she had nothing more to say. Thank you, and good afternoon.
Patrese and Selma were installed in Cindy’s condo by half past seven, having removed all police tapelines and made everything else look as normal as possible – which wasn’t very normal, given that there was a bloodstain the size of Lake Pontchartrain in the living room.
But if things went according to plan, L – whoever he or she was – wouldn’t even get that far before Patrese and Selma were asking some not-so-delicate questions.
Selma was jumpy. ‘I don’t like this,’ she kept saying. ‘Should never have let you talk me into it.’
‘Will you give it a rest? We’re here now.’
‘Yes, we are, aren’t we? And no, we shouldn’t be.’
‘You ever done surveillance, Selma?’
‘Course. Every cop has.’
‘Then tell me this: how the hell did you persuade anyone to go on stakeouts with you, if this is how jumpy you get?’
‘My stakeouts weren’t illegal.’
‘Anything’s illegal if the other side’s lawyer is good enough.’
‘This is different. A law school sophomore could have this struck off.’
Patrese was about to answer when the intercom system trilled.
Showtime.
He pressed the entry buzzer without speaking, and opened the apartment door.
Footsteps on the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Patrese stood behind the door, out of sight, ready to close it the moment L was inside. Selma was on the other side of the living room, with Patrese between her and the door. She had her revolver drawn, but down by her side.
Footsteps on the landing now, right outside.
Selma’s face suddenly fell, her eyes closing above an agonized grimace.
Patrese didn’t understand; didn’t have time to understand, as the man was in the room now, black, six feet and 180 pounds, just as the neighbor had described him, and he looked as confused as Patrese felt.
‘Yo. What the fuck, man?’
Patrese kicked the door shut, spun the man round, slammed him up against the wall and began to go through his pockets. Possession with intent to supply would certainly provide him with an incentive to answer their questions.
The man wasn’t struggling. He was staring at Selma.
‘Selma?’ he said.
‘Luther.’ Her voice was soft, almost blank.
‘You know him?’ Patrese asked.
Luther laughed. ‘Know me? Hell, man – she used to be married to me.’
Luther’s appearance seemed to have shocked Selma into silence. It was several minutes before she could form a coherent sentence, and in that time Patrese had frisked Luther, found three wraps of cocaine, cuffed him, sat him at Cindy’s kitchen table, and started to grill him. Figuratively, not literally.
The wraps were laid out on the table like a three-card trick, to remind Luther what was at stake if he didn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t play ball.
‘Before we get down to why you’re here – as in right here, right now – tell me how you got here,’ Patrese said. ‘More generally. One minute, you and Selma are married; the next, you’re running coke to white kids in Faubourg? How does that work?’
‘I fought for my country, man. I don’t have nothin’ to be ashamed of.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I was in the army. Fifteen years. Intelligence, 519th Battalion. Went to Panama a couple of months after basic training, then Iraq, Afghanistan, Iraq again. I was a good soldier. I was.’
‘And?’
‘And then I got fucked.’
‘How?’
‘Abu Ghraib.’
Patrese nodded. American soldiers’ abuse of Iraqi prisoners at Abu Ghraib jail in Baghdad had been all over the news, on and off, for more than a year now.
Luther went on. ‘Three months in the can, demotion to private, bad conduct discharge. All I was doing was …’
Don’t tell me, Patrese thought; obeying orders.
‘…obeying orders. Just like I was supposed to. But heads had to roll when it all came out, that’s the way it is, and those heads weren’t ever gonna be the big shots in DC, were they? No, sir. They were gonna be the little guys on the ground. It was a crapshoot, and I lost.’
‘So you became a dealer?’
‘Soldiering’s all I ever wanted to do, you understand? No unit’s ever gonna have me again now, not with that on my record. But a man’s gotta earn his keep. And I got skills. So …’ He gestured to the wraps.
‘You could have been a mall cop.’
Luther snorted. ‘I don’t think so.’
Patrese gestured to Selma. ‘And you guys were married for …?’
‘Seven years. Like the itch. Came down here from Bragg summer of ’97, to see my cousin. Met Selma at church. That was it, man. Love at first sight.’
Selma nodded; for her too, clearly. ‘Got married that fall,’ she said.
‘Whirlwind romance,’ Patrese said.
‘When you know, man, you know,’ Luther replied.
‘And you moved down here, Luther?’
‘No. Had to stay at Bragg. Came down as often as I could, and Selma came to see me, but, you know, I had my job, she had hers, and ain’t neither one of us wanted to give that up. They were good jobs. Righteous jobs.’
‘Must have been hard, though.’
‘Sure. Why the heck you think we split? Cops and soldiers got two of the highest divorce rates in the country, ain’t they?’
‘We could have survived without Abu Ghraib,’ Selma said.
‘Abu Ghraib had nothing to …’
‘If you hadn’t done those things …’
‘I didn’t have a choice.’
‘What things?’ Patrese asked.
‘I can’t …’ Selma shook her head. ‘Look it up on the web, Franco.’
‘I didn’t have a choice, man,’ Luther repeated.
Patrese got the impression this conversation had been played out many times before; sometimes with a marriage counselor, perhaps, sometimes without. Maybe Selma would give Patrese her side of the story sometime.
He changed the subject.
‘You came here around ten o’clock on Tuesday night, that’s correct?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘And you brought cocaine for Cindy then?’
‘Did I?’
‘Remember the text you sent?’
Luther shrugged. ‘Maybe I did.’
‘And how did she seem to you then?’
‘Fine.’
‘Fine?’
‘Yeah, fine. A little tired, maybe. Said she’d had a long day.’
‘Stressed about anything?’
‘Not