“How did you find out about the house on Burgundy?”
“I got an anonymous tip,” he said.
Kirsten finished her beer.
Murphy watched her gulp down the last couple of swallows. He found it sexy as hell. “You remember our first date?” he said.
She set the empty beer bottle on the bar. “You took me to DiGiulio’s on Saint Charles.”
“All you drank was a glass of wine.”
“So?”
“So on our second date, you drank whiskey.”
She shook her head. “I know what you’re getting at, and that wasn’t our second date. It was our fourth. Plus we had gone out to lunch a couple of times in between.”
“So did you invite me to stay over that night because you liked me, or because you had been drinking whiskey?”
She smiled. “A little of both.”
He smiled back at her as he waved at the bartender, who was camped at the far end of the bar watching the TV news. Murphy saw his picture on the screen. The story of him gunning down the serial killer and rescuing the mayor’s daughter had been on every news broadcast for three straight days.
Murphy nodded toward Kirsten’s empty beer bottle. “You want another one?”
She turned toward him, a slightly seductive glint in her eyes. “I like beer,” she said. “Whiskey’s better.”
Murphy sits alone in his car. Beyond the glowing dashboard clock, the street is dark. It’s late.
In the three weeks since the storm, he and Kirsten have been seeing each other again. After his marathon interrogation, PIB has left him alone. He even managed to stay in the Homicide Division.
Mayor Ray Guidry is going down for the count. The feds have impaneled a special grand jury to investigate allegations that he demanded huge kickbacks from Katrina contractors. According to the Times-Picayune, several of the contractors have agreed to testify against him.
Murphy has almost stopped thinking about Marcy Edwards.
Things are going well. Except that for the last several days he has felt a certain… restlessness. A sort of jumpiness creeping into his body that demands action.
Staring through the bug-splattered windshield of his unmarked police car, Murphy sees an aging BMW sedan turn the next corner. As the car’s headlights shine in Murphy’s direction, he sinks lower in his seat. The car glides to a stop at the curb in front of a dark house in the middle of the block. Murphy glances at the clock. It’s 10:25. She worked even later than usual.
A tall woman with long dark hair climbs out of the driver’s seat. She slings her purse over one shoulder and drags a thick leather briefcase out behind her. She bumps the car door shut with her hip and treks up the walkway toward her front door.
Murphy watches as the lights come on inside the house.
