Degrees of Darkness, page 56
“I don’t know. His name is in there.”
He opened the folder and scanned the first page. It was a report for a rape. The victim claimed a man who called himself Alphonse cornered her at some party and drugged her drink. When she came to, she found herself tied to a bed in a room where Alphonse repeatedly raped and abused her. The victim lost track of time, but when Alphonse finally had enough, he dumped her at the edge of the city. Victim claimed he’d done that with the hopes she’d die. Seems a Good Samaritan of sorts found her instead.
The detective investigating the case never listed the victim’s actual name, called her Jane Doe. Remy flipped to the final page of the report where it was noted in red writing that more than a year after reporting the incident, the victim had disappeared and was presumed dead.
Closing the file, Remy braced his elbows on the counter. “Why didn’t the detective list the victim’s name?”
“Back then they worked by a different set of rules than we do now. Rape victims didn’t have it easy.” Vic pulled the case file toward her. “This Alphonse character sounds like one sick bastard.”
Remy gathered his cleaning kit and stowed the items in their special case. “If you couldn’t find anything else on this guy,” he said as he reassembled his Ruger, “that could mean he’s been trying to keep his identity under wraps. Probably eliminates anyone who mentions his name and destroys paper trials.”
“How’d he miss this?” Vic tapped the file with a fingernail.
“Might not have known about it.” The Ruger’s slide clicked home, the sound echoed in the kitchen. “It seems we’re looking for an older man.”
“With a sick fetish for sadistic rape techniques.” She stiffened. “Shit, that sounds exactly like Savard.”
Remy set down the Ruger. “It does. But how old was he in seventy-nine? Nineteen, twenty?”
Vic ticked through her fingers as if counting down the age of Jared Savard. “He’s like in his mid-fifties. It’s a wild guess, but maybe he was a rookie at the time. Could have been his first attempt.”
“Check the file again.”
“For what?” she asked, flipping the aged stock paper aside.
“Does it state how old the victim was and what kind of party it was where she got drugged?”
Remy waited as Vic read, a hum buzzing through his veins. She was right; it could be possible that Savard was Alphonse. Yet the thought didn’t ring true to him.
“Doesn’t say where or what the party was. But the reporting detective described the victim in her thirties. That’s it,” she said.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe Alphonse and Jared are one and the same.”
“Why do you sound skeptical?”
Remy shrugged and picked up his Ruger. “I’m a cop, Vic. I’m skeptical by nature.”
“True dat.” She sniffed. “Is that gumbo?” She left her stool and headed for the stove.
“Mais oui.”
Lifting the lid on the stockpot, she swept her hand over the top to waft the aroma of spices and garlic. “Hmmm, LeBeau, you should’ve been a chef, not a cop.”
“All Cajuns are taught how to cook, chèrie. Why ruin a good thing?”
Vic replaced the lid on the pot and returned to the stool next to him. “Now what?”
“Did you get all the remaining files on Simon Humbert’s case?”
“I found one other file in the archives.” One thin eyebrow lifted as she looked at him. “That and the file you stole is all that’s left.” She was referring to the case file he had taken with him when he’d left New Orleans on the eve of Katrina making landfall.
“Borrowed is a better term. We’ll go through both. He had to be doing something to get this Alphonse’s attention to have him killed. Is there anyone left who was here when he was killed?”
“Nope. Either retired or left after Katrina. They’d be no help.”
Remy shook his head. “I don’t want their help. More unwanted attention than I’d like.”
“You still have the problem of your ex-father-in-law.”
New Orleans District Attorney Paul Dumond despised him, yet Paul had been the one to orchestrate Remy’s escape from New Orleans on the eve of Katrina. He’d used the hurricane to fake Remy’s death and forbade him from ever contacting anyone who had been close to him. Last month, Remy broke that agreement by calling Paul. Now Remy faced further wrath from the man if he discovered his return.
