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

  Ray jerked his head at Cozy’s face and bit into the air, just inches away. His body rocked as his teeth clacked together in an effort to take a chunk from her. She backed away silent and wide-eyed, bending over to pinch the corner of the tape on his balls. She gave it a short tug. “Ever been man-scaped?”

  “Wait, wait, wait.” He grunted like a punch-drunk fighter.

  “If this doesn’t work, then I got a nice little torture technique I read about. The Vietnamese used it on prisoners of war and let’s just say you’ll never pee the same way again. All I need is a hammer.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “The combination, please.”

  Chapter 32

  The next item on the morning’s agenda was figuring out Cozy Robicheaux’s state of mind from her therapist. Dr. Clair Shipman’s home doubled as her office right off Williams Boulevard. She answered her door wearing a dark blue blouse, black pumps and a gray skirt, clearly not lounging on the sofa. From the front step, the inside looked to be filled with expensive furnishings.

  “You must be the detectives.” She looked to be in her forties, with short hair and a sleek face. Her nose and chin were pointed; an intelligent kind of sexy if that made sense.

  “Lucas Peyroux and Tara Gray,” I said as we entered her chilly home. “Thank you for seeing us.”

  “Let’s sit in the parlor. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Scotch?” She waited with laser focus.

  Tara and I declined and were instructed to sit on a firm white couch that had no arms. At our knees was a coffee table with looping metal legs underneath a glass top. I felt as if the plastic wrap had just come off her furniture. Dr. Clair eased into a large, white and teal striped chair that could fit two people.

  Dr. Clair started. “You must understand that I can’t divulge anything from our private sessions. I told your Captain this.”

  “We understand.” I leaned forward with my forearms on my knees. “But, we need to get some idea of the person we’re searching for. How she thinks. What she’s capable of.”

  She waved her hand at us. “Cozy Robicheaux? She could be my life’s work, that girl.”

  “What can you tell us?” Tara asked.

  Her face grew serious. “Let’s see. What do we all know? Her alcoholic father beat her sister for years before Cozy killed him. The emotional guilt of watching it happen while not being touched can be extremely damaging.”

  “How so?” Tara asked.

  “Beyond the obvious, as strange as it sounds, her father beating her sister and not her could be viewed as a type of neglect.”

  “You’re shitting me.” Tara said.

  “In Cozy’s eyes, her sister mattered enough to get abused. Good or bad, it’s still attention her sister was receiving from a parent. Attention that wasn’t worth the effort on her.”

  “I get what you’re saying,” I said, remembering the hug we shared. “It made Cozy feel small, like she didn’t exist.”

  “Instead of shrinking, she did the opposite and acted out. Her mother is in denial. Her sister abandoned them, most likely having serious issues herself. The community she lives in thinks she’s promiscuous, to be polite.” She paused as if assuming we would come to her conclusions.

  “Has she ever been suicidal?” I asked.

  “Hypothetically, someone can commit suicide by pointing a gun at a cop, right?”

  “Sure. Is that why Cozy’s like an adrenaline junkie?”

  She remained stoic. “I’m just saying people don’t need to use the direct route of suicide.”

  “You may not have heard, but she just found out her sister Haley is dead.”

  “What?” She put her hand over her mouth. “How?”

  “Murdered and tossed in the Mississippi.”

  “I saw that story on the news. That’s why she missed our session.”

  “We can’t locate her. We think she’s trying to find out who killed Haley and has gotten in with some bad people.”

  “That’s troublesome.”

  “Is Cozy capable of killing someone she believes killed her sister?” I asked.

  “In my professional opinion… In the right situation… Someone in Cozy’s state of mind could kill and with no remorse.”

  “Are we talking multiple personalities?” Tara asked.

  “No, nothing like that.” She waited a beat. “Oh, dear, this changes everything.” She paused again before continuing. “Her reality has been warped by her parents and her environment, and she has learned to justify anything she does. She had to make up her own rules her entire life.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “As a child, she had to decide what behavior her parent’s favored best to either receive praise or to keep peace. In random textbook examples; she might have had to decide what outfit wouldn’t warrant verbal abuse or at what hour she needed to come inside from playing, or the best times to use the bathroom so her father wouldn’t be disturbed.”

