Where The Devil Won't Go: A Lucas Peyroux Novel Page 2

  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 o
f 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.
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  “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.

  Chapter 6

  While sitting on her bed after just waking, Cozy examined a black and white portrait of her parents on their wedding day. Her mother, Aponi Rainstorm-Robicheaux, bragged to be a direct descendant of the Opelousas Indian Tribe. Cozy’s father had been pure bayou-mud Cajun. That combination instilled a fierce survival instinct in their offspring; evident from the night she had been born to the day she had murdered her father with a shotgun.

  “Thought I heard you rustling.” Her mother entered with a bowl of grits, butter melting on top, and a glass of orange juice. Her Cajun accent and Native American features were an interesting dichotomy.

  “Tell me about when I was born.”

  Her momma beamed, handing over the bowl of grits. “Well, everyone involved tells it exaggerated flare, but I keep it truthful.”

  “I like your version best.”

  She sat next to her with the arched back of a British Royal. “I was playing bourre with Mr. Earl, his wife and Ms. Beverly and her sister when my water broke, ending the card game right there. You were three weeks early. Everyone had come in Mr. Earl’s flatboat, so we tried to take your daddy’s car, but it wouldn’t start.”

  “He was too drunk to figure out the cable came off the battery.” Cozy looked to the floor.

  “Yes. Everyone helped me into Mr. Earl’s flatboat, but by then it was too late. You were on your way. I gave birth to your right there.”

  “Born on the bayou.”

  “Born on the bayou.” Her momma kissed the side of her head. “From your first breath, you were an indigenous creature of Manchac.”