Page 103 of The Fourth Option
Stanton knew better than to push. DEA agents lived in shadows and sometimes they forgot how to step into the light.
“Have you seen the local news?” Stanton asked after a sip of water.
Mendez puffed and blew. “What story?”
Stanton pulled out his phone and opened thePicayunearticle. The latest headline showed the Staub home wrapped in yellow tape. The headline:GARDEN DISTRICT RESIDENTS SHOCKED BY DRUG VIOLENCE.
“A month ago,” Stanton began, “a kid named Connor Staub OD’d in the Ninth. NOPD found bricks of heroin in his trunk. Now, a few nights ago, his mother, Leigh Ann Staub, a charge nurse at Tulane, was murdered in her home. Garden District. Four Latin males found dead at the scene.”
Mendez read the article, cigar clenched in his teeth, his eyes narrowing. When he finished, he stubbed the cigar out in a spoon with a sharp twist, preserving three-quarters of it for later.
“A turf war between Sinaloa and Jalisco? In the Garden District?”
“Maybe.”
Mendez snorted. “The article plays into Isaacson’s hands.”
“The DA favors that narrative,” Stanton agreed. “I’m sure you can imagine why.”
“It’s bullshit. There’s no cartel activity in town. I’d know.”
Stanton paused and looked at the rain, thinking.
“The cartels have been cooking Chinese fentanyl into opioids and smuggling them in through Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and California,” Stanton said. “We are not that far removed.”
“There has been a huge crackdown on fentanyl. Deaths nationwide are down.”
“Fentanyl deaths are down but overdose deaths overall are not. Something new is coming in to take its place.”
“There’s always something new,” Mendez said. “Keeps us in business.”
“Bureau is getting reports on a drug called Snowball. Could be coming in from the cartels.”
“We aren’t seeing anything like that in this district.”
“No one from the DA’s office reached out to you about this cartel angle?”
“Not to me, but I’ll ask around. Fuckin’ politics. It’s not about compromise. It’s about blame and division. Fuck these people.”
The waitress returned with their food. Genevieve’s was quick, which was one of the reasons Stanton had chosen it. Between his official responsibilities as ASAC and this investigation into cartels operating in New Orleans, he was short on time.
The DEA man wrapped the dead cigar remnants in a napkin and popped it back in the brassy case before attacking his burger.
They ate in silence for a minute. The rain drummed steadily on the awning over the open windows. The jazz band played on, hitting the standards when a knot of tourists showed up with umbrellas.
“Oh when the saints… Go marching in…”
“There’s more,” Stanton said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “Not in the papers yet, but it will be.”
Mendez looked up from his meal.
“Another hit,” Stanton continued. “Ninth Ward. West end. Abandoned home over by the old levee.”
“Those bangers can’t go a day without killing each other. Usually low-level street stuff. Meth.”
“This was different. Two dead NOPD officers. An officer named Tim Rayne and a rookie named Keith Hendrick. They were both COPE unit patrolmen, but here is where it gets odd—Officer Rayne was the responding officer to the Staub kid’s OD.”
Mendez paused and dropped a fry back on his plate. “How were they hit?”
