Chapter Fifty-Four
He stood at the front of the basement briefing room, arms folded across his chest, the sleeves of his uniform rolled just enough to show off the forearms and biceps he had worked on that morning at the New Orleans Athletic Club.
His shirt was crisp. His badge gleamed on his belt.
His jaw was freshly shaved, and his head was shining.
The COPE squad sat in rows before him. Community Outreach through Police Engagement.
He was proud of the acronym. He had come up with it after all.
A dozen officers, handpicked, uniformed, sat before him.
The room was cool, the air humming with the low buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant echo of Bourbon Street traffic. Even the AC was working.
Bates scanned the rows, his eyes sharp and calculating. He liked this part, the performance. The authority. He lived for it.
“It’s been a long week,” he said, voice smooth. “We’ve got heat in the Ninth. Gang activity’s up. Got a few new faces pushing product. Some of it looks like heroin, some of it might be worse, based on the national trends we sent out in the reports. I trust you’ve read them?”
Respectful nods.
“Good. We’re seeing movement near likely drug markets on Clouet. You know the drill. Stay frosty. I want particular attention here.”
He clicked the remote. A map of the Ninth Ward appeared on the screen behind him, dotted with red pins.
“Same players,” he continued. “Same turf. But there’s chatter about a new supplier.
We’re hearing Mexican cartels but that’s not confirmed.
Keep your eyes open for cartel profiles—tattoos, accents, vehicles that don’t belong.
Sergeant Strickland, you’ll take lead on the street where Rayne and Hendrick got hit. ”
“On it, Lieutenant.”
“Hound, you back up leads any of these guys dig up related to the case.” Bates raised his eyes to the rows behind Gormley. “Y’all catch that? If you hear anything about the hit on our people, you funnel it through Detective Gormley. Clear?”
A hand went up near the back.
Officer Tasha Campbell. Mid-thirties, sharp-eyed, earnest. One of the few in the room who still believed in the job. Bates had recruited her for optics, but she’d turned out to be competent.
Too competent.
“Yeah, Campbell.”
She lowered her hand. “Sir, are we still looking for that blue VW van from the Garden murders? Any update on that?”
Bates cursed inwardly.
The van. That damn van had probably been swept like sewer shit five miles out into the Gulf. Good riddance. Fucking Campbell.
He kept his face neutral and defused the question.
“Keep an eye out for a vehicle matching that description, but more importantly stay alert for gangbangers—Bloods, 39ers, whatever’s crawling out of the Ninth, and anybody fitting a cartel profile. Get all that to Detective Gormley.”
Campbell nodded, but her eyes lingered on the map a second too long.
Bates moved on.
“I do have some darker news: Sergeant Dupuis did not check in today. His truck is not at his house and he is not answering any calls. With increased cartel activity in the Ninth and the recent murders of Officers Hendrick and Rayne, I want him found and I want him found today.”
He looked around the room as heads nodded in agreement.
“Stay alert tonight,” he said. “No heroics. No headlines. We’re not here to make the news. We’re here to keep it quiet.”
That was a good line.
He dismissed them with a nod.
The officers filed out, murmuring among themselves. Campbell lingered momentarily and then followed her fellow officers into the hall. Bates watched her go, making a mental note to keep an eye on her.
Bates and Gormley were the last to leave. Bates led the way down the hall, past the bullpen and the evidence lockers, into a side room that had once been an armory. The walls were lined with steel cabinets and racks of riot gear. The lights were dim.
Gormley closed the door behind them while Bates confirmed they were alone.
“Give it to me,” Bates said.
“I went back in the light this morning. No sign of Dupuis or the truck, but I found blood and followed it about seventy-five yards downriver. More blood on the rocks. Footprints, bare feet. And tire tracks.”
“Slow down, Hound.”
“Someone, probably Dupuis, was killed by a man in bare feet down by the water’s edge and then dragged back to where I left him and the truck. Those bare feet then led out to the train tracks. And there were tire tracks in the mud, unmistakably from Dupuis’s truck.”
“Tire tracks?”
“They led right into the water. Fucking truck is gone and I think we have to assume Dupuis is gone with it.”
“Damn it. Why did you leave him unattended? Neverfuckingmind. It’s done.”
“I saw the van go under. Nobody could have survived that. Goddamn it, who the fuck is this guy?”
“I ran the plate. Van was registered to someone named Chris Walker out of Oregon. No criminal record but I’m still digging.”
“Corn, it’s time to use the media. Get this guy’s driver’s license and plaster it all over the news. Give it to Greer. He can report that this Walker bastard is wanted for questioning in connection with the Garden murders or some shit.”
Bates paused, put his hands on his hips, and drew in a deep breath.
“Not quite yet.”
“What do you mean ‘not quite yet’? He’s killed three of us, seven Salvadorans, and our two most profitable dealers. You or I might be next.”
“He couldn’t possibly know who we are.”
“We have underestimated this guy from the start.”
“You let me worry about that. What’s happening at Dorado?”
“Replacements from down south are coming up to replenish the losses along with a team of hitters to deal with our lone assassin.”
“Just what we need in this city, more assassins. What about the bodies from Dorado?”
“I cleaned it up with some help from our friends. The Salvadorans went the way of the swamp. No one will miss them. Babineaux is with them, but as far as anyone knows he’s lost at sea, out on his boat in the Gulf.”
Gormley was a master at manipulating a crime scene. “How’d you pull that off?”
“He had an advanced nav system. After taking it downriver, I programmed a course all the way to Trinidad, though it won’t make it that far.”
“Coast Guard might pick it up.”
“They might find the boat, but not Babineaux. Pirates, you know. Hell, that thing might be in Mexico by now.”
“Okay,” Bates said, exhaling. “Four fucking dead at Dorado. Shit, the press would have a field day with that, especially after the Garden and Ninth murders. You sure it’s the same guy?”
“It has to be. He’s getting closer, Corn. You should contact the Afghan.”
“We don’t talk about him within these walls.”
“He’s got fucking skills, you told me he does. I’ll pay. I don’t give a shit. Chris Walker needs to die.”
“Hey, calm down. He’s gotten as close as he’s going to. And we still don’t know for sure if Dupuis is dead.”
“He’s fucking dead, Corn. He didn’t drive himself into the damn river. And there’s something else.” The sweat was beading up on Gromley’s temples and upper lip.
“What?”
“Dupuis had that truck outfitted as a rolling arsenal. He showed me some tricked-out AR and a new pistol. Our mystery man has got to be in possession of them now.”
“Shit. Just stay cool and keep your head on a swivel.”
“You do the same, and promise me, the next time we find him we don’t set up surveillance; no tails, no arrest. There is something about this guy that’s not adding up. He’s a fucking ghost or an avenging angel or some shit. He’s not right.”
Bates had never seen his lead detective so agitated.
“He’s not a ghost, Hound. He’s a man. He bleeds, you said so yourself. His vehicle is gone. He’s just got the clothes on his back. The footprints indicate he doesn’t even have fucking shoes. We’ll find him, and when we do, he’s a dead man.”