he and Crow had stepped outside. Uniformed police were cordoning off the area with yellow tape. A crowd of onlookers had gathered.
“Look,” Jude said quietly to Crow.
There was a man lurking on the outskirts of the crowd.
Summer in New Orleans. Hotter than the devil’s own seat in hell. And the guy was dressed in a sweatshirt, holding his head down, shuffling his feet, watching. There was something odd about his manner—and his appearance. His face was almost gruesome, and his nose was huge.
“I see him,” Crow muttered.
The man might have been a voyeur, the kind who slowed down at the scene of a car accident.
And yet his behavior made him typical of killers who returned to see the aftermath of their work, getting their kicks all over again by seeing the police run around, the crowd gawk—and the relatives break down in tears and denial. Jude carefully started moving toward him.
Just then the man looked up. Jude froze behind one of the columns. It was important, he thought, that the man not see him.
His face was...unnatural. Not as if he was wearing a mask, but makeup. Prosthetic makeup, perhaps, giving him a larger nose, a bulbous chin, harder cheek bones. The man turned to run, as if he’d sniffed out the fact that he’d been noticed. Jude shouted to Crow and began to run in pursuit.
Jackson Crow was already beside him.
Running.
They tore across Rampart Street and into the Quarter...down, all the way down to Bourbon. And there they lost him. By then, of course, there were dozens of officers around.
“Every bar, every damn bar!” Jackson ordered. “The guy in the gray sweatshirt. Black hair.”
It was still daytime, around three o’clock, but a summer festival was in full swing. Music of all kinds was blaring, tourists were crowding around and beads were being flung from balconies. There were hawkers on the street, and the sheer flow of people, from the slightly inebriated to the out-and-out drunk did not make for easy movement. Jude thought he saw the man head into a place called Piccolo’s. He followed.
A four-piece band was playing a Journey number, and the crowd was gathered by the stage, singing along. Waiters and waitresses worked their way through the revelers.
Police and other agents were bearing down on the bar, as well.
Jude quickly scanned the bar and the people inside it.
Crow was still right behind him.
“There!” Crow called out.
Their prey had leaped on top of the bar; a girl giggled and started toward him, ready to stuff some dollar bills in his pocket, or so it appeared. But the man jumped down from the bar, a stool crashed over and she went flying back, sending others onto the floor as she did. Chaos erupted to the refrain of “Don’t Stop Believing.”
“Lost him!” Crow said, swearing under his breath.
Jude was already climbing over the bar himself, past the stunned bartender—standing with his mixer in hand—and through the dingy kitchen to the side street. They were on St. Ann.
From there he saw the man step into the passenger seat of an old Chevy around the corner from the club—and even as Jude raced after him, the car pulled out into the street.
“Hey!” he roared to Crow. His new partner as of the morning was already outside.
“This way!” Crow shouted.
They moved down St. Ann at a run until they reached a bureau sedan. The driver stepped out.
“Assistant Director Crow,” the man began, ready to leap into action as driver.
“We’ll take it, Hicks,” Crow said, accepting the keys and tossing them to Jude. “Drive. You know the streets better than I do.”
Jude was surprised but pleased that Crow had the sense to realize that. And it was true. He knew the one-ways and he knew the cutoffs that happened so often when New Orleans was in festival mode.
The man driving the Chevy should have been stopped by the sheer volume of pedestrian traffic. So far, he’d banged on his horn and plowed through. Jude hopped into the driver’s seat while Crow got into the passenger side.
Streets were closed; there was no way to traverse them.
Jude shot across to a side street, but the suspect was nowhere to be seen. Moving on instinct, he sped toward Canal, hoping to cut him off.
“Where are you going?” Crow asked.
“We’ll catch him on the border of the Vieux Carre,” Jude said.
And they did.
There they saw the Chevy surging ahead, and Jude did his best to follow without running over a pedestrian. Even on Canal, people were wandering on and off the road.
“Where’s he going? What the hell?” Crow asked, shaking his head. “And who’s driving? Are we dealing with a pair of killers?”
The man in the Chevy didn’t seem to have a destination. He was driving erratically, avoiding the dozens of cop cars now on the road.
“Airport...train station...” Crow mused. “Hey! That was him, down Tchoupitoulas!”
“Might be going to the port,” Jude said, still trying to follow the Chevy. He wasn’t sure, but he thought that the driver was now maneuvering around a one-way street toward the Riverwalk area—and the massive cruise port.
Yes.
The car was going to the port!
As Jude drove hard, the siren blasting, Jackson Crow got on the radio, advising all law enforcement in the area to watch out for the car and the two men, giving a description of their suspect’s clothing and appearance.
So many ships, so many cruise lines.
“There! Up ahead. The Celtic American line,” Crow said. “I see the car.”
The Chevy was in front of the entry to the Celtic American line. More chaos was breaking out as last-minute cruisers competed for positions to park or drop off passengers.
Jude jerked the sedan off to the side of the road. Crow was out of the sedan before it was in Park. Seconds later he had the driver standing on the sidewalk beside the old Chevy.
He looked like a man in a trance. He was fifty-five or sixty, a slightly pudgy and balding businessman who seemed completely bewildered—as if he didn’t know who he was or why he was there.
“Who were you driving? Why didn’t you stop?” Crow demanded.
“I’m Walter Bean. I was supposed to pick up my daughter after her shift at the Red Garter... She’s a hostess there.”
“We need you to tell us about your passenger.”
“I’m
