In the Shadow of Evil (9 page)

Maddox laughed as he made notes of the information. "Might help if you actually wore your glasses."

"Shut up." Houston leaned closer to the monitor. "Second one is Dennis LeJeune. Reported missing by his wife Friday." He leaned back in his chair and stared at Maddox. "Guess what Mr. Dennis LeJeune does for a living?"

They'd been partners long enough for Maddox to know that look. Houston had found a connection. "What?"

"He's a building inspector." Houston snatched a sticky note and scribbled. "Got the home address. Lives just outside Sulphur."

Maddox shoved to his feet and grabbed his coat. "We haven't left yet?"

SEVEN

"A man should look for what is, and not for what he thinks should be."

—ALBERT EINSTEIN

"LAYLA? MS. LAYLA TAYLOR?"

She turned around at the woman's voice. A young woman hustled across the parking lot after her. Layla waited, shifting her bag with her take-out lunch to a more comfortable position, and took in the woman's appearance: short, auburn hair, a little on the heavyset side, smiling mouth too big for her round face. Layla didn't recognize her.

"Hi." She stood before Layla, catching her breath before extending her hand. "I'm Krissy Morgan with
The American Press.
"

What did the Lake Charles newspaper want with her? "Yes?"

"First off, congratulations on winning the CotY regional award. That's quite an accomplishment."

Layla's smile widened automatically. "Thank you. I'm honored by the award." The exposure was already starting? Awesome.

"And I understand this means you're up for a national CotY as well?"

"Yes. The national winners will be announced at the NARI gala in the spring."

"If you have a moment, I'd love to talk with you a bit. Get a comment from you on the story we'll be running tomorrow."

Layla's heart shot into her stomach. This was more than awesome. This could really put her business over the top. She tightened her grip on her bag. Who cared if her shrimp po'boy got cold? Or if she froze, for that matter? "Of course."

Krissy waved her toward a park bench in the Eternal Springs courtyard. The wind gusted, nearly stealing Layla's breath. She set her sack on the bench beside her and tried to gather her thoughts. It'd be awful to sound like an idiot in her quote. That would do her business no good.

Sitting beside her, Krissy pulled out a notebook and a small digital recorder. "Do you mind?"

"Of course not." She sure didn't want to be misquoted. Layla curled her hands in her lap, then splayed her fingers loosely over her legs. She hoped she didn't look uncomfortable or nervous.
Lord, I could really use a little peace right now.

"How do you feel about having been awarded a regional CotY award?"

Layla inhaled slowly. "So many wonderful contractors entered. I'm honored just to be in their company." That sounded good, right? She sounded intelligent, knowledgeable, and she'd plugged the organization that put on the awards. She let out a breath. This wasn't as difficult as she'd imagined.

"Sounds exciting."

"It is." Layla nodded. "It's the highlight event of the year for every contractor I know."

"Let's move on, shall we?" Krissy smiled, but it was more like a bared-teeth grimace of one competitor to another before a big bout.

Splinters of apprehension darted through Layla. "O-kay."

"The project you won the award for . . . isn't it a Hope-for-Homes house?"

Those splinters sprouted into full two-by-fours. Layla licked her lips and wiped her palms against her jeans. "Y-yes."

"Wasn't it, in fact, the house that burned down late Friday night?"

How could she get away without making a scene?

"Ms. Taylor, wasn't it the house that burned down late Friday night?" Krissy held the recorder closer to Layla.

"Y-yes."

"How do you feel about that?"

Was this woman for real? How was she supposed to answer something like that?

The recorder pushed almost in her face. "Ms. Taylor?"

Layla's mouth felt stuffed with cotton. "Horrible, of course. I hate that any building burns, but especially a house. Someone's home." She needed to get away from this woman . . . fast.

"Wasn't a body in the house when it burned, Ms. Taylor?"

This was going from bad to worse. Enough was enough. Layla struggled to her feet, gripping her bag like a vise. "I couldn't say."

Krissy stood in a flash. "Come on, Ms. Taylor, you know a body was in that house. A house that you built. Do you know who it was?"

"N-no. You'd have to ask the police for that information." Layla glanced across the courtyard, her heart beating double-time. "If you'll excuse me, I have to get back to work." She turned toward her truck.

"One last question, Ms. Taylor. Do you think someone burned the house you built to make a statement of some sort to you personally?"

Layla froze, then spun around to face the meddlesome reporter who held the recorder out like a shield. "What?"

Krissy closed the distance between them. "Do you think someone burned down that house to send you a message? Maybe someone was jealous of your award and wanted to make sure you didn't win on a national level?"

This woman was unbelievable. Layla glared. "No comment, Ms. Morgan." She turned and marched across the courtyard to her truck. Not hesitating once inside the cab, she started the engine and peeled out of the parking lot. Her heartbeat pounded in her head.

The nerve of the woman. Stupid reporter.

Layla gripped the steering wheel tighter to stop her hands from trembling. How dare the woman waylay her like that? Acting all sweet and congratulatory before slamming her. Flattering her to get her off guard, then knocking her to her knees.

Plain and simple, she'd been ambushed.

How would the story in tomorrow's paper read?

Pushing aside the worry, Layla went back to the office and finished her estimates and bids. All too soon a honk sounded outside.

