Murder in the Garden District (Chanse MacLeod Mysteries) by Greg Herren

careful, Chanse. The Sheehans aren’t people you want to mess around with. Talk to Loren about the discrepancy in their statements—don’t go sticking your nose in where they don’t want it, if you know what I mean.”
    She glanced at her watch.
    “I am out of here. Ryan’s on his way back from the North Shore.”
    She gave me a hug. “I’m sorry I’m not around as much, and sorry again about having to cancel last night. I really miss you.”
    “I miss you, too.”
    I walked her to her car and stood on the curb until she drove away.

    *

    I was just about to go back into the house when I turned to watch Paige’s retreat and noticed a car on the Coliseum Square side of the street. That was odd. Most people parked on the opposite side, in front of the houses. Paige’s headlights hit the parked car, revealing two people sitting inside it. I got a brief glimpse before she drove past them.
    I stood there for a moment, squinting through the gloom, trying to get a better look. It was a midsize car, maybe a Toyota Corolla or a Honda Accord. There was not enough light to get an idea of the color, other than it was something dark, maybe green or blue or black. It was parked just outside the pyramid of light cascading down from a streetlamp, and not quite obscured from my line of vision by one of the massive live oaks in the park. I felt a rush of adrenaline.
    It’s probably nothing, I told myself, probably just someone waiting for someone to get home over on that side. You’re overreacting. Whoever they are, it’s got nothing to do with you.
    Nevertheless, I went inside and closed and locked the door, then retrieved my pistol from my bottom desk drawer. I checked to see that it was loaded. I parted the blinds on the door and looked across the park. I was just about to open the door when the car’s engine started, the headlights came on, and it headed down Coliseum.
    I turned the deadbolt closed and put the gun back in the drawer.
    You’re being paranoid, I told myself. Relax. There’s no reason for anyone to be spying on you.
    But my instincts were telling me the exact opposite.
    I shook it off and sat down at my desk. I retrieved Loren’s business card from my Rolodex, called his cell phone and got his voice mail, which was irritating. I was tired of leaving messages for people. “Loren, Chanse MacLeod here,” I said. “I’ve interviewed both Mrs. Sheehans and there’s a serious discrepancy in their stories. We need to talk. Call me.”
    I spent the rest of the evening reading Abby’s report on the Sheehans. Abby was my research assistant. She loved doing research, and was good at ferreting out information it would take me days to find. I found myself relying on her more and more.
    By the time I went to bed a few hours later, I was an expert on the Sheehan family history. Most of it was incredibly dull and probably had nothing to do with the case at hand, but it was good to have all the background. Before I undressed, I checked through the blinds in the front window to be sure the car wasn’t there. It wasn’t. I felt oddly relieved, and cursed myself for a fool. But I went ahead anyway and double-checked all my doors before I climbed into bed. Better safe than sorry.

    *

    The next morning I drank a pot of coffee and showered before walking the three blocks from my apartment to St. Charles Avenue. Even though it was only ten in the morning, the sun was blasting the city and it was already over ninety degrees. I was soaked with sweat by the time I made it to the Avenue. A streetcar clacked past on its way downtown. I mopped my forehead with the front of my Polo shirt.
    Wendell Sheehan’s campaign office was located in a small enclave of businesses. There were campaign posters in the window, with an interesting slogan: Sheehan for a new Louisiana . Well, I reflected as I pushed the door open, the old Louisiana did leave a lot to be desired.
    The interior was lit with fluorescent tubes, and there were desks