“He did have a habit of keeping some papers with him inside his breast pocket, usually whatever he was working on. Agent Sherlock, I can see him now, patting his chest to be sure he’d remembered, to be sure whatever he wanted was safe and sound with him. But I can’t be sure if that meant he had any papers with him on Friday. Poor Danny, do you think he knew? Oh, Annie Harper. I’ve got to call her.”

She was starting to lose focus, but that was all right. Savich rose. “You probably can’t reach Ann Harper for a while, Eliza. After you’ve rested, I want you to go for a walk. I want you to review the day again, every moment of it, starting at the time you walked into your office. If you think of anything, doesn’t matter if you think it has any importance at all, call me immediately.”

Savich gave her his card with his cell number on it. “Keep Danny O’Malley at the front of your mind. Follow his footsteps. Sherlock and I are going to speak with Fleurette.”

“So you’ll tell her about Danny. Fleurette called me this morning, devastated, in shock really, about Justice Califano. At least her dad is flying in. He’ll probably take her home, after Justice Califano’s funeral. Now Danny’s dead too. He’ll be here for both funerals. Oh God. This is all so horrible.”

“Yes, Eliza,” Sherlock said, “yes, it is.”

“Please prove Danny wasn’t a blackmailer.”

Neither Savich nor Sherlock said anything. It didn’t look good.

CHAPTER 17

ELAINELAFLEURETTE’S DADDY had money, Savich already knew that. Big Ed LaFleurette was a major player in commercial New Orleans real estate development. He was tight with the local police, not only for protection but also for enforcement, and was ensconced in the local political scene as well. Fleurette lacked motivation until she was accepted to law school, but now “driven” was the word usually used to describe her. She wanted to do things on her own, without her father’s help. Well, except for where she lived. Why live like Danny when it wasn’t necessary? She lived in a lovely quiet upper-class neighborhood, about as far removed from Danny O’Malley’s digs as a dock bar from the Oak Room at the Plaza. It was a beautiful, well-tended brownstone, and it was hers, in her own name, a gift from Daddy after she passed the bar.

They found Ben Raven and Callie Markham in his Crown Vic parked down the block. The four of them walked together to the brownstone.

“Callie, I’m glad to see you,” Sherlock said. “You twist Ben’s arm here?”

“Actually, I had to threaten him again, you know, calling my editor at the Post, offering up goodies.” She lowered her voice, close to Sherlock, “I really don’t think he minds so much today. He’s a tough guy, but I’m making inroads.”

Sherlock patted her arm. “I’m just glad you stayed in the car at Danny O’Malley’s apartment, like Ben told you to.”

“Actually, I cuffed her to the door handle,” Ben said. “All right, I didn’t manhandle her. She obeyed me this time.”

“Ben told me Danny and my stepfather were killed by the same man. I knew Danny, not well, mind you, but he always smiled when I visited. It’s horrible.”

“I agree,” Sherlock said. “Now, I think it’s good to have someone who knows Fleurette in on this interview, and your reporter’s trained eye makes it even better.”

Ben was looking at the two women. He didn’t look very happy, more resigned. He’d found Callie on his doorstep when he’d gotten the call from Mr. Maitland about Danny O’Malley. He’d tried to get rid of her, but the woman was ruthless. Before they’d come here to Fleurette’s house, she’d talked him into having lunch, said she really liked Chinese, spicy hot Szechuan, a good thing since it was a staple for him when he wasn’t eating pizza, and she knew two places he hadn’t eaten at before.

The four of them heard a man and a woman yelling at each other as they climbed up the six red brick front steps to the bright red front door with a lion-head knocker at its center.

They paused a moment, listening.

“You bastard! You used me because you wanted me to convince Justice Califano to vote to hear your damned case! You’re despicable, you—”

“Get over it, Fleurette, it’s all irrelevant. I’m a lawyer, you knew that going in. You knew there was a case I was involved in, so don’t whine about it now. Hey, the old guy’s dead, so we’re not going anywhere, now are we?”

The four of them stepped back as the front door swung open and a man in his mid-thirties, with impeccably styled light brown hair, a handsome face, and a runner’s body, came out, whistling, even as she continued to yell after him.