Free The Best American Mystery Stories, Volume 17 by Lisa Scottoline Page B

number from the Milky Way bars still on the shelf at Jeanfreau’s.
    He wasn’t at his desk ten minutes, just starting his arrest warrant, when the crime lab called. “It’s a match. Casing and projectile from the crime scene came from the Ruger.
And
we got a good print from one of the cartridges. It’s from your suspect’s right index finger.”
    Savary looked at the wall clock hanging above the unofficial logo of NOPD Homicide, an art deco illustration of a vulture perched atop a gold star-and-crescent badge. Six o’clock. He should be finished with the warrant by the time he usually called his girls. Then he’d see the judge. Then go ruin Oris Lamont’s evening.
    Â 
    Elvin Bishop smiled as soon as he spotted Jodie Kintyre with Savary in the windowless FBI waiting room. Jodie was in no smiling mood. The special agent’s silver suit, coincidentally, nearly matched the color of Jodie Kintyre’s skirt suit. Joseph Savary’s suit was as dark brown as his eyes. Bishop brought a manila folder to Savary.
    â€œOfficial forensic report on your videotape and photo comparison. SA Yamasaki wants to hold on to your evidence and will be available for court testimony.”
    Savary made the introductions, then gave his old friend a brief rundown on the Oris Lamont arrest as they sat, Jodie on the sofa, the two men in soft chairs.
    â€œHe lawyered up,” Savary said, “but we’ve got a good circumstantial case against him.”
    â€œGood. Glad I could help.”
    Jodie held an envelope up for Bishop, said, “You can help a little more.”
    Bishop took the envelope, which was unsealed, removed the letter inside, and read it, slowly. He looked up at Savary afterward, for a long moment, then at Jodie.
    â€œYou serious about this?”
    â€œDo I look like I’m joking?” Jodie’s voice was low and firm, her face deadpan. “I’ve been a homicide detective for fourteen years. The new superintendent of the New Orleans Police Department doesn’t sign a letter like that in jest.”
    â€œMisprision of felony?”
    â€œYour boss and the U.S. attorney here in New Orleans like using this against crooked cops, don’t they?” Before Bishop could answer, Jodie continued, “We have no sympathy for crooked cops either, but what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”
    Bishop turned to Savary, who said, in a deeper voice, “Shooting someone in a store is no different from shooting someone on a bridge.”
    â€œYou’re talking about the Danziger shooting?”
    â€œNo, you are. We’re talking about Felicity Street. We’re talking about an entire neighborhood committing misprision of felony. I have a list of names.” Savary gave his old friend a hard look, then let his face relax into a slight smile.
    â€œIt has to be a federal crime,” said Bishop.
    â€œMy killer committed a federal crime,” Savary answered. “Eighteen U.S.C. nine twenty-two (g) makes it a federal crime for any person who has ever been convicted of any felony to ever possess any firearm regardless of whether it is inside or outside his home. This is a blanket federal ban on all felon gun possession and is punishable by up to ten years in federal prison.”
    Bishop looked at Jodie as she pulled out a sheet of paper and quoted, “Misprision of felony. Eighteen U.S.C., section four. Whoever, having knowledge of the actual commission of a felony cognizable by a court of the United States, conceals and does not as soon as possible make known the same to some judge or other person in civil or military authority under the United States shall be fined under this title or imprisoned not more than three years, or both.” Jodie looked up, recited the rest of the statute from memory. “This offense, however, requires active concealment of a known felony rather than merely failing to report