Chapter Thirty-One
Jarrett Stanton’s phone buzzed once on the nightstand.
He stirred beneath the cotton sheets, the ceiling fan above him spinning shadows across the plaster.
Alma lay beside him, one arm flung across the pillow, her breathing slow and even.
Stanton reached for the phone, squinting without the aid of his glasses: AUGUSTUS LLOYD.
He silenced the phone and slid out of bed like a man defusing a bomb, careful not to wake his wife.
The floor was cool under his bare feet as he padded down the hallway, past the girls’ rooms. Veronica’s door was cracked open, a faint glow from her night-light spilling into the hall.
He descended the stairs and stepped into the kitchen, where the scent of jasmine from the courtyard still lingered in the air.
He called his boss back.
The SAC answered on the third ring. “Jarrett, sorry to wake you.”
Stanton rubbed his eyes. “What’s going on, sir?”
“Icy just called me. Direct. At home. She’s pissed.”
That woke Jarrett up. “What happened?”
“Local PD is reporting a federal crime. A cartel hit on a home in the Garden District. Tortured and killed a woman. A nurse from Tulane.”
“Why is a cartel killing a woman in the Garden District?”
“Apparently her son was mixed up in the trade and OD’d a month ago. But there is something else that doesn’t make sense.”
“What?”
“Four of the hitters were killed on scene.”
“By the cops?”
“No. They were dead when they got there, likely Mexican nationals according to NOPD. Media’s already up and running. That reporter, Greer, pinged Icy’s office for a comment. They’re saying it’s a drug war that crossed borders, maybe from Mexico to Texas to here. Sinaloa, I think.”
Stanton blinked. “I haven’t seen any data that suggests Mexican cartel activity in New Orleans.”
“Doesn’t matter. What matters is the narrative taking shape. Icy’s office is in damage control mode. She’s worried it’s going to blow up, maybe go national, generate political interest on the Hill. If it’s true, it’s a juicy story. You can understand why she’d try to get ahead of this.”
“Politics,” Stanton said. “We’re short of facts.”
He shook his head briskly, rattling the cobwebs in faint disbelief. Didn’t truth matter anymore?
“The nurse’s son was Connor Staub. NOPD said he was an addict and a dealer, which is how he got mixed up with the cartels. We have any touch points on that case?”
Jarrett’s mind was still catching up. As a numbers man, he had a good memory for qualitative details. He didn’t recall anything about a Garden District kid involved with cartels. “Not familiar with it. NOPD must’ve handled it.”
“Yeah. I figured. For what it’s worth, Icy’s already all over this. She wants us to find the link to the Mexicans, which is federal jurisdiction.”
“Assuming there is one, you mean.”
“Where there’s smoke. No need to make this complicated.”
Stanton leaned on the kitchen island. “I’m not making it complicated. Things get that way naturally.”
The SAC exhaled sharply. “I probably don’t need to say this out loud, but a story like this will probably get interest from the deputy director.”
Stanton remained quiet.
“You don’t want to turn lemonade into lemons,” Augie went on. “Icy’s critics are going to have a field day with a Garden murder and with the victim being an ER charge nurse at Tulane. It’s bad. Find the link to the cartels and get me something I can use with Icy. See you at the office.”
Stanton stared at the phone for a moment and then set it aside, flipping on the coffee maker, which he had set up to brew the night before. He propped open the tall French doors that went to the hardscape and let the cool night air inside.
The city was asleep in the dark; no trumpets, no grind of garbage trucks, no inebriated revelers hollering in the alleys. He listened to the hum of the refrigerator as the coffee dripped into the decanter.
He was so deep in thought that he didn’t hear his wife approach. He gave a slight jump when she wrapped her arms around him.
“Did I surprise you?”
“Just thinking.”
The coffee ready, Alama poured them two cups, yawning in her silky robe and fuzzy slippers.
“Everything all right?” she asked.
“I got a call from Augie Lloyd.”
“Is it bad?”
He took a few seconds before replying. “Yes, just not sure how bad. Not yet.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I need to get to the office. I need more data.”