Malevolent (29 page)

Shaye’s pulse quickened. “What’s the town?”

“I don’t know that it’s a town, really. More like a spot in the road a couple miles from Port Sulphur. My cousin called it Hamet, but I ain’t never seen it on a map.”

“Port Sulphur…Highway 23?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

Shaye pulled into the nearest parking lot and used her phone for a quick Google maps search. No surprise when Hamet didn’t pull up, but Port Sulphur was only a forty-five minute drive. She tossed her phone on the passenger seat, but when she went to put her SUV in gear, she stopped and reached for the phone again. This time, she searched “David Grange” and “Hamet.”

Then she gasped.

Bayou News, June 2000

Hamet Boy Drowns

A ten-year-old boy from Hamet drowned last week. A local fisherman pulled the body out of the bayou and identified the boy as David Grange Jr., son of resident grocery store owner David Grange Sr. and wife Abigail Grange. The family could not be reached for comment.

The next link was an obituary for David Grange Sr. His death was one week after his son’s drowning and no cause of death was given. The timing made Shaye wonder if it was suicide. Surely if there had been any indication of foul play, in either death, the police would have investigated. She did a search on the wife and came up with an address in Port Sulphur. No phone number, but then the questions she had weren’t the kind you asked people over the phone.
 

She pulled out of the parking lot and headed the opposite direction of the city. Emma was safely tucked away at the police station and would soon be far away from New Orleans. The police were looking for Ron, and with any luck, he’d be behind bars soon. The worst was behind her client, but if Shaye could get Emma answers about the stranger she’d married, it would be the icing on the cake.
 

Not knowing was awful.
 

Like a slow-moving cancer silently eating away at you.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Jackson looked through the one-way window into the interrogation room as Detective Murphy took Emma’s statement. For Emma’s comfort, he wished he could have taken it himself, but between the information Shaye had been feeding him and what Emma told him before Murphy arrived, Jackson figured he was pretty much up to speed on everything relevant.
 

“Hell of a thing.” The desk sergeant stepped up next to him. “That poor woman thought her problems were over when she killed that son of a bitch she was married to, and now this.”

Jackson nodded. “It’s an awful lot for one person to handle in a short span of time.”

“I heard the attack on Corrine Archer might tie into this somehow. You know anything about that?”

“Yeah. Corrine’s daughter is a PI. Emma hired Shaye to find her stalker because Vincent blew her off.”

The sergeant shook his head. “I know our hands are usually tied until we have something viable, but it wouldn’t have killed Vincent to look into it.”

“It might have. He seems to think anything but driving that desk will send him to an early grave.”

The sergeant clapped him on the shoulder. “Hang in there. I know being saddled with Vincent is keeping you from doing the work you want to do, but it won’t be forever. Vincent will retire or he’ll be assigned another new guy. Either way, you’ll be in the thick of it soon enough.”
 

“I hope so,” Jackson said as the sergeant headed down the hall for the front desk.

Jackson stared at Emma as she wiped tears from her eyes with her fingers. It didn’t have to come to this. Emma should never have had to endure what she did the last six days. Shaye’s mother shouldn’t have been attacked. That poor old woman and the paramedic shouldn’t be dead.

All because the police’s hands were tied and Vincent was too lazy to check anyway.

His cell phone rang and he checked the display. “Shaye? Is something wrong?”

“No. Actually, I’m tracking down a lead on David Grange.” She told him about Charlie’s phone call and the news article. “I’m on my way to Port Sulphur to talk to the widow. If the man calling himself David Grange was from around there, maybe she’ll recognize him.”

“Wow.” Jackson took a couple of seconds to process what Shaye had told him. “Are you sure you want to keep digging? The cops are combing the streets for Ron. The hunt is almost over.”

“The hunt for the stalker is almost over, but Emma still doesn’t know who she married and why he flipped on her. I know it won’t change anything that’s happened, but I think if I can get her some answers, it will help her move forward.”

Because Jackson knew Shaye was speaking from experience, he couldn’t find a solid argument to use to try to talk her out of her plan. “I get it. But be careful. That widow has had her share of tragedy, too. She might not want to talk.”

“Then I’ll find someone who will. I’ll give you a call if I find something. Is Emma at the station?”

“She’s giving her statement now.”

“Good. Make sure she gets out of there safe. I don’t want to hear from her again until she’s at least a state away or Ron’s behind bars.”

Shaye disconnected and Jackson slipped his phone back in his pocket and frowned. Something about Shaye’s trip to Port Sulphur was bothering him but he couldn’t put his finger on why. Ron wasn’t from Port Sulphur, or anywhere near there. Nor did they have any reason to think David had ever told him the truth about his own past. The likelihood of Shaye running across Ron was slim to none.
 

But still, the whole thing left him with a general feeling of unease. He’d feel better when Shaye was back in New Orleans, in residence at her mother’s heavily secured home. At least until Ron was behind bars.

###

Traffic was practically nonexistent on the lone road to Port Sulphur, so Shaye managed the drive in less than forty minutes. Her cell phone service was sketchy, so it took her a bit to locate the widow’s house, but finally, she pulled through an ornate entry and down a driveway lined with azalea bushes. The house was bigger than she would have thought she’d find in such a tiny place. Not as big as Corrine’s, but the construction was solid and it was kept nicely. Owning a grocery store must be a lucrative business in Port Sulphur.

She parked in the middle of the circular drive and knocked on the massive hand-carved wooden door. About twenty seconds later, the door swung open and a sixtyish, heavyset Creole woman looked out at her. “Can I help you?” the woman asked.