  “She could view anything that gets a positive result as good behavior?” Tara questioned.

  I leaned back on the sofa. “So, if she – if a hypothetic person like Cozy – thinks someone is a bad person, she wouldn’t have any qualms about killing them?”

  “Not exactly. In my opinion, someone like Cozy wouldn’t kill her boyfriend for cheating on her, but she could rationalize killing him if she found out he molested a little girl.” Dr. Clair crossed one leg over the other as if enjoying this.

  “So, she could rationalize killing someone who’s guilty by her moral standards?”

  Dr. Clair gave a slight nod.

  “Is she delusional?” I asked. “See things that aren’t happening?”

  “I can’t say if delusions are occurring, but if they do, then she could start hearing what she wants to hear and seeing what she wants to see. No one can predict that.”

  “Did she mention a favorite place in the Quarter?” I had my notebook at the ready.

  “No, I couldn’t say she did.”

  “What about Ashton? How is that relationship?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t comment much on that. But, he strikes me as needy.”

  “What about her mother?” Tara asked.

  “My personal opinion is that she’s of no real help in Cozy’s healing. She doesn’t put much faith in psychiatry, but she seems glad Cozy has someone to talk to.” Dr. Clair appeared disappointed. “I’ve given you my assessment, but I can’t give you any personal information she’s divulged in session. I skirted the edge as it is. I would be obligated to inform the authorities if she posed a danger to anyone, which she hasn’t.”

  “So, we’re dealing with a time bomb,” Tara said.

  Dr. Clair kept silent, staring at the bleached hardwood.

  #

  The day lost momentum with paperwork concerning Dr. Clair, but then Dr. Jerry called. Tara had left for the day and since I had no other cases, it had to be about Haley Robicheaux.

  “Jerry, you have news on my prints?” My pen rested in my hand.

  “How do you do that?” He paused a second. “The prints on the glass match the cell phone.”

  “Definite?”

  “Seven points. Close enough?”

  “Touchdown as far as I’m concerned. Thanks, man.” I put down my cell and glanced at my computer. Good things come to those who wait: the lab results had just come in. The DNA from the hairbrush matched the body, so this was indeed Haley Robicheaux. And the DNA from Edgar Porter matched the samples taken from when I shot him. Did any of this help? No, not really.

  Ashton Bergeron had lied, having proof of contact with Haley in New Orleans and not telling anyone. He would be picked him up for questioning in the morning. I updated Tara, not very optimistic about the progress. Unfortunately, I would be going home this evening without anyone in custody, but at least Heather would be happy to hear the updates with the case. I pushed away from my desk and left for the day.

  The drought in my bedroom had been going on for
too long and I didn’t care if we needed to rent a hotel room. I had no one to blame for myself and I had to make it right. My anticipation focused on Heather during my entire drive home - her hair, her lips, and the warmth of her body. I ignored the speed limit until slamming the brakes in my driveway, glancing at the glow of the lamp in the front window. I entered the house and immediately located my wife in the kitchen, wearing my over-sized, long sleeve dress shirt and nothing else. Two glasses of wine were on the table.

  “Alicia?” I asked, looking at the wine confused.

  Heather unbuttoned the shirt from the top. “At Jane’s, sleeping over. House is ours.”

  Bypassing the red wine, I drew to within inches of my wife’s body and she didn’t move as my arms pulled her close. Our kisses were short, intense bursts of pent up desire that led to pulling off our clothes where we stood. Our aggression forced us against the stove where I lifted her onto the counter, dividing her knees as she fell against cooking utensils hanging from hooks, but she wasn’t about to complain.

  Chapter 33

  “When are you going to leave your wife?” Amy Schultz sprung from the hotel bed wearing just her underwear and a loose T-shirt.

