“I think you’re exaggerating my importance.”

“Bullshit! The FBI doesn’t have much to work with, and they won’t drop this angle until they understand it. Tell me the truth about the arguments, and if it’s innocent, I’ll tell them to leave you the hell alone.”

Smith closes his eyes, takes a long breath, then expels it slowly and opens his eyes again. The look in them tells me this man does not easily grant trust. “You give me your word not to reveal this to the FBI if it’s not relevant to the case?”

“Christ, you want me to pinky-swear? I’m not telling them anything they don’t need to know to help my sister. I don’t even like them. But they’re the only hope those women and their families have.”

Smith sighs and looks over at the old slave quarters that form one wall of his garden. A faint scent of lemon drifts into my nostrils.

“It’s simple,” he says. “Roger wants me to kill him.”

A rush of heat passes over my face. “What?”

“His disease is steadily worsening. It’s in his lungs now, and his other vital organs. The end will be… unpleasant. He wants my help when the time comes.”

I feel like slinking away in shame. Suddenly everything is clear, Wheaton’s reticence most of all. If the artist’s wish to have Frank Smith help end his life became known to the NOPD, that might stop Smith from risking his freedom to comply, no matter where his sympathies lie.

“You get it now?” asks Smith.

“Part of it. But why the arguments? You refused to help him?”

“That’s right. I thought Roger might be motivated by clinical depression. I thought he had a lot of great paintings left in him. I still think so.” Smith gives me a weary look, as though concealing the truth is no longer worth the effort. “But he’s wearing me down, honestly. He’s shown me his medical records, not to mention his body, and I’m starting to understand how grave his situation is. Assisted suicide will get you ten years in this state, so it’s not a decision I can make lightly.”

“I understand.”

Smith looks skeptical. “Do you?”

An awful flash of memory lights my mind. “I once saw an Afghan guerrilla ask his brother to kill him to keep him from being captured. He’d been wounded during a raid on a Russian outpost. It was total confusion, people running around in the dark, Russian soldiers screaming, Afghans howling curses, and this poor half-starved guy shot in the hip. He couldn’t walk, and they couldn’t carry him through the mountains. He begged his brother to end it for him, but the brother couldn’t do it. The others huddled beside the trail and talked; the Russians were getting closer; finally a cousin went back and cut the guy’s throat while the others prayed. I heard the cousin sobbing as we climbed back into the mountains.”

“What an encouraging story.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just… I know it’s a hard thing. How did he want you to help him? Did he have a method in mind?”

“How could it help you to know that?”

“I don’t know. I’m curious, I guess.”

“Insulin.”

“Insulin?”

“It’s a peaceful way to go, he says. He’s researched it. Sleep, coma, then death. The problem is that sometimes you don’t die. You just get brain damage.”

“That’s why he needed your help?”

“Yes. He wanted me to find some drug that would stop his heart after the coma. This was after I told him I wasn’t putting a plastic bag over his head and watching him turn blue.”

“Jesus. Okay. I’ll tell the FBI they’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Thank you.” Smith forces a smile. “Would you like something to drink now? Coffee? A Bloody Mary?”

“I could use a drink, but I should go.” I stand and gather up the transmitter, microphone, and sticky tape. “Look, the Jefferson Parish sheriff leaked to the media that we have suspects. He didn’t name names, but you might want to get ready for that. Get a hotel room or something.”

Smith shakes his head in exasperation. “I’ll do that. Right after I call my lawyer and tell him to get ready to sue the shit out of the government.”

He stands, takes my arm, then leads me back through the house. As we pass the dining room, I glance in at his nude portrait of Oscar Wilde.

“I really like that picture.”

“Thanks.”

Smith reaches for the doorknob, but I stop him by pulling my arm against my side. “Frank, tell me one thing. The brush hairs led the FBI to four suspects: you, Roger, Thalia, and Gaines. Thalia’s out. If you had to pin it on Wheaton or Gaines, who would you pick?”

“Are you kidding? Was Leon under surveillance when Thalia was taken?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. Well. Roger too, of course?”

“Yes.” A last, desperate thought pops into my head. “Has Wheaton ever told you he was abused as a child?”

Smith sighs angrily.

“I have a good reason for asking, I promise.”

“He never told me anything like that. And if your next question is did I suffer anything like that, my answer is fuck you. All right?” He yanks open the door and stands clear of it. “Come again soon, now.”

I walk out into the pale sunlight and damp yellow leaves of Esplanade, and the door closes behind me. It’s been a long time since I felt this low. Probing private lives has never been my thing. All photojournalism is essentially exploitative, but in photography the act of invasion is mitigated by the wonderful speed of light, which lets you intrude from a distance. No messy questions or awkward silences; just click, click, click.

I turn toward the Mississippi River and start to walk, knowing that the FBI sedan bearing Baxter, Lenz, and John will come alongside at any moment. They’ll be pissed that I pulled the wire, which is fine. I’m pissed that I’ve played the role of pawn in their dead-end investigation. I’d probably feel different if this morning’s interviews had produced a lead, but they didn’t.

The quiet hum of a motor announces my escorts. The sedan pulls up to the curb on my left and, when I don’t stop, keeps pace as I walk. Baxter rolls down the passenger window, and I see Special Agent Wendy Travis driving the car. Her presence tells me John is tied up for the day, that I’m to be left under her watchful eyes yet again.

“Why did you kill the wire?” asks Baxter.

“You know why,” I reply, looking straight ahead.

“What did he tell you?”

“He convinced me that Wheaton’s visits there have nothing to do with the case.”

Baxter glances into the backseat, where Lenz sits beside John. Then he looks back at me. “Do you think you’re the best judge of that?”

“As good as any of you.”

He turns to the backseat again, and I’m certain he’s telling John to use his influence to get me to talk. Baxter may not like me being involved with his old profiler, but he doesn’t mind exploiting the connection. I hope John knows better than to try.

The car stops, the back door opens, and John gets out. He walks to me, his eyes filled with concern.

“What do you want to do?” he asks softly. “Whatever you say, I’ll make it happen.”

“I want to walk.”

“You want company?”

“No.”

“You feel that Wheaton and Smith are both innocent, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’m going to go back to the office and study the aerial photos of the courtyards. Call if you want to talk. Wendy has a cell phone.”

I’m going to have company after all.

John squeezes my forearm, then motions to Wendy, who gets out wearing her usual Liz Claiborne skirt and jacket combo, the jacket there to hide her pistol. I resist the urge to say something smart; she’s only doing her job as best she can. She falls into step a couple of yards behind me, and the sedan pulls forward and then passes us. As it recedes, I see John looking back at me over the rear seat, his eyes unreadable.