Chapter Nine
New Orleans
Present Day
“BEAUTIFUL HOME,” WALKER remarked, unsure of exactly what to say to the wife of his dead friend.
“Thank you,” Leigh Ann replied, brushing a piece of lint from her scrubs. “The first-floor rooms are original lathe and plaster. I remodeled upstairs and moved some walls around, so those are drywall.”
Where uncovered by Persian carpet, dark mahogany floors gleamed. Leather sofas absorbed the last of the late-afternoon sun, shining like polished armor. Though the home’s bones whispered of age, its decor was sleek, restrained, contemporary.
Walker tilted his head to take in the high ceilings.
“That has to do with the heat,” she said, leaning down to stroke Paladin’s thick coat. “Most of these old turn-of-the-century places have tall ceilings to let it rise.” She looked up at him, hand still resting on the dog’s back. “Take a seat, won’t you? Can I get you something to drink?”
“Water’s fine. A bowl for Paladin in the kitchen would be good too, if you don’t mind.”
Walker circled a low-backed leather swivel chair and settled into it slowly.
“Of course not. Be right back.” Leigh Ann disappeared through the kitchen doorway.
Alone, Walker let his gaze travel. The fireplace was framed in white-painted brick, matching the home’s exterior.
A mahogany mantel jutted above it, bearing a single silver-framed photo.
Walker rose and approached it. His fingers hesitated near the edge of the frame, almost touching the chilled metal.
John, Connor, and Leigh Ann stood on the back deck of a boat at sunset, grins caught mid-laugh.
John looked exactly as Walker remembered, weathered and steady.
Connor must’ve been twelve. Time had turned the image into a relic.
He leaned in closer, comparing the Leigh Ann of the photo to the one who had met him at the door.
Now closing in on fifty, she still maintained her strawberry-blond hair of a decade prior, though it was now cut a few inches shorter.
It took him a second to recognize what was missing: the twinkle in her eyes, the life, the vitality.
That spark was gone. The natural smile in the photo had been replaced by one that was different, obligatory.
He turned from the photo and looked past the dining table, through a set of French doors onto a shaded patio and into the garden beyond.
Leigh Ann returned, glass of water in one hand. Ice clinked gently. She passed the water to Walker, who nodded in thanks.
“I set a bowl out for Paladin,” she said.
With a quick command he sent Paladin padding toward the kitchen.
Leigh Ann sank into the leather sofa with a soft sigh. Walker did the same. The fabric of her scrubs bunched around her knees as she curled one leg beneath her. In her hand, she cradled a glass of white wine. “I know,” she said after a sip. “It’s early. But it’s been a day.”
“I’d imagine you have a lot of those in the ER. Days, I mean. Not wine.”
“You’d be right on both counts.” She smiled.
“I’ve got a good crew, though, and I’m not usually wrist-deep in blood anymore.
Management’s its own kind of headache.” Her hand reached up and undid the hair tie holding her ponytail, allowing her hair to fall to her shoulders.
Walker noticed the Tudor Sub on her wrist. John’s watch.
Walker nodded. “Management is overrated, isn’t it?”
“Lord, yes.”
“You sorry you went into it? Would you rather be walking the hospital floor? Like the Dam Neck days, over at the Portsmouth Naval Hospital?”
She looked toward the far wall, exhaling through her nose.
“Tulane Med Center is a well-funded hospital, so we’re staffed.
I’m the charge nurse in the ER. Questions from interns and residents keep me young, sort of.
” She forced a smile. “This job allowed us a better life, which matters now. Or, it did.”
“Looks like you found the right spot.”
Paladin returned from the water bowl in the kitchen and sat by Walker, who reached down to scratch him behind the ears.
“Ah yes, the Garden District.” She pronounced it with a genteel drawl, Gahden. “I remodeled this place after John died. I think I needed a project. I ended up doing all the things John always promised he would, ‘just after one more deployment.’ ”
“I like the old homes,” Walker said, bringing the conversation away from his intruding memories of John dying in agony. “So much history.”
She smiled and tilted her head. “John always said you were into that. I saw your van out there. Looks like it’s seen some miles.”
