Chapter Sixty-Eight
STANTON TURNED OFF Dauphine and headed toward Rampart, the morning traffic thinning as he crossed into the civic corridor, his Tahoe rumbling over wet, uneven cobblestones.
The French Quarter was wide awake and sizzling; delivery trucks were idling at curbs, café tables were being wiped down, the scent of lemon wash from the pumper trucks was hanging in the air.
The Orleans Parish Courthouse soon loomed ahead, its neoclassical facade weathered by time and the on-off-push-pull maintenance of local politics.
Stanton veered into the secured lot, flashed his badge at the gate, and parked in a shaded corner near the rear entrance.
He removed his suit coat from the top of the TruckVault, donned it, and checked his appearance in the truck’s window reflection to make sure his tie was straight.
He locked the vehicle and headed inside.
The lobby was cool, attorneys and clerks shuffling through the dim light. It smelled of floor wax.
He nodded to the bailiffs at the security desk, held up his badge, and stepped through the metal detectors without breaking stride.
Knowing the way, he jogged up the wide staircase, two steps at a time, passing portraits of retired judges and plaques commemorating long forgotten civic milestones.
The second floor was quieter, with less foot traffic, more closed doors.
He glanced at his watch: 2,300 steps, still a long way to go.
He turned down a hallway lined with frosted glass offices and paused outside the one marked Irene Isaacson, District Attorney, Orleans Parish.
He knocked once, then stepped inside.
Isaacson was seated behind an oiled oak desk that looked like it had been there since Prohibition, sunlight catching the edge of her gold earrings.
She wore a tailored charcoal suit, and her hair was swept back.
A laptop was open beside a stack of legal briefs.
She looked up and offered a composed smile.
“Special Agent Stanton,” she said. “Thank you for meeting me here on such short notice.”
“I imagine your campaign schedule is quite hectic.”
She nodded, gesturing to the chair across from her.
“Constant speeches and fundraisers. Shaking hands and kissing babies, all while ensuring nothing gets dropped here in the DA’s office.
Last night’s event went particularly long.
I then had to prep for a court appearance this morning; motion to suppress in a narcotics case.
One of our more slippery defense attorneys.
People don’t tell you that your day job continues while you’re running for office at night. ”
Stanton sat, adjusting his cuffs. “For what it’s worth, you appear equal to the full docket.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I heard you live in the Quarter. I hope I caught you before you drove all the way out to Lake Pontchartrain?”
“You did, thank you.” Stanton retrieved his notebook and pen. Icy noted the shift.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to start with a few questions for you,” she said.
“Of course,” Stanton replied.
She folded her hands on her desk. “A high-profile murder in the Garden. Foreign nationals gunned down at two sites. Three cops dead, another missing. Bombings at two industrial sites on the river. A senior business executive murdered. We have a major terror campaign on our hands. I was impressed with how you handled the New Year’s incident in the Quarter.
I was hoping you might give me a personal briefing on this one. ”
Stanton studied her. Ambitious. Her record was solid and her courtroom reputation formidable. He had sat in that meeting where she had steered the narrative toward a sicario, the Staub drug ring, and cartel connections. Bates and Augie Lloyd had followed her lead.
He could still hear Alma’s voice in his head: Learn to play the game, Jarrett.
With bodies stacking up, bombings dominating the headlines, and fresh from the encounter with Bates at the Travois house, Stanton wasn’t in the mood to play the game.
“We have identified a person of interest,” he said.
“Yes. I’ve been kept up to speed. Chris Walker.”
“We are close to naming him as a suspect and bringing the media in.”
“What are you waiting on?”
“We don’t have anything that would hold up in court yet.”
“What do you have?”
“Background and circumstantial evidence. As you know, Walker is former CIA and military. U.S. citizen, Oregon resident.”
She raised her finely sculpted eyebrows.
“I also visited a CIA contact, the same guy I worked with on the New Year’s shooting. Turns out that Walker was a friend of the Staub family. Served with the husband, John Staub, in both the SEAL Teams and, later, at the CIA.”
