The North Face of the Heart - Dolores Redondo Page 0,32

had a daughter, I’d keep her out of their reach.”

“Assault cops?” Amaia asked as they shook hands.

Charbou, the African American, gave her a big smile. “That’s the New Orleans police term for a team that patrols the underworld. ‘Assault’ because we’re always ready to act. We have every judge in the state on speed dial so we can order up a warrant anytime we need one. Never in uniform, never without our vests; down where we work, keeping your vest on can mean the difference between getting home after work and never coming back.”

Amaia raised an eyebrow, not quite buying the macho posturing, and she glanced at Johnson. His phone rang. He excused himself to take the call.

“The boss told us you’re planning to move through the city after the storm hits,” volunteered Bull, who’d gone to stand next to Dupree.

“That’s the plan,” Fortenet confirmed without meeting Bull’s gaze.

“We’re happy to work with you,” Charbou said. “This city’s complicated enough already, and things are going to be a lot worse after the hurricane. We’ll be your guides and protect your asses, but if anything happens on the streets, we’re in charge. We decide when to enter, and we’ll be the first ones in. And we’ll make the call whether to enter.” He raised a finger. “The streets are ours.”

Johnson came back into the office. “Just talked with Emerson and Tucker in Miami. They’ve gotten office space, but things are a mess. Internet is down, most of the physical data in the census archives and electoral rolls has been destroyed or damaged, and none of it’s up to date. They’re doing the best they can. Right now, they’re trying to find a helicopter to take them into the zone. So far nobody’s reported finding a dead family. But our boys here have made a good deal of progress.” He lifted his BlackBerry and showed them the screen. “We have a pretty comprehensive list of families that fit the profile, but now we’re working on other records, updated ones, to see who is missing. The FBI driver this morning said it would be a long list. He was right. It’s longer than I expected, and the families are scattered across the city.”

Detective Charbou went to Johnson’s side to squint at the screen. “Right. That’s no surprise; there are lots of big families in our city. Mama’s house is used as the central gathering space, and her family members come and go depending on personal circumstances. Sometimes one leaves and three come back later. That type of stuff won’t show up. Fact is, this list ain’t going to be much use.” He tapped the screen with his index finger. “If you’re looking for a family that’s gonna try to ride out this hurricane, you should forget the rich parts of town. People there have already cleared out; there’s nobody there but hired security guards. If your killer is looking for a family in the city, he won’t go to the French Quarter or the Garden District. He’ll go to a poor neighborhood.”

Amaia nodded. It looked as if Bill and Bull might be useful after all.

“Can you show us the neighborhoods where people are likely to stay?”

“Sure.” Bill Charbou walked over to the map of the city displayed on the wall. “This isn’t the first hurricane to hit New Orleans. And even though they’re getting ready to call for a total evacuation, we know there are people who won’t leave. They’d rather risk it.” He pointed to an area on the map. “For example, the really poor. And the old folks who have nobody to help them. And the handicapped, folks who don’t have a car—lots of those in New Orleans—and some delinquents, who’ll be hanging around for the looting afterward. You’re gonna wear your vests every moment you’re moving around with us.” He caught sight of Amaia’s backpack beside the door and the FBI regulation vest neatly rolled up behind it. “And—good God! What’s this? Kevlar? Spectra? Forget it. You’re going to wear Type IV vests like ours, made of Spectra and an aramid, fifteen times more resistant than steel plate, buoyant, impervious to almost everything, including rifle bullets.”

Johnson protested. “This is official FBI equipment, made to our standards . . .”

“Maybe you test them with live fire at the FBI, maybe not. But I guarantee you that three out of four drug traffickers carry weapons that’ll slice through that vest like a knife through butter. You think those guys are going to