The North Face of the Heart - Dolores Redondo Page 0,36

seconds later, he looked up to study Dupree’s face. “This ain’t for you.”

“It’s not. It’s for Nana.”

“Nana,” Meire murmured and turned toward the room. “Jacques!” He raised his voice and waved the list at the man working in the back. “I hope you haven’t finished packing up le petit enfant! Mr. Cleveland here has an order. He’s going to need some.”

12

WINDOWS

New Orleans, Louisiana

Johnson gave Charbou the keys to the huge black SUV they’d parked in front of the District 8 station. The New Orleans cop gave a whistle of appreciation when he saw the FBI vehicle.

Bill and Bull had taken the front seats without giving them a choice, so Johnson and Amaia buckled themselves into the back. “Is the hotel far from here?”

“Five minutes by car, ten or twelve by foot,” Bull answered.

The AC was on full blast against the oppressive heat of the city. Amaia put her forehead against the cool window and watched the passing scenery. Colorfully painted, well-kept houses stood cheek by jowl with decrepit shotgun shacks. On some homes, new-cut pine boards that had been hammered across the windows clashed with the colors of the brilliantly painted walls. There were no cars parked along the street. And they hadn’t seen a soul, except in the immediate vicinity of the station. Looking up, Amaia glimpsed the eyes of a woman at a second-story window; she was holding a lace curtain to shield her lower face as she spied on the street below. Amaia was reminded of Calle Santiago in Elizondo and the thousands of times she’d seen women posed in windows in just that way.

“Looks like the evacuation was a success.” Johnson’s comment brought her out of her musings.

Keeping his hands on the wheel as they advanced, Charbou turned toward Johnson and seemed about to say something. He held back but kept his eyes on Johnson for so long that Amaia thought it was inevitable he would crash the car. He turned his attention back to the road without comment.

Jason Bull spoke instead. “Let’s just say that District 8 is about the sweetest little spot in New Orleans. Close to the tourist area, not too far from Frenchmen Street. Maybe not very elegant, but good enough to give tourists the illusion they’re in the real, authentic New Orleans. It’s all a con job. We know you got important stuff waiting, but we can’t take you out into the streets tomorrow if you go to bed tonight thinking you know the real New Orleans. You can’t track down a killer if you don’t know where you are, and for that, you need to see more before it gets dark today. For Christ’s sake, they’ve stuck you in rooms in the stinking French Quarter!”

Johnson checked his watch and Amaia thought he’d say they didn’t have time. He’d promised Dupree they’d review those cases and have them ready on his return. Everything Amaia had noticed about Johnson confirmed the man was orderly and methodical; disregarding Dupree’s instructions, even for just a few minutes, was something he’d probably consider irregular and exceptionally indulgent. But he looked at her for any objection, then nodded to accept the offer.

They got to the end of Simon Bolivar Avenue, which gave them scenes very different from those in District 8. Charbou slowed to a crawl, for many more people were in the streets. Most of the houses were drab or ramshackle, and few showed signs that any effort had been made to protect them against the hurricane. Precautions against the storm seemed limited to hauling the porch furniture inside. Instead of bright pine boards, people in the quarter had used all sorts of materials to protect their windows—plastic sheeting, colored tarps, even dirty lengths of scrap lumber. The empty lots between the houses were piled with garbage. Doors of abandoned automobile carcasses yawned open, and stuffing spilled out from the slashed seats like the guts of roadkill.

Bull turned to Johnson and Amaia. “I have a wife and two little babies; they’re in Atlanta with my in-laws, who are delighted to remind my wife that life in New Orleans is a shitty pain in the ass. My mother’s with them too. I got my whole family out.”

“I didn’t,” Bill Charbou said. “I’ve only got an aunt, my mom’s little sister. She decided not to go. She’s kind of an activist in her neighborhood, and she’s still in her house over in the Ninth Ward. Nobody’s going to make her leave. Y’all have to understand there’s lots