Chapter Sixty-Six
New Orleans
JARRETT STANTON STEPPED out of his house, coffee in one hand, keys in the other. His girls were on the balcony, giggling at something on their tablets. Alma leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smiling.
“Don’t forget the recital tonight,” she called.
“I wouldn’t dare,” Stanton replied, flashing a grin.
His watch let him know he was at 1,842 steps. He made a mental note: ten thousand before bed. No excuses.
At the rear of the Tahoe, he opened the hatch and laid his suit coat neatly across the flat top carpeting of the TruckVault next to his FBI windbreaker, then climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. He adjusted the AC vents with the same methodical care he applied to casework.
He had just maneuvered out of the parallel spot when his phone buzzed.
J.J.
He answered on speaker. “Morning.”
“Don’t bother driving out to the office,” she said.
Stanton frowned. “Why? Please don’t tell me that something else blew up.”
“Two days ago, the Metairie police put out a BOLO for a suspect vehicle in the Walt Kimbel murder. Then they abruptly pulled it.”
“Why’d they pull it?”
“According to the detective I interviewed, it was at the request of the NOPD, specifically Lieutenant Cornelius Bates, who said it was related to an undercover case.”
Stanton’s grip tightened on the wheel. “Is that so. You talk to Bates?”
“I thought I should speak with you first.”
“And the BOLO?”
“It was for an older vehicle. An AMC Eagle, manufactured back in the eighties. Plates trace back to a house in the Quarter, about a mile from your house, which is why I called. It’s registered to an elderly woman named Gloria Travois.
The Metairie detective said the suspect vehicle had been following Kimbel’s Mercedes just before the IED detonation. ”
Stanton pulled out his notebook, steering with his knee. “Give me the address for Ms. Travois.”
J.J. rattled it off.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“I reviewed Detective Gormley’s investigative case files in Connor Staub’s death. One of the people he interviewed was a young woman named Mirabelle Travois, a college associate, listed as a possible romantic partner.”
“Daughter? Granddaughter?”
“Looks like a granddaughter. I’ll confirm.”
“Let’s keep that part between us for now. Meet me there,” he said, accelerating down the street.
The house was tucked behind a fence overgrown with laurel, shaded by crepe myrtles and live oaks. Stanton parked across the street and spotted J.J. already waiting in her unmarked sedan.
They walked up the drive together, keeping their voices low. No AMC Eagle in sight.
“Bates countermanding that BOLO means he either found the car or didn’t want anyone else to,” J.J. said.
“Or someone told him to back off,” Stanton muttered. He paused to survey the front porch. “This look like the safe house of a CIA assassin turned cartel contract killer?” J.J. asked.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
Stanton reached the door, hand resting on the grip of the pistol under his jacket. He turned an ear toward the door and listened, hearing an older woman’s voice muffled by the walls. The place reminded him of a Hallmark card version of Grandma’s house. He knocked.
A silver-haired woman answered the door. “Yes?” She stood in the entryway, dressed in a crisp blouse and slacks. Her eyes were sharp, her smile warm.
Stanton flashed his badge. “Ma’am, I’m Special Agent Stanton with the FBI.” He gestured toward J.J., who had appeared beside him. “This is Special Agent Jimenez. Are you Ms. Gloria Travois?”
“Last I checked.”
“We have a few questions for you regarding your car.”
“Of course,” Gloria said. “But the police are already here.”
“Police?”
“An Officer Bates arrived just five minutes ago.”