Detective Charbou went to Johnson’s side to squint at the screen. “Right. That’s no surprise; there are lots of big families in our city. Mama’s house is used as the central gathering space, and her family members come and go depending on personal circumstances. Sometimes one leaves and three come back later. That type of stuff won’t show up. Fact is, this list ain’t going to be much use.” He tapped the screen with his index finger. “If you’re looking for a family that’s gonna try to ride out this hurricane, you should forget the rich parts of town. People there have already cleared out; there’s nobody there but hired security guards. If your killer is looking for a family in the city, he won’t go to the French Quarter or the Garden District. He’ll go to a poor neighborhood.”
Amaia nodded. It looked as if Bill and Bull might be useful after all.
“Can you show us the neighborhoods where people are likely to stay?”
“Sure.” Bill Charbou walked over to the map of the city displayed on the wall. “This isn’t the first hurricane to hit New Orleans. And even though they’re getting ready to call for a total evacuation, we know there are people who won’t leave. They’d rather risk it.” He pointed to an area on the map. “For example, the really poor. And the old folks who have nobody to help them. And the handicapped, folks who don’t have a car—lots of those in New Orleans—and some delinquents, who’ll be hanging around for the looting afterward. You’re gonna wear your vests every moment you’re moving around with us.” He caught sight of Amaia’s backpack beside the door and the FBI regulation vest neatly rolled up behind it. “And—good God! What’s this? Kevlar? Spectra? Forget it. You’re going to wear Type IV vests like ours, made of Spectra and an aramid, fifteen times more resistant than steel plate, buoyant, impervious to almost everything, including rifle bullets.”
Johnson protested. “This is official FBI equipment, made to our standards . . .”
“Maybe you test them with live fire at the FBI, maybe not. But I guarantee you that three out of four drug traffickers carry weapons that’ll slice through that vest like a knife through butter. You think those guys are going to clear out and leave business to the competition just because of a hurricane? If you plan to go out in those neighborhoods to knock on doors and flash your FBI badges, it’ll be on our terms or not at all.”
Dupree ended the debate. “Agreed! Officer Charbou, Officer Bull, I’m sure we’ll all get along just fine.” He offered them his hand.
Jason Bull gave Dupree’s hand a quick, firm shake and accompanied it with that knowing expression of complicity Amaia had noticed earlier. She read it as an unmistakable confirmation of an alliance between them. Jason Bull and Dupree knew each other. She wondered why they’d made such a show during the introduction.
Bill Charbou’s dissatisfaction was evident, but he took Dupree’s hand anyway. “Bill and Bull. Forget the ‘officer this’ and ‘mister that.’” He was in a sour mood. “That’s what they call us here, and that’s how they know us out there in the streets.”
Amaia again saw Jason Bull give Dupree an apologetic look. He knew this was coming, she thought.
“As you like,” Dupree agreed. “Bill and Bull.”
Pleased by that, the detectives went back to the map.
“Bill and I were discussing the best place to sit out the storm. Probably the fire station near Lake Pontchartrain. Emergency services are headquartered upstairs. Since we need to be on top of any reports of gunshots, that’s the place to be. We discussed it with the fire chief and the ops center supervisor there. We’ve got a top-of-the-line SUV, and the harbor rescue service has reserved a Zodiac for us. If things get complicated—and they will—they have trucks and special vehicles, even their own helicopter. Most of the station’s squad cars are out on the streets right now. They’ll be able to give us a fairly clear idea of which areas are still populated.”
Dupree scanned an incoming text message and interrupted the discussion. “Quantico’s going to send us a list of the cases that fit the criteria Salazar suggested—assaults against families like those our man is targeting. Maybe we can identify some failed attempts. Johnson, Captain Forneret will get you an office where you can print it all out. Six cases, lots of documentation and plenty of photos. We’ll need high-resolution prints. When you’re done with that, Bill and Bull will take you to our hotel. Get to work on those cases. I’ll meet you there later.” He turned to the New Orleans policemen. “Gentlemen, don’t let these two out of your sight when you’re on the streets.”
Dupree left the office and the police commander trailed him down the hall. When he was sure no one else could hear, Forneret stepped around so he could look Dupree in the eye. “Let’s get serious, old friend. What the hell are you doing here?”
“I told you when I called. We’re tracking down a killer who targets families. He’s struck several times, in widely dispersed locations, but he seems to have a weird attraction to natural disasters.”
“And this has nothing to do with Katrina?”
“You don’t get it. It has everything to do with the hurricane.”
“Look, Dupree, let me be straight with you. When the boss called to tell me y’all were coming, I wasn’t pleased. In one room, I have fellas from FEMA planning to send half my officers to close down roads and holding on to the rest to respond to emergencies; in another, the Red Cross is working to set up shelters. And we have to coordinate the whole mess. In the middle of all this, you land with practically no warning. Don’t forget that after everything that happened, you’re not exactly in my good graces. We’re going to have two or three very bad days after the hurricane. Everyone’s on edge. The last thing I need is for the shit to hit the fan again. So if you’re thinking about digging up old ghosts . . .”
“That was a decade ago,” Dupree murmured dryly.
“Ten full years ago, but not a single one of us has forgotten.”
“There’s no connection. None. I’m not going to go over it again,” Dupree said flatly. “My orders come directly from Washington.”
The commander put his fists on his hips and studied the floor. He sighed. “Okay. I want to trust you. I want to believe it’s got nothing to do with Samedi. You’re going to have to stay away from Terrebonne Parish. I want your word on that.”
Dupree tightened his lips and said nothing. He gripped the commander’s hand and clasped the man’s upper arm for a moment, signaling, That’s it, discussion closed. He walked toward the exit.
Forneret watched Dupree leave. He took out his phone and punched in a number that wasn’t in his contacts list. Someone answered. “We may have a problem,” the commander said.
11
A SHROUD
New Orleans, Louisiana
Agent Dupree walked south for a while, but he changed his mind when he heard a streetcar coming up behind him. He climbed aboard the bright-red trolley for the ride, even though he was only two stops from his destination. The conductor warned him it was the last run of the day. All the cars were returning to the garage.