Minutes later, the cab pulled up to 334 Royal Street, in the heart of the Quarter. Erin handed the driver his fare. She opened the door, careful not to scrape the curb, alighted from the car, closed the door, and turned.

Marble columns and old-world charm, framed by dogwoods and willows, failed to prepare Erin for her first visit to the Eighth District Police Station. Climbing the shallow, curved steps, she eased open the French doors, waiting for the assault of noise and the odor of stale coffee she’d read so much about in hard-boiled crime novels. Instead, soft hues of mauve and cream adorned the walls and the carpet. Blue steel doors lay to one side, secured by a keypad. Obviously a waiting area, the circular room boasted a coffee maker, a water station, and a raised platform that sported a series of flyers and placards. A young man in police blues who staffed the information desk welcomed her with a polite smile.

“Can I help you, miss?” the officer asked in a liquid Southern drawl.

Tentatively, Erin approached the high kiosk with its WELCOME TO NEW ORLEANS banner. “I’m here to see Captain Sanchez.”

The officer’s smile dimmed a bit. “Captain Sanchez is out of the office right now. Perhaps I can help?”

Erin shook her head, clutching her bag close. She would tell her story only once. To one person. The tidy gold badge identified this officer as Calvin Rochon. “Thank you, Mr. Rochon. I had an appointment yesterday, but I had to cancel.”

The polite smile gracefully transitioned to an expression of remorse. “I’m sorry, Ms.…”

“Abbott. Erin Abbott,” she quickly supplied. “I called again this morning, and the receptionist told me I could try to meet with the captain at noon.” Unconsciously, she twisted her fingers in the leather strap again and again. Officer Rochon caught the motion and brightened his smile. “Well, Ms. Erin Abbott, the captain is out, but we’ll just have to find someone who can talk with you.” He lifted a black handset and depressed a button. “Sylvie? Yeah. I’ve got a Ms. Abbott here to see the captain.” He flicked a look down her body, then back up to her face. “She looks harmless enough,” he added in a low, sympathetic whisper.

Erin caught the description and fought the urge to tug at her starched collar. A warm flush crept up her neck, and she stared determinedly at her shoes. At the sight of the dated pumps, she closed her eyes in dismay.

“Ms. Abbott?”

Her gaze darted up to meet his. “Yes?”

“Detective Iberville will escort you back in a minute. Please have a seat.” He pointed to a row of folding chairs lined against the far wall. Their teal paint was chipped in places, and the beige plastic cushions had seen better days.