Then she was gone, the connection severed. He didn’t have to be wearing a detective’s badge to figure out that she’d been lying to him earlier to avoid a lecture. There had been no earbud.

He dropped his phone onto his desk and told himself not to dwell on the decision to leave the department. Not today. He had work to do. He took a swallow of coffee, found it cold, and walked to the kitchen, where a fresh pot was brewing. Several cops were hanging out, reading the paper, eating a hasty breakfast, or lingering over a cup of Joe before heading out.

Turning his head to stretch the tight muscles in his neck, he poured a fresh cup and headed to his office again. He’d just settled in when he heard footsteps approach.

In black jacket and jeans, Montoya filled the doorway. “I’ve got bad news and . . . worse news.” His eyes were guarded by his signature shades, but the set of his jaw and the grim line of his mouth indicated he was perturbed.

“What?” Bentz rolled his chair back.

“The bad news is that there was an apparent homicide last night, maybe early this morning. Working girl, lives off of Chartres, not quite in the Quarter. Mike O’Keefe took the call.” O’Keefe was a street cop who’d been with the department for years.

The hairs on the nape of Bentz’s neck lifted in warning. He knew where this was going.

Montoya added, “Her body was found by the super, who was sweeping up around the outside of the building when he noticed her door was open. Just a crack, but still. According to him, she never left it ajar, always locked up tight. So he peeked inside, saw her lying there, called 9-1-1. The super says he went inside, but he could tell she was dead. Didn’t even try to revive her.”

Bentz’s gut clenched. “Anything else?” he asked, though he could guess what was coming.

“Yeah, the guy who caught the call did a quick sweep of the apartment. The victim was half-dressed, displayed, weird ligature wounds around her neck, and a hundred-dollar bill left at the scene.”

Bentz’s stomach dropped. “Let me guess: Franklin’s eyes on the C-note were blacked out.”

“Bingo.” One of Montoya’s eyebrows appeared over top of his shades. “Father John.” With an affected Louisiana drawl, he added, “He ain’t finished.”

“I was afraid of that. Let’s roll.” Bentz pushed his chair back and reached for his jacket and shoulder holster. “Wait a second,” he said, standing. “There was something else? The worse news?”