe dumped in the river.”

“Don’t want to talk about it?” Her
curious face frowned.

“Not right now. I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”

Spaghetti and meatballs with my wife and
daughter started subdued: forks tapped plates until Heather broke the silence.
“Alicia’s soccer games are going to start soon. You should see her cute
uniform.”

Alicia cocked her head in a challenging
manner. “Jane says perverts get their rocks off on girls wearing soccer
uniforms.”

That caught my attention. “You’re only
twelve. Do you even know what that means?”

She thought for moment. “Jane says it’s
an
orgasm
, which we learned about in
sex
ed
.” My
daughter emphasized the proper words. “They taught us a man’s
orgasm
releases
sperm,
which is used to make a
baby
,
but Jane says a woman’s
orgasm
feels
really good.”

“Jane’s just a wealth of information.”

“Is that right, Mom?”

Heather sighed. “Yes, but in terms of
making a baby, a woman’s orgasm helps a man have his orgasm. As it turns out,
most men don’t need that help.”

I smirked. “Men don’t become perverts
because of outfits. But you still need to be vigilant of strangers approaching
you at the games.”

“I know, Dad. Whatever.” Alicia rolled
her eyes as only a tween can.

“I do want to see your uniform, though.”

“Is Mr. Chance going to come to my
games?”

“Being mayor doesn’t give him a lot of
time for that, dahlin’. But, I’ll ask.”

The rest of dinner conversation stayed
light and our television time passed in a blink. Before I realized it, we had
brushed our teeth for bed, where the term
sleep
would be used loosely. I didn’t know if more therapy would solve my restless
nights, but something had to be done before I turned to alcohol as a sleep
remedy.

Heather sashayed from the bathroom
wearing a sexy red lace bra and matching panties. While cocooned in the
blanket, my head turned with a resigned smile. Her face sagged into a frown as
she crawled onto the bed and sat on her heels. Normally, this scene would start
my engine with no problem. She was so beautiful, not too skinny, smooth
flawless skin and expressive blue eyes.

“No?” She pouted.

I turned onto my side and propped my head
up on my hand. “My mind isn’t here.”

“Still? Ever since the shooting – I
just thought that with your first day back, maybe things would get back to
normal. Between us, I mean.”

“I’m almost there, honey. It’s
just that today
was
like taking two steps back. I’ve
been doing nothing but adjusting. This is the last adjustment. Soon, I promise.”

“It would have to be a young
woman, wouldn’t it?”

“It’s
like
a
ringing phone that I can’t answer.”

She fell forward onto her side to face
me, glancing down at her cleavage. “Not even a comment about my boobs popping
out?”

“Hard to believe.”

Her fingers ran through my hair. “Well, whatever
you need, I’m here.”

“I know.” I kissed the inside of her hand.

“Cozy and her mother forgave you. They were
actually appreciative. You need to forgive yourself, and maybe your nightmares
will go away.” Before I could open my mouth, she whispered. “And don’t ask me
how. I don’t have the answer.”

I nodded like a scolded
child and turned back onto my side as Heather changed into a T-shirt for bed.
She slid under the sheets and spooned me. Some primal instinct told me to push
away, to decline comforting, but my arms wouldn’t obey that command. How could
I? Heather and Alicia were the only things that kept me sane. They gave me a
reason to get up every morning.

Chapter 4

My
morning started with an hour of
Muy Thai
,
a kickboxing class that included elbows and knees, eight points of contact
designed for close quarter fighting and was popular with the cops who liked to
stay in shape. After five minutes of warm up, I paired with Frank Harvin, a cop
from the Third District, who was considered opinionated in some circles and a
dick-wad in others. We traded rounds of pad holding while the other punched,
kicked, and blocked.

So long as he stayed quiet and moved the
pads where I struck, we’d be fine. Muy Thai required total focus or else you
could seriously hurt someone or get hurt yourself, although with Harvin, I
really didn’t care.

“Heard you were at the range yesterday,”
Harvin whispered as I threw a jab-cross at the pads he held high near his
shoulders.

The owner must have blabbed. I let out a
breath with each strike, like the second half of a sneeze.

“Seems like your punches land about as
good as you aim your gun.” He shook the pads up near his ears.

“Who told you that?” I continued the
routine of jab-cross-hook-kick under the supervision of our instructor.

“Word gets around. You sure you want to
be carrying a firearm when you can’t aim worth shit?”

My punches became harder. With satisfaction,
I heard him give a small wheeze of effort as my kicked knocked him off balance.
“Maybe you should mind your own business.”

“No one wants to work with you. You
should retire for the public good.”

“Thanks for the advice, douche-bag.” My
leg whipped into the pads at his hip.

“Who would want to work with a guy who
shot an innocent girl?”

I threw another kick instead of a cross,
catching Harvin in the stomach. When his pads came down, my glove landed on his
jaw. He dropped to his knees. His glassy eyes wandered the room.