Vic leaned forward. The subtle scent of citrus and lavender drifted from her and teased his senses. “The DA kept a tight grip on the Humbert case for many years. Scuttlebutt was he took it hard when Humbert was killed.”
“More like he wanted to cover something up that might make him look bad.”
“It could be that, too. You didn’t exactly keep your nose out of it.”
Giving her a wary smile, Remy stood and holstered his Ruger. “Six years later, I solved his murder. Paul should thank me.”
“Not to be cruel or anything, but you got his daughter killed. I don’t see the pompous ass bowing down to you.”
Remy grunted as he headed to the stove to stir the gumbo.
“I know you have more brewing in that thick head of yours. What else are you not telling me?”
He replaced the pot lid and faced Vic. “I’m going to systematically pull apart Jared’s pyramid. Take out his guards until there’s no one left to protect him.”
“Then what?”
“Je vas sur paralyser le diable.”
I am going to paralyze the devil.
• • •
The jazz club was packed tonight. Perfect time to hunt. Willing women meandered through the press of bodies, but he already had his conquest for tonight.
“Ease up, chèrie. Too much and there’ll be no fun.”
Jared Savard grasped the longneck bottle and dragged it from the blonde’s hand. Squealing in protest, she grappled for the beer. With one arm, he held her back as he tipped the bottle and downed the last of the liquid. She slapped his shoulder and humphed.
Winking, he thunked the bottle on the bar and jerked her into his arms. Her squirming fueled his desire, and he smothered her mouth. His probing tongue eventually got her to relax and she returned the kisses with drunken fervor. Her arms snaked around his neck and she smashed her breasts into his chest.
Jared groaned against her mouth, gripping her rear and thrusting her closer. The throb of jazz pulsated through them. It was time to coax her out of the bar and finish this elsewhere.
A shift in the air shocked him into stopping. He dragged his mouth away as she continued nipping and tugging at his lip. Prying her free, Jared looked over her bare shoulder.
The green eyes boring holes through the back of the blonde’s head made Jared’s heart seize. The man had dark skin and hardened features, broken by a ragged scar across his cheek, and eyes that could liquefy a person’s will. He jerked his head toward the exit and faded into the writhing and gyrating bodies.
Jared shoved the blonde away and stood from the barstool.
“Where ya goin’?” She pawed his dark hair.
“Got some business to take care of, baby.” Clamping her arms at her sides, he sidestepped around her. “You just wait right here and keep thinking about how I’m going to make you feel when I get back.”
Her tongue darted over her lips, and he felt the twinge down south. Damn it, he wanted her something bad. She plopped on his vacated stool and slowly crossed her legs, revealing her secret under that tight blue dress. With a growl, he stalked out of the bar.
Rue Bourbon thrummed with laughter, music, and heat. He loved this street and could overlook the stench that was so much a part of it. Bourbon fueled his lust and his pockets. He entered the alley between the bar and a private club.
A hand shot out of the dark, latching onto his throat, and propelled him backward. Jared slammed into the brick wall, gasping and clawing at the hand. Pain raked him as his feet lifted from the ground and the rough side of the building tore into his back.
“The Queen, she’s not happy wit’ you.”
Jared twitched and gasped. “I . . . I . . . ”
The man leered at him, the whites of his eyes popped out against his dark skin. “You invoked de wrong curse. Dat wasn’ your right.”
Black dots bounced at the edge of Jared’s sight; his body screamed for air. The enforcer released his grip, and Jared crumbled to the trash-littered pavement. Air seared a path along his trachea. He swallowed a few times then looked up.
“Dere’s a price t’ pay for what you do.” The enforcer bent down and slapped Jared’s face. “De spirits demand blood.”
“I can get it. The Queen needn’t worry.”
A wicked laugh escaped the enforcer. “Dat’s not the blood she needs.”
A glint of silver caught Jared’s eye too late. He screamed as the blade bit into the exposed area of his chest. The enforcer drew the knife back and smiled at the blood covering the blade. Jared clutched his shirt to the throbbing wound, slick heat soaking through to his hand.
