In the Shadow of Evil Page 19

  "Sure will." George's voice carried a hint of enthusiasm.

  Maybe it was a start.

  "See you soon." He snapped the phone shut and dropped it in the console, needing both hands as he drove over the bridge.

  His pulse spiked. His stomach turned. He tensed to the point of aching.

  This had to be the highest bridge in Louisiana. He knew it wasn't, but it sure felt like it. And the curve . . .

  He gripped the steering wheel tighter. Very few people knew about his fear of heights. Stupid to have a hang-up over something that happened when he was sixteen. Falling off the balcony had landed him in a leg cast and benched him from football for a whole season. His friends had made fun of him for falling, and the healing had taken its toll. He'd never been able to breathe normally when not on solid ground since. The irony never failed to miss him—his father had been Special Forces and jumped out of airplanes while Maddox was terrified of heights.

  Finally he descended the bridge and sped to his exit. Maddox let out a long breath before turning toward Y Building Supplies.

  He pulled into the parking lot beside Houston's cruiser. His partner waited for him, leaning against the hood of his car. The man never ran out of obnoxiously loud print shirts. He smiled and straightened as Maddox stepped to the pavement. "About time, man."

  "I was in Eternal Springs. Didn't want to speed, ya know. Setting a good example and all that."

  Houston laughed. "Right." He pulled out his notebook and headed into the building.

  They went to the customer-service area and requested to see the owner, Ed Young. They were asked to wait, and moments later Mr. Young appeared.

  Houston showed his badge. "Mr. Young, I'm Detective Wallace and this is Detective Bishop. We need to ask you a few questions."

  "Certainly. Let's go to my office." The silver infiltrating the man's light brown hair sparkled under the overhead lights of the hall. He was probably in his midfifties but walked with a youthful gait. He waved them into a closet of an office. "Sorry for the mess. It's inventory time." He shoved boxes and stacks of catalogs from the threadbare couch.

  "This won't take but a moment." Houston took a seat on the edge of the couch. Maddox leaned against the wall.

  Young sat in the ripped leather chair behind his desk and lifted a silver lighter. "What can I help you gentlemen with?" He flipped the top of the lighter open, then closed it. Click. Click.

  "We understand you were the supplier for the Hope-for-Homes site."

  "Yes, I was." Click. Click. Click.

  "Did you happen to notice anything amiss with the site?"

  Young shook his head. "No, but I wasn't actually on the site much. I think I was only there twice. Once when the plans were laid out and then again when it was nearly complete."

  "I see." Houston wrote in his notebook.

  "I can get you the names of the truck drivers who delivered materials to the site, if that will help."

  "We'd appreciate that."

  Young set down the lighter and lifted his receiver. He asked someone on the other end to pull the file and bring him the information. He replaced the receiver and looked up at Maddox. "What else can I do to help?"

  "How well did you know Dennis LeJeune?"

  "Not very well. I know who all the building inspectors in the parish are, of course, but I knew Dennis no better than anyone else."

  "Do you know anyone who'd want to hurt him?"

  "Of course not. But as I said, I didn't really know him personally."

  Maddox pushed off the wall and moved toward the desk. "What about Layla Taylor?"

  "Layla?" Young blinked several times.

  "How well do you know her?"

  Young sat back in his chair. "I feel like I watched her grow up. Knew her dad pretty well. She's a fine contractor. I like her, and I like working with her." He sat forward. "But I'm sure you already knew all that."

  Maddox ignored the inference. "Can you think of anyone who'd want to hurt her or her business?"

  "Well, now . . . I can't think of anyone in particular, but I will tell you that a lot of men in the industry just don't like a woman contractor."

  Maddox could understand. At one time he'd thought the same thing. But now . . . "Like who?"

  "No one in particular. Just common knowledge. Of course, no one would say anything derogatory about Layla in front of me because I've let it be known that I like and respect her as a contractor."

  Maddox had no response.

  Houston jumped in. "How about her sister, Alana? What's been your experience with Second Chances?"

