The Best American Mystery Stories, Volume 17 by Lisa Scottoline Page B

Scottish descent, but there had to be some Asian blood in her genes with those eyes.
    â€œAny luck?”
    He laughed, stood back as she climbed out. Unlike most women cops, Jodie liked wearing skirt suits and wore them well. This one was beige. She left her jacket in the car as well, readjusting her shoulder rig with gold badge affixed. She was a striking woman in her forties with that shock of yellow-blond hair cut in a long pageboy. Jodie stood five-seven, her heels added a good inch, but she had to crane her neck to look up at Savary, who stood six-four.
    â€œI’ll take this side of the street.” She clicked her ballpoint pen, flipped open her notebook, and moved to the two outside the laundromat. Savary crossed the street. A half-block down he ran into a distant cousin, Eddie Tauzin, who worked as a caretaker at the Audubon Zoo.
    â€œOn my way to work, my man.” Eddie slapped the big detective’s shoulder. “You gettin’ nobody to talk about it?”
    Savary shook his head.
    â€œMan, I been askin’ but no one sayin’ nothin’.”
    He got a nod in response. “I appreciate your asking around.”
    Eddie moved past, backing as he walked. “You know, I hear anything, I’ll give you a call.” He turned, spied Jodie across the street, and looked back at Savary. “I admire the comp’ny you keep.”
    Reverend Tom Milton stepped out of his chapel with a large sponge in hand, spotted Savary, and gave him a knowing smile. The Sacred Congregation of the Good Lord occupied a two-story brick building two blocks from Jeanfreau’s.
    â€œHot enough for you, boy?” The reverend leaned over a bucket, dipped the sponge inside. Savary wiped his brow as Milton took the sponge to the picture window lining the front of his building, slapped it against the glass, and rubbed on the soapy water.
    â€œHear anything from your congregation?” It was the same question Savary had been asking.
    â€œYou know if I did, I’d be the first to call. You get any luck at
your
church?”
    That brought a smile to Savary, a lapsed Catholic who hadn’t been to church, except for weddings and funerals, since he was a teenager.
    â€œYou want a bottle of water?” the reverend asked.
    â€œNo thanks.”
    Milton reached over and patted Savary’s back as the detective went by. Hopefully, the man of the cloth would pass any information to Savary, who had asked the reverend to talk with the children of his congregation about the matter because kids hear and see more than anyone in a neighborhood. When Savary was a patrolman, Milton and some kids had helped him recover two stolen cars. But that was before Katrina.
    Things were different now, AK—after Katrina. The hardcore criminals, who were some of the first to return, had reestablished themselves with a killing vengeance. The murder rate was back up top as new blood carved out drug territories, and the police department, as devastated as the neighborhoods, reeled in turmoil from lack of manpower, lack of leadership, lack of inspiration.
    Savary linked up with Jodie back at her car and she actually had a line of perspiration on her upper lip. The fair-haired sergeant rarely perspired, even in the sweltering summer city.
    â€œM.F. screwed this one up from the start.” She went on to her repeated diatribe against Detective Maurice Ferdinand, who had done absolutely nothing on the Jeanfreau case beyond overseeing the processing of the crime scene. M.F.’s recent transfer to the reorganized Vice Squad was welcomed by the rank and file of the Homicide Division. M.F. in the Vice Squad, always a joke in decadent New Orleans, was a classic example of the Peter Principle—a worker rising to the level of his incompetence. So much for a man who thought being called M.F. was cute.
    â€œKnow how I know it’s somebody local?” Savary asked.
    Jodie narrowed her left eye as she looked up at