“Your curse is now a part of you. Fail,” the enforcer sheathed the knife, “an’ you die.” He strode into the street and disappeared.
Jared remained on the ground, panting and convulsing. Fire rippled along his chest, making him wince. His gaze darted up and down the alley. There was no getting out of this. Once she demanded blood, she got blood. He banged his head against the rough brick. He would have to use every available resource to stay alive.
Peeling the shirt away from his wound, he grimaced at the fresh stab of pain. A spout of blood seeped from the deep cut. He’d need stitches. Gingerly, he climbed to his feet, leaned on the wall to catch his breath. He’d have to forgo the blonde.
A wisp of cool air flitted through the alley. His head jerked up as the chill intensified. It swirled around him and settled over his body.
Jared’s spine snapped upright.
LeBeau was here.
Chapter Seven
Cody peered at the back seat of Heath’s truck. Propped against the side door, Kim slept, her dark-brown hair curtaining her face. Twisting to face Heath as he drove the I-20 corridor between Texas and Louisiana, Cody turned the music down a bit.
“Did you bring the rifle?”
The Marine, she’d come to call him, looked at her out of the corner of his eye, then returned his attention to the road. “Cowgirl, why would you think I did?”
“Because you and I both know this will get ugly. So far everything that deals with Remy and his past gets ugly.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. Built like a bull and as cunning as a fox, Detective Heath Anderson reflected the Marine Recon motto he had tattooed on his arm: swift, silent, and deadly. “Since you’re so nosy, yes, I brought it.”
Relaxing against the seat, Cody gnawed on her lip.
“Something else bugging you?” he asked as he changed lanes to pass a minivan.
She peeked at the rearview mirror. Kim, you better be sleeping deep. “I don’t want her to get hurt.”
“Yet it’s okay if you do?”
“I’ve lived through worse.”
Heath gunned the engine and sped past the line of vehicles following a semi loaded with hay bales. “She’s tougher than you give her credit for.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re dating her.”
“Cody, she’s your best friend; you’ve known her your whole life, and you don’t think she’s strong enough?”
Slumping in the seat, she stared out the passenger side window. “Guess I’m in as much shock as she is when it comes to the truth about her real origins.” Cody met Heath’s blue-eyed gaze. “Since she learned about the adoption, she hasn’t been the same.”
“Neither have you. She told me you treat her with kid gloves. She didn’t break when she learned the truth; why do you think she will now?”
Who knew? Cody traced the creases in the leather seat with a fingernail. She hurt for her friend. After her adoptive mother blew a gasket and revealed Kim’s adoption, Kim severed ties with the couple she once called Mom and Dad. Here it was a month later and no one had made a move to mend the relationship.
“I have a question for you, Cowgirl.”
She ceased tracing the crease and looked at Heath.
“You’re right about what we’re to face in New Orleans getting ugly. Question is, are you ready for it? Can you face someone and pull the trigger?”
A chill lanced her body. Could she end someone’s life?
“You gnaw on that for the next few hours,” Heath said and returned to the left-hand lane.
“Fine, but answer me this. Why are you going after Remy?”
The steering wheel squeaked under his grip. Finally, Heath glanced at her. Resignation etched across his features. “He’s my partner. I need to have his back.”
• • •
Remy slid into the beige leather seat of Vic’s Charger and closed the door. Next to him, Vic settled behind the wheel and started the engine. The car’s midnight-blue color would benefit them tonight.
Before putting it into gear, she looked at him. “You sure about this?” She wore what she called her slut clothes: skin-tight jeans, a dark blue top under a black jacket. Inside a black boot that stopped just under her knee she’d hidden her sidearm. “This is Jared we’re going after.”
Buckling in, he let the buttery-soft leather conform to his body. “Sooner we get started, sooner I can put that bastard in a grave.”
Making a disgusted noise, she shifted into gear and left the driveway.