  Young flipped his gaze to Maddox's partner. "None. I don't have apprentices in the building supply business. I hire manual laborers and drivers and salesmen. That's pretty much it."

  Maddox moved to the edge of the desk. "What about the materials to make a bomb?"

  "Excuse me?" Young's eyes widened as he stared at Maddox. "A bomb?"

  "Yeah. Do you sell the stuff to make a bomb?"

  Young shook his head. "I wouldn't know. What do you need to make a bomb?"

  Houston met Maddox's look and gave a slight tilt of his head. "Just one last question, Mr. Young."

  "Yes?"

  "Where were you last Friday night between eleven thirty and midnight?"

  "Let's see, Friday night is my bowling night. We were at the lanes until well after ten thirty. I left there, went through the drive-thru at Wendy's, then headed home. I got there around eleven or so, ate my dinner, took a shower, and went to bed."

  "Was anybody with you?"

  Young laughed. "Unfortunately no."

  "Did you talk with anybody on your cell phone during that time? See a neighbor or someone when you arrived home?"

  "I didn't talk on my phone that I can recall, and I don't think any of my neighbors saw me. You'd have to ask around."

  Maddox took over the questioning. "Do you have any verification of what you've just told us?"

  "Wait a second." Young leaned forward, reached into his back pocket, and pulled out his wallet. He flipped through it, then passed a thin piece of paper to Maddox. "Here's my receipt from Wendy's. Does that help?"

  Maddox glanced at the time stamp of the receipt. Ten fifty-one. He handed it to Houston. "Thanks." He turned to the door.

  Young stood. "Anything to help. It's horrible what's happened to the Hope-for-Homes site. And Mr. LeJeune. And the break-in at Taylor Construction. And now that mess over at Second Chances."

  Maddox spun around to face Young. "How did you know about the break-in? It wasn't in the news."

  Young smiled. "Where do you think Layla ordered the replacement glass for the window from?"

  Right. Made sense.

  Maddox thanked Young again, then left the office.

  Another dead end. Maybe they'd get a hit with the plumber. Any kind of lead.

  And the sooner, the better.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  "The difference between stupidity and genius is that genius has its limits."

  —ALBERT EINSTEIN

  WHY WOULDN'T SLEEP COME?

  Layla flipped over to her stomach and glared at the clock on her bedside table. The hot shower had felt wonderful and relaxed her fatigued limbs. Her bed had been welcome and comforting . . . an hour ago. Now it was like a bad foldout cot on a construction site. She groaned and buried her face in the pillow.

  The room was dark, thanks to heavy curtains and shades. No lights burned in the entire house. The temperature was on the chilly side so she could snuggle under the down comforter. Silence prevailed—no radio or television to distract her.

  Yet sleep teased her, flitting just out of reach.

  Maybe she was too tired. Maybe with all that had happened, her mind couldn't shut down enough to fall asleep.

  She rolled to her back, snuggling the pillow against her chest. So much to do. Check on Pastor. Hopefully, the specialist from the CDC would have a clue what was making everyone so sick. She needed to call the insurance agent for Second Ch
ances and file a claim for Alana. She should call Ms. Betty and see how she was faring. And find out about Ms. Ethel's funeral arrangements.

  Tossing the pillow beside her, she sat and stared at the clock. Alana should be calling soon, letting her know she'd made it to Baton Rouge okay. Layla whispered another prayer for Cameron and Alana.

  She threw back the comforter and padded to the kitchen. If sleep wanted to remain elusive, she could at least be productive. She set the coffeemaker and turned it on, then leaned against the counter and looked out the back window.

  The bayou was so peaceful. Quiet. Calming in the way the wind lifted the curtains of Spanish moss off the cypress trees. Ripples cut over the water. Tranquil.

  The phone rang, causing her to jump. Silly to be so nervous. Maddox's talk about needing protection made her jittery. She was perfectly safe, locked tight in her house. Her haven.

  A second ring shattered her thoughts. Probably Alana checking in. She grabbed the cordless. "Hello."

  "Layla Taylor, please." An unfamiliar lady's voice. Very curt and businesslike.

