Submission. Tori Carrington

Akela handed her a coffee and a sugar-covered beignet.

      “You can’t come to New Orleans and not try the Café Du Monde beignets,” she told her.

      Molly smiled and accepted both.

      “So, what’s on your mind?” Akela didn’t waste any time getting to the point as they walked across the square.

      “I met with the prosecutor this morning.”

      “Ah, Grissom.”

      “Yes. And he mentioned something about Claude Lafitte being released from custody as the result of specific evidence pointing in another direction.”

      Akela looked at her as she ate her own beignet and sipped her coffee. She didn’t say anything.

      “I also understand you have a personal interest in the case.”

      The agent sighed. “Well, I guess that wouldn’t be too hard to find out.”

      Molly pinched off a piece of the French doughnut and put it into her mouth, not answering until she’d swallowed. “You’re right. It wasn’t difficult. All I had to do was access the Times-Picayune between the time of my sister’s death and now.”

      Akela nodded. “Yes, I do have a personal interest,” she said. “Let’s just say that I’m as interested in finding the Quarter Killer as the NOPD. More so, actually.”

      “Are you working the case?”

      “In an unofficial capacity, yes. You see, until the real killer is found, Claude won’t be completely ruled out as a suspect.”

      “So the evidence pointing in another direction isn’t that strong.”

      “Strong enough to get the department to release him but not enough to completely take him off the suspect list.”

      “I see.” Molly squinted at her through a shaft of sunlight. “You wouldn’t happen to want to share that piece of evidence, would you?”

      Akela made a face. “I don’t like playing coy, but right now that evidence is about my only ace in the hole.” She cleaned her hands with her napkin after finishing her beignet. “You do know there’s been another Quarter killing, don’t you?”

      The coffee sliding down Molly’s throat turned bitter.

      “It’s all over the morning papers and the news on TV.”

      She’d been so busy, she hadn’t thought to read the newspaper or watch local television since her arrival. Especially since she was in the middle of chasing down leads in her sister’s case.

      But if there’d been another murder, that might mean more evidence.

      “Yes, Chevalier questioned Claude on it this morning. But I got the impression the action was somehow just his covering all the bases.”

      “How so?”

      “I don’t know. I think he doesn’t necessarily believe the two murders are connected, even though they took place at the same hotel and, apparently, in the same way.”

      “The victim’s neck…”

      “Was cut,” Akela finished when Molly didn’t.

      “When?”

      “Yesterday morning.”

      Yesterday morning. That meant that Alan had known about the killing before he’d met with her for lunch. The coffee hit her stomach like a stone. She’d known that she couldn’t rely on his sharing everything with her, but concealing that there had been another murder went beyond the mere protection of important facts.

      Or was Akela right in that he didn’t believe the two murders were linked?

      Whatever the reason, she fully expected him to share what he knew when she met up with him tonight. And she would do everything in her power to see that he did.

      6

      DREW MORRISON, THE ONLY guest at Hotel Josephine, didn’t have anything to do with Frederique Arkart’s killing, of that much I was sure. But right now everything was up for grabs. Because ruling out Morrison didn’t change the fact that I had two dead women on my hands and zero solid suspects.

      I drove through the narrow streets of the Quarter, heading in a direction I didn’t want to be heading as I checked my cell phone. I typically leave it in the car when I’m questioning a potential suspect or witness because there are few things like a shrill chirp and an unwanted caller to throw me off my game and put me back to square one when it comes to any kind of rhythm in my questioning tactics.

      There was an art to getting what I wanted out of someone. A certain way of phrasing a question, pausing for just the right amount of time, that netted me information I wouldn’t get otherwise. I had taken great pride in that talent at one time.

      But now I seemed to be just going through the motions, more aware of the shadows lurking behind me, trying to catch up and pull me into the darkness, than what lay in front of me.

      Two messages from the precinct indicating emergency calls had come in while I’d been at the Josephine. Astrid, it had to be. My sisters had my cell phone number, so there was no reason for them to go through dispatch. I stopped at an intersection and scrolled through the calls. My ex-wife’s number popped up and I winced. Probably she was calling about Zoe again.