Where The Devil Won't Go: A Lucas Peyroux Novel

  WHERE THE DEVIL WON’T GO

  by

  E.J. Findorff

  Copyright © 2016 by E.J. Findorff.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2015

  www.ejfindorff.com

  To my good friends Walter, Danny, and Brian

  Chapter 1

  The murder suspect had yet to arrive at his home in New Orleans East, which could be considered one huge crime statistic. I reclined in my Accord, which was parked a safe distance away, under the shadow of a streetlight’s absence. My windshield revealed a bleak painting of neglected houses and residential apathy as a rogue tabby shot from curb to curb.

  My wife and daughter were waiting with dinner for me at home, but I wanted to give this at least an hour. I’d had a run of bad luck and I could smell the collar. The gangbanger had to feel safe to come back at some point.

  A beat up, non-descript van with one headlight pulled under the carport of a house across the street from the gangbanger’s address, well-hidden from the glow of the moon. The red shine from the brakes resembled the devil’s eyes before they shut off. I secured my mini-binoculars for a better view, merely due to boredom as my gangbanger had yet to show. The driver stepped from the van and slid the side door open. From his size and the way he moved, I could tell it was a man. He leaned forward, throwing a hard punch at something inside.

  His frame bent at the waist, coming out of the van with a small body, like a teenager. The long hair could mean it was a female and she appeared young. While waiting for a murderer, I stumbled onto a kidnapping and certainly something more sinister.

  I called into dispatch. “This is Detective Lucas Peyroux with Homicide. I got a sixty-seven with a possible seventy-seven at eight-two-nine Marquette Street in the East. Suspect is a possible white male, stocky build.”

  The scratchy voice came back. “Roger that, Detective Peyroux. Dispatching units to your location.”

  “I don’t have time to wait for them. Make sure they know that.”

  “Roger that, Detective.”

  The moment the man entered the house with the girl on his shoulder; I jumped from my car with my Glock tight at my side. No lights came on as I crossed the street onto his cracked driveway. A scan of the neighboring houses told me that people minded their business on this block. That cat brushed against my leg as I stopped and considered my entry, so I crouched to scratch its ears for good luck. The Tabby purred in appreciation.

  I extended my arm to push open the side door, which he hadn’t closed in his efforts to get his prey inside. The aroma of stale air from a lack of ventilation brushed my face. A single bulb illuminated the next room where tense noises emanated. It seemed the place had been cleared of its furniture, but plywood covered all the windows. I inched out of the cramped kitchen, trying to get a visual. On the floor, their long shadows struggled and his fist rose for a sure blow.

  I charged into the room and shouted, “Police. Don’t do it.”

  “What the shit?” He straightened with the girl in a chokehold. With the lamp directly behind them, his face remained black under his hood. His gun swung up to her head. “Stay where you are, or she’s dead.”

  Braced together, the man’s sweaty arm had merged with her throat. Long hair escaped from his hood. His thick frame stood just under six feet. The teenaged girl’s back pressed against him, both facing me. The barrel of his gun disappeared in the tangles of her hair while my Glock pointed at his forehead. However, his hidden face revealed the whites of his eyes. The three of us locked in a deadly game of chicken.

  “Let her go before this goes too far. You haven’t done anything bad yet.”

  He dragged the girl to the dark solidity of a long wall, gauging my actions. We both realized the only exit was behind me, unless he tried the bay window, which wasn’t boarded.

  His voice shook. “I’ll kill her. Stay right there. I swear I’ll kill her.”

  “You’re not leaving. I’m not moving. Let’s talk this out.”

  “No, you’re going to let me leave, and then I’ll let her go. I promise.”

  I prayed the reinforcements would appear silently, because this guy seemed spooked. I had to trust my instincts for the girl to leave this house alive. If I let him escape with her, it would just be a matter of time before we found her body.

  Despite his agitated rocking, my aim remained steady. He shuffled to his left, thinking I would mirror his movement and give him a clear line to the door. My feet remained planted, my aim never in doubt.

  The girl panicked, getting her senses back. She was no longer just dead weight in his arms. She erupted in a wave of crying; her hair was knotted and pasted onto her face. He tightened his grip, cutting off her air. Small coughs emanated from her mouth, forcing me to quicken my decision.

  If I let them leave, she’d be dead and I wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a lineup. But taking the shot could mean her death, too. Even if my bullet found its destiny, his weapon could still discharge while pressed against her head. His muscles would soon tire, which might quicken his own decision.

