“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” he said.

She laid her palms on the table. Her cell phone vibrated but she ignored it. “What if I told you it had been used to kill a cop?”

Now he looked ill. “I want a lawyer.”

“Of course you do. You need one, Mr. Franklin. I can assure you of that.”

“I found the piece.”

“Where?”

“In City Park. It was half buried, folded up in a towel inside a black garbage bag. I tripped over it. I swear!”

City Park. Where Sammy’s badge and the Jane Doe had been found. “Where in the park?”

“The lagoon. The one by the art museum, along City Park Avenue.”

A ways from where the badge had turned up. But considering the size of the city and where Sammy had been killed, suspiciously close.

“When was this?” she asked.

“A while ago.”

“How long? Best guess.”

“A year. Yeah, that’s right. It was starting to get hot.”

“You have the towel?”

“Please.” He shifted. “Besides, it was a mess.”

“A mess. What does that mean?”

“Stained.”

“Blood?”

“Dunno. I tossed the towel and kept the piece. I’ve never fired it.”

“Why’d you file the serials off?”

“I didn’t!”

“Maybe because you knew the gun belonged to a cop?”

“No! I found it that way-”

“I guess you’re just an all-around bad guy, aren’t you, Ben? A rapist and now a cop killer.”

“This is bullshit! I’m not saying another word until I have a lawyer.”

Patti wanted to push more but knew better. Besides, until the ballistics report came back, she was operating on little more than wishful thinking.

“Then let’s get you some representation, Mr. Franklin.”

Patti pushed away from the table, stood and crossed to the door. There she stopped and looked back at him.

“You never told me, where were you during Hurricane Katrina?”

“Stuck on a fucking roof for three days. Where were you? Looting stores?”

“No, Mr. Franklin. I was rescuing assholes like you from rooftops.”

Saturday, April 21, 2007

2:50 p.m.

Stacy sat slumped behind the wheel of her parked car, watching the house. Nice place. Very upscale. Garden District address.

Location. Location. Location. Wasn’t that a Realtor’s mantra, after all? Seemed Mr. Gabrielle followed his own advice.

She reviewed what she knew about the suspect-forty-six, married with two kids, successful businessman. Friend to the Audubon Zoo and the library.

Frequented titty bars-one in particular. Manufactured and distributed methamphetamine.

Not your typical Realtor.

Her cell phone vibrated; she saw it was Spencer.

“Yo,” he said when she answered. “What’s up?”

“Not much. Keeping an eye on Gabrielle’s house. Figured I’d do a drive-by of some of the properties he’s got for sale.”

“This a solo recon?”

“With my captain’s okay. How’d you know?”

“I know you, Killian. It’s Saturday. You’re working undercover all night. Where else would you be on your day off?”

“Are you suggesting I’m all work and no play?”

“Sorry, babe, but I call it as I see it.”

“That’s not what you said last night, babe.”

“Don’t be bringing that up. I’m in public.”

She laughed softly. “What was Patti’s big find?”

Spencer explained about the fridge magnet and visiting Quentin and Anna. “We got a big hit, right out of the gate. Ex-con. In possession of a Glock.45 with the serials removed.”

“You’re running ballistics?”

As no two weapons left identical impressions upon discharging, every spent bullet and casing carried a sort of “fingerprint.” A technician would fire this gun into a box of thick gel, retrieve the bullet and compare its markings-or fingerprint-to the ones from the bullet taken from Sammy using an Integrated Ballistics Identification System machine.

“Could it be so easy?” Stacy asked. “After two years of not knowing?”

“Patti sure hopes so. She’s overseeing it herself. Poor bastard,” he added, referring to the ballistics expert. “He’s going to have her hot breath on his neck until she gets an answer.”

“Uh-oh,” she said as the door to Gabrielle’s home swung open. “There’s activity.”

“Meet me for a burger later? Shannon’s at five?”

She agreed and hung up.

Marcus Gabrielle was a handsome man. Dark hair and eyes, nice build. Today dressed in tennis whites. The picture of health and personal success.

Stacy shifted her gaze to his wife. Blonde. Pretty. Looked to be considerably younger than Gabrielle, maybe ten years. They had two kids, a boy and girl. From the dossier, she knew them to be seven and nine. Cute. Appeared to be well behaved.

Stacy narrowed her eyes, studying the foursome. They were smiling, conversing with one another. Relaxed. Happy. The picture of the American dream.

American nightmare, more like.

They crossed to the Mercedes sedan parked in the drive. Gabrielle opened the car door for his wife; she kissed him, then slid into the vehicle. The kids piled into the back seat.

Stacy shook her head. Why would Gabrielle take the chance of messing that up?

Greed. Zero love for anyone but himself. Totally screwed value system.

Same old story.

She still didn’t get it.

Gabrielle watched until the Mercedes had turned right at the end of the block, then he headed to his own vehicle-a silver Porsche Boxster. He tossed his equipment bag in, then climbed behind the wheel.

A moment later, he rolled right past her without glancing her way. Stacy gave him a safe lead, then followed.

By the tennis gear, she assumed he would head to the New Orleans Country Club, where he was a member. Instead, he headed downtown and into the French Quarter.

Yvette was waiting on the corner of North Peters and Conti Street. Gabrielle drew to the curb and she hopped in.

So much for tennis at the club.

She was dressed in a simple print blouse and a pair of trousers. Sling-back pumps. A totally different girl from the one on the stage the night before.

Practicing to be a Realtor?

Now that was kinky.

The French Quarter was a crisscross of narrow, one-way streets. Stacy followed Gabrielle as best she could, at times forced to anticipate his next move. She managed to keep them in sight until he turned onto Rampart and a delivery truck cut her off, then stopped, blocking the narrow street.

By the time she made it onto South Rampart, Gabrielle and Yvette were long gone. She drove around the area for twenty minutes, in the hopes of spotting the Boxster, then gave up.

If they had been heading for a rendezvous, why had she been dressed so conservatively? Because it turned him on? Hardly, the guy was a strip club regular. Clearly he liked to play on the wild side.

She glanced at her watch. After four already. She had enough time to do drive-bys of a few of Gabrielle’s listings and still meet Spencer at Shannon’s by five. Tonight she would try to get some information out of Yvette.