Unsurprisingly, it was Nikki.
“Hey,” he answered, walking away from the cluster of vehicles that was parked near the gate.
“Another one?” she asked.
“Maybe. Looks that way,” he admitted.
“Jeanne LaRoux?”
“You know her?”
“Did a piece on her a few years back,” she said. “Dear God in heaven.”
“How did you find out?”
His question was met with silence, and he wasn’t surprised. Shenever revealed her sources, including whatever leaks there were in the department.
“What do you know about her?” he asked.
“Just what I wrote. She’s a widow who practices a unique kind of religion, part voodoo, part witchcraft, pagan stuff, but it also has a Christian bent to it. She reads fortunes and predicts the future, that sort of thing. I’ll tell you all about it when I get there.”
“You’re not … Nikki, don’t.”
But she’d already disconnected.
Swearing under his breath, Reed started to call her back when headlights cut through the night. He looked up to see an older-model Ford Bronco grind to a stop on the gravel shoulder. The driver, a big, bearded man, jumped from behind the wheel. He was wearing jeans, a navy blue jacket that stretched over his large belly, and thick rubber boots. He slammed the door of his Bronco shut and, ignoring the cops and vehicles and flashing lights, strode straight toward the gate.
“Wait!” Reed caught up with him.
“I’m looking for my mother,” the guy said and kept walking without so much as pausing, his big eyes wild beneath a fringe of dark hair and a baseball cap jammed onto his head.
“Your mother?” Reed repeated, then caught the guy by his elbow. “Stop,” he commanded.
At that, the man finally halted and glared down at Reed.
“You said you were looking for your mother?”
“Yeah. That’s right. She lives here.” The big man was glowering down at Reed, but his eyes finally lifted enough for him to assess the other officers. “Wait a second. Wait a fucking second. What the hell is going on? Is she in some kind of trouble? I told her to knock off all that looking into the future voodoo shit.” His eyes were on all of the police vehicles parked near the gate, the light bars strobing the night.
Reed took the opportunity to introduce himself. “Detective Pierce Reed.”
“Detective?”
The guy blanched.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news—”
“Oh, shit … oh … God, no! No, no, no!” Shaking his head, he started for the gate again.
“Stop!” Reed’s command rang out.
The man rounded on Reed. “Tell me she’s okay! Tell me my mom is okay!”
“I’m sorry to inform you that—”
“Noooo!” The big man wailed, shaking his head as he fell to his knees in the ruts of the lane. He grabbed at his cap, ripping it from his head, digging his hands into his hair. “No! No! No!”
Reed waited, letting this man, Granger LaRoux, he assumed, let out his shock and anger and grief. A meaty fist hit the ground. Once. Twice. Then in rapid succession until, breathing hard, he raised it only to let it fall to his side. His burst of fury spent, he exhaled a long, shuddering breath. “I knew something would happen.” Replacing his cap, he rolled onto his butt and sat on the ground, looking up at Reed from beneath the brim of the cap with a marlin stitched across the front.