“So, we have a trained killer who just happens to have a personal connection to a local family, running around New Orleans killing cops and blowing things up? What about the theory pointing to the Staubs as part of a drug ring?”
Careful, Stanton reminded himself. Alma’s warnings echoed again. Choose your enemies carefully, darling.
“I don’t have the facts to support that, not yet anyway. But there are certain oddities around the Staub woman’s death.”
“Such as?”
“First, the death of the son, Connor Staub. The investigation moved fast, handled by the COPE unit. No indicators that Connor was a drug user before he was found dead from an OD.”
The revelation didn’t seem to surprise her. “That’s not unusual. A lot of first-time users are dying from fentanyl-laced drugs.”
“Connor’s mother is murdered six weeks later,” Stanton continued. “His room was ransacked, and Ms. Staub was viciously tortured. It was like the kid knew something and was killed for it. And that Ms. Staub knew something too or guarded whatever her son told her.”
“And your person of interest?”
“We are getting closer,” Stanton said, deciding to keep the information about the suspected Travois involvement to himself for now. “Here’s the rub: this cop killer is targeting the very officers assigned to look into the murders of Connor and Leigh Ann Staub.”
“Because he was close with the husband and father, John Staub. But why target the officers trying to bring Leigh Ann’s killers to justice, unless he was part of their drug ring?”
“He may think they are connected. It would not be the first time law enforcement was involved in kickbacks and protection with ties to the drug trade.”
Stanton noted a trace of concern cross her face that was not evident when he entered the room. Was it guilt?
“And the other murders? The house in the Ninth? Dorado? Nectar? Walt Kimbel?” she asked.
“We’re still working on all of that,” Stanton said.
“How much more do you need, Agent Stanton? Walker sounds like he’s part of the drug scene. After taking out a rival gang at the Staubs’, for whatever reason, he went on to shoot up that house in the Ninth, took whatever drugs there were, and is killing the cops closing in on him as a suspect.”
“Then why the bombings at Dorado and Nectar?”
“Find him and ask him. I assume you’ve put a request into the DEA to look into those establishments?”
“Augie Lloyd is working the DEA angle. I’ve been directed to focus on catching Walker.”
Icy nodded, her expression tightening. Her eyes drifted for a moment, as if pondering something just beyond reach. Stanton interpreted her expression as genuine confusion rather than the cold calculation he had expected.
“There’s something else,” he ventured, his long experience with suspects telling him he was at the proper moment. “And I’m afraid this may be uncomfortable for you.”
“I appreciate your candor, Agent Stanton.”
“We learned in the course of our investigation that you met Leigh Ann Staub shortly before her death.”
“I did, briefly, yes.”
“Why?”
“My campaign advisor thought it would be good for me to visit the ER, to show that I’m concerned about crimes in this city ‘all the way through the line,’ as he put it. The ER was a mess that day. The nurse in charge, who I now know as Leigh Ann Staub, met with me along with a group of nurses.”
“Were you alone with her?”
“No. But something odd happened as I was leaving. I thought you were aware of it.”
“Enlighten me.”
“She passed me a note.”
“A note?”
“I thought it odd, but you get used to these things as a public figure.”
Stanton spoke carefully. “What did it say?”
“It said she had proof that the NOPD was complicit in her son’s murder, that he was an amateur reporter hoping to break a big story before going to Columbia Journalism School and had compiled hard copy notes linking law enforcement to a drug cartel.
Specifically, it said that dirty cops had murdered her son. ”
Stanton exhaled slowly. Alma’s voice rose in his head. He pushed it aside. Playing the game didn’t trump justice.
“Ms. Isaacson,” Stanton said slowly, “it feels like you’ve been hiding this information.”
“It was very sensitive, Agent Stanton. I am sure you can appreciate that. If true, it could undermine all credibility in the NOPD.”
And undermine your campaign, Stanton thought.
“It could also have been the rantings of a madwoman,” she said.
“Why didn’t you inform the FBI?”
A genuine look of confusion crossed her face.
“That’s exactly what I did. Given its sensitive nature, I immediately informed your SAC, Augie Lloyd. I gave him the note and told him all about this.”