I drop both her arm and the issue and lead her out of the cemetery in silence. Back on the sidewalk, she doesn’t kiss my cheek. She barely even says good-bye.

I hope any FBI surveillance watching me is happy now, because I’m not.

Time to get back to work, and I don’t head to the Killer Chef truck.

CHAPTER 27

I thought I’d pass through the gates of hell before I walked through these doors again. But here I am.

The musty, glass-walled lobby of NOPD headquarters.

It’s been ten days since I stormed out of this place in a blaze of glory. But it might as well be years because it kind of feels like I’m visiting my old junior high school. The place seems smaller than I remember. Claustrophobic, even. Everything looks familiar, but feels a little strange.

Trying not to dwell on the memories crowding their way in, I make my way through the midday hustle and bustle. Past a plainclothes narcotics detective I vaguely recognize talking on his phone in heated Spanish. Past a two-bit defense lawyer in a rumpled gray suit conferring with his voluptuous female client, who I’d bet was caught turning tricks on Chartres Street. Past a pair of uniformed officers escorting a handcuffed drunk in a bloodied LSU hoodie, who’s thrashing about and rambling incoherently. What a zoo.

I reach the desk officer on duty, a ruddy guy whose uniform is at least one size too small for his portly frame. He’s the station’s gatekeeper.

“Help you?” he huffs, keeping an eye on the activity in the rest of the lobby.

I act casual, barely slowing down. “Just heading up to major crimes,” I say.

“Hang on. You got an appointment?”

“They’re expecting me.”

He holds up a hand and picks up his desk phone. “Who’s expecting you?”

I hesitate. I’m here to see Cunningham, who decidedly isn’t expecting me. In fact, he made it quite clear I should lay low and keep my distance. If this kid tips him off I’m here, my ex-chief won’t just refuse to meet me. He’ll blow a fuse. And toss me out. And short-circuit whatever progress I’ve made.

“Look, I used to be on the job,” I say. “Retired last week. I just want to—”

The officer scowls at me. “I know who you are. But you’re not getting by without a good reason.”

I consider backing away and just hanging around the lobby until Cunningham inevitably passes through. But that could take hours, precious time I can’t afford to waste. So instead, I decide to answer straight up. If my old chief gets pissed off that I’m here and turns me away, that’s on him. But before I do …

“Rooney?” says a deep voice behind me.