City of Sins. Daniel Blake

mirror again on the way.

      ‘Ask you something?’ Luther said to Patrese, as they stepped on to the porch.

      ‘Sure.’

      ‘You ballin’ her?’

      Selma’s hand came up so fast that Patrese heard the smack first, right on the fleshy part of Luther’s cheek. Luther pressed his palm against it.

      ‘That’s assaulting a witness,’ he said to Selma.

      ‘No. It’s an asshole reminding me why we’re not married any more.’

      Saturday, July 9th

      Patrese’s neighbor came over around breakfast time.

      ‘Hey, Franco. Not disturbing, am I?’

      ‘Not at all, pal. Come on in. Coffee?’

      ‘Sure.’

      Cameron Wetzel was a doctor at Charity, New Orleans’ largest hospital. He was mid-thirties, a couple of years older than Patrese, and had recently gained a measure of TV fame: TLC’s documentary series Code Blue had been filming in Charity, and Wetzel had been one of the doctors they’d followed.

      ‘You still getting fan mail?’ Patrese laughed.

      ‘You wouldn’t believe.’

      ‘Panties?’

      ‘Oh, yeah.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Why? You missing a few pairs? Yeah, really. Not just panties, either. Letters, nude photos, marriage proposals. Even a website. www.codebluehotdoc.com.’

      ‘I set that up myself.’

      Wetzel laughed. ‘There are some kooks out there, man.’

      ‘Amen to that.’

      ‘Listen, Franco; you been getting water in your backyard?’

      ‘Not that I know. But I’ve hardly been here this week. Let’s take a look.’

      They went through the kitchen door and into the backyard.

      ‘There you go,’ Wetzel said, pointing.

      There was a pool of water smack in the middle of the yard: roughly a circle, seven or eight feet in diameter. Patrese went over and put his bare foot in the puddle. Six inches deep, give or take.

      ‘I got the same thing,’ Wetzel said. ‘Little bigger than that, in fact. Weird, huh?’

      ‘Are the aliens coming? Maybe these are, like, ET helipads. I’ll call Spielberg.’

      ‘I’ll call the water board.’

      ‘Spielberg’ll get here quicker. Those guys at the water board think mañana’s a term of urgency.’

      Patrese’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket, vibrating like a baby rattlesnake. He pulled it out and answered.

      ‘Franco? It’s Rafer. Been working on those computers you brought over yesterday.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘Zilch.’

      ‘Totally clean?’

      ‘Totally. Sterile. Those guys have got some serious tech, you know? I can’t be sure, but the electronic footprints look like something the military uses.’

      Hardly a surprise, Patrese thought. Varden Industries had been working alongside the army for years: billion-dollar no-bid reconstruction contracts in Iraq, levee-building with the US Army Corps of Engineers right here in New Orleans.

      Wetzel waved and mouthed a goodbye. Patrese did likewise.

      ‘Varden really expects us to believe Cindy kept no information whatsoever on either of her machines?’ Patrese asked.

      ‘They’ll just say the hard drive crashed and they lost everything.’

      ‘Can you prove otherwise?’

      ‘Probably, but I’d have to get very technical. It would take a while.’

      And probably not be worth it anyway, Patrese thought. If Varden’s tech guys weren’t better than the Bureau’s, his lawyers sure would be.

      ‘Well, see what you can get, but don’t bust your balls over it. We’ve probably got bigger fish to be frying.’

      ‘Got it.’

      Patrese knew Lippincott was one of the few guys working in the Bureau office today. Weekends were weekends, especially in New Orleans, and investigations followed the same pattern as everyone else’s working week. Things like tracing mirrors and axes, getting customer lists, and so on; the people who could supply such information only worked Mondays through Fridays themselves.

      It stuck in Patrese’s craw – he wanted to get on with things – but he could go chasing his tail round the office and achieve nothing, or he could relax, get some rest, and be in better shape to deal with the breaks when they came around. Selma, for example, had told him after visiting Luther last night that she was a Seventh-Day Adventist, so she never worked Saturdays no matter what.

      The man from the water board – Chad, name helpfully sewn on to the chest pocket of his shirt – arrived after lunch. Patrese took it all back about their inefficiency, and watched Chad poke around the water in his yard. Chad siphoned off a couple of quarts and ran it through various machines in the back of his truck.

      ‘Any ideas?’ Patrese asked, as Chad inspected the readouts.

      ‘Well, it’s not potable, so it can’t be from a leaking main. And the salinity levels are consistent with those of the lake …

      ‘Pontchartrain’s saltwater?’

      ‘Sure is. It’s technically an estuary of the Gulf. So I reckon you got yourself a seepage pool from the canal.’ Chad gestured toward the levee which ran a few yards behind Patrese’s back fence, beyond which was the London Avenue Canal. From where they were standing, Patrese could just about see the superstructure of a barge which seemed to be permanently moored there.

      ‘Seepage pool? Is that serious?’

      ‘Nah. Not really.’

      ‘It sounds pretty serious.’

      ‘Happens all the time. Probably a tiny crack in the wall, or water finding its way through the earth surrounds. If it was serious, you’d have a darn sight more than what you got in your yard. You’d be living on the second floor. Anyhows, it’s summer. You oughta be happy to get a bit of water for free. What can I say? This is a damp city. Live with it.’

      Sunday, July 10th

      Patrese had lived here – this house, this city – long enough to know the usual medley of night sounds: the canal water’s gentle lapping against its walls, the hiss of traffic on Mirabeau, the Doppler effect as passing drunks sang and shouted. Even in his sleep, Patrese knew what he should and shouldn’t be hearing.

      And he knew that he definitely shouldn’t be hearing the floorboard creak which had woken him.

      Hearthammer; wide awake in an instant.

      Patrese rolled on to his side, reaching for the olive drab Glock 22 on his bedside table and checking the luminous digits on his clock radio: 3:28.

      He held himself still for a moment, concentrating only on what he could hear. He thought he could make out quick, shallow breathing, and then realized it was his own.

      The loose floorboard, the one which had creaked, was in the kitchen.

      Sweat prickled Patrese’s spine; fear and anticipation swirling together.

      He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Two quick, silent steps to the bedroom door, and then low into a crouch.

      Another