Free Neal Rafferty New Orleans Mystery #1: The Killing Circle (A Neal Rafferty New Orleans Mystery) by Chris Wiltz Page A

edged it right on by her.
    “Oh, we did. He was only here for three days and then he and Carter . . .” She bit her lip as if she'd gone too far. “I'd hoped he would stay for at least a week, but he had to get back.”
    I could tell she was embarrassed. “I've spent some time up there,” I said. “Where does he live?”
    “On Broome Street.”
    “SoHo?” I asked and she nodded. “Isn't that a coincidence. The son of some old friends of my family is living up there, too, right there in SoHo. He's an artist.”
    She brightened up. “Really? That's what Carter's doing, too. I wonder if they know each other?”
    “I don't know. Why don't we put them in touch? Maybe they'll talk each other into coming home. I'll tell Jim to call him.” Jim is a middle-aged detective I know in the Bronx.
    “Carter refuses to have a telephone. That's one reason why I worry. I can't just pick up the phone and make sure he's okay.”
    “Why don't you give me his address? They can't live that far from each other.”
    She looked dubious. “I don't know. Carter's very determined to be completely on his own. He might think we're trying to check up on him.”
    “Maybe you're right. He probably has his own friends there anyway.” I opened the door.
    She put her hand on my arm. “Wait, Mr. Rafferty. How old is Jim?”
    “Twenty.”
    “Well, maybe it would be okay.” She gave me the address on Broome Street. “Do you think you could find out from Jim—without being obvious—what kind of place Carter is living in?” She laughed nervously. “It would make me feel better. I don't know why.”
    I told her I thought I could manage that. “When did Carter leave?” I asked. It was a little too casual. She gave me a peculiar look. “You know, is he back in New York yet?”
    “Oh, yes,” she said. “He's been gone a week. He left last Monday.”
    The coincidences didn't like Carter Fleming III very much.

11
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Old Friends Getting Together
    My plan was to go back to the Euclid to call for a reservation on the first plane to New York in the morning, then go over to Grady's and talk to Murphy about the Boy Scout. I got myself booked on a seven o'clock flight and lay back on the bed with my eyes closed. I was just beginning to relax when the knuckles started pounding on the door. When I opened it I got a perfectly framed picture of Uncle Roddy with his eyes at half mast. A younger, more brutal looking man was standing behind him chomping on a wad of chewing gum. It took me a minute to realize who he was. His name was Phil Fonte, and he was the younger brother of Raymond Fonte whom I enjoyed beating up several times while we were at Redemptorist together. Raymond and I had it in for each other for some unspecified reason. When feelings ran high we would meet after school, each with his group of supporters, being careful to move down the street a good distance so the nuns wouldn't catch us fighting. Little Phil, still at St. Alphonsus, cried one day when I punched his brother in the face and spilled a lot of his blood. He
    stood behind Rankin now sneering at me. This damn town is entirely too small.
    “Well, well, Lieutenant, what a surprise,” I said cheerfully. Uncle Roddy always liked me to address him formally in front of subordinates.
    “Mind if we come in, Neal?”
    “Not at all, Lieutenant. It's always a pleasure to welcome officers of the law to my humble house.” I stood back and made a sweeping gesture of entrance.
    “Hm,” said Rankin.
    We sat around the dining table. “Can I get you boys something to drink? Coffee? Or how about something a bit stronger—if you're going to be calling it quits for the night soon?” I have never seen Rankin turn down a drink.
    “A Scotch and water for me,” he said. Fonte nodded agreement. I went into the kitchen and fixed two drinks.
    “This is Sergeant Fonte, Neal. He's going to be working this case with me.”
    The only acknowledgment I got from Fonte was when he popped his wad of