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Authors: Polly Iyer
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Moran’s house if not to help the police?”
“We were giving it a shot. We’re trying Henry Winstead’s car next. You’ve heard about that one, haven’t you?”
“The drunk in Bayou St. John? Sounds more like guilt catching up with the guy for killing a whole family. Why, you think his death and Moran’s are connected?”
“Probably not. We’re thinking someone in Winstead’s victims’ family paid him back.”
“You mean out of revenge? I’d understand if they did.” Chenault polished off the last of his lunch and pushed his empty plate aside. His phone beeped again, and again he ignored the message. “Gotta go. Hope your lady gets lucky.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it.”
“Guess not. It’s still creepy.” He got up. “We should do lunch again sometime, Ernie.”
“Yeah, sure.” Don’t bet on it .
Chenault waved to a couple of people across the room and strutted out the door. What about the guy set Lucier’s antennae on high alert? He wondered whether old feelings for him were getting in the way of his objectivity. Chenault’s cocky strut, smug attitude, and perfectly groomed hair irritated the hell out of him.
He threw a tip on the table, which Chenault failed to do, and left. If Chenault was involved in Moran’s murder, Winstead’s, or both, he was a cold bastard.
Lucier pictured Mathieu Soulé with the hole in his forehead. Then he pictured Chenault behind bars.
Better leave the visions to Diana .
Chapter Twelve
Who’s the Boss?
H odge finally got through to Chenault. “Call me back on the other phone.”
“I couldn’t talk,” Chenault said when he called Hodge back. “I was at lunch with Ernie Lucier.”
“Lucier? What the hell did he want?”
Chenault repeated the lunch conversation. “Someone at Kitty’s saw me pick up Moran after work. I couldn’t deny we were friends.”
Shit . “Moran’s email account is protected like the Pentagon’s, but I bet he sent the email to someone else because he knew he was doomed.”
“Lucier also mentioned Winstead.”
Hodge paused a long time, wiped the sweat off his forehead. “He’s fishing, but we’re still in deep shit. I’ll keep working on Moran’s email when I get home today.”
Hodge hung up. Lucier was onto Chenault. Tying Chenault to Moran and mentioning Winstead was a bad sign.
Hodge punched in one number, waited for an answer, and explained what had happened. “He wanted to keep his relationship with Moran secret.”
“I make it my business to know everything about the men I work with. Lucier won’t quit. That’s not his style.”
“If he has something concrete,” Hodge said, “Chenault will give us all up to save his ass. That’s his style. Don’t even mention Alba. I don’t think either one of us feels like spending the rest of our lives on death row, waiting for the needle.”
“The way I see it, we have no choice.”
Hodge’s stomach turned over. “Christ.”
A long silence preceded “The problem will end there.”
Hodge agreed. He didn’t see any other way. It came down to Chenault and Alba against the rest of them and the good of the mission.
“We need to discuss this, the sooner the better. Are you free tonight?”
“I can be,” Hodge said.
“Good. Contact the others. We can kill two birds with one stone.”
An adage couldn’t be more perfectly stated . “You’re the boss.”
“Don’t forget it.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Blue Door
L ucier returned to an empty office. Halloran was checking out the family members of Winstead’s and Soulé’s victims. Beecher and Cash were searching the Lower Ninth Ward for an abandoned house with a blue door, probably hanging on its hinges or kicked to the ground.
Lucier wanted to question Chenault’s alibis, Hodge, Feldman, and Alba, without involving an outsider. He’d wait for his team to return. In the meantime, work had piled up on his desk demanding his attention.
Two hours later, Beecher called. “Abandoned
“We were giving it a shot. We’re trying Henry Winstead’s car next. You’ve heard about that one, haven’t you?”
“The drunk in Bayou St. John? Sounds more like guilt catching up with the guy for killing a whole family. Why, you think his death and Moran’s are connected?”
“Probably not. We’re thinking someone in Winstead’s victims’ family paid him back.”
“You mean out of revenge? I’d understand if they did.” Chenault polished off the last of his lunch and pushed his empty plate aside. His phone beeped again, and again he ignored the message. “Gotta go. Hope your lady gets lucky.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it.”
“Guess not. It’s still creepy.” He got up. “We should do lunch again sometime, Ernie.”
“Yeah, sure.” Don’t bet on it .
Chenault waved to a couple of people across the room and strutted out the door. What about the guy set Lucier’s antennae on high alert? He wondered whether old feelings for him were getting in the way of his objectivity. Chenault’s cocky strut, smug attitude, and perfectly groomed hair irritated the hell out of him.
He threw a tip on the table, which Chenault failed to do, and left. If Chenault was involved in Moran’s murder, Winstead’s, or both, he was a cold bastard.
Lucier pictured Mathieu Soulé with the hole in his forehead. Then he pictured Chenault behind bars.
Better leave the visions to Diana .
Chapter Twelve
Who’s the Boss?
H odge finally got through to Chenault. “Call me back on the other phone.”
“I couldn’t talk,” Chenault said when he called Hodge back. “I was at lunch with Ernie Lucier.”
“Lucier? What the hell did he want?”
Chenault repeated the lunch conversation. “Someone at Kitty’s saw me pick up Moran after work. I couldn’t deny we were friends.”
Shit . “Moran’s email account is protected like the Pentagon’s, but I bet he sent the email to someone else because he knew he was doomed.”
“Lucier also mentioned Winstead.”
Hodge paused a long time, wiped the sweat off his forehead. “He’s fishing, but we’re still in deep shit. I’ll keep working on Moran’s email when I get home today.”
Hodge hung up. Lucier was onto Chenault. Tying Chenault to Moran and mentioning Winstead was a bad sign.
Hodge punched in one number, waited for an answer, and explained what had happened. “He wanted to keep his relationship with Moran secret.”
“I make it my business to know everything about the men I work with. Lucier won’t quit. That’s not his style.”
“If he has something concrete,” Hodge said, “Chenault will give us all up to save his ass. That’s his style. Don’t even mention Alba. I don’t think either one of us feels like spending the rest of our lives on death row, waiting for the needle.”
“The way I see it, we have no choice.”
Hodge’s stomach turned over. “Christ.”
A long silence preceded “The problem will end there.”
Hodge agreed. He didn’t see any other way. It came down to Chenault and Alba against the rest of them and the good of the mission.
“We need to discuss this, the sooner the better. Are you free tonight?”
“I can be,” Hodge said.
“Good. Contact the others. We can kill two birds with one stone.”
An adage couldn’t be more perfectly stated . “You’re the boss.”
“Don’t forget it.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Blue Door
L ucier returned to an empty office. Halloran was checking out the family members of Winstead’s and Soulé’s victims. Beecher and Cash were searching the Lower Ninth Ward for an abandoned house with a blue door, probably hanging on its hinges or kicked to the ground.
Lucier wanted to question Chenault’s alibis, Hodge, Feldman, and Alba, without involving an outsider. He’d wait for his team to return. In the meantime, work had piled up on his desk demanding his attention.
Two hours later, Beecher called. “Abandoned
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