  "This is she."

  "Hello, Ms. Taylor. This is Monica Hermitage with NARI. I'm the liaison for the CotY awards committee."

  Layla slid onto a kitchen chair. "Yes?" Her heartbeat echoed inside her head. Thump-thump-thump.

  Thump-thump-thump.

  "First off, congratulations again on winning the regional award. We had many wonderful entries so it's quite the honor."

  "Yes, ma'am. I'm very excited."

  "What I'm calling about is your entry."

  She wanted to vomit, could feel the bile burning the back of her throat. "Yes?" Lord, give me the strength to keep my dignity, no matter what.

  "Sometimes committee members like to visit the location and inspect in person. The address you listed doesn't have a specific owner's name. Could you please give me that information?"

  Here it was . . . the other shoe dropping. "Unfortunately, Ms. Hermitage, the building burned down last week."

  "Really? How awful."

  "Yes. The authorities have determined it was arson, so there is a full investigation ongoing."

  "I see."

  The long pause was palpable over the phone. Layla could picture the expression on the woman's face. The narrowed eyes. The creased brow. The frown.

  "Well, I'll report this back to the committee members." Was that a haughty tone?

  Layla's hopes free-fell to the floor. "I do have other photographs and specs on the house I could send."

  "I'll see if the committee would be interested in such." Definitely a snooty tone.

  "Well, let me know if you'd like me to send the additional photographs and information."

  "I will. Thank you, Ms. Taylor. Good day."

  Layla punched off the phone, resisting the urge to fling it across the kitchen. Her dreams of winning a national CotY had just died. She wanted to hit something. The person who'd done all this was her preferred target. In lieu of that, she fisted her hands and concentrated on breathing slowly. Pulling in clean air, pushing out anger.

  No one could understand her anguish, not even Alana. The loss of her father came over her just as strong as when he'd died. She laid her head on the table and allowed herself to cry. To release all the pent-up feelings she'd been pushing down—fear, anger, expectation, disappointment . . . grief. The tears flowed as did the yearning in her heart. How much, God? I can't take much more. Help me to understand. To accept. To move on.

  "AFTER WE LEAVE HERE, I'm running by the apartment to get some clothes, then I'll swing by Pop's on the way to Layla's." Maddox followed Houston up the stairs to Bob Johnson's plumbing business.

  "I've got to run home myself. Make sure the boys haven't destroyed the house before Margie gets home from work. She's pulling another double shift."

  "What's going on?"

  "That CDC specialist is running all kinds of tests on that pastor. Margie says the initial results show a poisoning of some sort. They're working to figure it out, and she wants to be around when all the tests come back."

  Maddox nodded. He'd like it to be figured out too, especially if Pop was attending that church.

  Houston opened the door to the office. "Let's do this."

  They had to flash their badge at the counter to be allowed to speak to Bob Johnson. Moments later they were seated in his office. The air reeked of stale smoke.

  Maddox took note of Johnson's appearance and demeanor. Stocky, maybe late forties to early fifties. Rough. And the way he crossed his arms? Totally on the defensive.

  Houston opened his notebook. "We understand you were the plumber for the Hope-for-Homes site."

  "Yes, I was."

  "And you employed three residents of Second Chances on the site?"

  "Yes. Darren Watkins, Sam Roberson, and Kenny Lindsay."

  Houston looked up from his notes. "You rattled those names off mighty quick. You can do that with all your jobs?"

  "No, but Layla had called me earlier this week and asked me about them and the site."

  And because of those questions, Second Chances lay in ruins and Layla had death threats zinged at her. Maddox inched to the edge of his chair. "And how did you feel about that? Her asking you questions?"

  Johnson's face reddened. "Well, I wasn't too happy, but she was just trying to help with the investigation."

  "I see." Maddox glanced at Houston, who picked up the questioning. "Did you happen to notice anything amiss with the site?"

  "As I told Layla, no, I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary."

  "I see." Houston wrote in his notebook.

