Page 72 of The Fourth Option
Walker heard sirens in the distance.
“Speak English?” Walker asked between breaths as his eyes found the Trijicon HD night sights of his Glock 19. “Hablas Inglés¿”
“Me cago en la puta madre que te parió,” the man spat back.
Walker glanced at the dead woman tied to a chair in the bedroom behind him and then back at the man on his knees.
“Guess not,” Walker said.
He shifted his focus to the bright orange glow of his tritium front sight, aligned it with the man’s head, and pressed the trigger.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
LIEUTENANT CORNELIUS BATEShad visited the Garden District many times in the past few weeks, though for reasons not related to police work. He was in the market and had found himself a real estate agent.
He liked this neighborhood because the homes were more than houses. They hadpersonalities.Bates thought these homes fithispersonality: good-looking, classy, charming. With their Greek Revival, Italianate, or Spanish architecture, one might even call them seductive, a word that had always appealed to him. Moreover, these homes had stories to tell, and where there were stories, there were secrets.
Bates had walked with the agent down this very street, Prytania, right before they stopped at the bar near the Irish Channel, where he worked his charm, getting her tipsy enough to agree to go out with him the following week.
It did not bother him that the Irish Channel was not an actual waterway. He had been raised in New Orleans, a product of the Ninth Ward, where there reallywasa canal, one that had broken. Over here where the elite had put their stamp on the river lands, the canals had never been connected to the Mighty Miss. Had they known?
Bates wouldn’t have been surprised.
The police cruisers parked at the corner of Third and Prytania formed a phalanx around the wrought iron, playing a red-and-blue light show on the neighbors’ walls. A handful of people were out in the street wearing robes and slippers.
He thought that was good. One never knew who might be watching. This was an area that was home to judges, politicians, and the executives who funded their campaigns. Icy herself lived a few blocks down on Third. He had attended an event at her home a few months ago. The charm hadn’t worked that time. Icy was as good as her name.
Shoving thoughts of that rebuff aside, Bates decided it would be better to walk through the cordon of policemen rather than drive through as he would have in the Ninth. Here in the Garden, it was better to be seen, to show up as the man in charge.
He stopped in the middle of the street and shifted his beefed-up Dodge Charger into park. When he stepped out, he straightened his tie and adjusted his shirt. Unlike other ambitious detectives, he rarely wore a suit jacket, even in the cool evening air or during the brief New Orleans winter. Bates preferred to show off his narrow waist and well-developed shoulders that came from pumping iron and working the heavy bag at Le Boxeur gym in the heart of the French Quarter.
“Crime scene secured?” he asked a patrolman near the yellow tape. Clearly, the scene had been secured. Why else was the tape there? But Bates could sense as well as see the onlookers within earshot. It was important that they knew a leader had arrived.
“Yes, Lieutenant. We’ve got the perimeter set up.”
Bates nodded his shining bald head. He put his hands on his hips and took it in. Five cruisers had responded. Good. It was necessary to provide a show of force here in the Garden. One of them had the letters on the trunk of his specialized unit, the one that would elevate him to the top job: COPE. He wished that cruiser had been parked closer to the onlookers.
“Any media?”
“Yes, sir. Three broadcast channels. We’re holding them down the street for now.”
Now, that was a rookie move. Under Icy’s sharp leadership, the NOPD budget lines had been increasing over the past few years. That funding came from the property tax dollars of the parish, much of it from this neighborhood. It was important for these people to see a swift and heavy police response.
“Go ahead and let them bring the cameras up,” Bates ordered. “We want to display full transparency.”
The patrolman nodded. Like all NOPD officers, he understood the force’s reputation. Citizens didn’t always trust the department.
“I’ll let them through, sir. We’ll set them up on the far sidewalk.”
“Perfect,” Bates responded.
With his badge exposed on his belt that matched the leather of hisholster carrying his Glock 22, Bates ducked under the rope. He preferred to carry the .40-caliber full-sized Glock like the patrolmen. The smaller Glocks he was now authorized to carry as a lieutenant looked too small and unimpressive against his muscular body.
Detective Howard Gormley stood at the wrought-iron gate, his round belly casting a shadow on the home’s brick path. “Hey, boss,” he said when Bates approached.
“Place is a friggin’ zoo.”
“Yeah, I know.”