“Asshole.” I left for the locker room
under the stares of the remaining members of the class.

#

While on telephone hotline duty at
Headquarters, I kept expecting a reprimand from the Captain at the Third
District about pummeling Harvin at kickboxing, but none came. My day consisted
of deciphering the real calls from the hoaxes pertaining to my River Doe. After
writing down the name of the twenty-third caller, I dropped my pen onto the
desk and leaned back. “You say your girl was abducted in Montana?”

“Yes, sir,” the elderly female voice
said. “When she was three years old.”

“Missing since she was three?”

“The news said the woman has brown hair.
My baby has brown hair.”

“Yes, ma’am, the victim was a brunette.”

“You need to check that this girl ain’t
my daughter. Sarah Mancini,” she annunciated.

I jotted the name down. “I have all your
information on file, and I promise to look into it.”

“You’ll call me back?”

“If it does turn out to be your daughter,
I promise we will call you immediately.”

I wiped my face, not knowing how many
more calls like that I could take. Whether they were false leads, jokes, or
optimistic family members, it drained my life force. My desk phone lit up.

“Peyroux.”

“Cozy Robicheaux is here with her
mother,” the downstairs desk clerk said. “She’s asking for you.”

Throat.
Bullet
. I squeezed my
eyes shut. “Can you tell them I just left on a call?”

“They came all the way from Manchac.”

“I know that, Rudy.”

“Awright. No problem.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

Positioned on the second floor, I peeked
through the window at Cozy and her Native American mother, Aponi, as they moved
toward the parking lot. Cozy was a beautiful seventeen-year-old with flowing
brunette hair and her mother just as striking. I watched them disappear under a
cloak of oak trees.

Minutes later, the desk officer appeared
on my floor with a gift basket of wine and cheeses wrapped in cellophane and a
Mardi Gras colored bow of purple, green, and gold. He placed it on my desk,
giving me the stink eye, and left without saying a word. The card on the basket
read:

Detective
Lucas,

Avoid
me all you want. I’ll never stop thanking you
.

It had several hearts drawn on it. I fell
back into my chair, rubbing my neck and staring at the brown, wicker basket. And
I called Harvin the douche-bag.

Chapter 5

Manchac, sixty miles
outside of New Orleans

The flimsy back door burst open and the
cackling of familiar voices flowed in. Cozy Robicheaux backed up a step and
froze in speechless awe as her boyfriend, Ash, and his entourage of three
sweaty yahoos swung a fifteen-foot alligator onto the stainless steel table.
They laughed in celebration, breathing heavily. This reptile would warrant a
big payday from Ash’s dad, Mr. Paul, the seafood-store owner.

“I thought you were going to see your
detective in New Orleans,” Ash said.

Cozy put her fingers on the small scar on
her neck. “He was busy. We got back early.”

“You haven’t seen him since the
hospital.”

“I know.”

Two of the rednecks exited to hose out
the pickup bed, but beefy Tray and lean-framed Ash hung back. The smell of
bayou and body odor filled the back room, overpowering the normal atmosphere of
shrimp and crab boil. Ash disappeared in the bathroom as Tray took one final
picture of their conquest. He pointed the cell’s camera at Cozy, who shot the
bird finger at him.

Tray’s biceps rippled, causing the
opposite of attraction in Cozy’s mind.
Repulsion
.
His sleeves had been ripped off a plaid shirt that clashed with a tight,
discolored tank top.

His jaw jutted at the reptile. “Big,
right? Biggest one I
ever seen.”

Cozy looked to the bathroom door for Ash.

“Things don’t have to be weird between
us.” Tray scraped at his lips, then spit in the industrial sink.

Her teeth gritted tightly. “You raped me.”

His fists clenched and his jaw tightened.
“No one thinks it was rape except you, so stop saying it. If you hadn’t been
saved by that detective –
that
would
have been rape.”

Cozy secured the cleaver off the wall and
held it by her thigh. “I was in no shape to say
no
to you guys
.
Doesn’t mean
I wanted it.”

Tray’s cheeks burned red. “Maybe if you
remembered what happened, you’d know you liked it.”

She charged into him, pushing the
mountain of man against the wall with the cleaver angled into his groin. “You
got no sense at all.”

“Just hold still, Cozy. Things are
getting out of hand, now.” Tray attempted charm, but oozed sleaze, making a
small effort to be sympathetic. “It’s been two years. You’re fine. Let it go.”

She seethed, putting pressure against the
thigh. “You ruined my life in high school.”

“Before you dropped out, you mean.”

“You don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

Tray stared into her eyes. She absently stopped
pressing the cleaver against his groin and let him fall to the floor, cupping
his balls. She placed the heavy cleaver on top of the alligator and waited.

“You could have cut me for real, you
crazy bitch.”

