Page 16 of Knife in the Back (New Orleans #4)

The Central Business District, New Orleans, Louisiana

At least Gaffney had the decency to look ashamed when he took one of the visitor chairs in front of the desk.

He hoped the detective had a good explanation, because the afternoon had gone to shit. “Well?”

“We didn’t get the kid,” Gaffney said.

“You sent Freddie and Pablo to get the kid, even though I told you to handle it yourself.”

Luckily Freddie had more sense than Gaffney did. As soon as the op had failed, she’d called him with the news. He was still furious.

Gaffney narrowed his eyes. “Let’s get two things clear.

First, I’m not your employee. I’m your partner.

Just like Cresswell was. Second, I’m not getting caught.

That’s not negotiable. I figured the kid would have a bodyguard and I didn’t want to be seen by him if shit went south—just like it did.

The bodyguard pulled Pablo’s mask off. We’re going to have to reassign him somewhere out of town, because his face was exposed.

I told Freddie to keep watch for Broussard’s people, but that bodyguard took them by surprise. ”

First, Gaffney was not his partner.

Second, not getting caught was actually a good argument, because if Gaffney ever did get caught, he’d sing like a fucking bird.

So he inclined his head, acknowledging Gaffney’s point. “Freddie said that the bodyguard broke Pablo’s arm.”

Gaffney grimaced. “It’s a bad break. He’ll be able to return to work, but not until after Mardi Gras.”

“That’s a shame.” Because Pablo wouldn’t be going back to work at all. That Broussard’s man had seen the kid’s face was too damning. So Pablo had already been dealt with. At least Freddie knew how to take direction, unlike Gaffney.

As much as he disliked murder, there were times when it was necessary.

But now they’d have to find someone else to manage the inventory they’d brought into the city for Mardi Gras. Inventory he’d procured with his own money.

He held Gaffney’s gaze. “Freddie said that she didn’t recognize the bodyguard. Find out who this guy is. Find out about every person Broussard has guarding Naomi Cranston and her son. I don’t want to be surprised again.”

“What about the flower shop?” Gaffney asked accusingly. “The shooting’s all over the police scanners. What the fuck happened there?”

He wanted to rub his temples, because he’d had a pounding headache ever since that op had gone south. “The delivery van was alarmed.”

Gaffney frowned. “It wasn’t on Friday when I talked to Naomi. I checked this morning, too. And before you ask, no cameras caught my face.”

“The alarm must have been installed at some point today. They did a delivery run midmorning.” Which he knew because he’d had Wayne Stanley watching the shop all morning. “Broussard must have had it done then.”

Gaffney’s frown deepened. “Did you tell your men to fire at the window? Because that was a damn mistake.”

“No.” And he was still furious that they’d done so.

“I told them to hide the envelope inside the van where it wouldn’t be easily seen.

And if, for whatever reason, they were unsuccessful, to make sure that the Cranston woman knew they’d been there.

I thought they understood that I meant something subtle, like leaving a damn note.

But they got in their mind that a show of force was needed. ”

Gaffney shook his head. “Now NOPD is involved. This has become a nightmare.”

“You’re right.” On the nightmare, at least. But Gaffney was wrong about NOPD only getting involved because there was a shooting. As soon as Broussard had accepted the case, André Holmes would have been informed. The two were best friends.

“Who did you send to the shop?” Gaffney asked.

“Shep and Blount.”

Gaffney winced. “Shep’s been using. Swore he stopped, but I don’t believe him. He’s been twitchy every time I’ve talked to him recently.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me this?”

“I figured you knew. He’s your guy, after all.”

“He’s not my guy. He’s Ortiz’s guy.”

Gaffney actually rolled his eyes, the prick. “Same thing. It wasn’t my idea to include the STs in our operation. That was on you and Cresswell.”

That was true. Several years ago, he and Cresswell had decided that they needed the distribution resources of the local gang, so they’d entered into an agreement with Desi Ortiz, the leader of the Saints—or the STs, as they were more widely known.

He and Cresswell used the gang’s dealers to distribute what they stole from the evidence room in return for police protection by Cresswell’s dirty cops.

Any dealers who were caught were usually released with a slap on the wrist or never charged at all.

That kept the operation running smoothly and allowed them to sell a lot more product than they’d been able to do before the alliance.

The gang took their cut, of course, but overall, much more money began rolling in.

