City of Sins. Daniel Blake

don’t know better.’

      ‘No; only ’cos they don’t know worse. It’s as they get older that they start to mistrust snakes, and you know why? Because they’re encouraged to. By adults. When those children become adults, they pass it on to their children. And so it goes on. The snakes aren’t the problem. We’re the problem.’

      Roger Rojciewicz’ house, all immaculate crown molded ceilings and travertine floors, was out in Metairie, one of the city’s western suburbs which fell within his congressional district. As its Lake Drive address suggested, it overlooked Lake Pontchartrain, though the view clearly meant nothing to him today. One look at Rojciewicz, and Patrese knew that he couldn’t have had anything to do with the murder of his daughter. There was a special tier of anguish for parents who’d lost their children, and Patrese had seen that soul-numbing grief many times – too many times – in his Homicide days. Anyone who could fake it deserved an Oscar. In fact, the only person Patrese knew to have successfully faked it, at least for a while, really did have an Oscar.

      Rojciewicz accepted their condolences with vague distraction, and answered their questions in a monotone. He’d last seen Cindy at Varden’s party on Monday. On Tuesday, he’d taken an early flight to Dallas on some congressional sub committee business. Yesterday he’d taken the six thirty evening flight back to DC, arriving past ten at night. By the time he’d gotten the call about Cindy, it had been too late to get back to New Orleans, so he’d had to fly first thing this morning.

      That was the congressman’s whereabouts accounted for, Patrese thought.

      ‘I appreciate the efforts you’re making,’ Rojciewicz said. ‘Any help you need, you let me know. Just find the, the – monster who did this, you hear?’

      It was past lunchtime by the time Patrese and Selma got back to police headquarters, and the heat was virtually a physical entity; wet, suffocating, like an airline towel.

      There were about fifteen officers working the case. Selma called them together and asked for a situation report.

      Cindy’s severed leg had been found stuffed in her hall closet, which Patrese thought was interesting. He’d have expected the killer to take the leg with him as some sort of warped trophy. That he hadn’t done so suggested that the rationale for removing Cindy’s leg would be found either in the very act of cutting it, the arrangement of her body without it, or possibly both.

      Forensics were still analyzing the usual mish-mash of fingerprint, hair and fiber evidence from Cindy’s apartment. Whether any of it meant anything, or led to anything, only time would tell. The axhead and the mirror were also being examined. If they could find the manufacturers of one or both, they could find how many units had been sold in the immediate area, and from which outlets.

      The murder’s chief characteristics – severed leg, rattlesnake, mirror, axhead – had been entered into the Bureau’s VICAP national database, which searched for correlations in any other homicides across the nation. No matches had been found.

      Three judges had been asked to issue a search warrant for Cindy’s workplace computer. All of them had said no. If you ever wanted to know Varden’s power, that was it, right there.

      Cindy had more than a hundred and fifty numbers programmed into her cell phone. The cops were working through them, finding out if anyone knew anything. Some of her friends had heard the news; others were understandably shocked when they were told. Nothing suspicious so far, except for a text which had come in a couple of hours ago.

      U want more stuff for weekend? Same as other night?

      Someone who didn’t yet know she was dead, obviously. Patrese read it twice. Stuff, other night: it could surely only mean exactly what he thought it did.

      The sender was identified as ‘L’.

      ‘Has anyone called this person?’ Patrese asked.

      ‘I did,’ said one of the uniforms.

      ‘And?’

      ‘No answer.’

      ‘You called from a phone in this room?’

      ‘This one right here.’ The uniform nodded to the handset on his desk.

      Which meant it would have come up on L’s phone as an unknown number. If L was Cindy’s dealer – if he’d been the black man visiting on Tuesday night, the other night, dropping off the cocaine Patrese had found in her bedroom drawer – he probably wouldn’t have answered a number he didn’t know.

      The first twenty-four, maximum forty-eight, hours are crucial in solving a murder. If there are no solid leads by then, the chances of finding the killer plummet. Even at the more generous limit, they were already a third of the way through, with nothing concrete to show for it.

      They had to do something, Patrese thought. Change the game.

      Patrese typed a reply to L’s message.

      ‘What the heck are you doing?’ Selma said.

      He pressed ‘send’, then showed her.

      OK. Come 2nite. About 8?

      ‘Outside,’ she said, eyes flashing. ‘Now.’

      Patrese heard a snicker from one of the cops as Selma led him out into the corridor.

      The door had barely shut behind them before she was into him.

      ‘Are you out of your mind? That’s entrapment.’

      ‘It’s initiative.’

      ‘This is my case.’ Her words came out fast and staccato through gritted teeth; as angry as he’d seen her the previous evening at Cindy’s apartment. ‘You are here on my sufferance. Don’t think for a second that because I tolerate that, and because in general I find your input useful, that you can take liberties and pull a stunt like that. Especially not in front of my men. You do not play to the gallery, you do not break the rules. This is just the sort of thing that gives the NOPD a bad name. And it’s just the sort of thing that gets cases thrown out of court, as the Bureau well knows.’

      Cindy’s cell phone shivered in Patrese’s hand.

      8 gd see u there.

      She held out her hand, unsmiling. He passed her the phone.

      ‘Entrapment,’ she repeated.

      ‘It’s her dealer. Bet you anything.’ She opened her mouth, but he cut her off. ‘Yeah, yeah, I know you don’t. Figure of speech. But think about it. Dealers are criminals. Dealers have records. Dealers co-operate with the cops when they don’t want their asses slammed back in jail.’

      ‘It’s still entrapment.’

      ‘It’s a lead. You see any others round here?’

      Selma took charge of the press inquiries. She didn’t mention Patrese or the FBI, for fear that this would alert the media that there was more to the story than met the eye. In fact, she said as little as possible.

      Yes, Congressman Rojciewicz’ daughter had been killed in her apartment.

      No, they didn’t yet know who the killer was.

      Yes, they were keeping an open mind and following up all leads.

      No, she didn’t have any details about the crime scene she wanted to share.

      Yes, all Miss Rojciewicz’ family, friends and colleagues were being very helpful.

      No, the police hadn’t asked for help from outside agencies. (This was technically true – the Bureau had offered, the NOPD hadn’t asked – and as far as Selma was concerned, when it came to the media, ‘technically true’ was quite true enough.)

      Yes, Selma was confident of an arrest soon.

      No, she wasn’t going to change her methods or tread carefully because Marie Laveau had been acquitted. That was one case, done and dusted. This