“And the other one? The reason why you’re listening to psychobabble in the middle of the night? Father John. I suppose he’s another one you need to lock up.”

“Yes, two of the worst I’ve dealt with. It’s a personal thing with me. Both slipped through my fingers. Well, I thought 21 was behind bars, but I have to be sure. These guys, they’re bad men, and I want to make certain both of them are locked away forever.”

“It’s your personal mission?”

“I guess so. Yeah.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head, blond curls dancing around her face. “When will it ever end? No, don’t answer that because you don’t know. No one does. And that end I’m asking about? It could be bad, Rick. For all of us.”

In his arms the baby stretched, her nearly nonexistent neck straightening, her little chin pointing upward for a second before she burrowed against him again. He knew Olivia was right. He could never do anything to put this precious child in danger. Nothing was worth that.

Not even his damned job.

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 18

Sitting on the edge of the bed in her one-room apartment, Tiffany Elite waited. She checked her watch.

He was late.

Great.

Face it, he might not show.

That would really piss her off.

She crossed to the front window, pushed aside the curtain, and looked past the bars. Her apartment was located half a block from Chartres and just enough outside the French Quarter to be affordable, but easy enough for her clients to locate. The place was a bit of a dive, but the good thing about it was the manager turned a blind eye to the happenings within the old building. In return, the occupants didn’t complain too much about dripping faucets or a rat or two that scurried around the corners of the crumbling brick and mortar apartment house. Well, except for Mrs. Kowalski. That old hag bitched about everything from her high electric bill, to the street noise, to a toilet that wouldn’t quit running. Tiffany wanted to say, “Hey, lady, you live in New Orleans in an apartment that’s older than you. Get used to it!” But she’d always just smiled, afraid to rattle the older woman who might suddenly take offense to her nocturnal visitors and call the cops. Nosy busybody.

Her A/C was on the blink again, and the first-floor unit got a little stuffy. She opened the window over the sink in the area that was the designated kitchen, barely more than a closet with a hot plate and microwave sufficing as the stove, and a refrigerator that couldn’t hold much more than a quart of milk. Not that she cooked much anyway. In Tiffany’s opinion, culinary skills were highly overrated.