He didn’t have time for that. He needed to talk to Parker.
“Get set up. I’ll be right there. Got to grab some eats.”
“Vending’s on first floor.”
“Anything better, real close by?”
“Cafe Beignet’s right next door. Pastries and stuff. And a sandwich shop, Monster Po’boy, just across the street.” She glanced at her watch. “They might be closed.”
“Mind if I check?”
“Go for it. By the way, that search, you don’t need a phone book. That’s why we’ve got computer databases.”
He frowned, thoughts already on Angel Gomez, the nasty ass energy that clung to her ID card, and what Parker would have to say about it. “What?”
“Your search. The names.”
“Oh. Right.” He stood and grabbed his sport coat. “I guess I’ll need to learn how to log on.”
She laughed. “I guess you will. Thanks, by the way.”
He looked at her. “For what?”
“Taking the heat. With Nichols.”
“It was mine to take.”
She stood studying him as if he was a strange new form of life. Which, he supposed he was.
After a moment, she nodded. “Cool.” She started off, then stopped. Looked back. “If Monster’s is open, bring me a turkey and swiss. Dressed.”
“Dressed?” he repeated.
“Lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise.”
The moment Zach exited the Eighth, he dialed Parker. “It’s me. We have to meet.”
Chapter Eleven
Monday, July 8
6:20 P.M.
Parker had given Zach an address on Frenchman Street, in an area adjacent to the Quarter called the Marigny. He had also directed him to a vehicle in the police lot—a white Ford Taurus with more than a few dents—the key had been under the driver’s side wheel well. Curiously, the Taurus’ GPS had been set for the Frenchman Street address.
The street’s vibe was eclectic and cool, a collection of restaurants, bars and shops; what looked like apartments and lofts located above them. Like so much of New Orleans, it was old, crumbling, and beautifully unique; more akin to a European city than an American one. It couldn’t be more different than Hollywood.
The sound of a band warming up greeted him as he stepped out of the Taurus. Number 610 was located above a vintage bookstore. He found the entrance to the right of the bookshop and rang 2-B.
“Buzzing you in,” Parker responded.
He caught the strains of Vivaldi a moment before he reached the apartment door. Parker was nuts for classical music, and the Baroque composer was a favorite.
“It’s open,” Parker called a moment before Zach knocked.
Bookishly hip. Open concept. Comfortably worn with a modern edge.
“It doesn’t look like you,” he said to Parker, who sat on a stool at the kitchen eating counter.
“But does it look like you?”
Zach looked around once more and nodded. “Yeah, it does.”
“Good. Because you’ll be calling it home for now.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a key ring and tossed it to Zach.
“We checked you out of the hotel and moved your things here. I took the liberty of adding a few personal touches.”
Zach crossed to the sideboard. Framed photos of him and his parents, his group of high school friends at the beach. He arched his eyebrows at the next: his graduation from the police academy, his proud parents at his side? He picked it up and turned to Parker. “And this one?”
“Photoshop. You’ll find other ‘homey’ items throughout. I suggest you familiarize yourself with them.”
Next, Zach perused the built-in bookcases, scanning the titles. His favorite genre, Science Fiction and Fantasy, was well-represented; many of them he’d read. Books on crime and criminal profiling, surfing and classic American cars. He looked over his shoulder. “The only thing missing is the Bible I got for eighth grade confirmation.”
“Your bedside table.”
“You dudes are creepy, you know that?”
A hint of a smile formed on Parker’s mouth, then was gone. “In addition, in the entertainment center you’ll find the complete Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, and Die Hard movie collections on DVD.”
Zach grinned. “Bruce Willis, greatest action hero ever.”
“By the way, the Taurus is also yours.”
“And here I’d hoped for a Aston Martin or BMW.”
“You’re not 007.”
“A guy can dream,” he said lightly, fitting the Ford’s key onto the ring. “I don’t have much time; we have to talk.”
“You pulled a homicide investigation.”
It wasn’t a question. He answered anyway. “Yes. A low-level bad guy named Martin Ritchie. Appears to be a drug-related killing.”
“That’s not of interest to us.”
“I didn’t think it would be. There was an energy attached to him. One like I’ve never encountered before. It led me back to Ritchie’s hotel room.”
He had Parker’s full attention. He took a pen and spiral notebook from his pocket. “Hotel? Address?”