City of Sins. Daniel Blake

do you reckon?’ she asked.

      He rubbed his eyes. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

      She gave a wan smile, the first he’d seen. ‘Ain’t that the truth.’

      He showed her what he’d found.

      ‘Quite the party girl,’ she said. Her voice was flat, unimpressed. ‘Pathologist reckons she’s been dead twelve hours, give or take. Hard to tell, it’s so hot in here.’

      Pathologists estimate time of death according the cadaver’s temperature, working on the principle that the body loses a degree or two every hour postmortem; but a room as warm as this one would skew the readings. Body temperature is ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit, give or take. New Orleans summer, no aircon, and windows closed, presumably to keep the smell from escaping; the room certainly felt about that hot.

      ‘Twelve hours dead means she wouldn’t have gone into work today.’

      ‘Yup.’

      ‘She was PA to the richest man in the city. She didn’t turn up without explanation, he’d have wanted to know why.’

      Selma nodded. ‘Last call made from the apartment phone was eight thirty this morning. We dialed the number. An office extension, now on voicemail.’

      ‘Calling in sick?’

      ‘Could be. The voicemail message is an electronic one, no name given, so we won’t know who it belongs to till tomorrow morning.’

      ‘But if she called in sick herself, she was either being forced to, or she must have known her attacker and had no idea he’d come to kill her. If her attacker called in pretending to be her …’

      ‘…her attacker must have been a she.’

      ‘Yes. But even then … You work with someone, you know their voice. You can’t just ring up and pretend you’re someone else. So she let her attacker in. There’s no forced entry, is there? And he made her call her office …’

      ‘…or it was a lover, and they were going to have some fun together.’

      ‘The neighbors see any men come round?’

      ‘One last night, around ten o’clock. But he left a few minutes later.’

      ‘Description?’

      ‘Vague. Black. Six foot, hundred and eight pounds.’

      ‘Could be half the guys in this city.’

      ‘Exactly.’

      ‘And no one this morning?’

      ‘Not that no one saw.’

      Patrese thought for a moment. ‘The kitchenette has an outside door. Where does it go to?’

      ‘I haven’t checked.’

      They went back through the living room, where the crime-scene officers were bagging Cindy’s cell phone for evidence, and into the kitchenette.

      Patrese pushed down on the handle of the outside door with his knuckles, so as not to confuse the fingerprint testers.

      The door swung gently open. Unlocked.

      Patrese looked out. Fire escape, running down into the rear courtyard. He turned back to Selma.

      ‘Fifty bucks says that’s how he got in.’

      ‘I don’t gamble.’

      He looked at her. She was serious. He held up his hands. ‘I didn’t mean to offend.’

      ‘Accepted. Now, tell me. The snake. Why?’

      ‘Is this a test?’

      ‘I’m asking your opinion. That’s all.’

      ‘OK. The snake – well, evil springs to mind, doesn’t it? The serpent in Eden. Forbidden fruit. Temptation. That kind of thing.’

      ‘Pretty much my thoughts too. The leg?’

      ‘Well, if we’re still looking for the obvious imagery – if thy hand offends thee, cut it off. That’s somewhere in the Bible, no?’

      ‘It is indeed.’

      ‘A hand, I could understand. But a leg … why would you cut off a leg?’

      Selma shrugged. ‘I don’t know. The mirror? The axhead?’

      ‘Those, I have no idea.’

      ‘Again, me neither. So I’m not even going to theorize, you understand? I’m going to wait for what Forensics say, and turn every corner of Cindy’s life upside down, and see what comes of that. The data never lies.’

      ‘Do you disapprove?’

      ‘Of what?’

      ‘Of her. Of Cindy. Photos. Drugs. Sex.’

      ‘What makes you say that?’

      ‘You didn’t look too thrilled when I showed you the photos. You don’t gamble. I’m guessing you’re a – you’re a woman of faith.’

      ‘She’s dead, Agent Patrese. What she did when she was alive doesn’t matter.’

      ‘That’s what Homicide cops always say.’

      ‘Maybe. But I happen to believe it’s true. Everyone’s equal above the ground, and everyone’s sure as heck equal beneath it. I’ve handled cases of murdered whores and murdered nuns, and I’ve given as much to one as to the other. I’ve given it everything I’ve got. You don’t believe me, you walk out of that door now and never come back.’

      Thursday, July 7th

      The air was already warm and heavy when Patrese met Phelps at seven a.m., three hours ahead of schedule. Though traffic was already building on the I-10 ramp a couple of blocks away, the lobby of the New Orleans Police Department headquarters was quiet at this time of morning and they could speak undisturbed.

      Hoping that being in public would save him from getting chewed out, at least for the time being, Patrese told Phelps as quickly and succinctly as he could what had happened: Varden’s party, Patrese’s research, Selma at Cindy’s apartment.

      ‘Good work, Franco,’ said Phelps.

      Patrese bit down on his surprise.

      ‘I should have rung you,’ Patrese said, knowing like every law enforcement officer that two layers of butt-covering are always better than one, ‘but like I said, I wanted to meet with you in person first …’

      ‘Franco, I said don’t worry about it.’ Phelps’ teeth were bright white when he smiled, as though he’d run a coat of paint over them. ‘You showed initiative. I like that in my agents. And now we’ve got an “in”, right from the get-go.’

      ‘That’s just fluke.’

      ‘I don’t care. You learn to take credit for things you didn’t intend, then you’ll really start going places in the Bureau. Like I said, we’ve got an “in”. Doesn’t matter how, or why; just that we have. The NOPD doesn’t much care for us …’

      ‘I got that impression.’

      ‘…and if they can freeze us out, they will. But not here. Well done, young man.’

      A cop in uniform appeared. ‘Special Agent Phelps? Agent Patrese?’

      ‘That’s us.’

      ‘If you’d like to follow me?’

      They rode the elevator to the third floor in silence. The cop took them as far as a meeting room, enjoined them both to have a good day now, and left.

      Patrese and Phelps stepped inside the meeting room. Selma was already there, prettier and younger than Patrese remembered from the