  Harry almost walked through her as he took off his jacket. “I’m not. Quit asking that fucking question.”

  He had a different answer this time. He didn’t say ‘soon’ with a kiss on her cheek and a new bracelet. Harry shut the bathroom door and the shower went on, leaving Amy to ponder the disrespect.

  He had later apologized after a few drinks, blaming the stress of his job, but the sting of his betrayal made this night’s sex akin to a one-night stand; the body was the same, however she didn’t know Harry anymore. For the first time, she saw Harry as the out of shape, middle-aged adulterer he was. The shame bore through during sex, where she lost all animation.

  Afterwards, Amy laid motionless in the hotel bed, breathing deep through parted lips, eyes closed, but wide awake thinking about her apartment, the bills and her future. Harry Winslow’s seven-minute missionary position, although fierce on his end, had no effect on her insomnia. She thought he had fallen asleep until the bed shook like a tiny earthquake as he slid from the covers. The amplified sound of his jacket swishing on the chair and the unfolding of a piece of paper made his movements easy to follow. He slithered into the bathroom where she could barely make out his echoing whispers.

  “…I know you said don’t call you…”

  “…can’t be traced…Peyroux…got nothing…”

  “…Apex…She’ll be there…”

  “…don’t threaten me…”

  The talking stopped and a minute later she heard pissing, and then the toilet flushed with a roar. A pill bottle shook and the faucet came on for a moment before hearing the click of the child-proof cap. He returned to the jacket resting on the chair and then climbed into bed with his back to her, summing up their entire relationship.

  She waited an entire hour for his pills to take effect. She crept from under the blanket and made her way to the jacket while Harry’s stomach rose and fell with a grating snore. She pulled the piece of paper from his pocket, set the flash on her camera phone, and took a picture. Satisfied with its clarity, she slipped the paper back into its home.

  After expertly dressing in the dark, she wrote ‘I quit’ on a piece of paper with lipstick and laid it on her pillow and then whispered fuck you in his ear. And with one final glance, she shot Harry the bird and left the hotel room. She relished the thought of personally delivering this picture to that attractive detective.

  Chapter 34

  For the first time in weeks, I didn’t wake before my alarm went off and Heather had been good for another go, although without the morning breath kissing. We even showered together, but she was disappointed to learn, although not in a sour way, that I needed to work for a few hours on a Sunday.

  However, Dobson was fine with my collecting overtime, so I traveled to Manchac solo because Tara didn’t want to miss church again. I didn’t believe that Ashton Bergeron killed Haley, but he lied and I needed him to illuminate some things about their relationship, with each Haley and Cozy.

  Ashton’s house appeared no different than the other residents; new planks had been nailed next to old ones with peeling yellow paint and dirt paths with random embedded bricks leading around back. Large Cypress trees towered over the front porch, providing deep shade. The overgrown brush nearly covered the entire walkway to the front door. His domicile, like most of the others, was also situated over the water.

  Two NOPD uniforms staked out the back pier in case of an escape. I didn’t expect Ashton to run or put up a fight, but stranger things have happened and I’d rather have my ass covered. I banged on the screen door, which rattled against the jamb. Soon after, a man in frayed gym shorts and no shirt answered. His torso was sweatered with sparse gray hair in contrast to his thick, brown moustache.

  “My son ain’t here.”

  “Sorry, sir. I’m Detective Peyroux. You’re Ashton’s father?”

  “Paul Bergeron, yes, sir.” Only half of his mouth moved when he spoke. “You’re welcome to come in and look.”

  “I will if you don’t mind, just so I can tell my boss I did.” I stepped inside. “We believe he has information about Haley Robicheaux’s murder and the whereabouts of Cozy. We know you want to protect your son, but we need to find him.”

  He slapped my shoulder as if we were old friends. “You mind if I get a beer?”

  “Feel free.” I did a quick search of the closets in each room.

  “You want some tea?” He yelled, just as I entered the kitchen.

