“We’ve got a floater.” Montoya, coffee cup in hand, strode through the doorway of Bentz’s office sometime after four. Wearing his trademark black leather jacket and diamond stud in one ear, he added, “A bit upriver from here. Still in the city limits. Female. African American. Been in the water awhile. They just fished her out.”

Bentz looked up from his pile of paperwork and saw that his partner was holding back. He dropped his pen. “And?”

“And she had a tattoo on her back, just over her buttocks. The word ‘love’ along with hummingbirds and flowers.”

Bentz sat up straighter. “Dionne Harmon,” he said aloud, and that bad feeling that had been with him ever since he’d heard about the girls missing from All Saints just got worse. Lots worse.

“Looks like.” Montoya leaned a shoulder against Bentz’s filing cabinet, one rescued from the aftermath of Katrina. Repainted and now rust free, it served as a constant reminder of how bad things could get. “They’re sending divers, seeing if the victim was alone, or if she had company.”

“Shit,” Bentz muttered, already rounding the desk. He snagged his jacket off a hall tree. “Let’s go. I’ll drive.”

“No, I’ll…never mind, you drive. And there’s more.”

“More?”

“So you haven’t heard of the arm they found in the belly of a gator?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Bentz’s gut twisted because he knew what was coming. The day took a nosedive.

“I’ll explain on the way.” Montoya finished his coffee and dropped the paper cup into a trash can in Bentz’s office. They walked amid the cubicles and desks and Bentz caught sight of a TV monitor, where, sure enough, the local news was showing shots of a search and rescue boat on the Mississippi. It was getting dark, but the crew had set up lights and cameras.

“Son of a bitch,” Bentz muttered. He reached into his pocket for a pack of Juicy Fruit, unwrapping a stick as they headed downstairs and outside to the parking lot, where rays of a fast-dying winter sun were struggling to pierce the clouds. A few managed to reflect in a myriad of puddles strewn across the asphalt, but darkness was coming fast.

Bentz took the wheel of the Crown Vic. As Montoya, over the crackle of the radio and thrum of the engine, explained about the arm discovered in the swamp north of New Orleans, Bentz drove to a spot in their jurisdiction where crews had taped off an area of the levee.

Camera crews had already gotten wind of the discovery and had set up shop. Overhead two news helicopters, blades whirring loudly, spotlights illuminating the gloaming, vied for a better view of the scene. Uniformed cops held back an ever-growing crowd.