Into the Devil's Underground (37 page)

“Vance never actually followed him,” Carrie pulled her long, black hair into a ponytail. “After the attempted kidnapping, he met with our perp three times. Each entry is dated. First time was two days after the job. Vance confronted him about Davis, and Creepy threatened to expose Vance to the police and pin the entire thing on him.”

“Did Vance say where they met?” Avery rubbed his temples.

“18b.”

“The downtown arts district?” Nathan asked. The area was known for an eclectic mix of galleries, shops, and antiques. ‘18b’ represented the original area consisting of eighteen city blocks. The district had grown over the years, but the name had stuck.

Carrie nodded and went back to her notes. “Every meeting took place there.”

“Specific location?” Ronson asked.

“They’d meet on Commerce and walk,” Carrie said. “Never more than ten minutes at a time.”

“Were the meetings prearranged?”

“He provided Vance with a prepaid cellphone,” Carrie said. “Vance had to return it their last meeting. He figured he was next on your guy’s list.”

“So he writes Emilie the letter with the directions to this file,” Chris said.

“What else do the notes say?” Ronson asked.

“Vance paid a lot of attention,” Carrie said. “He noticed the man knew the arts district well. He even spent time during one meeting studying one of the store’s window displays.”

“Why?” Nathan said.

“Vance wasn’t sure, but his buddy took his time. Vance couldn’t understand everything he said because he slipped into Creole.”

“Sonofabitch even knew that.” Nathan ran his hands through his hair. “He better stay in that coma for his own good.”

“When did this happen?” Ronson tapped the corner of Avery’s desk.

“Their last meeting. Vance had planned to follow him but chickened out at the last second.”

“So how does he have any idea who Creepy is?” Nathan paced the room. Vance’s information was turning out to be a bust.

“Vance started trolling the arts district,” Carrie said. “He saw Creepy twice, both times in high-end antique shops. Vance had the balls to get close and overheard him negotiating.”

“This is all stuff we can figure out,” Chris said. “We know he’s an antiquities guy.”

“You haven’t heard the best part.”

“Get to it,” Nathan snapped.

Carrie raised an eyebrow. “The morning Vance attempted suicide, he was distraught over the bank teller’s murder. He had no idea she was an accomplice. He went to 18b, determined to confront Creepy. Spent hours looking but didn’t find him.”

“So what? Creepy was probably spying on Emilie.”

“Vance did see one thing of interest: the very same piece of art he’d witnessed your Creepy haggling over was for sale in another antique shop on Charleston Street. Front was designed to look like a plantation, and the window display was decorated with white jasmine.”

“The name?” Nathan crushed the now empty Styrofoam cup. Creepy was from Louisiana. He’d buried his first victim in an area loaded with historical Creole plantations. The antique store’s theme was no coincidence.

“Bougere’s Fine Antiques.”

*   *   *   *

“
C
AN
I
PLEASE
sit up? This floor is getting painful.” Lumps of cement dug into her back. “Of course,” Julian said. Emilie couldn’t think of him as Julian. The name was too refined for a man who’d murdered at least three people.

He took her by the shoulders, his grip firm, yet gentle. She swallowed back the nausea from his touch.

Her head spun when she was upright. How long had she been trapped? The darkness had robbed her sense of time. It could have been an hour or six.

Emilie remained still as Julian’s hands slid down her arms. He sat in front of her, his knee grazing her thigh, close enough for Emilie to catch the scent of coffee on his breath.

“Do you need anything else?”

“Light would be wonderful.”

“I suppose it’s only fair. I’ve seen you countless times. You probably don’t remember what I look like.”

“Tall,” Emilie said. “You had a beard. Nice eyes.”

He removed the blindfold, and the sudden flash of yellow light caught her by surprise. She blinked, willing her eyes to adjust.

A face gradually came into focus. It was long and lean with prominent cheekbones. A broad chin jutted out a bit too far, thick eyebrows, and lips that bore the hint of a smile.

“Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

“You shaved.”

Julian broke into a wide smile. “You remembered.”

“I told you.”

The small camp lantern cast just enough light to form a small circle around them. It wasn’t enough for her to gauge the size of her prison.

