Free Sting by Sandra Brown Page B

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