Wrong Question, Right Answer (The Bourbon Street Boys #3) - Elle Casey Page 0,41

their investigation. Hopefully it’ll help Lucky and Jenny with what they’re doing, too.

“Do you need me to do anything with the Parrot?” May asks.

“I don’t think so.” I use the arrow keys on the laptop to move the drone’s eye. That’s when I realize why I can’t get the best picture. “Dammit.”

“What’s wrong?” May is leaning in so closely, she’s blocking the whole screen.

I reach up and put my hand on the side of her head, pushing it gently to the left. “Do you mind?”

“Oh, sorry. What’s wrong? I don’t see anything.”

“That’s the problem. There’s something on the lens. Did you clean it before you sent it up there?”

She turns to me and frowns. “Of course I cleaned it. I’m a photographer. A professional photographer.” She goes back to looking at the screen. “You’re right, though—there is something there. I think it’s a bug’s butt. Here . . . maybe this will fix it.” She reaches up and hits the screen capture button several times, shooting off several pictures in a row. The bug that had planted its rear end on top of our lens disappears, frightened away by the movement beneath it.

May never ceases to surprise me. One minute she’s talking about silly wedding plans and the next she’s doing her new job like it’s second nature to her. I try not to be jealous of that. I still suck at flying the damn drone and I’ve been practicing for more than a year.

May turns and smiles at me, all bright and cheery again. “See? You’ve got problems, I’ve got solutions.”

“Good job.” I’ve got to give credit where credit is due. I can definitely see better, and there’s clearly someone coming out the front door. He looks to be about five foot ten, the same height as the guy we’re looking for.

I point at the screen. “I think that’s him. What do you think?”

May holds up a photograph that we received courtesy of the New Orleans Police Department, a booking shot taken maybe a year ago.

“It could be him. The jawline is good. His hair has changed a lot. Is that a new scar?”

I shake my head. “I can’t see that. How are you seeing that?”

“It’s right there.” She points to the screen.

When I lean in and get really close, I see a hint of what she might be talking about. “Maybe.”

“I’ll get some better shots with the camera,” May says.

I nod. “Good idea.”

She goes into the very back end of the van and retrieves a camera and our biggest telephoto lens from the heavy, high-density plastic case that holds all the photographic and video equipment. Using the small window cut out of the blackout curtain separating the front of the van from the back, she slides the lens through so she can take photographs of the suspect, who’s three blocks away.

“Yeah, it’s definitely him,” she says, shooting off a few frames. “I can see him clear as day. He’s getting closer.”

“What do you mean he’s getting closer?” I look at the computer screen, and sure enough, he’s walking in our direction.

“I mean what I said. He’s walking this way.” Her shutter is going like crazy, taking photo after photo. “He does have a new scar. It’s really big. And fresh. Still red. Gross. I wonder who cut him. Whoever it was, he was no surgeon, I can tell you that much.” She snorts at her own joke.

“How close is he?” He’s walked out of the view of the Parrot, and I don’t want to change its angle and risk having him hear the electronics moving around above his head. Our surveillance drone is attached to a power pole not far from where he is.

Her voice is incredibly calm. “I don’t know. It’s difficult to say from behind the camera.”

I grit my teeth a little to keep my voice steady. “Can you line him up with a landmark and maybe give me an idea?”

“Uhhh . . . I think . . . he’s about one block away now.”

I grab her shoulder and pull her back, slapping the cover over the surveillance camera hole. My voice drops to a whisper. “Get back. He’s probably figured out we’re in here or he’s at least curious. Just chill out for a little bit.”

“Maybe he’s going for a walk.”

“Guys like him don’t go for walks. Just shush.”

My computer screen lights up the space. In the dim glow, I can see May’s expression. She’s finally registering the fact that this is not good for