blabbed the whole thing to Kirsten. That night Kirsten kicked him out.
That had been a year ago.
“She’s probably over it by now,” Gaudet said.
“Just a minute ago you said she hates me. Now you say she’s probably over it. Make up your mind.”
“I was just trying to make you feel better,” Gaudet said. “She’s definitely not over it.”
“Thanks, partner.”
A couple of minutes later, Murphy said, “It’s a good story. Even if she does still hate me, she won’t be able to pass it up.”
“You think she’ll keep your name out of it?”
Murphy nodded. “For an exclusive like this she will.”
“Because if she doesn’t-”
A red Camaro rolled past them, its aftermarket pipes rumbling and popping. It jerked to a stop half a block away.
C HAPTER S ix
Thursday, July 26, 10:30 PM
“You want me to go old-school on him,” Gaudet said, “snatch him by his hair and pull him out in the yard?”
“Let me talk to him first,” Murphy said as he and Gaudet climbed out of the Taurus and approached the house on foot.
Murphy knocked. He felt exposed standing under the bright porch light.
From the other side of the door a woman’s voice asked, “Who is it?”
Gaudet whispered, “You want me to go around back in case he runs?”
Murphy shook his head.
“Who is it?” the voice said again.
“Police,” Murphy answered.
“Who?”
“Bitch is stalling,” Gaudet whispered.
“Po-lice,” Murphy shouted, splitting the syllables. Some people were just too stupid to understand complex words. “Open the door.”
The knob turned. The door opened a crack. One eye, half framed by stringy blonde hair, peeked out. “What do you want?”
“We need to talk to Jonathan.”
The door opened a little more. The blonde glanced at the red Camaro parked out front.
“He’s, uh…”
Gaudet laid a meaty palm on the door in front of her face. “Open up or go to jail.”
The girl backed away and folded her arms across her chest. The two detectives stepped through the door. Murphy noticed the heat first. The inside of the house was like an oven.
“The AC’s busted,” the girl said. She was stringy like her hair, with hollow cheeks and muddy eyes, wearing a shapeless housecoat.
Murphy heard a baby crying. “Where’s Jonathan?”
“Feeding the baby.”
“We’re not here to arrest him,” Murphy said. “We just want to talk to him.”
The girl disappeared into the back of the house.
Murphy’s eyes swept the living room. It had been furnished from the Fred Sanford collection. Across the room, a banged-up TV sat on an overturned beer crate. Near the front door was a threadbare sofa and a scarred wooden coffee table, on top of which lay a pile of unopened mail.
Murphy took a step toward the table with the intention of thumbing through the mail, when Deshotels strolled in from a back room. The young felon didn’t say anything. He just stopped at the edge of the living room and stared at the two detectives like he was used to cops snooping through his personal belongings and knew better than to mouth off.
“We’re from Homicide,” Murphy said.
“Then I know you got the wrong place because I’m straight. You can ask my PO.”
Murphy nodded toward the sofa. “Have a seat.”
Deshotels glanced over his shoulder at his girlfriend, who had reappeared behind him. “Go finish feeding the baby.”
She shot Murphy and Gaudet a dirty look, then stormed off.
Deshotels was crank-head skinny, wearing a wifebeater and dirty jeans. He walked toward the sofa. Before he sat down, Murphy put a hand on his shoulder. “Just a second.”
Murphy flipped up the nearest seat cushion. Then he took a step forward and raised the middle cushion. He saw the chopped-down stock of a shotgun, wrapped in black electrical tape, sticking up from the crack between the seat and the backrest.
“Got a code four,” he shouted to Gaudet as he pushed Jonathan Deshotels back with his left hand and reached for the shotgun with his right.
Gaudet jumped forward and wrapped a thick forearm around Deshotels’s neck. Then he pivoted and used his 260 pounds to slam the skinny punk face-first into the floor.
The girl came screaming out of the back, but stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Murphy lifting the sawed-off shotgun from the sofa.
While Gaudet handcuffed Deshotels, Murphy held up the shotgun by the stock, using only his thumb and index finger to avoid leaving fingerprints. The gun was a double-barrel, over-and-under 20-gauge, with the barrels cut down to just over a foot.
Murphy looked down at Deshotels lying on his stomach, wrists cinched tight behind his back. “What is this, Jonathan?”
“I’ve never seen that before.”
“Are you saying this illegal shotgun, the mere possession of which carries a mandatory penalty of five years in federal prison, belongs to your girlfriend?” Murphy said.
The blonde’s mouth hung open as she shook her head.
Gaudet planted his foot on Deshotels’s back.
“I want to talk to my lawyer,” Deshotels mumbled through a mouthful of carpet.
“How about we call your probation officer instead,” Murphy suggested. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to come out here and start your revocation order right now.”
Gaudet jerked Deshotels to his feet.
Careful not to touch the metal parts of the shotgun, Murphy used a pen to open the breech. He dumped two shells of buckshot onto the coffee table. “If it’s not your gun, then your fingerprints won’t be on it, right?” he said.
“I… I might have touched it,” Deshotels said.
Gaudet dragged Deshotels toward the door. “Let’s take a ride.”
Inside a makeshift interview room that doubled as the Homicide Division’s kitchenette, Murphy and Gaudet sat across a beat-up breakfast table from Jonathan Deshotels.
“I’m going to ask you one more time,” Murphy said. “Where did you get the scattergun?”
“And I’m going to tell you one more time,” Deshotels said. “Blow me.”
Gaudet reached across the table and bitch-slapped him.
“What the fuck!” the kid screamed. “You can’t do that to me.”
Murphy fixed him with a dead stare. “We’re Homicide. We have different rules.”
Deshotels tried to hold the stare. He couldn’t. After a few seconds, he dropped his head.
“What were you doing cruising around Tulane near criminal district court Tuesday night?” Murphy said.
The kid cast a nervous glance at Gaudet. Then he let out a deep sigh, something both detectives recognized as a sign of surrender. The kid was going to admit to something.
“I took Lawrence out to get laid.”
“Who’s Lawrence?” Murphy said.