“What if they find us?” Emilie kept her voice even. “They know bringing me into the tunnels was your plan all along, Julian.”

“My name sounds much more appealing coming from your lips,” he said.

She attempted to smile. “It’s a lovely name.”

“As is yours. Chosen by your French grandmother, no doubt.”

“Yes.”

“You miss her terribly.”

“Every day.”

He touched her knee with large, thin hands. “And Claire? Do you miss her as well?”

Anger flashed through Emilie. Her lips twitched with the need to lash out.

“I see,” Julian murmured. “You’re not ready yet.”

He dropped his hand and shifted, his shoulders straight and back stiff. “To answer your question, we won’t be found.”

“The tunnels aren’t infinite. They’ll eventually come this way.”

“That’s debatable. Two hundred miles is a lot of area to cover, especially when cops fear the drains. Still, I didn’t want to take the risk.”

Her stomach knotted. “What do you mean?”

“A new hideaway had to be procured.”

Emilie reached her bound hands in front of her and felt around under the blanket. She hadn’t been on cement, but clumps of dirt and rocks. She wasn’t in the tunnels. She twisted and touched the wall behind her. It was earth. She was in a hole.

Julian watched her. What did he want to see? Did he get off on her fear? She wouldn’t give into the panic.

“Clever,” she said. “We don’t have to worry about being interrupted.”

“It’s funny how things work out.” His shoulders relaxed, his hands rested against the ground. “After you chose not to go with me at the bank, I was devastated. So much time had gone into creating the perfect home in the tunnels.”

“Because of the mural referencing Danté.”

His face lit up. “You understand the reference?”

“I remember you telling Mémé her edition was worth more as it was. And I suppose the tunnels are a good example of purgatory.”

He sighed with beaming pleasure. “I couldn’t imagine a better location for our new start.” He glanced around. “But everything changed, and I thought of this. It was right in front of me the entire time.”

Emilie forced a smile. “Some might call that fate.”

His eyes swept over her. “Fate it is.”

*   *   *   *

“
B
OUGERE’S
A
NTIQUES IS
owned by Josephine Bougere.” Ronson tossed a file onto the conference table. Augustin Bougere bought the property seven years ago,” she said.

“Where does Josephine come in?” Nathan rubbed his eyes.

“A couple of weeks after the loan closed, Bougere transferred ownership over to his wife Josephine. Their residence is listed as the apartment above the store.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“She’s dead.” A yawn cut Ronson off mid-sentence. She shook her head. “Employee we talked to said she died from breast cancer a year after the store opened. He identified our sketch of Creepy as Mr. Bougere. He never saw the mysterious Josephine. Her funeral was a private affair.”

“She never existed,” Chris said.

“She did on paper,” Ronson countered. “Both Josephine and Augustin Bougere were born in Lafayette, Louisiana in 1970 and ’71. Both applied for social security cards in 2000, long before the Cane River murder.”

“Aren’t you assigned a social security number at birth?” Chris asked. “My sister’s baby was given one before she came home from the hospital.”

“That wasn’t always the case forty years ago,” Ronson said. “A lot of people didn’t have them until they applied for a job.”

“So what took Bougere so many years to get his?” Nathan asked.

“This was pre 9/11,” Ronson said. “Government was a lot more lax back then.”

“Is there a marriage certificate?” Nathan asked.

“Yep. And birth certificates for both. Josephine’s maiden name was Labot. Probably forged and fake names, but the Louisiana field office is searching the Cane River area.” She handed Nathan her phone. “Look at the place.”

He squinted at the small screen. Bougere’s storefront was white with faux Corinthian columns on each side and an arched entrance. A small balcony jutted out from the apartment above, decorated with flower boxes.

“Go to the next picture.”

Ronson had zoomed in on the flower boxes. A green, vinyl plant with delicate white flowers filled the containers.

“Jasmine?” Nathan asked.

“Yep. He’s got a planter near the entrance too.”

“You think that means anything?” Chris took the phone and examined the picture.

“His first known victim, Marie Adrieux, was sent white jasmine. Could be a reminder of home. Or tied to whatever his trigger is.”

“What else did the employee say?” A glimmer of hope ignited in Nathan. They were circling Creepy’s true identity.