  "And, no, I didn't know anything about any drugs being used on any of my sites." Johnson's arms over his chest were tighter . . . rigid. He'd locked his jaw, the muscle popping in his cheek.

  Maddox leaned forward. "What drugs?"

  "Look, I don't know what all Layla told you, but I've never seen anybody using, buying, or selling drugs on any construction site I've been on. Definitely not on the Hope-for-Homes site."

  Layla thought drugs had been involved on the site? This could take the investigation into a new direction. Why hadn't she said anything to them?

  Houston tapped his pencil against his notebook. "Layla thought there were drugs on a site you were on? On the Hope-for-Homes site?"

  Johnson's Adam's apple bobbed once. "Look, she just asked questions. One of the other Second Chancers I had on a site got high. Layla said the only time he'd been off the grounds was when he was working with me on another job." He uncrossed his arms and sat straight, poking a finger through the air. "But I assure you, there were never any drugs on any of the sites I worked. Ever."

  "Who was that Second Chancer? Was it Roberson, Watkins, or Lindsay?"

  Johnson shook his head. "It was a newer one on the program. Gavin somebody." He shoved his arms back across his chest. "And he was never on the Hope-for-Homes site."

  Houston scribbled.

  "What did you think of Dennis LeJeune?"

  Johnson twisted his gaze to meet Maddox's. "The inspector?"

  "Yeah. You heard he was the one murdered, right?" Everyone else in town knew—it'd been in the news and in the paper. If this guy wanted to pretend he didn't know . . .

  "I did hear that. Dennis will be sorely missed. What did I think of him? He was a good inspector, I can tell you that."

  Maddox didn't miss how Johnson had referred to the deceased by his first name. "How well did you know him?"

  Johnson shrugged. "I knew him from the business, of course, but he also was a bowler. Not on my specific team, but I saw him at the alley a lot. Was a pretty good bowler too. Played against him several times."

  Finally . . . a personal connection.

  Houston tapped his pencil again. "And what do you think of Layla Taylor?"

  Maddox studied Johnson carefully. The man's face reddened again. "She's a good contractor. A little intense, but so was her daddy."

  Intense? Yeah, Maddox could see that. "
And as a person?"

  "She's straightforward. Blunt. Sometimes guys don't take too kindly to that. Some have resented her."

  "Like who?" Houston asked.

  Johnson shrugged. "Nobody in particular. Just sayin' . . ."

  Again, no particulars. The industry. The guys. Maddox was sick of the generalities. "Do you know anyone who'd want to hurt Layla or her business?"

  "Like I said, I ain't heard anybody say anything bad about her. But guys talk amongst themselves."

  "But you're a guy . . . you haven't heard anything?" Maddox jammed his hands in his jacket pockets. Anything to curb the urge to take Johnson by his collar and ram him against the wall until he told the truth. And the stale smoke smell was giving him a headache.

  Johnson stiffened. "I'm a boss. I overhear things, but water-cooler talk doesn't come to bosses."

  This was going nowhere. "As a plumber, you know how to fit together pipes and things."

  Johnson shot him a quizzical look. "Y-yes."

  "Do you know how to make a bomb?"

  Johnson's expression went slack for just a moment, then he scowled. "What kind of question is that? No, I don't know how to make a bomb. That's a stupid question to ask a plumber. What does plumbing have to do with bomb making?"

  Quite the protest. Maddox leaned back and gave Houston a brief nod.

  "Only one question left, Mr. Johnson." Houston rapped his pencil rapidly against the notebook. The tapping echoed off the walls holding only business licenses. "Where were you last Friday night between eleven thirty and midnight?"

  "Bowling. It was a tournament. All the leagues were there."

  Maddox stood and crossed his arms over his chest. Sometimes intentional intimidation worked wonders. "Was Dennis LeJeune there?"

  Johnson looked up. "Yes, I believe he was. But his team was knocked out early. They didn't make it to the final cuts."

  "Did yours?"

  Johnson puffed out his chest. "We won first."

  Houston shifted in his chair. "What time did you leave the bowling alley?"

  "Right around midnight."

  Houston scribbled. "There are people who can verify this?"