Warpath

Ex-Sheriff Ken Burke entered Pirates alley from the Jackson Square end. All the businesses and activities that attracted tourists to the Square had closed by 8 p.m. Now, at 11 p.m., it was deserted, except for some homeless people looking to sleep on benches, or in doorways.

Burke walked along the side of the St. Louis Cathedral. His meet was set for behind the building, across from the Faulkner House.

The ex-Orleans Parish Sheriff moved as carefully and quietly as he could. In his belt he had his old .45. The gun had retired with him, never having given way to the S&W and Beretta double-action, semi-automatic pistols that were also eventually eclipsed by the appearance of the Glock. These were the guns law enforcement officials began to carry during what Burke referred to as the “new age” of law enforcement. He was still “old age” in his thinking, though he recognized the irony and didn’t like the first impression the phrase presented.

But as alert as he was, the old reflexes were not what they used to be. He heard a sound behind him. Before he could turn toward it something struck him on the back of the head and he went down.

Goddamn, but getting old was a bitch!

ONE

When Sangster’s phone rang it came as a surprise.

Not only because it was the middle of the night, but because Sangster’s phone never rang. Not ever, except for an occasional wrong number. He only kept the land line because he didn’t own a cell phone. When he had need of one, he always bought the disposable kind.

He groped in the dark for the receiver, wanting nothing more than for the ringing to stop.

“Yes, what?” he said.

“Mr. Stark?”

Richard Stark was a name he used when he didn’t want to use Sangster.

“Who’s calling?”

“Sir, this is the Urgent Care center in University Hospital? Are you Mr. Richard Stark?”

“That’s right.”

“You’ve been listed as the person to be notified—”

“What?” he asked, sitting up. “Listed by who? What are you talking about?”

“Um, a man named Kenneth Burke? He’s been injured and gave your name and number—”

“Is he all right?” Sangster asked. “Is he alive?”

“He’s alive, sir,” the woman said, “but you’ll need to come down—”

“I’ll be there,” Sangster said. “I’m—it’ll take me a while—I’m coming from Algiers, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“All right, sir.”

“Take care of him,” Sangster said, “take good care of him. I’ll pay, understand? Money’s no object.”

“We’re taking care of him, sir,” she said. “That’s our job.”

“Okay, okay.” He almost hung up, then put the phone back to his ear. “Who are you? I mean, what’s your name?”

“I’m Nurse Claire O’Malley, sir,” she said. “I’ll be on duty when you get here.”

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll be there.”

“Yes, all right, si—”

He hung up, got out of bed and grabbed some clothes . . .

Outside of Sangster’s house the man called Quinlan was watching from across the street, trying to get the lay of the land. He had only arrived in New Orleans that afternoon, got himself situated in a small B&B before heading out to find Algiers Point. He got directions from the woman who ran the B&B, an attractive middle-aged brunette who was obviously flirting. Maybe, if he was there long enough, he could look into that.