  Bits of saliva popped off his lips as he spoke in desperation, “Throw me your gun and cuff yourself to the refrigerator and I’ll let the girl go. A head start, that’s all I want.”

  “No.” With both hands on my gun, my shoulders sagged with their own weight.

  “You want her to die, man?” he hissed. “I’ll let her go if you let me go.”

  He rocked back and forth several more times before taking a full step to his right, jerking the girl along. He swayed again and then stepped left. He didn’t realize it was a repetitive motion, a pattern, his own specific dance. My aim changed angles along with his head, praying he wouldn’t turn his gun on me. If he did, I was screwed.

  “All you’ve done is a kidnapping. Slap on the wrist. C’mon man, let her go.”

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid. I let her go and you shoot me.”

  “Not if you put your hands in the air and you lie face down for me. I already called in for back up.”

  The girl’s struggling ceased for the moment, hanging like a rag doll.

  “Her only hope rests on you.” He pressed his nose against her head. “I’m walking out of here and you’re going to let me. Throw down your gun right now.”

  “Can’t do that.” I have the shot.

  “Throw it down and cuff yourself to the fridge.”

  “Not going to happen.” I have the shot.

  “Do it.” The gun left her temple and tilted towards me.

  It sounded like a firecracker when the gun lit up in my hand. A retaliatory crack exploded from the other side of the room and it felt as if a wasp had stung my chest. My legs gave out and gravity took over. He had kicked over the lamp and I could barely make out the figure pointing the gun. I let several rounds fly from where I lay, but the guy ducked out of sight. Sirens wailed; the window smashed. Bright red and blue lights splashed through the room as squad cars pulled up to the front of the house.

  The girl. What happened to the girl?

  That cat I had befriended, investigating, licked my face. I couldn’t do a damn thing.

  Chapter 2

  Two months later…

  A floater in the Mississippi River rarely presents a neat corpse. Humans bloat, and skin becomes delicate like tissue paper. I progressed from the Moon Walk parking lot to the riverbank with my badge clipp
ed to my belt and my holster heavy on my shoulder. The Crescent City Connection loomed in the skyline over the Mississippi River, looking like a tether keeping New Orleans from floating away. This eighty-degree day turned out to be hottest yet in an otherwise cool start to spring.

  At the end of the brick walkway, police tape had been strung around several lamp posts and some uniformed cops kept citizens at bay, but it didn’t stop curious tourists from recording a true-life New Orleans crime scene. The body lay draped under a white sheet, atop the large rocks, which sloped to the river’s currents.

  Part of a policeman’s job entailed informing tourists of the sketchy areas to avoid, which when heeded, would equate to less crime and less paperwork. If this lady had wandered into the wrong neighborhood, then traveling all the way back here and dumping her in the river wouldn’t make sense.

  The Crime Scene Unit had yet to arrive, but my Captain told me they were on the way. Ever since I returned to the job, everyone continued to ask how I was doing, not understanding the salt-wound relationship. Maybe I can just send out a blanket email to the entire NOPD in hopes of avoiding the questions about Cozy Robicheaux, the girl I’d shot two months ago, and letting a kidnapping rapist escape.

  I shook Cozy’s bullet wound from my mind and zeroed in on the lumpy shape under the sheet. The medical examiner had better rule this a suicide because I wanted my first case back to be quick, and the Quarter didn’t need more bad press.

  My nostrils flared while taking in the smell of decomposition, in stark contrast to the usual smells of fried seafood and Creole cuisine one enjoyed in the French Quarter. CSU had to know this body needed refrigeration soon, but clocks in New Orleans ran slower than most places. I ducked under the tape, hoping the breeze stayed constant off the river.

  A muscular patrolman stepped up, his chest reaching me before the rest of his body. “I’m Officer Tatum, first on the scene.”

  “Detective Peyroux. Any identification?”

  “None.”

  “Where was the body found?”

  The young policeman pointed a few feet away from the body at the water’s edge. “The body was face-down. Me and three other guys pulled her out to where she is now.”

  “Hopefully, you didn’t do any damage.”

  “You wanted us to leave her in the water?”

  “No. I just hate that CSU isn’t here yet.” I looked around. “So, nothing else out of the ordinary?”

  “Sorry, Detective.” He gave me that familiar, lingering stare. I sensed what he was thinking. He’d heard my name before.

  I stepped forward almost bumping into his chest. “You got something to say to me, officer?”

