They weren’t going to get any closer in the cab. Dan handed the driver a generous tip—well deserved—and stepped out to walk hurriedly down the street. At the police line, a patrol officer would have stopped him, but Ryder Stapleton came down the few steps from the small white Victorian house beyond the vehicles, assuring the officers that Dan was with him.

Dan liked Ryder; he was glad and grateful that Ryder had asked him to come. He was about Dan’s own age, sandy-haired, lean and fit. Dan could see that Ryder could be imposing, but yet possessed a warmth that could draw out thoughts and observations from a witness who didn’t even know they had seen or known something.

As he approached, Ryder was shaking his head.

“The Axeman. They’re already calling him the Axeman in the media—and we don’t even know who the hell got through to the reporters! The bodies are inside, for God’s sake. I mean, thank God, but...someone talked. They know an axe was involved in the murders—and it was left behind. Dammit, Dan! This might be your killer, but if so, he sure as hell knows his NOLA serial killers, too.”

“Thank you,” Katie Delaney said cheerfully as her group of seven departed her mule-drawn carriage on Decatur Street. They had been a family, one that seemed to get along remarkably well: two sets of grandparents, parents and an adorable five-year-old. The couple and their little girl lived in New Orleans, the father’s parents lived in New York, and the mother’s parents lived in Los Angeles.

Maybe that’s why they got along so well!

She winced inwardly, telling herself not to be so jaded. She’d been young when she’d lost all four grandparents, but she remembered that both families had gotten along fine.

Looking back, she was glad they’d been so old, that the four of them had died before they’d had to see what happened to Katie’s parents, their children.

“Oh, wait, please, wait just a minute!” the mom called to Katie.

Of course, the five-year-old wanted a picture with her mule, Sarah, and Sarah had a beautiful disposition, so pictures with her were always great.

“Please, do you mind being in the picture?” the dad asked.

“Uh, sure,” Katie said, wrapping the reins and hopping down. “But,” she said, coming around to the sidewalk, “wouldn’t you rather I took the picture?”

“I can do it,” a voice called.

It was Lorna Garcia, one of Katie’s best friends and a coworker at Trudeau Carriage Company. Lorna was slender, with dark hair and dark eyes that usually radiated cheer and energy, but even as she smiled and took the man’s phone to use as a camera, she glanced at Katie with something less than happiness.