Farzat isn’t just lying in the recliner. He’s lashed to it, naked, his bare arms and legs wrapped multiple times with thick strips of silver duct tape, resembling an unfinished mummy. The chair’s upholstery is stained black-brown, soaked through with his blood. Strange circular wounds the size of quarters—and deep enough to expose muscle and bone—pockmark his torso and extremities. His head hangs limply to one side. His face is frozen in a visage of sheer terror. And his lips and bearded chin are covered with dried blood, like the snout of a wild animal that’s just fed on fresh meat.

This was no ordinary murder.

Farzat was abducted. Held against his will, for God knows how long.

And tortured. Horrifically. Until his dying breath.

Whatever information his captors were trying to get out of him, it had to be pretty damn important. And they had to be pretty damn cruel.

“Told you it was a mess,” Quincy says softly.

I swallow hard, and slowly step closer to Farzat’s body to get a better look. It takes everything I’ve got to fight the temptation to turn away, lift my mask, and retch.

“Where did these round wounds come from?” I ask, puzzled. Quincy answers dryly, “You’ve heard of a contract killer? Try a killer contractor.”

I follow his gaze to a blood-dappled electric drill lying nearby, with a circular, serrated metal bit about an inch long. It’s a tool normally used to bore holes in drywall.

Or in this case, human flesh. I step back. My breathing quickens, my eyes water.

“Have an approximate time of death yet?” I ask.

“Based on his body temp and state of decomp, our current estimate is between six and nine hours ago.”

“Any idea how long he was tortured?”

Quincy slowly shrugs, like the weight of the whole parish is on his shoulders. “What I want to know is,” he asks, “how did they expect to get any information out of him if … he couldn’t speak?”

Confused, I step in again and peer closer at Farzat’s bloody mouth. One of the forensic techs shines a flashlight inside—illuminating a shredded stump where the victim’s tongue once was. The bastards must have stuck the drill bit in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

“Bet you wish you had more customers like that,” Quincy says. “Sure, they can’t taste your food. But they can’t complain about it, either.”

Gallows humor. That’s Quincy for you.

But I don’t shoot a joke back. At a time like this, I don’t feel like laughing.

And unless I find out who killed Farzat, and fast, in a few days there won’t be much laughter in New Orleans at all.

CHAPTER 34

Quincy was right. I don’t have any appetite left. But that’s not going to stop me from going where I need to go next.