“Yeah.” He rubbed his neck and looked down. “My fatal flaw. I’ve always been an analog guy. It took me twice as long to get here as I would have preferred.”
The words were barely out before he regretted them—fatal flaw. He’d nearly died in that van only a week ago. To cover, he pivoted. “How long have you been here?”
She took another sip and rested her glass against her thigh.
“We moved in when John was with the Agency.” She paused before continuing.
“Everything in New Orleans bends around the river. That’s where the name comes from, the Crescent City.
Because of the way the Mississippi curves.
Once you know that, you start noticing crescents everywhere.
We wanted this neighborhood for Connor.”
She paused. Her posture crumpled slightly. “Ah, Jesus,” she said, voice raw. “Sometimes it catches me off guard. Seeing you. I thought I was grieving Connor. But maybe, maybe it’s John too.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said gently. “Leigh Ann, what can I do?”
She studied him through glossy eyes, fighting through the emotions.
“We can’t make small talk forever. There’s something I want to show you. My office is up front.”
Walker followed her down the hallway, Paladin at his side.
The office echoed the rest of the house in tone and restraint, classic colonial lines with a touch of elegance.
Narrow windows stretched from floor to ceiling, admitting pale daylight that filtered through porch columns and landed in slants across the polished dark wood floor.
White shelves lined the walls with carefully spaced books and framed photos, while an ornate French-style desk sat squarely at the center facing the street.
Leigh Ann gestured for Walker to take the guest chair as she sat behind her desk and unlocked her Mac with a press of her index finger.
Paladin curled into a watchful arc near the door, resting his head atop crossed paws, eyes tracking his master’s every shift.
“Connor’s journals,” Leigh Ann said. She had regained her composure between the living room and her office.
She opened a desk drawer and drew out a large, black Moleskine notebook. It was battered, its spine softened, the corners rounded. The second was cleaner, less seasoned, though still worn.
“I’ve scanned everything for digital copies,” she continued, sliding the notebooks across the desk’s glossy surface, “but these are his raw notes. I prepared a USB drive for you with the digital version.”
“I don’t have a computer,” Walker said, running his palm slowly over the first notebook’s battered cover as though reading the texture.
She studied him for a moment. Then she nodded. “Then the hard copies will do.”
Walker cracked the older journal open. Rows of compact, precise handwriting stacked one atop another filled the pages, dark ink absorbing the light. Few breaks. No wasted space. A mind running hot.
“He was obsessed with Moleskines,” Leigh Ann said. “He was an analog guy, like you. Used them all through LSU and prep school.”
Prep school, Walker noted. Not high school.
“What prep school was that?”
“An all-boys Jesuit academy. About three miles from here.”
Walker nodded. Skeptics and philosophers disguised as priests.
“You know, he was on his way to get his graduate degree in journalism at Columbia.” Her tone dipped. “Dying in Afghanistan is one thing, Chris. Dying on the streets of New Orleans, working on a story, that’s another. He wanted to start Columbia with some experience.”
“Leigh Ann, what happened?”
Her face hardened, jaw set, eyes focused.
“He got to the wrong people.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let me show you.” She turned her monitor toward him and opened a file.
It was a scanned version of the journal, annotated in soft red ink. Passages were highlighted. Some sections were tagged with dates, others with clipped Post-its in digital yellow.
“He started a year ago,” she said, scrolling to a specific entry. “These two ODs, Marcus and Lisa, they were Louisiana kids. One from here, one from Baton Rouge.” She pointed with the back of her pen. “Then more names follow. Each with details.”
Walker flipped through the notebook in parallel, turning pages beneath callused fingers. “Did he ever discuss any of this with you?”
“He kept it to himself. Said he was working on something big, ‘a story on the Big Easy,’ he would joke. Looking back, I think he was trying to protect me.”
“It’s hard to make sense of these entries,” Walker said, eyes narrowing.
“That’s the code Connor was using. I couldn’t crack it, not entirely. But I had access to death certificates through the hospital, for the local cases at least. Some of the details matched what’s in here.”
“You used your credentials?”
Leigh Ann shrugged, pragmatic. “I had access. The investigators were not giving me anything.” She tapped a page on the screen.
