“Then…?” She raised her hands to her sides and looked at him inquiringly.

“This belonged to my folks. They bought it cheap years ago. We stayed here whenever we came down to visit my grandparents. Mom liked the French Quarter.”

“Does anyone live downstairs?”

“Not anymore. A bachelor leased it from my parents for a while, but when he moved away, they—” He shut down as though a switch had been flipped. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does. If it didn’t matter you wouldn’t have kept the place all this time.”

Shaw turned away before she detected just how accurate she was. “I’ll be back.” At the bedroom door, he paused. “Don’t even think about skipping out.”

He went through the bedroom into the bathroom. Using liquid soap and the hottest water he could stand, he scrubbed Hickam’s blood off his hands, trying not to dwell on the amount of it he’d seen pumping out of him.

When the water in the sink ran clear, he dried his hands, peeled back the bandage to check his incision, then returned to the living room. Jordie had removed the t-shirt, beads, and bulletproof vest and piled them in a chair. Otherwise, she was standing precisely where she’d been, looking around in bewilderment.

“What?” he said.

“You’re full of surprises. That’s all.”

He headed for the kitchen. “The place comes in handy. I camped out here when I was investigating Panella. I came by here last Thursday before hooking up with Mickey Bolden. Stocked some food and water in case I needed a place to stay out of sight for a while, dependant on what went down in Tobias. Little did I know.” He took two bottles of water from the refrigerator and carried one to her.

They both drank, then she asked, “Instead of taking me to that filthy garage, why didn’t you bring me here?”

“Too comfy. Too many people nearby. Too many avenues of escape. I needed an isolated and uncomfortable spot.”

“In which to frighten and torture me.”

“I didn’t torture you. But hold the thought. It may come down to that later.”

He took the burner phone from his shirt pocket and called Wiley, who took several rings to answer, and when he did he sounded physically beat down and emotionally hammered.

“It’s me,” Shaw said.

“She with you?”

“I’m looking at her.”

Jordie motioned for him to put the phone on speaker so she could hear. Fearing the worst, Shaw said, “Hickam?”

“Alive. Critical condition.”

Looking stricken, Jordie sat down on the padded arm of the easy chair where she’d placed the articles she’d taken off. She’d said she didn’t want anyone else to die because of her. That was before Royce Sherman. Now Hickam was another casualty. “Are you at the hospital?” Shaw asked Wiley.

“Just got here. Detectives released me so I could come. Hick’s in surgery now. They’ve had to raid the blood bank. May take a miracle to pull him through.”

Shaw ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, man.”

“Thanks.” Wiley cleared his throat and took a moment, then he said, “Why’d you run off?”

“Jordie’s safety.”

“That’s a laugh. You and safety don’t mix.”

“I’ve also placed her under arrest and read her her rights.”

“Really? Why now?”

Looking directly into her eyes, Shaw said, “I’ve come to believe like you do that she hasn’t been entirely truthful with us. She knows more than she’s telling. She’s sure as hell got Panella worried or he wouldn’t be sending her warnings. He hit Royce Sherman for shooting off his mouth. Now the attempt on Hickam—”

“—wasn’t Panella.”

Shaw twitched as though he’d been jabbed with that propeller again. “What?”

“A security camera caught the suspect walking fast down the sidewalk in the direction of Hick’s car. This was just a minute or two ahead of the motorcycle cops who held back traffic. Some gangbanger.”

“He’s been arrested?”

“No.”

“IDed?”

“No. No clear view of his face. He was wearing a hoodie.”

“A hoodie?”

“Dark color like yours. Detectives surmise Hick thought it was you and lowered the window for him.”

Shaw’s mind went into a tailspin, but it always came back to how many coincidences it would require for a gangbanger in a hoodie like his to come along during that narrow window of time.

He remembered seeing Hickam’s dangling left hand, his expensive wristwatch drenched in blood still strapped to his wrist. “Was anything taken? Wallet? Weapon?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not buying it.” He knew Wiley wasn’t up to a debate right now, but precious time could be wasted on NOPD’s erroneous conclusion. “It was Panella,” he said.

“Told them that. Repeatedly. The detectives are leery.”

“Did you see the security camera video?”

“One of the investigators played it back for me on his iPad.” Wiley hesitated. “In the dark, jacked on adrenaline, having just given you that hoodie to put on, it’s conceivable that Hick could’ve mistaken the guy on the sidewalk for you.”

“But?”

“Wrong body type. Not nearly as tall as you.”

“It was Panella.”

“But he was favoring his left side. Walking fast but with a limp.”

Jordie made a small but startled sound.

Shaw homed in on her. He said to Wiley, “I’ll call you back.”

Joe sat on the waiting room sofa, elbows on his knees, head bowed, staring at the ugly carpet between his shoes, praying. Sort of. Because he knew that’s what Hick would be doing if their situations were reversed and he was the one whose life was hanging by a thread.

“Joe?”

He looked up and saw Marsha, and was furious enough to want to yell at her, but too glad to see her to do anything except stand up and open his arms. She walked into them, and for long moments they just held each other. He soaked her up, thinking how vital she was to him. Everything about her. Her sassy humor. Her soft, familiar body. Right now, her strength.

When they finally pulled apart, he wiped his eyes, but assumed a put-out tone. “You’re supposed to be locked in and under guard.”

Although Kinnard had hung up abruptly and without explanation, his insistence that Panella was their culprit worried Joe enough to order police protection for his family. If it was Panella, he’d made the fight personal, and he fought dirty. Joe was taking no chances with the security of his wife and children.

Marsha said, “I had to see you. There’s a policewoman inside the house. The kids are asleep and don’t know I’m gone. One of the officers drove me. He gave me fifteen minutes.” She kissed his face several times. “How’s Hick?”

He guided her to the sofa and they sat down. She pressed against his side, fortifying him. “At the last second, Hick must’ve seen it coming and tried to avert. The shooter missed his head, but got him in the neck. Staff here waited on a vascular specialist to do the surgery. Hick’s lost a lot of blood. Officers from every agency have shown up to donate. Even Morrow—the deputy I told you about?—drove up with some personnel from his department.”