“About time.”

“—either,” he stressed, “that billboard is a declaration that you’re your own woman, separate and apart from Josh and his misdeeds…”

“Or?”

“…or, it’s your way of giving everybody the finger. Let ’em think what they want to about your baby brother. You’re not ashamed of him. You’ll remain loyal, steadfast, and true, no matter what.” He waited a beat. “Are you distancing yourself from Josh, or announcing that he’ll always have your love and support, that you’ll be at the ready to lend assistance if ever he needs you? Which is it, Jordie?”

“What difference does it make to you?”

“It doesn’t,” he said. “But obviously it does to Billy Panella.”

Chapter 8

Joe Wiley walked into his office, dropped a Subway sack on top of a pile of paperwork on his desk, and, without unnecessary preamble said, “I thought he was in Mexico.”

“He was,” Hick said.

“On the payroll of a drug kingpin.”

“He was.”

This was the first chance they’d had to talk freely about Shaw Kinnard.

As soon as Joe had notified his office of Kinnard’s apparent involvement in the execution-style slaying of Mickey Bolden, he had wrapped up as swiftly and as neatly as possible in Tobias, relinquishing that aspect of the case to Deputy Sheriff Morrow so he and Hick could concentrate their efforts on the search for Shaw Kinnard and Jordie Bennett.

Sensing their urgency to get going, Morrow had brought them up to speed on what had transpired while they were interviewing the bartender. Royce Sherman’s only crime beyond general stupidity appeared to be possession of unregistered firearms and carrying without a concealed handgun license. Nothing substantive was obtained from any of the other witnesses, so they’d been allowed to go.

No further physical evidence had been recovered from the parking lot or surrounding area, but the FBI crime scene crew along with that of the sheriff’s office were still searching.

Fingerprints had been lifted from Jordie Bennett’s car. Hers were on record with U.S. Customs and Border Patrol because of her Global Entry status. If any prints other than hers were found in or on her car, Morrow would notify the agents immediately.

He offered to drive them to the field where the chopper was waiting, but at Joe’s request they stopped first at Morrow’s office to retrieve what was left of the bullet that the ME had removed from Mickey Bolden’s head. Joe wanted the bureau to conduct the ballastics tests, although they would be academic. He knew who had put Mickey permanently out of business.

Standing in the downwash of the chopper blades, Morrow snapped a salute and promised that he would stay on top of the murder investigation and notify them first of any developments. As they lifted off, Joe felt they were leaving the mop-up to a good man.

Noise had prevented him and Hick from talking on the short flight back to New Orleans. Since each had left his car at the heliport, they’d split up there. Joe had offered to stop on the way to the office and pick up a couple of sandwiches.

Now, Hick took one from the sack, unwrapped it, discovered meatballs smothered in melted mozzarella, and passed it to Joe, who said, “Don’t worry. Your Veggie Delite is in there.” He took a bite of meatball and spoke around it. “To live in New Orleans and be a vegetarian—”

“‘—is a waste.’ So you’ve said. About ten thousand times.”

“It’s worse than a waste. It’s a sin. Ask your priest. He’ll back me up.” He used a napkin to blot marinara from the corner of his mouth. “So Kinnard’s no longer down Mexico way.”

“Our guys went into overdrive. This is what they’ve got so far.” Hick took a sip of sweet iced tea, reached for a folder, and flipped it open. “He made a notable exit.” He turned the folder around so Joe could see the top photo in a stack. It showed the bodies of two men inside a late-model Mercedes, both bloody and indisputably dead.

“The car, as you see it here, was left two blocks from state police headquarters, which was as close as the concertina wire barricade around the compound would allow.”

“The police must’ve appreciated that consideration.”

“Not so much.” Hick tipped his head toward the photo. “The guy in the uniform? Was the jefe.”

“Of the state police?” When Hick nodded, Joe folded the wrapper around the remains of his sandwich and pushed it aside, predicting he was probably going to have raging heartburn.

“But don’t cry over him,” Hick said. “He was as corrupt as they come, playing both sides of the drug wars and taking graft from everybody.”

Joe looked at the photo again. “Who’s body number two?”

Hick slid the top photo aside to reveal the one beneath it. A name had been printed across the bottom in red marker. “Thirty-two-year-old American, originally from Phoenix, middle-class upbringing, son of two college professors. Started dealing in junior high school.”

“The beginning of an illustrious career?”

Hick nodded. “Big-time operator in the guns and drugs markets. The late state police chief moonlighted as his senior bodyguard, but he employed an army of them, and they were needed. In addition to bloodthirsty enemies, he had a price on his head, wanted by an alphabet soup of federal agencies, including us, ATF, DEA. The list goes on.”

Joe studied the picture taken with a telephoto lens of a baby-faced young man sitting in what appeared to be a nightclub booth with a cigarette dangling from his insolent smile. “He looks like a frat boy.”

Hick smiled. “Basically, that was his mentality. An undercover DEA agent reports that he was running afoul of his allies south of the border, making them nervous by living too high off the hog and calling attention to himself. Big hacienda. Flashy cars. Wild parties. He was hosting one such wingding when Kinnard struck.”

“When did this happen?”

“Tuesday night.”

Joe grimaced. “This Tuesday? Our Tuesday.”

“Yep.”

“Can’t be a coincidence.”

“Nope. Kinnard was a houseguest at the guy’s villa. One of the playgirls hired for the evening told the authorities that Kinnard, the frat boy, and the bodyguard left the party together in the Mercedes, Kinnard driving.”

“He shoots them in the car, abandons it with the bodies inside and sure to be found, then what?”

“It’s anybody’s guess,” Hick said. “Nobody knows how he got out of the area or where and how he crossed the border. He arrived in New Orleans midday Thursday on a flight from Dallas / Fort Worth. He grabbed a meal at an airport Chili’s before boarding.”

“How’d he get to Dallas?”

“We’ve got guys working backward from there, but so far, they haven’t found a trail. All that’s known is that he called a taxi to take him to the airport from a local motel, where he spent one night. We have him on numerous security cameras at DFW.” Hick shuffled through photos, pointing out Shaw Kinnard in blurry shots of the busy, crowded airport. “Outside our airport, he hailed a taxi and had it drop him at the Doubletree. But he didn’t check in.”