inside and talk?” Patrice asked. Gabe quickly said:
“We can talk here.”
The man looked from one to the other of them and said, “Leave that gun you’ve got your hand on out here and let me make sure neither one of you are packing anything else before we go inside.”
Gabe took the gun out of his waistband, and holding it by one finger he held it out to his side. Bernard took it and then held his hand out in Patrice’s direction. When she didn’t offer anything up at once he said, “I assume you’re here about what happened to your mother. If you expect me to talk to you, you’ll damned sure hand over your gun.”
She sighed, bent down, and unzipped her boot. She’d stuck the small .22 caliber handgun in there, and Gabe was almost as relieved as Bernie was when she gave it up. Bernie lay both guns down on a chair near the front door and then said, “Hands on the wall.” Gabe immediately assumed the position; it wasn’t his first time being patted down. Patrice looked indignant and Gabe thought she was going to refuse, but by the time Hebert had patted him down and found nothing, she’d turned and put her hands against the front door. Gabe kept a close eye on the man as he patted her down, making sure his hands didn’t linger anywhere they shouldn’t. When he finished he reached in front of her and unlocked the door and said, “Come on in.” Patrice stepped in first and Gabe quickly followed, not liking that Hebert had them walk in cold like that. They didn’t know who else was in the house...maybe the “George” that was listed as owning the house. The big guy came in behind them and switched on the light in the foyer. After dropping his keys on a small table there he said, “Come on in the living room.” They followed him through an opening and into a small, but comfortable-looking, living space. He waved an arm at a small sofa and they sat down. He took a seat in a chair opposite them and then looking at Patrice he said, “What is it you want from me?”
She opened her mouth but before she could straight up ask him if he killed her mother Gabe said, “Can you tell us how you knew Kasey Cormier?”
He could see Patrice give him a look out of the corner of his eye but he ignored it. Bernie’s focus was on him now and he said, “I didn’t really know her. I was ‘watching’ her.”
“For what?” Gabe asked.
“For whom?” Patrice added.
“I was hired by her father. I had skills I learned in the army that made me good at things like private investigation. I met Kasey’s father at a political rally and one day he called me and asked me to follow his daughter.”
“Why would he want his daughter followed?” Patrice asked.
“And you were part of the Jokers back then, right?” Gabe put in. “Why were you renting yourself out as some kind of detective?”
Bernard had a smirk on his face as he said, “I was never really a Joker. I was there doing the same thing I was doing for Congressman Cormier...gathering information.”
“Did Blackheart know that?”
He cocked an eyebrow and said, “He figured it out, ultimately.” The big guy stood up then and Gabe tensed. Oddly, however, he pulled off his shirt. His chest and abdomen were covered in scars, but none of them as shocking as the one they saw when he turned around. On his back were thick, raised bands of tissue that looked like rope. Whoever had removed his tattoo hadn’t done a clean job of it. Gabe wasn’t shocked, but one look at Patrice and he could tell that she was.
“Blackheart did that to you?” she asked, in a small, tremulous voice.
“He had it done,” he said, pulling his t-shirt back on before turning around to face them. “And then I was told to never return to New Orleans. I kept my end of that deal.”
“If you were working for the authorities, why wasn’t he arrested?” Patrice asked. Gabe knew it was a valid question, but still, hearing her say it aloud bothered him.
“I didn’t tell anyone,” he said. “I’m not a fucking idiot. Having a third-degree burn was still preferable to being cut up and fed to the gators in that swamp of his. I was freelancing for the authorities. I told them the heat was getting