Things had normally gone smoothly with Ortiz’s people.

Today was a huge exception. But he wasn’t going to confront Ortiz. The man was unstable on a good day.

“What are we going to do about Naomi Cranston?”

“We can’t use her as our fall guy now,” Gaffney said.

Gaffney had believed all along that Naomi Cranston was a simple fall guy. That if they got caught in possession of their newest inventory, Naomi would be exposed as the ringleader. In truth, the woman represented a clear threat.

To me. She needed to go back to prison, but that was looking less likely now.

The only other alternative was removing her permanently.

“No, she’s useless as our fall guy now,” he agreed, “so stop skimming off the drug busts for now. We don’t need any undue attention from the NOPD. We’ve got enough inventory to supply our customers through Mardi Gras, and if we need more, we can get it elsewhere.”

They’d gone through a fair portion of their stash during the recent Super Bowl weekend—the game had been played in New Orleans. But they were on track with sufficient Mardi Gras quantities. They’d be fine.

Gaffney frowned. “Lower profit margins, though.”

“Yes.” Because the product they’d been stealing from police drug busts was free.

Of course that would provide the best profit margin.

“But I’d rather lose a little money than leave ourselves open to investigation if anything goes wrong.

I’m betting Broussard has already started looking into who was involved in Naomi’s arrest six years ago.

If we leave any loose ends, Broussard will yank on them. ”

“He doesn’t know anything about the new business, though.”

“No, he doesn’t. And he’d better not find out.”

Gaffney raised his hands. “ My guys didn’t shoot up a flower shop today. My guys didn’t get the NOPD involved. He’s not going to find out through me.”

Little shit. But Gaffney would no longer be a problem once Mardi Gras was over. There were plenty of cops like Gaffney, plenty who were willing to play on the dark side in order to make some extra cash. Plenty who’d switch out the drugs they’d confiscated for worthless powder.

Plenty of cops who’d look the other way.

He wasn’t worried about replacing Gaffney.

He was, however, worried about his newest enterprise, because he’d sunk a hell of a lot of his own money into acquiring and maintaining the inventory.

People were a lot more trouble to manage than guns and drugs. He had to keep them alive and able to function. Well, the addicts were easy. He just had to withhold their next high for long enough to make them beg to work. With the others, threats and beatings were the tools of choice.

He was fine with threats and beatings. He was fine with using coke as the proverbial carrot on the stick.

He was not fine with Burke Broussard getting curious.

“We need to distract Broussard and his people,” he said, Wayne Stanley having put plan B into action earlier that afternoon.

“We’ve already shown we’re willing to make good on our threat to take Naomi’s son.

If we threaten the children belonging to him and his people, they’ll be too busy protecting them to come looking for us, at least for the next week.

” When the city would be filled with revelers looking for drugs and sex, commodities he was only too happy to provide.

“Once we get through Mardi Gras, we’ll find a new city to house our inventory and Broussard’s investigation will no longer matter. ”

Gaffney grinned. “I like it. Where do we start?”

—

The Quarter, New Orleans, Louisiana

Monday, February 24, 5:05 p.m.

Naomi’s eyes widened as Broussard pulled up to a mansion on one of the streets on the edge of the Quarter. “You live here ?”

It was a perfect example of iconic French Quarter architecture—curving wrought-iron balconies, complete with hanging plants. It was three stories tall with a smaller fourth story that housed the attic.

It was stunningly beautiful.

“I do. It was my uncle’s. He left it to me when he passed.”

“Oh. It’s…wow.”

He gazed up at his home with affection as he clicked a button on his phone and the gate across the driveway swung open. “That’s what I said the first time I saw it.”

“How long have you lived here?”

He pulled his pickup truck into one of the three parking spaces between the house and a ten-foot garden wall. “Since I was thirteen. My father had died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I wasn’t. He was abusive. Big man. Big fists.

Beat my mother. And me. A lot.” He gave his shoulders a shake as if shrugging off the memories.

“Mama hadn’t told her brother Larry about my father’s abuse because she was ashamed.

I finally went to Larry for help when my father knocked her unconscious.

I thought he’d killed her, to be honest. Larry took me home in his rusty old truck.

Mama was awake but in bad shape. I packed our belongings into Larry’s truck while he threatened my father with dire consequences if he followed us. ”