“What I’ve learned so far is that Connor was trying to map opioid-related overdoses, figure out where the supply was coming from, and who was moving it.
He focused in on a particular drug he called ‘Snowball.’ It’s the new popular pill out there. ”
“How’d you get that far?”
“I gave myself a crash course in code breaking online. There’s a printed legend taped to the back cover. It’s a start.”
Walker flipped to the rear flap of the older notebook. A taped sheet of paper bore a cipher legend alongside a printout of Leigh Ann’s cross-referenced notes.
“I see.”
“Connor found patterns in the overdoses. All tied to a network operating out of a section of town called the Ninth Ward, which is where he thought this Snowball was coming from.” She opened Google Maps and pulled up an overhead view.
“The Ninth is east of us, on the same bank. Right along the canal.”
An image of roads, grids, and waterways appeared on her screen.
“It was nearly wiped out during Katrina. That levee,” she tapped the canal, “broke wide open. The entire area was submerged fifteen feet underwater. It’s never really recovered. The vacant homes became a magnet for gang activity. My ER gets constant GSWs, gunshot wounds, coming out of the Ninth.”
“And Connor was doing research out there?”
“I think he was out there asking questions. I didn’t know at the time. If I had…” She trailed off. Her shoulders slumped. “My schedule at the ER is chaos. I wasn’t always here for him.”
“What evidence do you have that there was police involvement?”
“As you read through the journals, you will see there is a code name, ‘Slate.’ Some of the people he interviewed mentioned a cop involved in the trade. Connor calls him Slate. I did some Google searching and asked a few police officers at the hospital but have not found anyone with that name. Could be code for someone or maybe a nickname.”
“You said drugs were found in his car?”
“That’s what the police report says. Heroin bricks in the trunk. They said he was a dealer, that he OD’d on his own stash.”
“Where is the car now?”
“In the garage. Cops impounded it for a month. I just picked it up a few days ago.”
Walker raised an eyebrow.
“Can I take a look?”
“Sure. Come on.”
Outside, the light had softened to gold. Leigh Ann led him through the yard to a detached garage where a late-model Range Rover Sport with a few dings sat beside a green Jetta.
“It’s open,” Leigh Ann said. “He loved this car. Took it apart more than he drove it.”
“Man after my own heart,” Walker offered.
He leaned inside. The air was tinged with age, dust, and vinyl, and something faintly mechanical. The stereo was original. The glove box door was loose.
Walker grabbed the keys from a tray in the center console and then walked around and used them to unlock the trunk. He lifted the lid. The interior was lined with clean black carpet. He folded it back to find the spare tire.
“Their evidence photos showed five bricks of heroin around that tire,” Leigh Ann said.
Walker ran a hand along the inside edge of the trunk before shutting it gently.
“Did Connor have friends, maybe a girlfriend I can talk with?”
“There was a girl that he saw from time to time. She was trouble. His friends had scattered, different schools, jobs. He was focused on this story and getting ready for Columbia.”
Leigh Ann looked him in the eye. “I want justice for my son. But I need help. If John were still alive, it would be different. Everything would be different.”
“I know.”
“So, what now?” she asked.
Walker studied her face, finding resolve behind amber bloodshot eyes. He thought of his friend, the barrel-chested man with the huge smile and even bigger heart, the man who would have been around to raise and guide Connor had it not been for the philosopher standing in his garage.
He took a breath.
“I pick up where Connor left off. Find out who Slate is. I finish what your son started.”
“You think you can do that?”
“I’m not a cop, Leigh Ann, but I’ll do what I can.”
“My husband always told me you were, well, different.”
“I’m guessing that wasn’t a compliment.”
“No, it was. John said you were a good man.”
“Leigh Ann, your husband was the best I ever worked with.”
She considered him intently, choosing her words.
“Chris, New Orleans is not like anywhere else, which I think is how they got away with this. Connor uncovered corruption in the department, and they killed him for it. I know that with every fiber of my being. When you start asking questions they are going to react. They will come after you, hard.”
“Well then,” he said, voice low but steady, “I’ll just have to go at them harder.”