Moonlight reflected off the tiny waves in the lake and starlight added a faint hue to the entire scene. The levee loomed as a dark shadow to their right. Beau was so used to the smell of the salty water, it didn’t register until the scent changed as they approached the 17th Street Canal, where water from the city had mixed with the lake, giving the area an oily stench. Huge lights lit up the area around the canal entrance. Helicopters, lit up like Christmas trees, moved back and forth to the break in the levee to drop their sandbags.
Looking to his right, Beau couldn’t see the boatyard or Sad Lisa and wondered how Joe Boughten was getting along. Probably fine, so long as the beer held out. Veering to port, they skirted West End. It took awhile, moving carefully, to travel the next eleven miles to Lakefront Airport. There were some lights on there but the entire place was under water. South Shore Harbor, two miles beyond, was darker. Beau saw a cloud had moved in front of the moon.
“Remember, when we go ashore, stay with me,” he told her. “Partners never split up. No matter what happens. Don’t separate.”
“Okay, okay.”
“I’m serious.” Beau wasn’t being overprotective. He’d learned years ago to stick with his partner. Whatever happens to one happens to both. Can’t protect each other if you split up, like they did on TV. Hell, just about everything cops did on TV shows was flat-ass wrong.
They reached the levee just beyond the harbor, the capsized casino looming overhead like a black mountain. Turning off the engine, they paddled along the levee. Thankfully the cloud moved and the moonlight came back. When he was studying the map, Beau figured there was one way to find out about this, one possible way.
Not five minutes from the casino, he spotted a boat pulled up to the levee and his heart raced. He pointed to it and Cruz nodded. It was a boat made for speed, a huge outboard motor, all painted black. Beau was surprised they’d left no guard. They were that confident. The boat was tied up to a large chunk of concrete. The base of the earthen levee was littered with huge blocks of concrete all the way to the water’s edge. He pulled the pirogue next to the speedboat.
He unfastened the boat and handed Cruz the rope. She tied it to the pirogue’s stern and they towed it about fifty yards, pulling it up on the levee between two larger concrete blocks. Then they paddled the pirogue an additional fifty yards to tie it up. They left the flashlights and walked the levee back to where the speedboat had been originally.
Moving to the top of the levee, they looked at the eastern portion of the city. The moon and starlight gave a silvery pallor to the dark water and the roofs were black spots. As far as Beau could see, the city was under water.
Beau and Cruz positioned themselves back down the levee, each behind chunks of concrete on either side of where the speedboat had been. Beau eased his weapon from its holster and rested it against his leg as he sat. He covered his right eye with his hand and used his left eye for five minutes, then switched. When he opened his right eye the light seemed brighter since his pupils had dilated in the blackness behind his hand. He focused his hearing away from the lake lapping against the levee and concentrated.
He ran it all through his mind again. Someone was dumping these bodies where they would be found. No other way to get here except by boat. They probably had one on the other side of the levee to navigate canals that were once streets, but this was how they got in and this was their exit point. He knew he was lucky to find their boat.
An hour later, a helicopter came from the direction of Lakefront Airport and flew out over the east, its running lights extra bright, two searchlights scanning back and forth. From the moonlight, Beau thought he caught a white sheen on the craft. Coast Guard chopper.
He settled back and thought of the word describing where he and Cruz lay in wait. It was called a batture, a colloquial term indigenous to New Orleans. Possibly from the French battre: “to beat.” Here on the land between the top of the levee and the water’s edge, along the lake and the river across town, was where the original French settlers beat their washing, against rocks that naturally dotted the area, long before the levees were built up. He could envision the women in long dresses leaning over with their wash as they chattered with one another to ease the boredom. His Cajun ancestors most likely did the same along Vermilion Bay and its bayous.
Beau spent the hours keeping his breathing regular, keeping his senses tuned, keeping himself calm. The Sioux called it the battle calm, a relaxed state bordering on tranquility so when battle was joined a warrior maintained the cool hand and struck true, while his enemies, particularly the white-eyes, let their blood rise to levels that made their aim unreliable.
Over the lapping of the waves, Beau heard the faint scrape of footsteps. He peeked around the concrete and eased off the safety of his .9mm Beretta model 92F. Its rubber grips were tacky from the humidity, providing extra grip, although Beau’s hand was not sweaty in the least.
A figure rose to the top of the levee from the other side, followed by a second, one carrying a rifle, the other a machine gun, and both wearing all black. When the first paused to glance up at the sky, Beau saw the man was wearing night-vision goggles. Damn! Who were these guys?
More footfalls, faint and yet firm, revealed a total of five men now. Besides the one with the rifle, two carried what looked like Steyr machine guns. One started down the levee their way. Beau inched around so he could keep that man and the others in his line of vision.
It didn’t take long for the man to realize and call out, “The boat’s missing!”
“You sure we’re at the right place?”
“Look for the red marker.”
One of the men disappeared beyond the levee momentarily and came right back. “It’s right here.”
“Dammit to hell!”
Feet shuffled and a sharp voice said, “Someone’s here!”
It was instantly followed by, “Police! Freeze!” The second voice was Cruz.
Beau peered around and saw his partner standing with her Beretta in the standard two-hand police grip, her knees bent slightly as she aimed her weapon at the closest man. The men had their weapons trained on her.
Beau flipped the safety back on his Beretta and holstered it, stood with his hands spread, and called out, “Over here.”
Three of the men wheeled toward him.
“We’re NOPD,” Beau said. “And there’s more of us in the boats.” A bluff.
No one moved for three heart-thumping seconds before one of the men in back, one carrying a handgun, eased forward and said, “Beau? Is that you?”
The hair stood out on Beau’s arms and the back of his neck.
“All right, everyone put your weapons down,” said the same man as he came forward, removing his night-vision goggles. Lieutenant Merten’s eyes shone like bright agates as he stepped up to Beau. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Behind Merten the men lowered their weapons and began pulling off their goggles. Beau recognized a robbery detective and an old buddy from the Second who was now on the SWAT team. The fourth man looked young and Beau didn’t know him. The fifth man, taller than the others, kept his goggles on. He was the only white man in the group.
“Put your weapon down, Juanita,” he called out, and Cruz slowly lowered her gun. Beau looked back at Merten and said, “Where’d you leave the latest one? Where it’ll be found easily. So word’ll get out. The criminals will know.”