  “No, Detective. Not a thing.”

  “Then go mind the on-lookers.”

  My ankles swiveled on the rocky terrain as I made my way to lift the sheet to inspect her face. This woman could have been my mother and I wouldn’t have known it: she looked like bratwurst ready to explode on the grill, but there wasn’t a tattoo in sight that might help with identification. She could have been thrown in on the banks right where we stood, or the river’s current could have brought her from the north, anywhere from a hundred yards on up.

  I pulled out my sunglasses and returned to the amber bricks that paved the Moon Walk, hoping Dr. Jerry with CSU had pulled up behind the succession of squad cars. No such luck. I sat on a bench and jotted notes that I’d easily remember anyway, letting my Ray Bans hide my worry. Forensics needed to do their thing before I could do mine. Once they collected her properly, all I could do was check missing persons and wait for lab and autopsy results. My colleagues back at the station would probably start a pool on whether it was a tourist, local, or prostitute. And behind my back they might place bets on whether I’d finish the case.

  Detective Tara Gray stepped onto my crime scene wearing big reflective shades and a thin, white jogging suit. Her hair was cropped short, but styled like an advertisement for a beauty salon. Her lean frame seemed to glide forward while a badge swung around her neck like Mardi Gras beads. The cluster of freckles on her nose reminded me that her family tree had a white branch. She stopped by my feet, but never faced me.

  “Dobson didn’t send . . .” I fingered the corners of my eyes under my sunglasses.

  “Yep. I told her I don’t like you, but she insisted.” She put her hands on her hips.

  “Is that your badge around your neck, or did you join a rap group?” I crinkled my eyes at her.

  She lifted her glasses. “You drunk again, mother fucker?”

  I broke into a laugh and she finally smiled. If we had been meeting for lunch, a warm embrace would have been in order. Tara and I had gone through the academy together, each making detective the same year and assigned to work Homicide out of Headquarters on Broad Street. We worked well together and the Captain knew it.

  Her smile faded. “How are you, really? Chest still hurt?”

  “Nope. Healed up nicely. Good as new. Pass it on.”

  She nestled in by my side. “I’m going to tell you again, because it can’t be repeated enough: you had to take the shot. He would have killed her otherwise.”

  “I shot an innocent young girl in the throat in an abandoned house, Tara.”

  “The shot deflected into her throat,” she countered.

  “A half-inch from killing her.”

  “And she’s alive because of you.”

  “She’s alive only because the bullet slowed as it passed through the killer’s forearm first. And he got away. The van was stolen, the house wasn’t his.”

  “Yeah, but now his DNA is on file. You faced an impossible choice; and yet you made the right choice.” Tara slapped her hand onto my thigh. “You let him escape, but if he’d held onto her, it was a hundred percent he’d kill her. The odds just didn’t fall in your favor, honey. Every cop out here knows you made the right call.”

  “It’s been hell: the hospital stay, the investigation, the administrative leave, my therapy sessions. I had Heather in my ear telling me it was okay to quit.”

  “No favors from your buddy, the Mayor?”

  “You know me better than that. I’ve never used my friendship with Chance.”

  “I know. Bad joke.”

  “I’m used to them.” I pushed her shoulder with a smile.

  “Since you’ve been on a leave of absence, Dobson wants me to take lead on this one. Let you get your groove back.” She waited with a furrowed brow.

  “That’s why she sent you. I’d tell anyone else to shove it.”

  She rested her face on my shoulder with a short hug, and then stood, ready for business. “Identification?”

  “None.” I showed her the sparse notes on my notebook to prove it.

  “Sucks.”

  “Been waiting on CSU forever. Thinking about getting a beignet.”

  She walked forward. “I’m going to check out the vic.”

  “Under the sheet.” I pointed and kept my grin for a moment. “See? Joking . . . I’m fine.”

  Tara was a stellar detective, and I could have been paired with much worse. She almost mimicked my exact movements when I had first arrived, lifting the sheet and checking the surrounding area. The river’s currents framed her body while her head tilted toward me as if hearing my thoughts. I waved at her with my fingers.

  The boats and barges floated effortlessly under the bridge. The Riverboat Natchez spun its giant rear wheel a hundred yards out, slowly making a getaway. It wasn’t hard to be reminded of Mark Twain, or even Louis and Clark when they first floated past this crescent of land full of Native Americans.

  For the thousandth time, I imagined the bullet finding the kidnapper’s forehead.

  If only.

  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 we
ek. 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.