Degrees of Darkness, page 31
Chapter Seven
Sunday morning brought the promise of another scorching day. Remy shed his suit jacket and tossed it in the passenger seat of his Corvette. After shutting the car door, he hooked a set of binoculars over his shoulder and scanned the empty lot. Yellow police tape wrapped between orange cones cornered off the area where McBride’s car had been parked. Management had kept their promise of not allowing anyone to park up here until the police released the whole area.
Remy strode across the lot. Stepping over the tape, he positioned himself in the center of the area, facing the same direction as the front of the car. From here, he could see the tops of five buildings, most covered with air-conditioning units. Perfect cover for a sniper, but it left the shooter exposed to any aircraft that passed over.
It was estimated in the New Orleans case that the mysterious assassin had killed Simon Humbert from about five hundred yards. The position of buildings to the garage made it a miracle that the shot had been taken from so far without obstruction. And gave DA Paul Dumond — Remy’s former father-in-law — reason to scoff at the idea.
In his current spot, Remy couldn’t find anything to prevent a long-distance shooter from hitting the target. He lifted the binoculars to his eyes and swept the area. More than a handful of possibilities lay spread out before him. If he was able to locate the exact position of the shooter, maybe he’d left something behind other than a smashed bullet. Doubtful, but it was worth a look.
Lowering the binoculars, he extracted his Blackberry and put in a call to Jolene Summers, the crime scene second watch supervisor.
She answered on the second ring. “I’m so freakin’ busy, this better be worth my time, LeBeau.”
“I’m always worth it. Remind me again on your ballistics guy’s estimation of the distance the bullet traveled.”
“He said four-fifty to six hundred yards, best guess.”
Remy peered through the binoculars again. “Straight on, right?”
“Had to be. The lineup of the wound to the windshield suggests it. Didn’t we go over this yesterday with you?”
“Just solidifying it in my head.” He squinted at a rooftop about four buildings away. “Tuesday night wind speed was at seventeen MPH?”
“Uh, yes. From the southwest.”
That had to be the building the shooter took the shot from. “Damn.”
“What? Think you found something?”
“Something. Gotta go.” He ended the call and hit Anderson’s number.
“LeBeau, where are you?”
“At the scene. Head this way. I think I found where the shooter stood.”
• • •
Stationed across the street from the parking garage, from a hidden position The Assassin watched LeBeau talk on the phone. What was he doing?
The Assassin had tagged LeBeau’s car with a tracker, followed him home last night to his condo, and this morning, back to McBride’s crime scene. Observing this man set a cold stone in The Assassin’s gut. Had he realized the similarities in the Humbert death and now McBride’s?
Well aware of police procedure but having never stuck around to see it after a hit, agitation scraped across The Assassin’s nerves. LeBeau might get closer than any cop before him. If he pieced things together, his investigation could lead him to the single slipup in Europe.
Time to trip up LeBeau.
After placing the call, The Assassin waited for an answer.
“Why in the hell are you calling me?”
“You wanted me to screw with LeBeau’s head. Well, I need you to send me something. Something that I can distract him with.”
Savard’s chuckle reverberated over the connection. “Do I hear worry in your voice?”
“Piss off. You want this guy dead or not? I’ll walk. Your money means nothing to me.”
“Threats mean nothing to me. We both know you can’t walk away from what I’m paying you. You want something to screw with LeBeau’s head, I know just the thing.”
• • •
A brand new, black, dual-cab truck pulled in next to Remy’s car. The rumbling diesel engine died, and Anderson emerged from the driver’s side, wearing dark sunglasses. He joined Remy by the festooned cones.
“So, I’m here.”
Remy held out his binoculars and pointed at the building he suspected. “Over there.”
Taking the binoculars, Anderson tipped his glasses up before looking through the binoculars. “What are my stats?”
After rattling off the wind speed, direction, and the estimated distance, Remy backed away and let his partner think. While he’d waited for Anderson to arrive, Remy reviewed Humbert’s case and compared it with what he now knew about McBride’s.
His gut remained tied in knots. It was all here in front of him. It couldn’t be any more picture perfect. This had to be the work of the suspected assassin from New Orleans. But the bigger question lingered.
Who in the hell had the kind of money and audacity to send a professional hit man after Roger McBride?
“I think you’re right.” Anderson lowered the binoculars. “There won’t be a trace of the shooter left over there, though.”
“Figured as much.” Retrieving his binoculars, Remy headed back to his car. “I’ll secure it when I can find a judge willing enough to give me the time of day on a Sunday morning.”
“Moreno ain’t gonna like hearing he had a professional hit man in his town.”
“Neither is the mayor.” Remy opened the ’Vette door. “I’ll meet you back at the office. I have one more place to go.”
“Where’s that?”
Pausing before entering his car, Remy twisted to look at Anderson. “To find some kind of a ‘I’m sorry for whatever it is I did to make you pissed at me’ gift.”
A bemused tick started in the corner Anderson’s mouth. “Good luck with that one.”
• • •
One expensive gift and two hours later, Remy returned to the department. Cody certainly made his life more interesting.
