him…exactly where he’d seen the man in the photo.
In the FBI’s most wanted files for war criminals.
He dropped onto the couch and took a huge gulp of his entire beer. Jesus, his memory was a pain in the ass; sometimes it was on, sometimes off. But when it was on, it was usually a hundred percent. He’d known when he took this job that it was probably going to end badly. Innocent people normally didn’t make themselves disappear. But the guilty made a career of it. Granted, there was no way the man in the drawing could be the criminal he remembered. The age was all wrong. But he would bet anything they were blood relatives. He set his beer on the coffee table, the desire for it completely gone.
He glanced at his watch. One other person would still be up about now. Someone who had access to the FBI database and probably wouldn’t mind giving him a little help on this. He reached for his cell phone and pressed in a number.
“Turner,” the man answered on the first ring.
“Hey, it’s Villeneuve.”
“Villeneuve! How the hell are you?”
“Doing good, man. How ’bout yourself?”
“Can’t complain, and wouldn’t waste the time on it if I could.”
Beau laughed. “I hear ya.”
“So what the hell are you calling me in the middle ofthe night for? I know it’s not to discuss football, politics, or religion.”
“I wish. This case I’m on just took a turn that makes politics and religion look like better options for discussion.”
Turner whistled. “Doesn’t sound like much fun. What can I help with?”
“I need access to some files…FBI files. Nothing that will raise any eyebrows. All old shit—back during Vietnam.”
“Sounds okay to me, man. Hey, if you’re coming now, do you think you could pick me up a burger and another six pack?”
“I think I could manage.” He closed his phone, grabbed his keys and the case folder, and headed out of his apartment. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe my memory is totally off and the guy in the drawing has nothing to do with a wanted criminal from a long since dead war.
Then the vivid recall of the young man in uniform flashed across his mind, imprinted there as if he’d seen it just seconds ago. Everything in perfect clarity, right down to the three freckles on the bridge of his nose.
That perfectly matched the three he’d seen on Sabine.
Sabine clenched the steering wheel of her car, well aware that it was far too early in the day to be up and moving, much less driving around downtown New Orleans with Helena Henry.
“By the hotdog stand is good,” Helena said, directing Sabine to a corner about a block away.
For the life of her, Sabine couldn’t figure out exactly what Helena wanted to do here. “What are you up to,Helena? You wake me up first thing this morning, even though you know I didn’t get hardly any sleep last night. Then you insist I drive you to New Orleans—”
“First thing! Are you kidding me? It was eight o’clock already.”
“I have a head injury, and I’m not a morning person. Besides, I was busy almost having to shoot intruders last night, remember?”
“No shit. Well, while you were busy playing Cops and getting your beauty rest, I was formulating a plan of action.”
Sabine groaned and pulled up to the curb. “Why does that worry me so much?”
“Jesus, for such an artsy-fartsy liberal sort, you’re just as uptight as Maryse. I’d think a so-called psychic would have a broader mind.”
“Well, it might help if I knew what I was supposed to be broadening my mind to.”
“You’ll see. Just circle the block. If I’m not here when you come back, circle again.”
Sabine stared at the empty but very vocal passenger seat. “And how the heck am I supposed to know if you’re here?”
Helena laughed. “Oh, you’ll know. But just in case I need to give you some getaway instructions, you might want to roll your windows down. Okay, I’m outta here.”
There wasn’t so much as a stir of the air as Helena left
In the FBI’s most wanted files for war criminals.
He dropped onto the couch and took a huge gulp of his entire beer. Jesus, his memory was a pain in the ass; sometimes it was on, sometimes off. But when it was on, it was usually a hundred percent. He’d known when he took this job that it was probably going to end badly. Innocent people normally didn’t make themselves disappear. But the guilty made a career of it. Granted, there was no way the man in the drawing could be the criminal he remembered. The age was all wrong. But he would bet anything they were blood relatives. He set his beer on the coffee table, the desire for it completely gone.
He glanced at his watch. One other person would still be up about now. Someone who had access to the FBI database and probably wouldn’t mind giving him a little help on this. He reached for his cell phone and pressed in a number.
“Turner,” the man answered on the first ring.
“Hey, it’s Villeneuve.”
“Villeneuve! How the hell are you?”
“Doing good, man. How ’bout yourself?”
“Can’t complain, and wouldn’t waste the time on it if I could.”
Beau laughed. “I hear ya.”
“So what the hell are you calling me in the middle ofthe night for? I know it’s not to discuss football, politics, or religion.”
“I wish. This case I’m on just took a turn that makes politics and religion look like better options for discussion.”
Turner whistled. “Doesn’t sound like much fun. What can I help with?”
“I need access to some files…FBI files. Nothing that will raise any eyebrows. All old shit—back during Vietnam.”
“Sounds okay to me, man. Hey, if you’re coming now, do you think you could pick me up a burger and another six pack?”
“I think I could manage.” He closed his phone, grabbed his keys and the case folder, and headed out of his apartment. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe my memory is totally off and the guy in the drawing has nothing to do with a wanted criminal from a long since dead war.
Then the vivid recall of the young man in uniform flashed across his mind, imprinted there as if he’d seen it just seconds ago. Everything in perfect clarity, right down to the three freckles on the bridge of his nose.
That perfectly matched the three he’d seen on Sabine.
Sabine clenched the steering wheel of her car, well aware that it was far too early in the day to be up and moving, much less driving around downtown New Orleans with Helena Henry.
“By the hotdog stand is good,” Helena said, directing Sabine to a corner about a block away.
For the life of her, Sabine couldn’t figure out exactly what Helena wanted to do here. “What are you up to,Helena? You wake me up first thing this morning, even though you know I didn’t get hardly any sleep last night. Then you insist I drive you to New Orleans—”
“First thing! Are you kidding me? It was eight o’clock already.”
“I have a head injury, and I’m not a morning person. Besides, I was busy almost having to shoot intruders last night, remember?”
“No shit. Well, while you were busy playing Cops and getting your beauty rest, I was formulating a plan of action.”
Sabine groaned and pulled up to the curb. “Why does that worry me so much?”
“Jesus, for such an artsy-fartsy liberal sort, you’re just as uptight as Maryse. I’d think a so-called psychic would have a broader mind.”
“Well, it might help if I knew what I was supposed to be broadening my mind to.”
“You’ll see. Just circle the block. If I’m not here when you come back, circle again.”
Sabine stared at the empty but very vocal passenger seat. “And how the heck am I supposed to know if you’re here?”
Helena laughed. “Oh, you’ll know. But just in case I need to give you some getaway instructions, you might want to roll your windows down. Okay, I’m outta here.”
There wasn’t so much as a stir of the air as Helena left
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