“I left you a message.”

The detective opened his car door and flung his attache across to the passenger seat. He looked over his shoulder at Ray as he slid behind the steering wheel. “That’s because we got nothing to talk about.”

Ray pointed to the baby seat. “What did you say you had, a boy or a girl?”

LaGrange pushed the key into the ignition and cranked the motor. “A little girl.”

Ray stood just inside the driver’s door, one hand on the roof, the other on top of the door frame. “I need a better address on Sylvester.”

LaGrange tried to pull the door closed but couldn’t, not with Ray standing in the way and refusing to budge. “I can’t help you anymore. I told you I’m through.”

“How old is she?”

LaGrange looked confused. “What?”

With a nod toward the empty kid seat in the back of the Dodge, Ray said, “Your daughter, how old is she?”

“Three.” Suspicion clouded LaGrange’s face. “Why?”

Ray stood silent for several seconds, just staring at his old partner. Then he said, “I’d hate for her to grow up without her daddy.”

LaGrange’s face turned hard and his eyes narrowed. He let go of the steering wheel with his right hand and edged it toward the service pistol holstered on his hip. “What are you talking about?”

All you had to do was talk about a man’s kid, mention the little brat in just the right context, the guy got upset. “I need one more favor,” Ray said. “Then I’ll leave you alone.”

“I asked you a question,” LaGrange said, his right hand hidden by his side.

“Don’t blow a gasket,” Ray said, pointing in the direction of LaGrange’s concealed right hand. “I doubt you could get that piece out in time anyway. And even if you did, what are you going to do, shoot me?”

“If I have to,” LaGrange said.

“Why? I’m unarmed. I’m your ex-partner. All we’re doing is talking about old times.”

“You threatened my family.”

Ray shook his head. “No I didn’t. I was just talking about the good old days. You remember the good old days, don’t you? Back when we ran the French Quarter, back when we did all that crazy shit, all that illegal shit. But the federal government says I’ve paid for my sins. How about you, Jimmy, you paid for your sins yet?”

LaGrange eased his hand away from his gun. “The statute of limitations has run on everything we did. Nobody can touch me.”

Ray leaned closer. “Not on everything.”

LaGrange swallowed hard. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “What do you mean?”

“There’s no statute on murder.”

LaGrange was quiet. Then he wiped his hand across his mouth. “I never murdered anybody.”

They stared at each other in silence. Finally, LaGrange looked away.

“The Rose Motel,” Ray said. “Room fifteen.”

Right in front of Ray’s eyes, Jimmy LaGrange deflated like an old tire that had sprung a leak. “That was an accident.”

“You accidentally strangled her?”

“I was drunk,” LaGrange said as beads of sweat popped out on his lily-white forehead. “I don’t even remember what happened.”

“I remember what happened, and I remember where her body is buried.”

LaGrange’s breathing sounded labored. He was having trouble catching his breath. “You helped me put her there.”

“How old was she, fifteen?”

“She was a junkie whore.” LaGrange got his breathing under control. “There’s no evidence. It’s just your word against mine, and you’re a convicted felon.”

Ray shook his head. “You’re wrong, Jimmy. There’s plenty of evidence. They’ll start with the body. It’s just bones now, but bones can tell a story. Then there’s the motel register. I’m sure they keep the old registers in storage somewhere.”

The detective’s face went slack.

“You didn’t use your real name, did you?” Ray said, his tone mocking. He was enjoying watching his old partner squirm. “Even if you didn’t, the handwriting will give you away. Amazing what those lab guys can do, isn’t it?” Ray snapped his fingers, as if he had just thought of something important. “Hey, you think they keep phone records from that far back? Because I was wondering if she ever called you at home?” Ray watched a drop of sweat roll down the side of LaGrange’s face. “There sure are a lot of little loose ends, aren’t there?”

“You’ve got just as much to lose as me.”

“You’re wrong again, Jimmy.” Ray pointed to the kid seat again. “You’ve got a lot to lose. I got nothing.”

LaGrange reached for his attache case and stepped out of his battered Dodge. “Give me an hour.”

It took an hour and a half, but LaGrange slid a plain white envelope across the table to Ray. They were in the same yuppie coffee shop on Canal Boulevard. Inside the envelope Ray found two sheets of paper stapled together. It was an incident report about a car burglary. He asked LaGrange what this had to do with anything. LaGrange held up his hands. “We’re finished.” Then he got up and walked out of the coffee shop.

Ray lit a cigarette and read the report. This time the waitress didn’t bother telling him to put it out. When he finished reading, he was smiling.

Tony stood next to the pay phone at the corner of Saint Peter and Bourbon, drumming his fingers against the side of the aluminum booth.

He looked at his watch. It was eight p.m.

Patience wasn’t Tony’s style. He hated to be kept waiting. This was even worse. He felt like he had a target on his back. This whole setup stank. The waiting was just making him more paranoid. He kept looking around, waiting to catch someone spying on him.

An hour ago he was walking out of the House when a ten-year-old street urchin ran up to him and handed him a note. The kid was one of those tap dancers from Bourbon Street who danced with an upside-down hat on the sidewalk, tapping for tips. Tony took the note, gave the kid a buck, and told him to get lost. The kid said, “The man who gave me this said you would give me ten bucks.”

Fucking ten-year-old trying to hustle him. Tony crumpled up a five and tossed it in the gutter, told the kid if he didn’t get lost right now he would drag him up to the roof and throw him off. Did he think he could tap his feet fast enough to fly?

Tony unfolded the note and read the message scrawled in pen across a torn piece of notebook paper. Go to the phone booth down from Pat O’s. I’ll call you there.

When? Stupid bastard didn’t even say when he was going to call. Then there was the question of why. Why should Tony go to the phone booth? What kind of jerk-off sends an anonymous note? Who uses pay phones anymore? If the guy wanted to talk, why not call the House or Tony’s cell phone?

Unless my phones are tapped.

Tony and Rocco strolled through the Quarter toward the phone booth on the corner of Bourbon and Saint Peter, a half block from the door to Pat O’Brien’s. While they walked, Tony kept glancing around. He knew the guy had to be watching him.

The French Quarter was bustling with people. The tourists-some sober, most already bombed-and a handful of locals flowed through the streets looking for a good time. The air was alive with the sounds of jazz, blues, R amp;B, Cajun, and rap that poured from the bars, restaurants, and souvenir shops along Bourbon Street. The sounds of the French Quarter were unique. So were the smells: red pepper, Crystal hot sauce, shrimp, oysters, Tabasco, po’boys, Lucky Dogs, beer, urine, and vomit.

Tony felt like cracking somebody’s head, or having Rocco do it for him. Then the pay phone rang. Tony snatched the handset off the hook and barked into the mouthpiece, “Who the fuck is this?”

A man’s voice said, “How you been doing, Tony?”

The voice didn’t mean anything to Tony. Maybe he had heard it before, maybe not, but the guy talked like they knew each other. “Who is this?”

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” the voice said. “We’re going to do this my way.”

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