“What did you find?” Anderson asked.
Remy dropped into his chair. “A life of debt.”
His partner laughed. “I do not envy you.”
A wide, bubble envelope sat on top of his keyboard. Remy picked it up. The contents were light. “What’s this?” He held it up for Anderson to see.
“FedEx dropped it off for you. I signed for it.”
Frowning, Remy examined the address. Apparently, it was sent from a crime lab in Houston, marked to be delivered to him at the office. “Did we request anything from Houston PD?”
Anderson scowled. “Not that I remember.” His e-mail alert chirped. He shifted to face his computer.
Remy located the pull tab, ripped open the package, and peeked inside. Photos. Upending the envelope, he let them slide out, then flipped them over and froze. Marie’s terror-stricken face jumped at him. She was wearing the same outfit he’d last seen her in when she was alive. Blood, her blood, covered the clothing. Unspeakable horror filled her eyes.
Panic ripped through him like a flash flood. Mon Dieu-mon Dieu-mon Dieu!
Remy peeled the first photo aside and found another one of her, naked, behind it. He covered it with the first photo. Nausea roiled in his gut, and he swallowed the bile.
Only his ex-father-in-law knew he was here. And he sure as hell didn’t live in Houston. Nor would Paul ever reveal that information. The agreed-upon conditions mandated Remy never speak a word about the events leading to his departure from New Orleans. If he spoke out of turn, then carefully constructed protection measures failed. So the question was … how had this found Remy?
These pictures were taken before Marie’s death. By her killer. By that sick, twisted bastard. Oh God! Remy squeezed his eyes shut and resisted voicing the groan that was coming from his soul.
Jared Savard had found him.
Looking at the photos, he spotted the corner of a piece of notepaper peeking out from between the photos. Remy slid it out, his fear turning into full-blow panic.
If you don’t stop digging, any one close to you will end up like your dead wife. It was written in bold, black strokes.
Nausea hurled up his throat. Gulping air, Remy rammed the photos back into the envelope and slammed it on his desk.
Anderson jolted and gaped at him. “LeBeau, what the hell?”
After all this time. The careful planning and over-the-top precautions he’d taken to prevent anyone from finding him were now null and void. He’d been discovered.
If Jared wanted him, he could come and get him. Remy had been waiting a long time to exact his own class of retribution on his former patrol partner for trying to kill him and for murdering his wife. But it was the person behind Jared that put the fear of God into Remy. The unknown figure who had ordered Remy’s death. The enigma that shadowed every decision he ever made since leaving New Orleans. If Jared had found him, whoever backed him was not too far behind. And like Marie, Cody was fair game.
Crumpling the envelope in his fist, he pushed out of his chair and stalked to the emergency exit, banging through the door. The bullpen’s noise died as he stepped into the stairwell. So what if he’d acted out of character. To hell with them!
The door closed with a soft click. With it came a faint cackle and those wicked memories. The demons who tormented and tortured him until he wanted to die were coming for him.
Remy slammed the side of his fist against the wall. White-hot pain tore through his hand and arm. Anything was better than feeling nothing. And right now, pain was his friend.
Remy had led his wife’s killer right to him. And if word got out about Cody, she’d be next. On a morgue slab with her body desecrated like Marie’s.
Memories assaulted his brain, images of Marie before her death and after. The hatred that filled her père’s face when screaming his fury at Remy for getting her killed. Remy flinched at the rapid flip from one scene to the next.
He startled as the door rattled open. He glared at Anderson. “What?”
With a glance over his shoulder, Anderson stepped out, forced the door shut, and leaned against it. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”
Remy propped a shoulder against the wall, crossed his arms, and stared down the steps. “Nothing.”
“Nothing doesn’t have you punching the wall.”
This was the precise reason he hadn’t wanted to get close to anyone. Why he couldn’t let himself be in love with Cody. Danger stalked him, and anyone close to Remy were prime targets to use against him. He couldn’t risk their lives any longer.
“LeBeau, I’m standing right here. And I’m not going away.”
He looked at his partner out of the corner of his eye. This was his chance to sever that slender cord of trust he’d built with Anderson. Now before it killed him. “Stand there all day for all I care.” Remy pushed off the wall. “I’m outta here.” He started down the stairs.
“Where are you going?”
Hesitating, he shook his head and continued on. “Nowhere.”
Anderson swore, and the stairwell door banged open.
Remy raced down the steps to the ground-level floor. Palming the keys to his ’Vette, he strode to his car. One thing could help him clear his mind. Figure out a way to get himself out of this situation and protect all of those who had grown close to him.
He yanked open the door, threw the envelope at the passenger seat, and rammed his body inside. The engine roared to life. Gripping the gearshift, he paused and rubbed the pad of his thumb over the RAL — his initials — carved into the wood knob.
“Fils de putain.”
Son of a bitch.
Slamming the shift in reverse, he backed the car out of his spot, and peeled out of the lot. To protect Cody, he had to run. Again.
• • •
To get her mind off her inner turmoil, Cody brushed her mare. The repeated motions soothed both of them. If she kept at this a while longer, Cody felt certain she’d make it through the rest of the day. Keep up the work and not let her mind idle.
