Drake’s ability to defuse escalating tension was one of the traits Remy most admired in his brother-in-law—and what was most needed in a leader. Remy had never been able to keep Saria under control, and neither could her husband. She went her own way. When it was needed, Remy had no doubt that Drake would put his foot down and Saria, being sensible about most things, would listen—he hoped. He couldn’t imagine Saria defying her husband over her safety.

He nodded, allowing a small grin to escape. “It’s not happenin’, bro. I’m not takin’ on the lair for you.”

“I took on your sister for you,” Drake pointed out.

Remy shook his head and turned his attention to the crime scene. They were all waiting for him and he needed to get on with it, but even after all the years on the force, he had to steel himself if it was the same serial killer from before.

The body hung from the limb of a cypress tree, and just like the others he’d found in the courtyards of New Orleans four years earlier, death had been both gruesome and brutal. Blood ran in rivers, pooled in dark, dank puddles. Insects clung to every inch of the body. Sprays of blood soaked the nearby trees and brush, indicating the victim was alive when the killer had cut into him. The body had been hacked open, and the killer had harvested the rib and chest bones. The left hand had been hacked off.

He closed his eyes for a moment. It was impossible not to recognize the victim, even with the swarm of insects clouding his face and body. The face was distorted in death and covered in bugs, but everyone in the bayou had seen that particular red plaid shirt many times on a shrimper named Pete Morgan.

Pete was as good as they came. Fiercely loyal to his wife, family and friends. He’d been in the bayous all of his life. Born and raised. That red plaid shirt had been his trademark. He owned several of them and didn’t wear anything else unless it was Sunday. Remy had gone to school with him, fished with him, stood for him when he got married. Got drunk with him when his firstborn had died a week after birth. Rejoiced with him when a healthy son was born two years later.

Remy made the sign of the cross, uncaring that anyone saw him. It was always difficult to see a gruesome murder, but to know the victim made it ten times tougher. He took a deep breath and forced himself to look around the crime scene, giving himself time to assimilate that his friend was dead and his end had been brutal.