A juicy-and vulnerable-sitting duck for looters.

Patti made her way there, thoughts whirling. The report could turn out to be false-many had in the past couple of days. If it wasn’t, who was the officer? How extensive were his injuries-and how the hell would she get him medical treatment?

Patti reached her destination. She saw another cruiser had made the scene before her. And that reports of private militia had not been exaggerated.

Four heavily armed men in camouflage stood at the neighborhood’s graceful, gated archway. Around them, private Hummers and a bulldozer.

She climbed out. The other cruiser’s driver’s-side door opened. One of her guys. Detective Tony Sciame. A thirty-year veteran of the force, Tony had now, truly, seen it all.

He started toward her. He looked like he’d aged ten years since she’d seen him last.

She didn’t mention the fact, knowing she looked it, too.

“What’s the status?” she asked.

“Not certain. I arrived a couple minutes before you. They wouldn’t let me in.”

“Excuse me?”

“Said they were in control of the area. Private security, hired by the residents to protect their property.”

Money might not be able to buy love, but everything else was for sale at a price.

They approached the guards. As they did, Patti saw a third cruiser inside the gate, several houses down. Her heart sank.

“Who’s in charge?” she asked the men.

“I am. Major Stephens. Blackwater USA.”

“Captain Patti O’Shay, NOPD.” She held out her credentials. “We got word of an officer down.”

He inspected her ID, then waved them inside. “Follow me.”

He led them through the gates and toward the third cruiser. She heard the hum of the generators powering the mansions. It was the way of the world, catastrophe affected the poor so much more profoundly than the rich.

And apparently, proved little more than an inconvenience to the superrich.

The victim lay several yards in front of the vehicle. Facedown in the muck.

“No badge,” the man said. “Weapon’s gone.”

As they closed in on the victim, the smell of death strengthened. Despite the heat, Patti’s hands were cold as ice.

“It appears the back of his head was bashed in by a heavy object,” the major continued. “Then he was shot. Twice. In the back.”

They reached the corpse. Patti gazed down at the victim, light-headed, the blood pounding crazily in her head.

“Decomposition’s too far along for it to have happened after the storm,” Tony said.

She opened her mouth to respond but found she couldn’t speak. She recognized this officer. From a lifetime together, sharing their trials, hopes and dreams. From nearly thirty years of marriage.

It couldn’t be true. But it was.

Her husband was dead.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

11:00 a.m.

Patti stared at the computer screen, at the almost two-month-old NOLA.com news story.

Decorated NOPD Captain Shot by Looters

9/01/05 8:10 a.m.

Captain Sammy O’Shay, thirty-year veteran of the police force, was found shot to death at Audubon Place. His body was discovered by fellow officers Wednesday. Police Chief Eddie Compass believes his murder to have been the work of looters targeting the affluent neighborhood. An investigation is under way.

What a joke. There had been no investigation “under way” then; there wasn’t one now. The city and all its agencies, including the NOPD, were in turmoil, their focus on survival. How did one investigate without evidence, equipment or manpower? Without facilities to house them all? Hell, parts of the city still didn’t have safe drinking water.

Patti frowned. She wanted answers. Absolutes. She didn’t even know for certain if Sammy had been shot before the storm hit, or after.

The chief had decided that Sammy had interrupted looters and been killed. It made sense, considering the neighborhood and timing. But if that was the case, why hadn’t she heard from her husband in the hours between their parting at the cathedral and the time when all forms of communication had been cut off?

Any number of reasons. More unknowns. Frustrating.

She massaged her temple, the knot of tension there, as she reviewed what she knew of Sammy’s death. He’d suffered a blunt-force trauma to the back of his head, suggesting that the killer had attacked from behind, catching him by surprise. He’d disarmed him, then used Sammy’s own gun against him, shooting him twice in the back.

His cruiser had been unlocked, the keys in it. The vehicle’s interior had been clean. When they found him, both Sammy’s badge and gun had been missing. The scene hadn’t been processed; any evidence that might have been useful was long gone now.

“Captain? You okay?”

Patti blinked and dragged her gaze from the computer monitor. Detective Spencer Malone stood at the door to what served as her makeshift office. Not only a detective under her command, he was her nephew and godson. He was frowning.

“I’m fine. What’s up?”

He ignored her question. “You were rubbing your temple.”

“Was I?” She dropped her hands to her lap, irritated. It’d been almost two months since Sammy had been killed, and being hovered over had gotten damn old. She hurt enough without being constantly reminded of her loss by people treating her as if she might shatter at any moment.

She was part of an NOPD family dynasty that included her father and grandfather, her brother-in-law, three nephews and a niece. But working with so many of her family members meant she had no way to escape the microscope.

“Just a little headache, that’s all.”

“You’re certain? Before your heart attack-”

“I was tired all the time? Rubbing my temples?”

“Yes.”

She had suffered a minor heart attack the spring before Katrina, but this was completely different. “I’m fine. You needed something?”

“We have a situation,” Spencer said. “At one of the refrigerator graveyards.”

New Orleanians had evacuated for Hurricane Katrina, leaving behind fully stocked refrigerators and freezers. Now they were returning to those same appliances, which had been without power all these weeks. Most people just strapped the reeking units closed and wheeled them out to the curb. There they were collected and hauled to various dump sites to be cleaned by the Environmental Protection Agency. These sites had earned the nickname “Refrigerator Graveyards.”

“A situation?” she repeated.

“A big one. EPA made an interesting discovery in one of the units. A half-dozen human hands.”

Patti decided she wanted to go on this call with Spencer. The EPA supervisor, a man named Jim Douglas, met them at the car.

“Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen,” Douglas said. “At first I thought Paul, he’s the one who was cleaning the unit, was pullin’ my leg. When you spend your day doing this-” he motioned around them “-a good gag’s a welcome thing. You know what I mean?”

“Absolutely,” Spencer murmured. “I’d say this detail gives new meaning to having a job that stinks.”

“You know it. Don’t worry, you get used to the smell.”

Patti didn’t bother telling him that one of the first, and most important, lessons a cop learned was to smear some Vicks under the nose before arriving at a scene where there was a “stinker.”

She had to admit, this place smelled about as bad as anything she’d ever encountered-and that was saying something. Her eyes watered even though she still stood at the periphery of the site.

The man led them to a trailer. “Got a couple HazMat suits and masks for you. You’ll want ’em.”

He motioned them inside, then handed them each a white Tyvek jumpsuit, complete with hood and booties, and respirator masks.