Free Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller by David Lyons

for a strung-out street thug, made in Romania. It used the sameammo. Kinda makes you wonder. Kinda makes me worry. Body armor would be about as much protection against it as a T-shirt.”
    Fitch left the office of the superintendent of the New Orleans Police Department as Chief Logan stared at the contents of the Ziploc bag on his desk.

CHAPTER 7
    C URLY FREEMAN HAD BEEN an investigator with the Louisiana State Police for six months. He still chafed at the nickname bestowed on him his first day, finding it neither clever nor humorous. There were other skinheads on the force, though they generally weighed in at 250 and over. Monikers for the big guys were bestowed carefully if at all. Curly was five-six and punched the scale at 140. Since he didn’t want his size disparaged, he put up with Curly.
    He’d been assigned the case of a body found in the gulf, within three miles from shore, which made it his department’s jurisdiction. He’d already talked to the ME, who had declared death by drowning, no doubt about it; no other possibility; don’t waste your time. Curly had thought this finding was a little too pat, especially since somewhere along the forensic trail, an early examinationof the body had mentioned head trauma. It was worth a question or two. That was what he was paid to do.
    He was driving from state police headquarters in Baton Rouge to Houma, seat of Terrebonne Parish, southwest of New Orleans. Houma was home to a newly expanded port facility with access to the Intracoastal Waterway and the gulf, and it even had its own airport. It was also home to Dumont Industries, the largest offshore services company in the state and the employer of the deceased. Curly estimated the drive time at about an hour and a half, if he didn’t run over any gators. Like Baton Rouge, Houma was bayou country, Cajun country. If nothing interesting was learned on this trip, at least he’d treat himself to a good meal. Curly hadn’t called ahead for an appointment.
    Dressed in plainclothes and driving an unmarked car, he showed his badge at the gate of the complex and was given directions. He passed the shipyard on the way to the corporate offices. The hull of a huge vessel, at least three hundred feet, was being laid. Several smaller ships were also under construction. This was quite an operation, and Curly guessed that possibly two thousand people were employed in this location alone. Economic importance meant political importance, and that meant he’d have to be polite today. The receptionist was a heavyset black woman with a smile in proportion to her size. “Why sure, hon” was her response to almost any query. After making a phone call,she took him in tow and personally led him to the head of personnel.
    “My sister lives in Baton Rouge. Name’s Ruth Corey. She plays piano and sings in a bar called King Porter’s. You know her?”
    “I don’t believe so.”
    “You ought to check her out. She sings like Billie Holiday. On Fridays she has other musicians with her. But if you don’t like jazz . . .”
    “But I do. I know where King Porter’s is. I’ll check it out when I get home tonight.”
    “I’ll call her and ask her to save you a special table.” She stopped at an open door and beckoned him to walk in. “Sam Matthews is head of personnel. Have a good day, sir.”
    “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
    “That’s my job.” She and her smile returned to the front desk.
    Sam Matthews had seen Curly from his windowed office and had come out to meet him. He introduced himself.
    “If that woman ever wants a job in Baton Rouge, you tell her to look me up,” Curly said, handing him his business card.
    “She’s not going anywhere if I have anything to say about it. Lois greets everybody who comes in this building the way she greeted you, and if you arrive in a bad mood, it’s gone by the time you reach your desk. We all love her. What can I do for you, Officer?”
    “Just a routine