Murder in the Irish Channel (Chanse MacLeod Mysteries) by Greg Herren Page A

got to put up with her damned moods.” He winked at me. “Speaking of, how are things going with Rory?”
    “Okay.” I shrugged. “Taking things as they go, really. I don’t want to rush anything, and neither does he.”
    “I’m just glad to see you—”
    My iPhone started ringing, and I gave Blaine an apologetic smile as I ran my finger over the screen to accept the call. “Hello, Abby,” I said into the phone, “can you wait a sec?”
    Blaine pushed his chair back and stood up. “I got to go, anyway. I’ll call you later, man.”
    I nodded, giving him a fist bump before he walked out of the coffee shop. “Sorry about that, Abby.”
    “No worries.” Abby Grosjean was my business partner. She’d originally started as my assistant, but I’d made her a partner a few years back. She had amazing instincts and took to investigative work like an old pro. “So, your message said we have a new client?”
    “Yeah.” I hesitated. “Doesn’t have a lot of money, though—so I’m kind of giving him a break.”
    She sighed. “Taking in another lost puppy, are we?”
    “You don’t have to—”
    “I know I don’t have to help out.” She cut me off. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for lost puppies, too. What’s the story?”
    I filled her in, and I could hear her typing as I talked. One of the things that absolutely amazed me about her (and made her completely invaluable) was how quickly she could type. She always took extensive notes of every business-related conversation she had—although she also had a phenomenal memory—which had come in handy more times than I cared to remember. She was also a whiz with gadgets—she was the one who’d convinced me I needed an iPhone, which I’d resisted for years. The iPhone and its ability to shoot video had more than paid for its cost since I’d broken down and bought one. She often called me a Luddite. She’d graduated from the University of New Orleans with a degree in pre-law (she paid her way through working as a stripper at the Catbox on Bourbon Street before she started working with me), but was trying to save up the money to pay for law school at either Loyola or Tulane.
    When I finished, she said, “Okay, I think the best thing for me to do is try to find a connection between Morgan Barras and Mona—besides Jonny’s MMA thing. I’ll get Jephtha to do some checking, too.” Jephtha, her live-in boyfriend, was probably the most talented computer nerd in New Orleans. There wasn’t, he boasted, a system he couldn’t hack into. He’d spent a few years in the juvenile detention system for changing grades when he was in high school, and we had a strictly don’t ask, don’t tell policy on how he found the information I needed. What he really wanted to do was be a computer game designer, and he’d come up with several prototypes so far that I thought looked like winners. He hadn’t gotten anywhere with them yet—which was good news for me, since he needed the work I tossed his way.
    He was so good I kept him on a retainer, and I dreaded the day he made it as a game designer.
    “Okay, great,” I replied. “I’ll head over to St. Anselm’s, see if any of the protesters are willing to talk to me, see if they know anything.”
    “All right. I’ll check in later.” She disconnected the call.
    I rolled up the copy of Crescent City Venus had given me and walked out to my car.
    St. Anselm’s was on Louisiana Avenue between Tchoupitoulas and Magazine. It was a beautiful building, made of yellow brick with a massive bell tower at one end. Like most Catholic churches, it was laid out in a giant cross. I parked underneath a live oak tree and looked around. I didn’t see a green Mercury Marquis parked anywhere on Louisiana, so I checked the side streets as well. It wasn’t parked anywhere nearby. I walked through the wrought iron gate and climbed the cement steps to the double doors. They were scarred from being kicked in, and I pushed slightly on