House of the Rising Sun by Chuck Hustmyre Page B

down the face sheet of the report. “Cleo Harris. Black male, twenty-three years old. Five eight, one hundred and sixty pounds.”
    â€œAll four stickup men who came in the House were white.”
    â€œMaybe he sold it.” LaGrange glanced again at the report. “It was a forty-caliber Smith & Wesson, by the way.”
    â€œHow do you know it was a Smith?”
    The detective flipped to a page at the back of the report. After reading for a few seconds, he said, “They got some scientific mumbo jumbo in here about indications of bullet twist per inch and spacing between the lands and grooves, but the bottom line is that the lab determined it was a Smith & Wesson. It even gives some likely model numbers, all of which are stainless steel.”
    Ray reached across the table. “I need that report.”
    LaGrange pulled the sheaf of papers back. “No way.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    The detective tapped a finger on the top margin. “I’m the one who pulled it up, and my name is printed on every page.”
    â€œSo cut off the header.”
    LaGrange shook his head. “I can’t do that.”
    â€œI need that information, Jimmy.”
    â€œI gave you the information,” LaGrange said flatly. “I can’t give you the report.”
    There was only so far Ray could push. The bottom line was that Jimmy LaGrange was still a cop, and Ray was a convicted felon just out of prison. “Jimmy, I’m in a real jam here. This is all I’ve got to go on.”
    â€œWhy are you helping those assholes?”
    Ray took a last drag of his cigarette, then dropped the butt into his nearly empty coffee cup. The waitress must have decidednot to tell the manager, or maybe she had and the manager had called the police. Ray looked across the table at his old Vice partner. “I don’t have a choice.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œAt least write down Harris’s information so I can find him.”
    Jimmy LaGrange stared back at Ray for a few seconds. Then he looked away as he pulled a pen from his shirt pocket.

C HAPTER E IGHT
    â€œPull up right here and let me out,” Tony said as Rocco eased the Lincoln Town Car against the curb in front of the Messina Seafood Company on North Rampart Street. The rain was coming down hard.
    The building was just east of the French Quarter, in a commercial district that was home to a host of small businesses, most of them barely dodging bankruptcy. The tin buildings lining the four-lane avenue sported peeling paint and faded signs. The sidewalks were strewn with waterlogged trash, plastered to the cement by the steady rain.
    Under the nearby eaves and awnings, drug addicts, pushers, and prostitutes waited for a break in the weather so they could get back to work. This was the edge of the Ninth Ward, and Tony knew it well. He grew up here.
    Just like its neighbors, the Messina Seafood Company was housed in an old metal building with peeling paint and a faded sign. The sides and back had once been dark blue, but the years and the sun had faded them to a light, almost baby blue. The brick facade was set back from the street just far enough to leave room for the sidewalk. The front third of the building was a two-story office suite. The rest was a high-ceilinged, single-story refrigerated warehouse for storing the oysters, shrimp, and fish that came in fresh from the Gulf of Mexico every day.
    â€œYou want me to come with you?” Rocco asked.
    With the car door already open, Tony was getting pelted by the rain. He didn’t even glance back. “No, I don’t want you tocome with me. Just park the car and wait. When you see me come out, pick me up so I don’t get soaking fucking wet.”
    Tony dashed from the car to the front door, dodging puddles. He stood for a moment under the protection of the overhang above the front entrance and stared at his reflection in the glass double doors. Using an embroidered