“Get out of here.”

He struggled to his feet, still eyeing
the cleaver. “I’d call the sheriff, but I wouldn’t do that to Ash.”

“Please go.” Without aggressive intent,
she rested her hand a few inches from the cleaver, letting the imagined
scenario of chopping off his head play out.

“Speaking of the string bean, he must be
taking a shit, he’s been in there so long.” Tray laughed with weak breath,
still pulling at his zipper.

Mr. Paul stuck his head through the
swinging double doors with no clue as to what had transpired. “Stop bothering
my help. You can go. I’ll pay Ash later and he can give y’all your share.”

“Sure, I’m goin’. Eric and Joe are
probably going at it doggy style in the back of my truck, those
coon-ass
homos. Tell Ash he’s gonna have
to thumb it home.”

After Tray left, Cozy unclenched and
rolled her eyes for Mr. Paul’s benefit. She then focused on the matter at hand,
circling the reptile like an art critic at a gallery. Her fingers ran over the
rough exterior, stopping at the magnificent head.

“Sorry for what I’m about to do, buddy.”
Her voice was soft and soothing.

The gator seemed more relaxed than dead.
She lifted its front webbed feet, impressed with the weight and sheer strength
and the claws that would make an excellent necklace. It defied common sense,
but Cozy imagined it could wake and scurry off the table. A creature this
impressive didn’t seem like it could be killed. The animal’s belly spread wide,
waiting to burst its bayou diet all over the floor.

Mr. Paul fully entered the room wearing
his famous crawfish apron, the pattern stretched across his belly. He pulled
off his latex gloves like he had come from the O.R. and stood in silence. His
silver moustache twitched into an unbalanced smile as he pulled out his phone
and snapped a photo.

“Facebook,” he said from the left side of
his mouth. “Where is that boy? Must be a hell of a shit.”

“Ash’s stomach ain’t been right since I
was shot.” Cozy rubbed between the gator’s eyes.

“He cares for you.”

She nodded. “From this point on, this
gator shall be known as Mr. Teeth.”

“Mr. Teeth is the biggest one we’ve had
yet.”

“Normal slice and dice?”

“Yep. Just cleared a spot next to the
shrimp. Just cut the tail and feet in chunks. I’ll filet them.”

“Can I have the claws?”

“Sure.” He entered the walk-in
refrigerator and came out with a box of boiled crabs.

“What about the head?” Her bottom lip
curled under.

“C’mon, Cozy. You know I collect the
heads. I’m going to put it right over the door. Besides, you know how expensive
the taxidermist is.”

“I’ve been saving up. Besides, I’ll leave
it to you in my will. Who knows when I might get shot again?” Cozy hesitated
into a smile.

Mr. Paul glanced at the floor while his
moustache drooped. “I don’t like when you joke like that.”

“Sorry. But you know, everybody’s gonna
die – natural causes or otherwise.”

He slammed the crabs on a nearby chair.
“Damn it, Cozy. You’re just sixteen. What do you know about life yet? You
haven’t lived any.”

“I’m seventeen now.”

“You are. Shit. We’re in April. I’m
sorry. Happy birthday. I love you like my daughter. You know that.”

Ash came out of the bathroom rubbing his
belly. “Woo, those crawfish got me.”

Mr. Paul stepped up to his son. “Why
didn’t you remind me Cozy turned seventeen? I forgot all about it.”

“Sorry, Dad. With Cozy being kidnapped
and shot and all. I didn’t think.”

“Right, you didn’t think.” He lightly
slapped the back of Ash’s head.

“You’ve been trying to marry her momma.
Why didn’t she tell you? You gonna’ slap her in the head?”

Cozy smiled, liking Mr. Paul as a suitor
for her momma. She felt the skin of the gator again as if it was cashmere, and
then reached for the cleaver, allowing her eyes to become wet like she was
chopping onions. Mr. Paul picked up the crabs with an apologetic expression and
exhaled.

“Alligator autopsy,” she laughed,
pretending to hack at the base of its skull.

“You want the head, dawlin’? You got it.
Happy birthday.”

Cozy balanced the cleaver on the gator’s
back and stepped up to her boss. She was tall enough to easily kiss him on the
cheek that still had muscle control due to a stroke. They both went flush and
Ash glanced between them like he didn’t understand or didn’t want to. Mr. Paul
then disappeared to the front of the store.

“Tray left me again?” Ash asked, looking
around.

“Yeah.”
That creep
.

“I guess I’ll take my dad’s car to go get
cleaned up ’cause I smell like ass-cabbage.” Ash kept a few inches between
them, but leaned in for a peck on the lips as she held her breath.

His blue eyes glowed against his tanned,
dirty skin. She exhaled as he headed for the back door. Cozy whispered, “Let’s
go out to our spot sometime soon, okay?”

“Whatever you want, babe.” He let the
door slam behind him.