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

going all the way back to the rear wall, with boxes piled everywhere. Apart from a young man standing at a desk about halfway to the rear of the office, packing files into a large box, the place was completely deserted.
    “May I help you?” he asked, with a smile that lit up his face and a mouth full of straight white teeth with a slight underbite that made his lower lip stick out a bit. He was good-looking, probably in his mid-twenties, maybe five-foot-seven or -eight, with a compact yet strong build. A red Polo shirt hugged his chest and shoulders. His low-rise jeans were almost worn through at the knees. He had dark skin and curly light brown hair.
    “I’m looking for Stephen Robideaux,” I said, shivering slightly in the air-conditioning as I walked back to where he was standing. Up close, he looked even better.
    “Stephen’s at a meeting. He should be back in about an hour or so.”
    He resumed placing files in the box.
    “I gather you’re closing down the office.”
    “Not much point in having a campaign office for a dead candidate, is there?” he said. “It’s a shame, too. Wendell was the only candidate who gave a shit about gay rights. What are we going to do now? We’ll wind up with some moderate Democrat who anywhere else would be considered a Republican.” He slammed the lid down on the box. “Or even worse, that prick from Metairie will get re-elected. That would be a disaster for the state, an absolute disaster.” He stopped and smiled ruefully. “Sorry, I’ve gotten kind of passionate about politics. My name’s Rory.”
    He stuck his hand out. His grip was strong.
    “Chanse MacLeod. And don’t worry about the politics thing. Since Katrina, I’ve taken a bigger interest myself. So, what are you going to do now that the campaign is over?”
    “I have another job.” He gave me his million-dollar smile. “I was just a volunteer. I came in on Monday nights and all day on Wednesdays. I’m here today to help close up the office and clean my stuff out of the desk I was using. Apparently, I’m the only one. Probably I’ll just volunteer for the presidential race this year, and if the party finds someone as good as Wendell, I’ll work for him or her.”
    “Did you know Wendell well?”
    “His cousin is married to my sister. A lot of people here thought I was volunteering because of the family connection, but I really believed in Wendell. I believed in the changes he wanted to make for the country and for the state. I wouldn’t have been here if he was one of those wing-nut politicians. I thought he could go all the way to the White House.”
    “Your sister would be Rachel Sheehan?”
    “How did you know?”
    “What exactly did Wendell stand for, anyway?” I asked, deflecting the question.
    “Equal rights for all Americans. Rebuilding the wetlands to reduce storm surges from future hurricanes. Category 5 levee protection for New Orleans. Health care reform and access to affordable health care for everyone. More money for public education. Ending the wars.”
    “Sounds good to me.”
    Rory grabbed an empty box off the floor and began placing files from another drawer into it.
    “It sounded good to a lot of people. Wendell would have won the election, you know. A lot of people thought we couldn’t have both senators be from New Orleans, but we were going to make history.”
    “Did he have a lot of political enemies?”
    “Of course he did.” He gave me a wary look. “You don’t think—? Who are you, anyway?”
    “I work for the family,” I said. I opened my wallet and passed him one of my business cards. “I’ve been hired by Cordelia Sheehan to look into the murder.”
    “Wow.” He sat down in a worn rolling chair and leaned back. “I don’t think I’ve ever met an honest-to-goodness private detective before. I talked to the police detectives yesterday. They didn’t say anything about his political enemies, though. Wendell got death threats all the time, mostly from