Page 178 of The Fourth Option
“Chris is staying out at the cabin,” she said. “I haven’t heard from him since he left. If I don’t hear from him soon, I’m going out there.”
“Did you call him?”
“I tried. Coverage is terrible out there.”
“Well, if you’re worried about the police finding Chris,” Gloria said, “it didn’t seem like they knew where he was.”
“They found us. They know we were lying. They will find the cabin next. I don’t trust any of these cops. If they come back, clam up. Don’t let them in. Make them get a warrant.” She hoisted her stuffed backpack over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Grandma.”
“Don’t apologize, dear girl. There is something about you and that boy.”
Belle rolled her eyes.
“Oh, come on, Grandma.”
“And besides, this is the most excitement I’ve had in years.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
STANTON TURNED OFFDauphine and headed toward Rampart, the morning traffic thinning as he crossed into the civic corridor, his Tahoe rumbling over wet, uneven cobblestones.
The French Quarter was wide awake and sizzling; delivery trucks were idling at curbs, café tables were being wiped down, the scent of lemon wash from the pumper trucks was hanging in the air.
The Orleans Parish Courthouse soon loomed ahead, its neoclassical façade weathered by time and the on-off-push-pull maintenance of local politics. Stanton veered into the secured lot, flashed his badge at the gate, and parked in a shaded corner near the rear entrance. He removed his suit coat from the top of the TruckVault, donned it, and checked his appearance in the truck’s window reflection to make sure his tie was straight. He locked the vehicle and headed inside.
The lobby was cool, attorneys and clerks shuffling through the dim light. It smelled of floor wax.
He nodded to the bailiffs at the security desk, held up his badge, and stepped through the metal detectors without breaking stride.
Knowing the way, he jogged up the wide staircase, two steps at a time, passing portraits of retired judges and plaques commemorating long forgotten civic milestones. The second floor was quieter, with less foot traffic, more closed doors. He glanced at his watch: 2,300 steps, still a long way to go. He turned down a hallway lined with frosted glass offices and paused outside the one markedIrene Isaacson, District Attorney, Orleans Parish.
He knocked once, then stepped inside.
Isaacson was seated behind an oiled oak desk that looked like it had been there since Prohibition, sunlight catching the edge of her gold earrings. She wore a tailored charcoal suit, and her hair was swept back. A laptop was open beside a stack of legal briefs. She looked up and offered a composed smile.
“Special Agent Stanton,” she said. “Thank you for meeting me here on such short notice.”
“I imagine your campaign schedule is quite hectic.”
She nodded, gesturing to the chair across from her. “Constant speeches and fundraisers. Shaking hands and kissing babies, all while ensuring nothing gets dropped here in the DA’s office. Last night’s event went particularly long. I then had to prep for a court appearance this morning; motion to suppress in a narcotics case. One of our more slippery defense attorneys. People don’t tell you that your day job continues while you’re running for office at night.”
Stanton sat, adjusting his cuffs. “For what it’s worth, you appear equal to the full docket.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I heard you live in the Quarter. I hope I caught you before you drove all the way out to Lake Pontchartrain?”
“You did, thank you.” Stanton retrieved his notebook and pen. Icy noted the shift.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to start with a few questions for you,” she said.
“Of course,” Stanton replied.
She folded her hands on her desk. “A high-profile murder in the Garden. Foreign nationals gunned down at two sites. Three cops dead, another missing. Bombings at two industrial sites on the river. A senior business executive murdered. We have a major terror campaign on our hands. I was impressed with how you handled the New Year’s incident in the Quarter. I was hoping you might give me a personal briefing on this one.”
Stanton studied her. Ambitious. Her record was solid and her courtroom reputation formidable. He had sat in that meeting where she had steered the narrative toward asicario, the Staub drug ring, and cartel connections. Bates and Augie Lloyd had followed her lead.
He could still hear Alma’s voice in his head:Learn to play the game, Jarrett.
With bodies stacking up, bombings dominating the headlines, and fresh from the encounter with Bates at the Travois house, Stanton wasn’t in the mood to play the game.
