Page 84 of The Fourth Option
“Your call, Lieutenant. I’ll spin it however you want.”
Bates rocked in his chair, eyes narrowing. In New Orleans, everything was connected: departments, favors, secrets.
Manus manum lavat.
One hand washes the other. Year one Latin class, ninth grade.
“Tell Greer it was a cartel hit,” he said. “Mexicans. Probably came through Eagle Pass, Texas. Shift the blame. Make it sound like a turf war that spilled the banks: Sinaloa, Jalisco, Gulf. Let Homeland Security take the heat.”
Tilda raised an eyebrow. “You sure you want to throw shade at DHS?”
“Not shade. Context. Four of the vics looked like cartel guys. They were in the home of a woman whose son died of an overdose a month ago, meaning there were drug ties. Don’t give Greer the name, just hint at it. Let him think he’s cracked something.”
“Greer’s already got an angle on the woman. Nurse at Tulane. Good rep. He wants to paint her as a martyr.”
Bates hesitated. Based on the narrative he and his crew had set up, Staub was the mother of a junkie who brought this mess to her door. But martyrdom had its uses. If the public saw her as a victim, Icy could spin it as sympathy by association.
“Let him run with the martyr angle.”
“And the brutality? That’s the obvious question. He heard she was tortured. Somebody said a hammer was involved.”
Bates swore inwardly. Someone had already leaked something to Greer. One of the CSIs? Detective Kile, pissed off that he’d been bounced from the case?
“Cartels were looking for something,” he said. “Kid’s drugs, maybe cash. The house was torn apart. Jewelry was gone so at least one perp got away with it.”
A buzz in his pocket. Not the phone on his desk, the other one. The one that never left his side.
Tilda glanced at the desk. “That you?”
Bates stood. “Confidential informant. I take these outside. Don’t want them hearing police chatter.”
He buttoned his collar, tightened his tie, and stepped into the hallway. The building was quiet, the fluorescent lights humming. He took the stairs two at a time and pushed through the rooftop door.
The night hit him like a warm wet towel. From here, he could see the Mississippi, dark and slow beyond the rooftops. He dialed the missed call.
“It’s me,” he said.
“I call, you answer.”
“I was in a meeting. About the thing.”
Cuchillo’s voice came through like a blade. “Thething,” he seethed. “Four men gone. Do you have a leak? You got my men the address and now they are dead. You said it would just be the woman.”
For all the clinging heat, Bates felt a chill. “There’s no leak. We think she had a date, someone we didn’t know about.”
“Some random date didn’t kill four of my men. This was a pro.”
“We have not ruled anything out yet.”
“Did one of my competitors hire someone to send me a message?”
“We don’t have a complete picture. The press is hungry. For now, I’m feeding them Mexican food.”
Cuchillo liked that, Bates could tell. The silver lining might just be some added heat to his competition over the border.
“We have a good thing, you and me. We have for a long time.”
What was that he heard in the background? Bates wasn’t sure whether it was the ocean outside one of Cuchillo’s El Salvador homes or simply the static of a satellite bounce.
