A light tap on the door, and Roland holds up the card for his room when I open it. We trade places, and I head down to where he’s staying. My carry-on suitcase is in the corner, and I quickly type in the code for the safe.
Taking out my light brown holster, I sling it over my shoulder and fasten the small buckle across my chest before slipping the black .45 Glock pistol into its leather case under my arm at my ribcage.
It’s loaded, and even though I hope I don’t have to, I’m prepared to use it.
Back in the room, Roland is reclined on the bed with sleeping Jillian at his side. The television is on with the volume turned low, and a flashy musical fills the screen.
“Where did they go?” he asks, eyes fixed on the show.
“Meeting some kids who work with Gavin,” I say, taking out my laptop and pulling up the New Orleans Police Department’s website.
“What for? Research?”
“I’m not sure. Lara didn’t think it was anything to worry about, so I let her go alone.”
“That’s very big of you.” I glance up, and that skeptical grin is on his face again.
“Yeah, well, I’m trying not to give her reasons to lie to me. I don’t want her running again.”
“She ran because she wanted to protect you. You’re a cop.”
“That’s right. I am.” And if I have to I sit here and wait, I’m doing my own research.
I type in my badge ID and password, and once I’m connected, I type in the words Guy Hudson and the address for the old theater.
The record of the fire appears, but no photographs, which is strange. Another surprise, his cause of death is listed as blunt-force trauma to the head, not smoke inhalation or fire.
Not what I was expecting.
The report states a beam or some other structure must have fallen, delivering a fatal injury as the victim lay in bed. His body was only partially burned in the fire, due to its location in a suite of rooms below the stage.
Rooms I know well.
“There should be pictures,” I say to myself.
“What are you doing?” Roland watches me.
His hand is on Jillian’s chest, and she’s awake, waving a tiny fist in the air and kicking both feet. Her little legs make shushing sounds in the soft duvet.
“Checking the police report for Guy’s death. I found it, but you’re right, a lot of the information I’d expect to see is missing.”
Standing, I go to the bed where my baby girl is moving around. Kneeling at the side, I slide my finger along her tiny fist until she grasps it. She’s so strong. Her blue eyes meet mine, she smiles, and even with my mind troubled, I smile back as I hold her little hand.
“I told you Gavin called in a favor,” Roland says, lifting her off the bed. “She needs to be changed. What are you trying to find?”
“I don’t know… anything.” I filter through the reasons for a partial police report. “Looking at that, I’m convinced something’s being hidden or covered up. Maybe it wasn’t Guy’s body they found—”
“It was Guy’s body.” My natural suspicion is piqued by his quick reply.
“What makes you so sure?”
He shrugs, but I can tell he’s backpedaling. “I was there. I saw Gavin’s face. I saw the clothes on the body… He was in his secret salon. It was clearly Guy.”
Watching him go to the door, my brows furrow. He leaves the room carrying Jillian, and I sit thinking. Would Roland help with a cover up? Why? Who is he most loyal to…
I think I know.
I return to the police database and enter Roland Desjardin. Nothing comes up. I try again using the theater as his address. Again, nothing comes up.