Page 112 of The Fourth Option
“I would work with the DEA on that,” Bates said. Over the years, he had discovered a little trick when dealing with the feds. He could play one off the other when he needed to.
“We’re discussing a task force,” she responded. “Pooling resources from DEA, FBI, ATF, and NOPD to explore any cross-border connections.”
She was good, Bates thought. She recognized his tactic and had countered it with the right bureaucratic maneuver.
“We appreciate that, but it may be premature. Task forces make a lot of noise. Let my people work their sources. We’re stalking, not flushing. Give me a few days,” Bates said. “I’ll get you a briefing on the latest developments and we can go from there. Maybe we could meet up and discuss it over at the Carousel Bar?” Bates jerked his bald head toward the Hotel Monteleone. There was no ring on her finger. Why not?
Special Agent Jennifer Jimenez stood up to leave, offering her hand across the desk. “I’ll be in touch,” she said.
She exited the peach-colored edifice three minutes later, pulling out her phone. She waited to initiate the call until she was a half block up Royal. The rain had let up, but the streets were still wet, a patch of clearing pink showing behind gray cloud wisps. She ducked into a cobblestone alley beside a souvenir shop.
“How’d it go?”Stanton asked after the first ring.
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Did you show Bates the witness sketch?”
“No.”
“Reason?”
“Not sure. Just a feeling I got from him.”
“What feeling was that?”
“My skin crawling.”
CHAPTER FORTY
THE NINTH WASbordered on three sides by water—canal to the west, swamp to the north, and the Mississippi River to the south—and, after the drug house hit, Walker had lit out in search of a better forward operating base.
He drove his van through neighborhoods near the Mighty Miss and then bumped over a railroad frontage road. Killing his lights and investigating with the monocular NOD on foot, he found a long-forgotten meter-wide, litter-strewn trail, overgrown with buttonbush shrubs and cattails. It led to the river, where the ground turned muddy and lumpy with sinewy roots fighting to push clear of the damp soil. An oak grove stood in silence, rings on the trunks marking the river’s seasonal reach. For Walker’s purposes, it was perfect.
He had killed two cops and, dirty or not, the counterstrike would come.
Walker was on the clock. It was only a matter of time before they found him. Maybe the cops would do the job of his 1911 pistol for him, though they might do it out of rhythm. Either way, his fate was preordained: suicide by cop or by his own hand.
He spent the day comparing Connor’s journals with the take from the trap house, to piece together the network that the young man had been investigating. In the SEAL Teams and in the CIA, he would have turned everything over to a team of analysts. Here, he was the analyst.
He left the two dead officers’ phones behind so the police or another federal agency couldn’t track them, but he had grabbed their badges and wallets, which now lay on the van’s retractable table. Officers Tom Rayne and Keith Hendrick.
He matched Rayne to Connor’s code: “Slate.” Hendrick was a match for “Chestnut.” Connor had used off colors with the requisite number ofletters. He tied both officers to trap houses in the Ninth and documented that they were part of the COPE unit.
As the sun neared the horizon, Walker called Belle and arranged to meet her at a pickup location about a mile from his current position. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed a computer. He then showered with sun-heated water from tanks replenished by the Mississippi and did his best to trim his hair and beard. He changed into a set of fresh clothes, stuffed his dirty ones into a laundry sack, and locked the van.
With Paladin at his side and his Glock tucked in its holster, he walked over the train tracks to the position he had passed to Belle. The sun cast long shadows across the cracked pavement and gnats swarmed as Walker watched the sparse traffic on Almonaster Avenue. Nothing seemed out of place.
With the BMW possibly burned, Belle told him that she would borrow her grandmother’s car. When he asked what it was, she just said he would appreciate it.
Walker was watching a container truck bang along toward the city when a dark blue AMC Eagle wagon with wood paneling rolled to a stop on the shoulder.
Walker opened the rear passenger door and Paladin jumped inside, leaning forward to lick Belle’s cheek.
Walker slid into a cracked but still plush leather passenger seat.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“A Wagon Queen Family Truckster on steroids.”