“My name is Shaye Archer. I’m a private investigator from New Orleans and I’m trying to track some information for a client. I wondered if I could speak to Mrs. Grange.”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Mrs. Grange ain’t got no business in New Orleans. No friends or family either. Can’t imagine she could help you.”

“I’m trying to get information on a man that I believe used to live in the area. I was hoping Mrs. Grange knew him.”

“Mrs. Grange ain’t left the house for almost fifteen years. Why you asking her?”

“Because the man I need information on has been using the name David Grange.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “What you mean, using the name?”

“He’s been living, working, has a Social Security card, and even got married using the name David Grange. I’ve been trying to track him and information led me here. Imagine my surprise when I find out the real David Grange passed away when he was a boy.”

“You think it’s one of those identity theft things? I seen that on the news.”

“I think it could be. That’s why I’d like to talk to Mrs. Grange. See if she has any idea who might have had access to her son’s information in order to use it.”

The woman nodded and motioned her inside. “I’m Sissy. Been working for Mrs. Grange since she married. Worked for her mama before that.”

Shaye stepped into the entry and glanced around. A huge circular staircase sat at the back of the entry, ornate iron spindles gleaming with polish. A formal living room was off to the left and looked like something out of an old picture book with its dated artwork and stiff and uncomfortable-looking furniture. To the right was a library, dark wooden bookcases covering every square inch of wall space. The carpets and decor in the entryway were as dated as the living room, and Shaye decided Sissy hadn’t been exaggerating when she described Mrs. Grange as a hermit.

“You thinking it could be family?” Sissy asked. “None comes to visit, but I know she’s got cousins and such. I always say trusting someone just because you related is a good way to get screwed.”

“It certainly can be, and family would be the most logical explanation.”

The woman looked at her again, her expression conflicted. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt for you to talk to her, but I gotta warn you, Mrs. Grange ain’t been right since her boy passed. She sits in this house and stares out the window or at a wall and that’s about it. Me and Mina manage to make her eat a couple times a day, but she don’t do much else.”

Shaye frowned. “Are you saying she doesn’t speak?”

“She
can
speak, if that’s what you’re asking. She just doesn’t. Told me one time there wasn’t nothing worth saying.”

It sounded to Shaye like Abigail Grange had checked out of life. She understood the desire. When Shaye had first gone to live with Corrine, she felt that way every second of every day. It didn’t happen as often now, but sometimes, when the nightmares were the worst, the thought would pass through her mind.
 

Was it worth it?

So far, the answer had always been yes, and thankfully, it was getting easier to say it.
 

“I understand,” Shaye said. “There’s things in my past that I don’t like to think about. I promise I’m not here to upset her.”

Sissy studied her for several seconds. Something in Shaye’s expression must have convinced the housekeeper of her sincerity because she nodded. “Come with me.”

Shaye followed her down the hallway to the back of the house. At the end of the hallway, Sissy knocked lightly on a door, then opened it and stepped inside. “Mrs. Grange. There’s a lady here that needs to speak to you.”

Shaye stepped to Sissy’s side and got her first look at Abigail Grange, who sat in a rocking chair in front of a picture window. If someone had checked out of life, people often said they were a shadow of their former self. Abigail Grange didn’t even have enough substance to be a shadow. Her pale skin was almost translucent and hung on her tiny frame like fabric. She looked over at them, her gaze seeming to go right through them and into the hall.

“Will you speak to her?” Sissy asked.

Abigail nodded, and Sissy motioned Shaye toward the window.

Shaye walked over to where Abigail sat and took a seat in a chair a couple feet away, not wanting to stand over her while they were talking. “Mrs. Grange, my name is Shaye Archer. I’m a private investigator from New Orleans. There’s a man I’ve been trying to get information on who I think used to live in Hamet. He’s been using your son’s name.”

Abigail looked perplexed. “Why would someone do that?”

Shaye reminded herself that Abigail had been out of society for a long time, and thus far, Shaye had yet to see a television. It was possible Abigail had never heard the term “identity theft.”

“Sometimes,” Shaye said, “people pretend to be someone else because they don’t want anyone to know their true identity.”

“Why would that bother a person?”
 

“The most common reason is because they’re involved in criminal activity. They might be wanted for crimes under their real name, so they assume someone else’s identity in order to hide from the law.”

Abigail frowned. “And you think someone is using David’s name for such a thing? Has the man you’re looking for committed a crime?”

“The man in question is deceased, but he abused his wife. The question of his identity didn’t come up until after his death, and his wife would like to know who she was really married to.”

“Oh. I imagine that must be horrible for her.”

Abigail’s expression and voice were mildly sympathetic, but it was clear to Shaye that the woman wasn’t completely in the conversation. More like she was drifting on the outside of it.
 

“Can you tell me your son’s Social Security number, so I can verify if his identity is the one my client’s husband was using?”

Abigail looked up at Sissy. “My small box, Sissy.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sissy said and retrieved a jewelry box from her nightstand.
 

Abigail opened the jewelry box and her eyes filled with tears. She lifted a photo and stroked it with her finger, then handed it to Shaye. “My son.”

Shaye took the photo and looked down at the smiling boy, holding up a large fish. He looked like his mother, or at least, like his mother would look if she had some weight and color to her and hadn’t aged beyond her years. “He’s beautiful,” Shaye said, a lump forming in her throat. How awful it had to be to lose a child. She couldn’t fathom losing someone she loved. In fact, it was something she deliberately avoided thinking about.

Abigail took the photo back and handed Shaye a Social Security card. Shaye checked the information she had stored in her phone, and her pulse ticked up a notch. It was a match to the employment records from Wellman Oil and Gas.