Gaudet relaxed.
Murphy whipped out his left hand and flung the handcuffs into Gaudet’s face. He lunged to the right and jerked his Glock from its holster. He snapped off three shots. Two bullets hit Gaudet high in the chest. The third put a hole in the wall. Gaudet fired once. His shot punched through the empty space where Murphy had been standing.
Gaudet sagged to the floor. His mouth hung open. He was drooling blood as he fought for breath.
Murphy stood over him while he died.
No one knocked on Murphy’s door. No sounds came from the hallway or the stairs. Nothing but the shrieking of the wind.
Gaudet weighed at least two sixty and was too heavy to move. Murphy knew that if he survived the night he was going to have to explain why he had killed his partner. But that was only if he survived the night. He dug Gaudet’s keys from his pocket. He left his ex-partner’s pistol on the floor where it had fallen.
When Gaudet had raced out of the back lot of the police academy this morning, he had Murphy’s gear bag in the trunk of his car. In that bag were Murphy’s bulletproof vest and two spare magazines for his Glock. He planned to use the five-shot. 38 to kill Jeffries, but he had enough experience to know that plans don’t usually work out the way they’re supposed to.
Murphy walked into his bedroom and pulled a shoe box from the shelf at the top of his closet. Inside, the. 38 was wrapped in an old yellow T-shirt. Murphy unwrapped the snub-nosed revolver and snapped open the cylinder. It was loaded with five rounds of. 38 +P hollow points. He tucked the gun into the front of his pants.
Back in the den, Murphy walked around Gaudet’s body, careful not to tread in the blood that had pooled on the floor. He opened the door and stepped into the hall. As he locked the dead bolt and turned toward the stairs, he heard a frail voice behind him. “Did you hear that awful noise, Mr. Murphy?”
He turned around. It was his shriveled neighbor. She stood at the far end of the hallway, near a picture window that looked out onto the street. “It sounded like a gunshot,” she said. “Did you hear it?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did. I think it was a transformer that blew.”
She was dressed in a shabby housecoat that she clutched around her throat with one arthritic hand. It was the first time Murphy had ever seen her not dressed.
“Are you evacuating?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. I have to work. I’m a policeman.”
She nodded. “I saw you in the newspaper, remember?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, you be careful.”
“You too.”
Outside on the street, Murphy walked around the block pressing the panic button on Gaudet’s key fob until he got close enough to the car to set off the alarm. He found the Caprice parked on a parallel street one block from his apartment. He opened the trunk.
Lying next to Murphy’s gear bag was Gaudet’s briefcase. To keep it closed, Gaudet had wrapped it with a bungee cord. Murphy carried his bag and the briefcase to his Taurus. He threw his gear into the backseat and sat down behind the wheel with the briefcase beside him. He turned on the dome light and opened the case. It was still stuffed with cash.
Protruding from an interior pocket was a leather datebook. Murphy opened it. A paper clip at the top of a page marked the current week. He flipped back through the weeks and saw marks indicating work days, notes on court dates, and in some places, initials with numbers beside them. Each number had the letter k behind it, as in thousands.
AD 25k. BH 50k. One entry from three months back read, “DWC 100k.”
Gaudet had kept records of his cash pickups for the mayor. Murphy had worked with Juan for years and knew he wasn’t stupid. He would have known that keeping such records was dangerous, but they were also evidence if things went bad and he ended up having to testify against the mayor. Gaudet had been planning on riding the mayor’s cash cow into the sunset, but if he got jammed up, he was going to flip.
Murphy dropped the datebook on top of the cash and closed the briefcase. He rewrapped the bungee cord and tossed the case onto the backseat. There was something more immediate he needed to worry about. He reached into his raincoat pocket and took out Richard Jeffries’s utility bill. He looked at the service location printed in the top left corner.
4101 Burgundy Street.
He felt the pressure from the. 38 revolver wedged into the front waistband of his pants.
Be there, Jeffries. Be there.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Monday, August 6, 7:45 PM
Murphy drove northeast on Rampart Street, past Louis Armstrong Park, which in better weather was a haven for dope fiends and thugs. Driving had become dangerous. The Taurus’s windshield wipers were on high, but they weren’t keeping up with the wind-whipped rain that blew sideways during the strongest gusts.
Catherine’s outer bands were here.
The streets were deserted. Anyone with the ability to get out of town had already done so. Those who couldn’t get out were hunkered down.
Where Rampart made a hard right at Saint Bernard, Murphy stayed straight and angled onto Saint Claude Avenue. He followed it twenty blocks to France Street and turned right. Two blocks up was Burgundy, a one-way street running back uptown. Murphy turned right. The darkness and heavy rain made it hard to see addresses. He idled past empty homes.
At the corner of Mazant Street was 4101 Burgundy. It was a big two-story house covered in peeling white paint. A wraparound awning, supported by a row of thin wooden columns, covered both sidewalks. The front door faced the apex formed by the intersection of the two streets.
Murphy turned right onto Mazant and drove past the gated driveway behind the house. A padlocked chain held the gates together. Parked in the driveway on the other side of the gates was a gray Honda.
Jeffries was inside the house.
A half block down Mazant Street, Murphy pulled to the curb. He killed the engine and the lights and made sure his foot was off the brake. Then he adjusted the rearview mirror and watched the house through the driving rain.
For ten minutes, all he saw was wind and more rain. Richard Jeffries didn’t choose any time during those ten minutes to pop out of the house and present himself as an easy target for Murphy.
I’m going to have to go into that house and kill him.
Murphy reached into the backseat for his gear bag and hauled it up front beside him. He dug through it until he found the two spare magazines for his. 40-caliber Glock. He shoved them into one of the pockets of his raincoat. He had fired three shots at Gaudet, which left twelve rounds in his gun.
The. 38 was pressed uncomfortably against his stomach. He pushed himself higher in the seat and pulled the snub-nosed revolver from his waistband. Out of habit he checked the cylinder again. Then he shoved his keys into his left front pants pocket and pulled his flashlight out of his raincoat.
He thought about putting his ballistic vest on but decided getting killed just might be the best thing that could happen to him. For a moment he wondered what the rest of his squad was doing. After finding the severed hand and the typewriter in Richard Jeffries’s apartment, they would know that Jeffries was the Lamb of God Killer. But had they found anything else that could lead them to Burgundy?
Murphy zipped his raincoat all the way up and pulled the hood over his head. He cinched the drawstrings tight and tied them under his chin. A gust of wind rocked his car and sent a plastic bucket tumbling down the street.
Holding the revolver in one hand and his flashlight in the other, Murphy pushed open the driver’s door with his elbow and stepped out into the teeth of the approaching storm.
