wind stirred to disperse them; their blue-gray haze fogged the area, making eyes tear and throats burn.
Returning to the scene, Jack had wisely decided to avoid the jam, parking the SUV on a quiet side street well outside the area of congestion. It was strategically placed to make a quick getaway in the event he had to move fast to follow up a hot lead. He only hoped he would be so lucky.
He made his way inward on foot, wearing his CTU photo ID card on a lanyard around his neck, flashing it when needed to pass through the phalanx of cops cordoning off the area.
The square fronted by the Golden Pole was sealed off by a line of wooden sawhorse barricades stenciled with the letters NOPD: New Orleans Police Department. The barrier held back a crowd of gawkers, sensation seekers, and the morbidly curious.
The club building was the bull's-eye at the center of concentric rings of security barriers and checkpoints. Within the police lines, there was that combination of bustling energy and hurry-up-and-wait delay characteristic of the official response to a major disaster or other catastrophe.
Police and emergency vehicles flashed their rooftop light racks, the colorful sparking of blue and red lights adding an oddly festive note to the proceedings.
Two-way radios filled the air with garbled voice messages and crackling static.
Groups of plainclothes detectives and crime lab techs milled around with purposeful activity. Supervisors and senior investigators moved among the forensics teams, coordinating their efforts.
Forensics and criminality teams did their thing. Police photographers took still photos and video records of the carnage on Fairview Street, picturing the battle zone from all angles. Weapons were collected, identified with the investigator's personal mark, labeled, and sealed into evidence bags. Shell casings received similar treatment.
Diagrams were made of where shell casings had fallen; the brass shells were then collected, identified with the investigator's personal mark, labeled, and sealed into clear plastic envelopes. Chalk outlines were drawn around the bodies.
The paramedics alone were at loose ends. There were no wounded requiring medical attention.
The dead were bagged, tagged, and carted away.
Jack scanned the scene, looking for Pete Malo, spotting him standing on the sidewalk outside the Golden Pole's front entrance. Pete saw him at the same time and gave him the high sign, signaling him to come over. Jack slipped through the crowd, joining him.
Pete was not the demonstrative type, but there was about him an air of barely contained excitement. He motioned to Jack to step aside, out of the human traffic flow, into an alcove to one side of the club's front entrance.
He said, 'Any sign of Vikki or Paz?'
Jack shook his head. 'Not a trace. Not that I really expected to find anything. It was a long shot, but one I had to take. If I hadn't, I'd be kicking myself in the butt, wondering what would have happened if I had, if maybe I would have let the chance of catching them slip through my fingers.'
'Trying to take back the initiative.'
'You could say that, Pete. I take it that they're both still among the missing.'
Pete nodded. 'That's right. But all is not lost. There's been a few interesting developments since you left.'
Jack felt the excitement rising in him. 'You've got something?'
'A lead, a definite lead on one of the shooters.'
'Ah. That's great, Pete. Which one?'
'The guy riding shotgun in the truck.'
'Who is he?'
'I'll let you hear it from the horse's mouth. Come on.'
'Where are we going?'
'Inside the club. There's someone I want you to meet. Two someones, actually.'
'Who are they?'
'Cops.' Seeing Jack's lackluster expression, Pete added quickly, 'Not just any cops. These guys are something else. Two of the crookedest cops in New Orleans, if not the planet.'
'Sounds promising.'
'I have to warn you. They're a couple of characters who look like they just fell off the turnip truck, but don't let that fool you. They get results, and what they don't know about the local crime scene isn't worth telling.'
'I'm all ears. Let's go.'
'They're minding a couple of witnesses inside. The club manager and a couple of dancers who worked with Vikki.'
'Lead on.'
The CTU agents crossed to the front entrance of the Golden Pole. The door was guarded by a uniformed police officer, who nodded in recognition when he saw Pete. He lifted a hand in greeting. 'Hey, Pete.'
'Hey, Randy Joe,' Pete replied.
The cop stepped aside to allow Pete to enter. Pete went in, Jack following. Jack held the ID card worn around his neck, tilting it so the cop could get a look at it. The patrolman barely glanced at it, waving Jack through.
Inside, the space was dim, cavelike, and coolly air-conditioned. The building was a rectangle whose short end fronted Bourbon Street and whose long sides met it at right angles. The long walls were made of rough, unpainted brick and were lined with tables and chairs. What few windows there were, were painted over with black paint.
The centerline of the space was dominated by a U-shaped wooden bar whose open end was at the rear of the structure. The open space inside the U was where the bartenders worked. The inner wall was lined with stainless steel sinks and coolers.
Opposite the twin ends at the top of the U was a stage platform level with the wooden bar top.
The stage featured a row of three gold-painted, vertical firemen's poles for dancers, the golden poles for which the place was named. The stage was at the same height as the bar top, so the dancers could step across on to the bar top and use it as a runway, allowing them to mingle with the drinking crowd lining the outer wall of the bar. They could work close with the clientele and pry loose better tip money from them with more personalized attentions.
Hinged half doors at the tops of the U allowed for entry and exit to the bartenders' area. Near the stage, a passageway led off into a couple of back rooms, where patrons could hire themselves some 'private dances' (or whatever).
Bar stools lined the outer side of the U. The club was closed now and the stools were empty, or mostly empty. A handful of them down at the bottom of the U were occupied by two women and a fat man. They were bracketed by a man who looked like a retiree and was dressed in green, and a long, tall fellow with a mournful face.
A muscleman in a tight white T-shirt and white jeans stood behind the bar, chatting with the others.
Pete nudged Jack, saying out of the corner of his mouth, 'The two characters bookending the group are Dooley and Buttrick, our cop friends. Try not to laugh.'
Jack said, 'No worry about that. I'm not in a very humorous mood this morning.'
'This may pick up your spirits.'
The elderly man sat facing the door. When he saw Jack and Pete enter, he slid off the bar stool and went to them. He approached them at a tangent, motioning for them to meet him off to one side of the club, away from the others seated at the bar.
Jack and Pete changed direction to meet him. Pete said, low-voiced, 'That's Sergeant Dooley. Don't let that old codger act of his fool you. He's killed twenty-eight men in the line of duty. And who knows how many more, off the books.'
Jack appraised Dooley with newfound interest. He was a prematurely elderly middle-aged man with a turtle's face: hairless, wrinkled, beaky. His head seemed too heavy for his neck and hung down between stooped shoulders. It was topped by a soft fabric, light-colored fisherman's hat.
He wore a yellow-green sport shirt, dark green golf pants, and green boat shoes.
