Page 91 of The Fourth Option
“It was too far-off for him to get a plate, but he thinks the colors were Oregon.”
“So, a few days before we see a cartel battle play out in the Garden, a guy shows up, asks to talk to the DEA, and takes off because he got nervous. Pretty thin.”
“Agreed, sir.”
“Let’s look into it anyway. At least we can cross him off the list.”
“Do you want me to have NOPD put out a BOLO?” she asked, using the term for “be on the lookout for.”
“Who’s working this homicide? Kile from Sixth?”
“He should be, but because this looks gang-related it’s going to the COPE unit.”
“Bates. Direct report to the superintendent.”
“That’s right, sir.”
“And let me guess, before you look, the case has been assigned to…”
J.J.’s cheeks flushed as she flipped through her hastily assembled file.
“The officer who processed the original Connor Staub crime scene,” he continued. “Officer Tim Rayne.”
She sighed. “Yes. Rayne. I should’ve caught that.”
“You’ve been on this for two hours.”
“You’re seeing a potential conflict of interest.”
“Why assign it to the same guy?”
“Because he’s already familiar with the case?”
“Maybe,” Stanton said, tapping his fingers again.
“You’re not going to want to run the search for van-man through NOPD, are you?”
“No,” Stanton said. “Let’s take a drive.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Let’s talk to some of these neighbors in the Garden and walk the crime scene. I’d like to drop by the morgue and talk with that marshal over at the fed building. If the NOPD is going to make this federal to deflect blame from the DA, we best have our ducks in a row.”
“If we do all that, we’re going to kick up a lot of dust. NOPD’s going to know we’re looking into this. It’s going to make a lot of people uncomfortable.”
Stanton stood and put on his jacket.
“The day you get comfortable in this job is the day you should hang it up. Plus,” he looked at his watch, “I need to get my steps in.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
DEREK MATHESON DIDN’Tlike waiting. But if he had to, there were worse places than the leather-wrapped cabin of his Bombardier Challenger 3500.
The midsize business jet was four years old. It had a few creases in the upholstery and scuffs on the trim that went with the miles it had flown before and after its acquisition by Walt Kimbel from a distressed leasing firm.
He finished off the last of his kombucha. No coffee. No alcohol. He didn’t touch drugs of any kind.Drugs will kill you, he liked to say with a smile, a line that always landed well coming from the founder of a cutting-edge pharmaceutical empire.
He checked his Breitling, cuff link flashing with the Genyra logo. Kimbel was late. Not like him. The longer the delay, the more Matheson’s mind wandered to the headlines, the fallout, the implications. The murder in the Garden District had already made the front page ofThe Times-Picayune. The narrative was forming. And if they didn’t control it, someone else would.