  Paul opened a brand new silver side-by-side refrigerator and pulled out a full pitcher of tea with lemon medallions floating in it. The glasses he pulled from the refurbished cabinets were spotless. The outside of the house seemed like a disguise for the luxury within.

  “You got some nice appliances,” I said.

  “Not what you expected?” Paul smirked.

  “Honestly? I didn’t think much care went into these camps.”

  “The bayou moisture and humidity can ravage these homes over time. Most folks out here don’t live on much. My seafood place is doing real well and I splurged a bit. We’re a prideful people, sir.”

  “Point taken. I also believe you didn’t invite me in to talk about crawfish season.”

  “You saved Cozy’s life. That’s all I need to know. I can sense you’re a stand-up guy. I can also tell you my son is a hundred percent cocky with fifty percent of a brain. So, let me guess; my son’s got himself involved in something.”

  “Directly or indirectly, yes he has. Right now, we need to question him.”

  “Ashton doesn’t tell me what’s going on in his life. But, there is something I’d like to show you.”

  “Okay.”

  He held his palms up. “Wait here. Help yourself to some chips.”

  Paul disappeared into the hallway. I sipped my sweet tea, taking a few chips from an open bag of Zapp’s on the table. When Paul came back into the kitchen, he had something in his hand.

  “Now and then I go through his stuff like a good dad should. A few months ago, I found this in his pocket.”

  He placed several bar napkins from Molly’s Girls in my hand with scribbling on them. I kept my mouth shut as I tried to read the crude lettering, which just had some numbers added together and a couple of French Quarter street names, but in two sets of handwriting

  “Ashton probably spent the night at one of those loser friends of his. This morning, I’d bet my ass he’s at the Wharf having pancakes.”

  “Wharf? Right off I-55 coming in here?”

  “Yep.”

  #

  The Wharf’s breakfast rush had dwindled to just a few tables. Ashton and two bulked-up men with tattoo sleeves were sitting in the corner booth, yakking it up. Their table looked to have been cleared, but not cleaned. Each man still nursed a full cup of coffee.

  “Hey guys, I hear
d the food here is terrific.” I let my badge hang over the edge of the table at belt height.

  Ashton lost his glee. “Good morning, Detective Peyroux.”

  “You done eating?” I scooted next to the mangy one, sitting directly across from Ashton. “What’s your names?”

  Ashton spoke. “That’s Joe. That’s Tray.”

  “Tray and Joe? Two of the date rapists?”

  The two men glanced at each other. “What?”

  “I heard all about you boys from Cozy. I’m thinking about looking into that before the statute runs out. I’m guessing you took digital pictures and video, and guess what boys? As long as there’s Internet, they never go away.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Tray stammered. “There is no video or pictures on the net. And there was no rape.”

  “What about the witnesses?”

  “Everyone at that party will tell you she wanted to go in that room. Hell, every one of us in that room will tell you she wanted it. Tell him, Ashton.”

  “Dude.” Ashton put his hand over his eyes.

  I stared at him. “Did she want the rape, Ashton?”

  Tray shifted in his seat. “Stop saying rape. It wasn’t rape. You weren’t there. I’ll admit, she was in no condition to agree, but she didn’t fight it either. As shitty as it sounds, it was just a misunderstanding.”

  “Oh, sorry judge, it was a misunderstanding. Tray, Joe, you guys can leave.”

  They each scooted out the opposite side of the booth and walked away without any farewell. I pointed at the waitress to get some coffee. “You want to explain?”

  He didn’t look at me, but real tears formed. “Yes, I was in that room and yes, I participated, but you can’t tell Cozy. It would destroy her. She was just lying there, smiling and moaning and running her fingers across my arm. But, I was as drunk as anyone there. I know it was wrong, but...”

  “You got some balls to start dating her sister.”

  His head tilted at me. “I was nauseous with guilt. After that night, I started hanging out with the Robicheaux sisters because I felt so bad. I wanted to do things for her and her family. It was just by accident that Hales and I started dating. Cozy loved that her big sister was seeing me.”