Casting Bones Read Online Free Page A

the place, breathe in the unique aromas from the kitchen and then move on to the next establishment. A quick course on the French Quarter cuisine. You couldn’t do that on the east side of Detroit. Where he’d been stationed, around Warren and Conner, you very seldom ventured out on foot. If someone didn’t steal your wallet or cell phone, they’d slice your throat for your Nike LeBron X Cork shoes. Not that the French Quarter here in New Orleans was safe. Far from it. Still …
    The French Market on San Felipe was one of his favorites. So far. Spicy shrimp, crawfish, oysters, done just about anyway you could imagine. And he loved talking with Mike, with his wild wiry hair and jovial manner.
    â€˜Hey, Q! You’re a little early. The good lookin’
femmes infidèles
show up a little later in the evening.’
    â€˜Coke, Mike. And what else do I want?’
    â€˜Goin’ light?’
    â€˜I am.’
    â€˜Half a dozen of the char-grilled oysters. You’re gonna love ’em, man.’
    Archer smiled. ‘Haven’t had a bad meal here yet.’
    Mike nodded. ‘You’ve been here what? Couple months now?’
    â€˜A couple.’
    â€˜Just breakin’ you in and you draw the dead judge.’
    Archer looked at him inquisitively. It had only been a couple of hours. ‘And where did you hear this?’
    Mike walked back toward the kitchen shouting over his shoulder. ‘This is the Quarter, Q. I know everything that happens down here, man.’
    â€˜Mike. Wait.’
    The frizzy-haired man turned, his big eyes boring into Archer’s. ‘What,
mon ami
?’
    â€˜You know everything that happens down here?’
    â€˜Most things.
Most
.’
    â€˜Then answer the obvious question. My life would be a lot easier.’
    â€˜Who killed the judge? Is that your question?’
    â€˜Go ahead.’
    â€˜I know most things that happen in the
Quarter
, Q.’
    â€˜And?’
    â€˜Didn’t happen in the Quarter. That’s a sure thing.’
    â€˜We figured as much.’
    â€˜So I don’t have the answer. Not yet. What’s your next question?’
    Archer gave him a grim smile.
    â€˜The next logical question, Mike. What do you think it is?’
    â€˜I know what it should be,
inspecteur
.’
    â€˜What should it be?’
    â€˜The question should be why? Why was the judge murdered?’
    â€˜Exactly.’
    â€˜Don’t have that answer either. Not yet. But check back soon. Eventually I’ll have the answer. I always do.’

5
    T he char-grilled oysters were anything but light. The butter and Romano cheese lay heavy in his stomach. Or was it the quarter loaf of French bread he’d used to sop up every last drop of flavor in the shells? He walked toward his car, wondering if Strand had any new information. Unless they received a fabulous stroke of luck, it was going to be a late, late night.
    And then he saw her, a brief glimpse, walking across the street with a lanky young man wearing a sleeveless tee. The familiar sharp pain gripped his chest. She turned, and of course it wasn’t her. He saw Denise daily. And he didn’t see her at all.
    A short black man wearing a shaved head and a worn burgundy sport coat walked toward him staggering slightly, too many drinks too early in the day. He appeared to step out of Archer’s way, then stumbled as he bumped the cop.
    â€˜So sorry,’ he mumbled, continuing down the cobblestone sidewalk.
    Archer brushed his hand over his rear pocket, spun around and in that single motion pulled his pistol from the shoulder holster under his jacket.
    â€˜Freeze.’ His voice chilling, no-nonsense. ‘NOPD. Turn around.’
    The little guy hesitated, as if he might run or he might comply.
    Slowly turning around, he put his hands out, palms up. At five three, even his hands only came up as high as Archer’s shoulders.
    â€˜A gun? Isn’t that a