“Okay.”
“New Orleans is always wild. We’re famous for wild!”
“Yes.”
“Dan, those murders! So horrible.”
“Yes. Mrs. Leary—”
“And people, on the streets, they’re talking about buying dogs and shotguns. People are so scared! But when this is over, are they all just going to throw the dogs out?”
“I doubt that, Mrs. Leary. But guess what? I’m giving a press conference soon, and thanks to you, I will mention the fact that if people get dogs for security, they have to remember they’re bringing home a family member, not to be abandoned, okay?”
“Six,” she said.
“Pardon me?”
“People are getting crazy out there. There was a couple on the street. He played a violin, she was dancing. She had a card with a six on it in her hat, a steampunk getup. Then another man went up to her and ripped the card out of her hat! And he was yelling that the sign of six was not to be seen! He huffed off into the crowd, and she just looked after him, all angry. And she started shouting after him, ‘Six, six, six.’ What the hell? It’s a number!”
“No one hurt anyone, right?” he asked her. Mrs. Leary seemed upset.
She shook her head. “Just acting crazy.”
“You do have an alarm on your home, Mrs. Leary, remember? I made you get it two years ago? You remember to set it, right?”
“I will now,” she said sharply.
“Mrs. Leary, you make sure that you do,” he said.
“My good boy, thank you. Yes, I will.” She smiled. “And, of course, I have Muffy.”
Muffy was a Pomeranian, a little ball of puff. Not the kind of dog one associated with protection, though he did love his owner unconditionally.
“Muffy is great, but please set the alarm.”
“Oh, yes, yes, I promise,” she vowed.
Dan headed out, coffee in hand, only a few blocks from Jackson Square, the cathedral and the park with its striking statue of Andrew Jackson.
He cut down to Chartres Street and then followed the park to Decatur.
He was grateful to see that Katie’s carriage was just pulling back into its spot on the curb.
“The area was claimed by an explorer, a Frenchman named René-Robert Cavelier, Sieur de La Salle, in 1682. And then the city, Nouvelle-Orléans, was founded in 1718 by a man named Jean-Baptiste Le Moyne, Sieur de Bienville,” Katie said. “Lots of places’ names now go back—”
“Man, they had long names back then,” the boy with his dad in her carriage said, not being rude, just enthusiastic. “I see French names all over.”
“The city has been under several flags,” Katie said, drawing the carriage into its spot. “But the French founding runs deep.”
She turned to smile at the boy. He’d been great. His father had gotten the rest of the carriage to refrain from Axeman questions because his son was in the carriage. The other passengers, a young couple and two young women, had complied. The boy—his name was Tim, and he was nine years old—had asked all kinds of questions about the city that were easy to answer. Yes, the zoo was wonderful, and they should visit. The aquarium was also beautiful and informative, and both were great for boys his age and for adults. The National World War II Museum was first-rate—and yes, they had a restaurant, and yes, she had eaten there and the food was good. It was getting near five, though, so they might want to start out in the morning. If they headed to the zoo, they could also prowl Uptown and the Garden District, and if they had time, they could perhaps start at the aquarium and spend a few hours there and then head over to the WWII Museum in the CBD. But they could look up exhibits and maps and check on times best for them. And if they hadn’t done the museums in Jackson Square, those were great, too.
“I can see the document that gave us a third of America!” Tim said excitedly.
“The Louisiana Purchase, yes. You can see it. And there’s the Pharmacy Museum, the Jazz Museum, all kinds of things. Tim, I think you will love both the zoo and the aquarium.”
Her group crawled out of the carriage, thanking and tipping her. One of the young women paused as she and her friend took pictures with Sarah.
“You were great with that kid,” she said to Katie. “And you know what? I’m grateful his dad asked us not to talk about gruesome murders. First, I was thinking he should have hired a small, individual carriage. Then I was grateful. Oh, my God, that’s all anyone is talking about. And some nut this morning at our hotel was talking about six dead goats that had been found not long ago. How do you compare goats to people? Not that I have anything against goats, and I don’t want any animal suffering, but...the goats, to this dude, were a forewarning. Anyway, thank you. We were happy to hear about pirates and Mardi Gras and even storms—anything other than lunatic killers.” She was a pretty blond woman in her late twenties. She looked at Katie anxiously. “We’re in a big chain hotel on Canal, and they have security. We’re okay, right?”
“I would think you’d be okay. Just don’t open your door unless you’re absolutely positive about whoever is outside. I think, however, the killer—if he tries to strike again—will find a house. On a dark and quiet street. Canal... Well, there are people coming and going from clubs and Harrah’s around the clock. At a big chain hotel...too many people around all the time. Just be careful,” Katie warned.
The girl hugged her and gave her a nice-size bill. As she walked off, Katie saw Dan Oliver was there, casually leaned against the high fence that surrounded Jackson Square. She wondered how long he’d been watching her and if he’d been waiting for her last tour to return.
He was smiling, leaning back, one foot back up against the fence, his arms casually crossed over
