City of Sins. Daniel Blake

      ‘I had to shoot, man. Where and why ain’t your concern.’

      ‘Don’t get lippy with me, Luther. You’re in enough trouble as it is.’

      ‘Maybe.’

      Patrese let it go. ‘You talk a lot with Cindy? In general?’

      ‘Man, we were … I supplied a service to her. We weren’t buddies.’

      ‘You ever fuck her?’ Patrese was watching Luther closely for his reaction, but even so he sensed rather than saw Selma wince.

      Luther didn’t miss a beat. ‘Never.’

      ‘You ever want to?’

      ‘Oh, here we go. Black men violating white women. Man, your fear’s forty years out of date. Ain’t you never seen Shaft?’

      Selma took personal charge of processing the paperwork for Luther’s arrest, having belatedly roused herself to appreciate that she couldn’t afford to be accused of letting her ex-husband off lightly. Luther would spend the night in a police cell, and would be transferred on remand to Orleans Parish Prison tomorrow. Drugs for sure, possibly murder as well; though if he had killed Cindy, he’d have known Patrese’s text was a fake, so why would he have turned up? Unless he’d tried to double-bluff them by pretending not to have known.

      Either way, the only question seemed to be how long he’d be going down for.

      Luther hadn’t mentioned entrapment. Maybe his lawyer would. Maybe Patrese could make the texts disappear before then; he had Luther’s cell phone as well as Cindy’s now, so he could delete the evidence at both ends.

      Luther didn’t have any previous: not in civilian life, at least. Abu Ghraib, of course, was a different matter entirely. So, while Selma was filling out the usual mountain of forms, Patrese did as she’d suggested, and searched online for exactly what Luther had done in Iraq.

      It wasn’t hard to find.

      Luther Marcq had been one of the intelligence officers assigned to interrogation duties, and with one particular detainee, Salman Faraj, he’d gone too far. He’d handcuffed Faraj to a radiator with his underwear over his face; he’d jumped on his leg (already wounded by gunfire); and he’d beaten him with a flashlight.

      Speaking in his own defense, Luther had said he’d known that what he was doing was wrong, but that his superiors had put him under intense pressure to get results, reminding him over and again that they were at war and that he was to use any means necessary.

      He’d been convicted of dereliction of duty, battery, and making a false official statement to army investigators. Jail, demotion, discharge, as Luther had already said.

      Patrese knew soldiers operated for months on end under conditions unimaginable to civilians in their comfortable suburban homes, but even so. Selma’s disgust wasn’t hard to understand.

      He found her in her office, staring into space.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

      ‘I never, ever thought he’d do something like that.’ Patrese didn’t know whether she meant the drugs, the torture, or both. ‘He’s a good man. Was a good man. We married for life. I really believed that. God had brought us together. But I just couldn’t go on with someone who could do those things. My minister told me to hate the sin while loving the sinner, but it was too late. Luther … he just wasn’t the same man any more.’ She dabbed at her eyes. ‘You never really know someone, do you?’

      Patrese was about to agree when the door burst open. Thorndike, looking furious.

      ‘Luther Marcq. What the fuck?’

      ‘Excuse me?’ Selma said.

      ‘What the fuck are you doing arresting him?’

      ‘Three wraps of cocaine, for a start.’

      ‘Right. And how did he know to meet you at Cindy’s apartment?’

      Selma looked accusingly at Patrese: Told you so.

      ‘Let’s not even start on your personal connection with him,’ Thorndike continued, looking straight at Selma. ‘In fact, I’m reassigning you.’

      ‘You’re what?’

      ‘You can’t work on this case. Not if your ex-husband’s a suspect. You see how this would look if it ever came to court? I tell you to tread carefully, and what do you do? Go running around like it’s the Klondike out there. You forgotten who Cindy’s daddy is? Her boss? That means we take no chances. Not one.’

      ‘Luther’s a drug dealer. Pure chance that Cindy was one of his clients.’

      ‘Pure chance? Ain’t no such thing. Not in law enforcement. And certainly not in law school.’

      ‘Then let the lawyers prove that.’

      Thorndike shook his head. ‘I let him go.’

      ‘You did what?’ said Patrese and Selma in perfect tandem.

      ‘A half-hour ago. Let him walk free, no charge.’

      ‘But he’s …’

      ‘He’s nothing. He was a lawsuit waiting to happen, if I hadn’t done what I did. Franco, I’ll assign a new lead detective in the morning.’

      ‘This case is mine,’ Selma said. ‘You know that.’

      ‘You prove Luther had nothing to do with Cindy’s murder, you can have it back.’

      ‘How can I? You just let him go.’

      ‘Don’t mean he’s not still a suspect.’

      It was past eleven by the time Patrese got home; home being, for the moment at least, a two-bedroom bungalow hard up against the London Avenue Canal in the mixed-race, largely middle-class suburb of Gentilly.

      He’d inherited it from another Bureau guy who’d been transferred to Sacramento. When the lease was up in the fall he’d probably move somewhere nearer the Quarter – where else would a single guy want to be, not just in New Orleans but very possibly the entire world? – but it was fine until then.

      He’d been on the go for sixteen hours, nonstop. It was all he could do to make it to his bedroom without falling over.

      As he brushed his teeth, he thought of what Selma had said about Luther; about the trust she’d put in him, about the standards she set for those she loved, and about the terrible impact when it all failed.

      She liked to come across as a hardass, but she wasn’t really, not deep down. She’d been brave enough to let Luther get in close, properly close.

      Patrese knew it was more than he’d ever done with anyone.

      Friday, July 8th

      Patrese slept fitfully, and gave up even trying shortly after dawn.

      He made himself a coffee – proper stuff, from a French press, nothing instant – and cradled the mug with both hands as he sat on his stoop.

      This was the only time of day when the city was cool and quiet. The night owls had staggered home to bed; the day shifters were yet to start in earnest. The dew sat heavy on the grass in Patrese’s front yard.

      New Orleans, just for a moment, felt as though it were on pause. He savored it.

      He drove through early morning streets, the traffic still light; across the London Avenue Canal and Bayou St John, two of the five fingers which the lake stretched deep into the heart of the city. Water was everywhere, topography’s definitive marker.

      His cell phone rang while he was waiting at stop lights in City Park.

      ‘Patrese.’

      ‘Franco, it’s Rafer.’ Rafer Lippincott was one of the tech