“Nothing but praise for Augustin Bougere,” Ronson said with disgust. “It’s just the two of them. Employee works full time, Bougere’s in and out. He spends a lot of time searching for new acquisitions. Travels some.”

“Says Bougere knows more about antiques than anyone he’s ever met. Doesn’t know much about Bougere’s past, only that he’s supposedly got a degree in art history and worked for fifteen years in one of the South’s best antique stores, first as an apprentice and then as a buyer. Never told the employee the name of the store—all in the name of privacy, of course.”

“He knew Josephine in childhood,” Nathan said. “I’m convinced of that.”

“Agreed.” Ronson nodded. “She’s got to be his trigger. The field office will find her.”

“If that’s her real name,” Chris said.

“It is. He’s trying to live as though she’s still with him. He’s not going to give her a fake name.”

“We know he left New Orleans in 2004—” Nathan started.

Avery entered the room clutching a stack of paper. “Nearly a hundred antique stores in the New Orleans area. This is going to take forever.”

Ronson looked at Nathan and Chris. “Let’s get to work.”

41

“Y
OU MUST BE
hungry.”

“Starving,” Emilie said.

Julian grabbed the light and stepped to the side. Emilie studied her prison. The room was barely large enough for him to stand upright and no more than six feet square. Plywood ceiling held up by two-by-fours, earthen walls.

He’d stuck her in her own personal vault. If she disappointed him like Marie Adrieux had done, he could leave her here to rot.

She strained to see the ceiling. It had to have a door of sorts. The light shifted. She quickly lowered her gaze.

“I’m sorry our space isn’t larger,” Julian said. “Your friend’s visits to the tunnels left me with little preparation time.”

“It’s fine.” Emilie took the plate he offered and balanced it carefully in her zip-tied hands. A shiny red apple sat in the middle surrounded by seven club crackers. “Thank you.”

She stifled a moan as she bit into the apple. He put a bottle of water at her feet and sat back down in front of her. “Drink up. You need to stay hydrated.”

A humiliating thought suddenly occurred to her. “What about when I have to go to the bathroom?”

He tilted his head to his left. “I’ve provided facilities.”

A bucket sat against the wall. It was covered by an embroidered, linen sheet. Tears popped into her eyes before she could stop them. “A bucket?”

“Don’t worry, Miss Emilie. It’s only temporary.” Julian patted her arm. “We’ll move to a more comfortable location when you’re ready.”

“Is there any way you could untie my ankles?” She’d been sitting with her legs stretched out for so long her ass was numb.

He studied her again.

“Julian, I promise I’m not going anywhere.” She kept her voice modulated. “I just want to get more comfortable. Please?”

He traced his index finger over his lips and hummed a tune she didn’t recognize. “Tell me about the negotiator first. His name is Madigan, I believe?”

Her heart raced. She worked hard to keep her face benign. “What about him?”

“Seems the two of you have been spending a lot of time together.” His mouth twitched. “In fact, I believe he spent yesterday evening at the Vances’ home. With you.”

“He did. I couldn’t stay at the hospital, and Agent Ronson didn’t want me to be alone. Nathan offered to keep an eye on me.”

“Isn’t that a bit out of his job description? SWAT’s a team operation, not a bodyguard service.”

“He’s interested in my case.”

An eye twitch this time. “And you.”

She had to convince him Nathan meant nothing to her.

“I don’t know about that. He’s fascinated by your escape and feels responsible. He thinks he should have figured you out.”

“Why?”

“He’s got a hero-complex. I told him you were too smart, and there was nothing he could have done. Guess he’s been trying to make up for his shortcoming.”

“A good man,” Julian murmured. “But what about you? What are your feelings for the stalwart Nathan Madigan?”

She’d fallen in love with him. But Julian needed to believe her feelings were ambivalent. Seeing Nathan as a rival would derail her chance at freedom.

“Like you said, he’s a good guy. I suppose I’d call him a friend of sorts.”

“And that’s all.”

“That’s all.”

He stroked his chin, again studying her with frightful scrutiny. She felt stripped bare.

Julian reached into his back pocket and drew out a Swiss Army knife. He turned the knife over in his hand and stared at it as if in thought.