Into the Dark (34 page)

She gritted her teeth and resolved to stop crying. If she stuck with the plan, she’d have a chance.

Chapter Forty

“Coffee.” Chris handed Nathan a steaming cup of black goo. “Loaded with cream and sugar to cover the taste.”

“Thanks.” Nathan took the styrofoam cup but didn’t drink. He’d been relegated to the conference room while the search team gathered for a briefing. “I should be going out there instead of sitting on my ass.”

“Ugh.” Chris scrunched his nose as he drank. “We need a Starbucks. Or even someone in charge of making a fresh pot once a day. Christ.”

“I could help the search. I’ve been in the tunnels.”

“So have they.” Chris nodded toward the group of patrol officers in the squad room. “A lot more than you. Some even have contacts with knowledge of the tunnels.”

“I’ve got Snake.”

“I told them where to look for him.”

Nathan finally brought the cup to his lips. “Why am I drinking this if it tastes so bad?”

“’Cause you’ve been up at least eighteen hours. You need a pick-up.”

Nathan ignored the coffee’s stale taste. Emilie was the only thing on his mind. What had the Taker done to her? The Louisiana woman hadn’t been sexually assaulted, but criminals evolve. The Taker felt justified in killing Claire. Raping Emilie didn’t seem like much of a leap.

Emilie knew Nathan would never give up. He prayed she managed to stay alive long enough for him to find her.

“Search team’s heading out,” Chris said. “And here comes Avery. He looks like a nerd with afterglow, so he must have some information.”

Nathan met Avery at the door. “Anything?”

“Techs got the info from Vance’s computer.”

One of the department’s computer geeks had taken center-stage in Avery’s office.

“Did you find the letter?” Nathan asked.

 “No,” the tech shook her head. “But we’ve got some notes. Entries Vance made over the last few weeks while he was investigating your perp.”

“How is it that a middle-aged bank manager with a gambling problem can tail a dude like the Taker?” Chris asked.

“Vance is used to sneaking around,” Avery said. “He’s lived a double life for a long time.”

“But the Taker already knew that,” Chris said.

“He may have known Vance was following him.” Ronson stood behind the tech, peering at the computer through her reading glasses. “And didn’t consider him a threat because of the information he held over Vance. The Taker probably thought Jeremy Vance was weak enough to keep under his thumb.”

“Vance never actually followed him,” the tech said. “After the attempted kidnapping, he met with the Taker three times. Each entry is dated. First time was two days after the job. Vance confronted him about Davis, and the Taker 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.

“Every meeting took place there.”

“Specific location?” Ronson asked.

The tech shrugged. “They’d meet on Commerce and walk. Never more than ten minutes at a time.”

“Were the meetings prearranged?”

“The Taker provided Vance with a prepaid cellphone. Vance had to return it at their last meeting. He figured he was next on the Taker’s list.”

“So he writes Emilie the letter,” Chris said.

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

“Vance paid a lot of attention. He noticed the Taker 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 the Taker took his time. Vance couldn’t understand everything he said because he slipped into Creole.”

“Son-of-a-bitch 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 the Taker is?” Nathan paced the room. Vance’s information was turning out to be a bust.

“Because instead of going to the casinos, he started touring the arts district,” the tech said. “Vance was smart enough to believe he’d find the Taker there.”

“And?” Ronson pressed.

“He saw him twice, both times in high-end antique shops. Vance had the balls to get close and overheard the Taker negotiating purchases. Both times, he out-talked the sellers, countering everything they said with knowledge about the piece.”

“So he’s a rich bastard with a love of old shit,” Chris said. “Didn’t we know that already?”

“You haven’t heard the best part.”

“Get to it,” Nathan snapped.

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

“So what? The Taker was probably spying on Emilie.”

“Vance did see one thing of interest: the very same piece of art he’d witnessed the Taker 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. The Taker 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.”

* * * *

“Can I please sit up? This floor is getting painful.” Lumps of cement dug into her back.

“Of course,” the Taker 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.

She’d been so stupid. Sneaking out ensured no one knew she was missing. Had the Taker been watching the entire time? He must have been. Hiding in plain sight like always.

Nathan would know. He’d get the text and put two and two together. He would find her.

Emilie remained still as the Taker’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.”

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.”

The Taker broke into a wide smile. “You remembered.”

“I told you.”

The small camp light 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. His hands were large and thin. “And Claire? Do you miss her as well?”

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

“I see,” the Taker 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.

The Taker 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. I couldn’t imagine a better location for our new start.” He glanced around. “Until 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.”

* * * *

“Bougere’s Antiques is owned by Josephine Bougere.” Ronson tossed a file onto the conference table. “Augustin Bougere bought the property seven years ago.”

“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 Bougere. Their residence is listed as the apartment above the store.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“She’s dead. Employee we talked to said she died from breast cancer a year after the store opened. He identified our sketch of the Taker as Mr. Bougere. He never saw the mysterious Josephine. Her funeral was a private affair.”

“She never existed,” Chris said.

“She did on paper. 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, viney 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 the Taker’s true identity.

“Nothing but praise for Augustin Bougere. 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 his 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 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.”

Chapter Forty-One

“You must be hungry.”

“Starving,” Emilie said.

The Taker grabbed the light and stepped to the side. Emilie studied her prison. The room was barely large enough for the Taker 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,” the Taker 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. The Taker put a bottle of water at her feet and sat back down in front of her. “Drink up. You need to stay hydrated.”