Tantalizing aromas of grilled meats and yeasty concoctions teased her nose. After she finished grooming the mare, she would load up on some of the mouthwatering goodness. By the time midafternoon came and she’d completed her run, the empty pit that was her stomach might curl in on itself. At this point, she’d risk the nausea from a loaded, nervous stomach over the cravings.
Vibrations against her thigh made her pause. Tossing the brush into the grooming bucket, she gave S’mores a pat. “Be with ya in a minute, girl.”
S’mores snorted and shook her head. The black fetlock landed over one eye, giving her a roguish look. Cody smiled and rubbed the mare’s silky neck.
The vibrations continued. Cody pulled her phone free and checked the ID. Heath Anderson? Though she wasn’t close to Remy’s partner like she was with her own friends, Cody began to count him as one. So, why was he suddenly calling her when he hadn’t before? “Hello?”
“Hey, Cody. Sorry to bother you.”
“Not a problem. What’s up?”
The sigh he released carried enough weight to drag her shoulders down. “When are you coming home?”
An odd sensation gripped her heart and squeezed. The feeling traveled into the rest of her chest, sucking the air from her lungs. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. LeBeau has been acting strange. Even for him.”
She walked away from S’mores. “Define strange.”
“Cody, the man punched a wall, then tore out of the office and the parking lot like a bat outta hell. In the two-and-a-half years I’ve known him, he’s never lost it. Never.”
A chill crept over her arms. Cody looked down and saw beads of moisture. “What do you want me to do about it?”
Anderson swore. “Do the two of you care for each other, or am I trippin’?”
He had her there. But what could Cody do? Remy never did open up with her. And she’d known him for less time than Heath. “Heath, when did this strange behavior start?”
“Yesterday. Something about this new case we have has him wired.”
Why would a case make Remy act weird? Hell’s bells, he was a homicide detective. Didn’t the job come with a warning label: caution — weird and unexplainable cases?
If she came back, what stopped her from getting sucked into the vortex? Like hell, she wanted to come face to face with another killer determined to get back at Remy. Uninvited, the image of her kidnapper flashed through her mind. She flinched.
Don’t go there. Not now.
Heath’s voice pulled her back. “ … home? Like within the day?”
A whistled Toby Keith song distracted her, and she looked up. JC, hands in his pockets, strolled toward her. This was a decision he got a say in, considering they hauled together. Maybe he could convince her it wouldn’t be worth their time to leave so early.
“Let me talk it over with JC. I’ll text you after we decide.”
“Fine.” Heath sighed again. “Cody, I can’t be any clearer. You need to get back to Texas ASAP.”
Need and want were two different things.
• • •
The rumble between his knees and the rush of air against his face felt good. Remy exited the interstate and veered toward the rural road heading north. Far from the center of Dallas and farther still from Fort Worth, Cody’s hometown, and the Red Moon Ranch, Cody’s home.
With the open road in front of him, Remy cranked the Harley’s throttle and it roared forward.
The bike had always been his escape, whether from the fights with his père or from his life in Houma or to flee New Orleans. It was his salvation.
At thirteen, he’d found the wreckage of this bike in a junkyard, waiting for the scrap heap. Bought with money from his first, solo, woodworking job, he’d brought the Harley home and stirred his père’s anger at wasting precious funds. Fights ensued, driving his poor mère to demand Remy work on the bike elsewhere.
He eased the Harley into a long, gradual curve. A deep-seated part of him wanted to crank the throttle full bore and see how fast he could actually take the curve. He swallowed hard. All it would take is one misjudged slip and a vicious wreck, and it would be over. For good. No one hurt again because of him.
Cody’s image flashed through his mind’s eye. An image of her before her long, red hair had gotten hacked off and the horror of her kidnapping haunted her emerald-colored eyes. Her sexy grin could stir deep longings in him. Wishes for something more than a few kisses. Despite his best efforts to prevent it, Remy had fallen in love with her.
And for that simple reason, he needed to find a way to hide her existence from those in New Orleans who sought to end his life. If he beat them to it, then Cody wouldn’t end up like Marie.
His hand tightened on the handle. Marie. His Creole beauty. Marie, the opposite of everything in his Cajun upbringing, cultured and proper. The plans she’d made for him. A rise in New Orleans politics and society, power and prestige, all her father was and more. So certain they held the world in their grasp.
Instead, it had crumbled around them. He’d lost everything. And Marie had been viciously tortured before her unmerciful death. Their unborn baby destroyed before it could know life. He would never forget.
“It’s your fault Marie is dead.”
Remy gritted his teeth. So many lives ruined because he wanted to be super cop.
Not this time.
Chapter Eight
Darkness pressed in on Remy from all sides when he left the road. About a hundred miles from the closest Dallas suburb, he entered Lake Mesquite’s camping area. The Harley’s husky growl drew some attention as it glided along the paved road. Finding an out-of-the-way spot, far from the RV lights and from the other campers, Remy killed the engine and let the bike roll to a stop next to an unused fire pit.