Remy closed his eyes and enjoyed the smooth ride into the heart of New Orleans. While Vic worked her shift today, he’d gone through the case files and formulated his plans. His first move against Jared would be to take out or scare off known associates, eventually forcing Jared out in the open.
“Humbert’s case is a dead end,” he said, looking at her. “There’s nothing in it to indicate why Alphonse wanted him killed.”
“Simon Humbert was the assistant DA. If what you believe is true, it sounds like Alphonse is some kind of criminal kingpin. By all accounts, being ADA, Humbert could’ve pissed the guy off.” Vic brought the car to a stop at a light.
“That’s probably how it happened. No one knows about Alphonse except those closely associated with him.”
“I still think it could be Savard. He’s the most logical conclusion.”
“Vic, it doesn’t make sense. Jared has never hidden who he really is, for no one. Why come up with an alias and hire out someone else to do his dirty work? That’s not his style.”
“He hired that assassin to take you out.”
“There wasn’t any proof to confirm that. I’m going off an assumption—a damn good one, but still an assumption.”
The light turned green, and Vic pulled forward. “Okay, fine, I’ll play along and say it’s not Savard. But the former ADA had to do something to get on our mysterious Alphonse’s radar.”
Remy had missed these give and take sessions he used to have with Vic back when they were still beat cops. They bounced ideas and theories off each other as well as he and Anderson did. Melancholy twinged in his gut at the thought of his current partner back in Dallas. Anderson would have been a good one to bring along for this trip if his code of honor wouldn’t get in the way.
“What if Humbert stumbled onto someone who spoke?” Remy blurted. “What if someone revealed who the real Alphonse was?”
Vic shrugged. “The only way to find that out is to get into his case files.”
“Then we get the files.”
She flinched, then looked at him. “Are you out of your mind? The only way to do that is—”
“Is to break into the DA’s office. I know.” Shifting to recline against the seat, Remy closed his eyes once more. “Think you can manage to get a look at Paul’s docket for tomorrow?”
“Manage? I have to report to the courthouse for a trial I know for a fact Paul is prosecuting.”
“Good, I’ll do it then.”
“You’ve got some balls, LeBeau. Sneaking into Paul’s office is as close to suicide as I ever heard.”
“Didn’t you say I was a crazy Cajun?”
“I take that back. You’re freaking insane.”
He grinned. “Don’t worry, cher. I’ve got it covered.”
“Sure you do. You might want to look at this, Remy.”
Peeling his eyes open, he glanced out the window, did a double-take, and gaped. The sun hadn’t yet set, and the sight on the other side of the tinted glass sickened him. Much of the street appeared repaired from the damage left behind in the flooding, but many of the houses remained vacant and in disrepair. Empty lots with overgrown grass were scattered among rebuilt homes.
This was the new New Orleans. One he would never recognize.
“Mon Dieu,” he whispered.
“French Quarter still looks the same, for the most part.”
“Why is it taking so long?” As if he really needed to ask.
“Bureaucracy bullshit.”
Once Remy had relocated to Dallas, he didn’t pay any attention to the post-Katrina reports. Ignoring it kept him sane and able to shuffle the grief and pain away. Now what he’d denied shook him.
“What about my and Marie’s house?”
She glanced at him then gunned the Charger. “It’s gone. The house was under water and had to be torn down. Paul saw to that.”
A part of Remy had hoped maybe something from his life with Marie had survived. The house—their home. Gone.
“Hey, it’s not a total loss. You’ve still got the memories.”
Remy snorted. “Of being stabbed in my living room and watching my blood soak the rug while my wife was screaming for her life.” Or trying to eat his gun weeks later.
“Those aren’t the memories to hold onto.”
“Until Savard pays, they are.” He glowered at the windshield.
Vic humphed, turned the car onto North Rampart Street, and merged with traffic. “How long you think this will take before Jared catches on that you’re back?”
“Depends on how fast word spreads after I take down a goon or two of his.”