Layla glanced at the clock. Four already? She shut down the computer, grabbed her coat and attaché, and stomped out the door, making sure she locked Taylor Construction behind her. A blast of warm air hit her in the face as she slipped into the passenger seat of her sister's Jeep. "Sorry. I lost track of time."

"I just called the hospital." Alana put the Jeep in reverse and eased out of the muddy parking area.

"How's Ms. Ethel?"

"Not so good. I talked to her grandson. He said they're discussing moving her to ICU right now."

"What did he say the doctors think it is?"

"That's what's so frustrating. The doctors don't have any idea. Her nosebleeds keep coming back. She can hardly breathe. She's wheezing, and none of the test results show anything."

"I just can't imagine."

Alana turned the car toward Lake Charles. "Me either. Her grandson says he's really scared. The doctors are baffled so they don't know what to do for her except give her oxygen."

"We'll just keep praying." But Layla knew that might not be enough to save their dear friend.

"THIS IS MR. LEJEUNE?" Maddox pointed at one of the framed photographs on the mantel. A man bowling.

Mary LeJeune twisted in her seat on the tattered recliner. "Yes. That was taken just a few months ago." She sniffled and lifted her teacup, slurping as she took a sip.

Maddox returned to his seat beside Houston on the couch. He'd done his usual inspection of the living room and found nothing of interest. No dust lined the ceiling fan blades. The LeJeunes collected thimbles from around the world and displayed them. Only photographs of the two of them—no smiling baby photos to indicate children or grandchildren.

"And the last time you saw your husband was Friday?" Houston asked around the wad of gum in his cheek.

"Yes." The teacup rattled against the saucer. "He left for work around seven, same as always."

"Did you talk to your husband during the workday on Friday?"

"Why, no. Why would I? We never really talk on the phone. Unless I need him to pick up something from the store on his way home. But that's rare. I keep my groceries stocked, you know."

"What time did Mr. LeJeune normally get home from work?" Maddox interjected.

"Four forty-seven on the dot. Like clockwork." She glanced at the clock over the mantel. "Right about now." Tears filled her time-faded eyes.

"All the time? Even in traffic?" Maddox couldn't believe someone's life was so predictable.

Mrs. LeJeune bobbed her head, the gray tendrils that had escaped from her bun scraped against her leathered face. "No matter what, he pulls into the carport at four forty-seven every day, the same time for the past ten years."

She took another sip of her tea. "Friday night was just like normal. He came home right on time, we had supper, then he changed into his bowling shirt and headed to the alley at six thirty. Same routine he's had for years."

"Ma'am, has your husband been acting strangely or said anything odd recently?" Houston asked.

"Like what?"

"Odd phone calls. Unusual visits." Houston shrugged. "Strange messages."

"No, nothing like that."

"Does he talk to you about work?" Maddox remembered to keep talk in the present tense.

"Not at all. Dennis is real good about keeping his work on a professional level. He doesn't believe in telling tales outside of school. He would never share information like that. His work is confidential."

They were getting nowhere fast. Maddox took a breath and changed directions. "Does your husband own any guns, Mrs. LeJeune?"

"He has rifles and shotguns for hunting."

"And handguns? Revolvers?"

Mrs. LeJeune patted her bun. "Land sakes, no. Why would he have a gun like that?"

"No reason, ma'am." Maddox stood. They wouldn't get anything more useful out of her. Just wasting their time.

Houston stood as well. "As I said, ma'am, we can't positively identify the body we found just yet. We'll have the coroner send for your husband's dental records for consideration."

Mrs. LeJeune wobbled to her feet. "I'm sure it's my Dennis. He wouldn't break his routine unless someone had stopped him." Her voice cracked.

Maddox joined Houston at the door. "We'll let you know something just as soon as we can, Mrs. LeJeune. Thank you again for your time."

They'd barely shut the car doors and Maddox started the engine before they both began talking at once.

"You first," Houston said as Maddox turned back onto a main road.

"Dennis is our John Doe." Maddox gripped the steering wheel tighter. "I feel it."

"Same here."

"We need to—"

Houston's cell phone interrupted Maddox. Houston glanced at the caller ID. "It's Margie." He flipped open the phone. "Hey, honey."

From the corner of his eye, Maddox took in the tightening of his partner's jaw.

"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry." A long silence on Houston's part, then he continued. "That is horrible. I love you." Houston closed his cell and glanced at Maddox.

"Everything okay?"

"That baby Margie was all worried about?"

"Yeah?"

"The baby died."

"From what?"

"Margie says it's baffled the doctors. Family's calling for an autopsy."

"Man, that's rough."

"Yeah. Margie's pretty tore up over it. Baby was only a month old."

Maddox shook his head. Instances just like this proved his point that there was no big, loving God. No way would anything with a heart let a baby die.

Houston ran a hand over his face. "Anyway . . . you were saying?"

"Right." Maddox pulled to a stop at a red light and regrouped his thoughts. "We need to find out if LeJeune was the building inspector who approved that Hope for Homes."

"Yep. That'd be a connection. A good start. I'll see if Dennis LeJeune had a Smith & Wesson registered." Houston nodded as the light turned green. "I'll get our status updates to the commander."

"Man, that'd be cold. Shot with your own gun."

"It happens."

Maddox shook his head. His mother had been murdered with a knife from her own kitchen. "I know," he whispered.

ONE MORE.

He stared at the building, letting his imagination wander. How was he supposed to destroy it?