He hugged her. “You bet your ass it feels right. This SOB is going down. With everything we’ve got, linking him to the victim will be icing on the cake.”

The crowd, most of whom were now two and a half sheets to the wind, began chanting “Song, song!” urging Riley to sing.

In his younger days, Riley had kept them all entertained by writing and singing silly songs about their lives that were a cross between satire, poetry and stand-up comedy.

He strummed his guitar.

“Bad guys beware, Patti O’Shay is there.

She won’t sleep, she won’t rest,

She’ll arrest your butt when you least expect.”

The crowd began to howl and he segued into a rendition of “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”

That song led to several more. Patti made her way to the bar-this time for a cup of Shannon’s strong coffee-aware of the assembled revelers’ reaction to Riley. Tall, with a mop of curly hair and a boyish smile, Riley had charisma. Women flocked to him. Yet, he wasn’t so good-looking that guys resented him. Patti continued to be surprised he was unattached.

Shauna joined her as Riley exited the small stage. Her niece had inherited the Malone family’s dark hair and light eyes, though, like her mother, she was petite.

“What a waste of talent,” Shauna said. “He could have been big.”

Patti smiled at her niece. “Said he didn’t have the drive.”

“That makes sense. I mean, why should he?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugged. “What does he need drive for? He’s got the big-time silver spoon, instead.”

“Do I hear a trace of bitterness?”

“Not at all. ‘No drive’ is just a nice way of saying he’s too lazy, or too spoiled, to go for it.”

Her words surprised Patti. Shauna and Riley had been really good friends.

“I still adore him,” Shauna went on, as if reading her mind. “I’m thrilled to have signed with him. It’s just…The waste of talent breaks my heart. And it’s partly June’s fault.”

“June’s fault? Riley is the one who refuses to grow up. She’d love for him to start standing on his own two-”

“Feet? Get real, Aunt Patti. She can’t bear the thought of letting him go. Every time he’s taken a real step toward making it on his own, she reels him back in. Her latest was buying the gallery.”

“Obviously you’ve only heard his side of the story,” Patti said, defending her friend. “I’ve been listening to June’s side since their parents died eleven years ago. If he’s spoiled, it’s his parents who did it.”

Shauna’s boyfriend interrupted them. He looped an arm around her shoulders. “Ready to go, babe?”

“Rich, have you met my aunt?”

His gaze slid to her along with an easy smile that didn’t feel quite genuine. “Yeah, earlier. Congrats again.”

“Thank you.”

He returned his attention to Shauna. “What do you say? Ready?”

“Not quite.”

“That’s cool. Do you mind catching a ride? I’ve got an early day tomorrow.”

Shauna flushed, though with embarrassment or anger, Patti wasn’t certain. “No problem, you go.”

They watched him walk away, then Shauna turned to her. “Don’t start. I’ve heard it all before.”

“Maybe you should pay attention?”

“With all due respect, I’ll tell you what I’ve told the rest of the family. Butt out.”

Spencer and Quentin angled in. “Better than eat shit and die,” Spencer said. “Though, man, is that guy a jerk.”

Before the youngest Malone could respond, Shannon called, “Patti, my darlin’, telephone!”

She made her way around the bar and took the receiver. “Patti O’Shay.”

“Captain Patti O’Shay?”

She frowned. “Yes.”

“Sammy O’Shay’s widow?”

“Yes,” she said, a prickly sensation at the back of her neck.

“FYI, you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Excuse me?”

“Franklin. He’s not your guy.”

The line went dead. She stood, holding the receiver to her ear, heart thundering, feeling as if a glass of cold water had just been tossed in her face.

She must have looked it, too, because Spencer and Quentin had come around the bar. “What’s wrong?” Spencer asked.

She quickly told them, then turned back to Shannon. “Do you have Caller ID?” When he said he didn’t, she tried another avenue. “Dial star 69.”

He did, and she motioned to Spencer. “Run a check on this number-504-555- 0314.”

“Calling it in,” he said, and crossed to the entryway for quiet. Several moments later, he returned. “Pay phone. Canal Street, downtown.”

“Send a cruiser.”

“Already done.”

“It could have been anybody,” Quentin said. “Someone with an ax to grind against you.”

“Or a crank,” Spencer offered. “That we’ve arrested someone has been all over the news. This is somebody’s idea of a sick joke.”

“Not just anybody,” she said. “Yes, the arrest was in the news. But the suspect’s name wasn’t mentioned.”

“It was a friend of Franklin’s. Trying to plant the seed of doubt.”

“How did he know where to find me tonight?”

They fell silent at that, and she moved her gaze between them. She saw the moment their only remaining option became clear to them.

“Another cop,” Quentin said. “It’s got to be. Who’ve you pissed off, Aunt Patti?”

22

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

1:30 a.m.

Spencer eased to a stop in front of the Garden District mansion. Tony had already arrived, as had the coroner’s representative. The first officers had cordoned off the scene.

A smattering of residents stood on their porches gawking, probably shaking in their Cole Haans and Manolo Blahniks, Spencer thought, as they acknowledged the horrible truth: money might be able to buy you a flood-free home in a ritzy neighborhood, but longevity was another story. When fate called, there wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it.

Tonight that call had come in the form of a bullet.

Spencer signed in, then ducked under the police line. Tony caught sight of him and ambled over. “Took you long enough, Slick.”

“Kiss mine, Pasta Man.” He motioned toward the victim. “What’s his story?”

“One bullet to the back of his head as he was climbing out of his car.”

“Poor bastard.”

“Not any poor bastard,” Tony said. “Marcus Gabrielle.”

It took a moment for the name to register. When it did Spencer whistled. “Stacy’s undercover suspect. She’s going to be really pissed.”

“So’s her boss. Goodbye investigation.”

“Think it’s related to his extracurricular activities? Maybe somebody in his chain got wind of the investigation.”

“It’d be my guess. Getting whacked is a consequence of being a bad boy.”

Spencer moved his gaze slowly over the area, then crossed to Gabrielle. Other than the victim sprawled in a bloody mess on the driveway, nothing looked out of order.

He squatted beside the man, who lay on his back beside his vehicle, the center of his face blown away. The driver’s-side door stood open; his car keys were still clenched in his right hand.

“Wallet missing?” he asked.

“Nope.”

Spencer saw the gleam of gold at his wrist. After fitting on gloves, he eased aside the victim’s bloodstained shirt cuff to get a look at it. A Rolex. With diamonds.

“A kick-ass piece of bling.”

Tony indicated his left hand. “Check out the ring. This was no robbery.”

What it looked like was an execution.

“Wife saw him last. Around 9:45.” Tony scratched his head. “She could be the shooter, though she was pretty hysterical. Seemed legit.”

“Somebody’s with her now?”

“A neighbor and a uniform.”

Spencer nodded. “You’re sure he was getting out of the car? Look at the way his body landed. His left hand was on the handle, keys in his right. He opens the door, somebody from the street comes up to him, nails him from behind.”

Tony nodded. “If he’d been climbing out of the car, he would have twisted the other way, fallen on his face.”