“Marlene,” I say again, breathlessly rushing toward her. “Are you okay?”

She gives me one look—then starts to crack up.

“Our Father who art in Heaven, I never thought I’d see the day,” she starts on me. “The unflappable Caleb James Rooney actually shedding a tear?”

I smile, flooded with relief—along with a few other feelings I haven’t felt for this woman in years. I wipe at my still-raw pepper-sprayed eyes.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I answer. “I had a little run-in right before you called. It doesn’t matter. Tell me what happened.”

Marlene takes a deep breath and starts talking.

It was dark and she was inside the truck, cleaning up after dinner service, when she heard the back door open. She thought it was me and didn’t bother turning around—when someone grabbed her from behind, shoved her to the floor, and gave her a few sharp kicks, before turning his attention to wrecking the kitchen.

Marlene didn’t get a good look at the guy, but if she had to guess, he was in his thirties or forties, strong and fit, ethnicity unknown. As she was still being assaulted, she heard glass shattering outside and tires hissing. Which means there was at least a second attacker. Maybe more. After a minute or two, the men stopped and ran off. Since it was so late, the streets were fairly empty, and most people who were out probably assumed the noise was just some pre–Mardi Gras revelry—or were too drunk to notice anything.

Pulling herself together, Marlene dialed 911, then called me—right as I was still recovering from a face full of pepper spray.

Marlene tells her story stoically, but hearing it leaves me practically shaking with rage at the monsters who did this—and with shame that I might be partly responsible.

“Do either of y’all have any enemies?” asks one of the police officers, a middle-aged fellow with a thick bayou accent.

“Officer,” I answer, “don’t pretend you don’t know who I am. I’ve been on the job for years. Take a look through my case files. I’ve got plenty of enemies.”

And that doesn’t include all the ones I’ve made recently.

Like the Franklin Avenue gang, or Lucas Dodd, or David Needham, or those goons who whooped me outside the scrapyard the other night, coming by to finish what they started.

Damn. That list is growing longer than the Mississippi. Where would I even start?

After the paramedics finish their examination and treatment of Marlene’s minor scrapes and cuts, and the officers give us the earnest but empty promise—which I unfortunately know so very well—to “do everything they can to find the folks who did this,” the first responders get back in their respective vehicles and drive off.