“Whose name is on the deed?”
“Cindy Leboux.”
Patrice’s aunt, the one who had raised her. Why the hell was she living with her family in that $40,000 house in Baton Rouge when she owned a four- million-dollar estate in Lakewood? “So if somebody wanted that body re-examined by the coroner’s office, what would they have to do?”
“It would have to be requested by the family and if everyone in the family didn’t agree to it, there could be a court battle which would take some time...and it would be up to the judge to decide if it was necessary or not.”
“What about the police?”
Logan frowned. “They could get a court order for it, but only if it was an open case...or if some new evidence turned up. But they closed this case pretty tightly a long time ago. I doubt anyone has even looked at this file in years.”
Blackheart nodded. Something was bugging him about the whole thing, and he really wished it wasn’t. He would like to walk away, believing the young woman had killed herself, and his daughter...if she was his daughter...had grown up to do okay for herself despite it all. But he rarely left things alone that he worried might come back to bite him or the club later...and this one gave him the feeling that it might. When Patrice met him at the coffee shop she’d had copies of pages out of her mother’s diary. Blackheart had just skimmed through them, but it wasn’t hard to tell that the woman had spent time trying to articulate her feelings and pouring them out onto the pages. It bothered him that a woman who would write in a diary every day, pouring out her heart, would simply up and decide to kill herself one day without leaving a word behind. Sally was right, the fact that she hadn’t even left a note for her daughter was just too weird. Wouldn’t she want her family to know why she’d done what she’d done, especially her daughter who was going to grow up without her?
Blackheart pulled the copy of the police report out of the coroner’s file. Patrice said she saw it, but he wanted to see it for himself. She was right, they’d barely done anything that could be called an “investigation.” It was one page long, and by the end of the typed summary the cop had concluded it was a “probable suicide.” An addendum written three days later listed names of “witnesses”—three people on the street when she landed, and a woman in the room next to hers who heard her scream right before she would have jumped. No one saw anyone other than Kasey. No one saw anyone come in or out of that room before the police broke down the door and found the screaming baby inside. By that time the coroner’s report was done, and the manner of death was concluded to be suicide by the coroner himself and the case was closed.
“This address in Maine, that was her home address?”
“Yeah. The report said she was home for her daddy’s funeral. Not sure why she was at a hotel and not that big, fancy house her mama and daddy lived in, especially with a baby.”
That bothered Blackheart too. He couldn’t be sure, but something in his gut told him there was more to Kasey’s rift with her parents than having a baby out of wedlock. She’d been in Maine for over a year by that time, she must have had a life there...friends, a boyfriend, maybe. Patrice said she’d had a job, she’d talked about it in her diary. He wondered if her family ever contacted them, or her landlord, or any of her friends. It seemed to him that even if the police didn’t look into her life, her family would have. If it were his family, his daughter or one of his sisters, he would want to know why...
“These copies are for me?” he asked Logan.
“Yep.”
Blackheart lay two twenties on top of the check the waitress had left them and then slid two hundreds across the table to his friend. “Thanks, John.” Logan took the money, folded it, and stuck it in his breast pocket. He and Blackheart went all the way back to grade school in the swamps together. John Logan made a decent wage working for the coroner’s office, but he made enough to buy a house for him, his wife, and their four kids in the Garden District, working for the Jokers.
“No problem. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“You can bet on it.” Blackheart took the file and went back out into the warm night. It was creeping up on ten o’clock so he stuck the files in his saddlebag where they could wait until morning. Sally was waiting for him tonight, and he wasn’t going to disappoint her, or himself.
Gabe found the spot where Chance was supposed to be waiting for him, but he wasn’t there, and he hadn’t seen his bike anywhere along the way either. With a curse, he shone the light around, looking for tracks, but to no avail. The trail was thick with water, seeping up from underneath the brush. It was too wet to hold any tracks and there were no other clues as to which way Chance might have gone. He decided to continue on down the path he was on, stepping carefully and keeping the light pointed downward to make sure he didn’t step on anything he might piss off. He wished he had thought to grab his wading boots and he cursed himself for coming out to the swamp so unprepared.
He walked for what seemed like miles before at last hearing the sounds of something heavy slapping up against the muddy bank. Stopping, he cautiously shone the light around again, and this time it landed on a rusty old pirogue. He was approaching it slowly, light out in front of him when he heard the groans. With another curse, he reached back and pulled the pistol out of his jeans, and with it out in front of him with one hand and the light in the other, he finished making his way over to the canoe. The light caught the muddy sleeve of Chance’s white t-shirt first. His brother was lying in the pirogue on his side, his body covered in mud or blood; in the dim lighting it was hard to tell.
“Chance? Hey! Chance!” Gabe put the gun away and the light in his mouth. Using both hands, he pulled the pirogue in closer and touched his friend on the shoulder. Chance groaned again, which was good because it meant he was alive, but on closer look Gabe wasn’t sure that would last long. Chance’s face was swollen and the mud all over him was mixed heavily with blood that flowed out of the top of his blond head and down along the side of his face. His breathing was ragged and it was obvious he was in pain each time he tried to draw one in.
Panicked, but sure he needed to get his brother some help as soon as possible, Gabe looked around him for something he could use to steer the canoe. There was no way he’d be able to carry Chance on land so they’d have to get as far up the swamp as they could, at least back to where his bike was parked and maybe he’d have some cell service. It took him several minutes but he finally found a stick that was about four feet long and thick enough it wouldn’t snap off in the muddy water. He had to push his big, heavy friend over so that he could fit into the pirogue with him and then, wincing every time Chance groaned, he moved him again, trying to balance his weight against the flat bottom of the boat, so they didn’t simply end up capsizing the light little rig before they got anywhere. Chance’s shirt, vest, and jeans were covered in blood and now sweat was rolling off Gabe’s face and down his back. He stepped out of the boat and in knee-deep swamp water, he began pushing it out further in the water. By the time the water was waist deep he figured he’d be able to steer it, or at least he hoped so. Carefully, he pulled himself in next to Chance, almost flipping it over twice before he was able to get in. Then the trick was to get up on his knees so that he could even out his own weight and reach the water with the stick to paddle the boat.