Bentz didn’t argue. It was useless. Together they crossed the parking lot. “I’ve already called for a boat to meet us at the old pier near the spot where Father John camped out. You remember where it is?”

“Like it was yesterday.” Montoya’s face was grim, his voice low as he slid into the driver’s seat of his Mustang.

Bentz took the passenger seat. Before he could pull the door shut, Montoya fired up the engine and threw the car into Reverse.

“I can’t believe that bastard is still alive,” Montoya said as he wheeled out of the parking lot.

Bentz clicked on his seat belt and cracked his window as Montoya merged into traffic. “If I hadn’t seen his face, I wouldn’t have bought it either.”

“But there he was, big as fuckin’ life.”

“Yep. Not a copycat. Not this time.” Bentz glowered out the window and slipped a pair of shades over his eyes. So far, the headache that had been his companion all morning hadn’t abated. Last night, his one beer had slid into two, then three, and so on until the six-pack he’d picked up at the local convenience store had been downed, full bottles replaced with empties. Reaching into his pocket, he found a travel-sized bottle of ibuprofen, tapped out two capsules, and tossed them back. Dry.

“Feelin’ rough?” Montoya asked as he drove out of the city, leaving the sluggish Mississippi and the skyline behind. He, too, had slid a pair of sunglasses over the bridge of his nose, but Bentz figured the colored lenses were more for effect than to cut the glare—all part of the Detective Reuben Montoya too-cool-for-school image.

“I’m okay,” Bentz said, and thankfully his partner didn’t press the issue. Bentz had been sober going on twenty years. Aside from a couple of slips, one of which had been last night, the worst yet, he hadn’t even been tempted. He decided to clamp down on himself. Just because a serial killer that he’d thought he’d taken care of had returned was no reason to start sliding. If anything, he needed to be smarter than ever, at the top of his game. Booze, even light beer, was out.

“Give any more thought to turning in your resignation?”

“Not much.”

“Good.”

Bentz could retire. Between his years with the LAPD and his time here in New Orleans, he’d be okay financially. But he wasn’t old enough to completely throw in the towel, and he felt younger than his age. He watched the city disappear through the passenger window. From time to time he’d considered leaving the force. He’d suffered through some near-fatal injuries and put himself and his family at risk, which wasn’t good. And now he was the father of an infant.