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They obeyed, Willa Mae in the front and Gabe and Molly in the back. Molly was clutching his hand so hard that it hurt, but he wasn’t about to tell her to stop.
“Miss Willa Mae, can we talk now?” Gabe asked.
Willa Mae looked at Burke. “We clean?”
Burke nodded. “Yeah. I never stopped long enough for anyone to mess with my truck.” He handed Molly’s cell phone and her burner back over the seat. “Here you go.”
“Thank you for holding on to them for me,” she said. “Where are we going? Your camp?”
“No, it’s too crowded now. No spare bedrooms and five extra people make a lot of noise, even when they’re trying to be quiet. We’re going back to Farrah and André’s place on the river so that you can rest.”
“Thank God,” Gabe muttered.
“Chelsea?” Molly asked. “And Harper? Are they still there?”
“They are,” Burke confirmed. “Last I heard, they were baking with Farrah so that you could have something sweet when you got back. So...” He let a few seconds pass. “Busy day, huh?”
Molly laughed, a brittle sound. “Yeah, it was. What more do we know?”
“The ADA knows who the victim is,” Gabe said. “The one whose body the hoodie guy was throwing in the water.”
“He does,” Willa Mae confirmed. “But he’s not telling. Not that I thought he would.”
“I wonder how they identified her so quickly?” Molly mused. “Did they send divers in after the remains? If they found a finger or two and if she was in the system, they might have ID’d her through her fingerprints.”
Gabe closed his eyes, fighting back a wave of nausea at the thought of finding fingers in the bayou.
“I don’t know,” Burke said. “Her face was recognizable—you know, through the blood, so I’m wondering if she was someone he knew.”
“I vote for the second one,” Gabe said weakly. “How about them Saints?”
“I’m sorry,” Molly said, bringing his hand to her lips for a quick kiss. “I forget that you’re a civilian. You were pretty wonderful today.”
“Thank you.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. So tired. Almost too tired to feel pride at her words. Almost. “Do we know anything more?”
“André said that they found Mule’s Range Rover,” Burke offered. “It was parked in some woods near the home of the stolen car’s owner.”
“Stolen car?” Gabe asked, shaking his head hard, worried that he’d slept through some part of the explanation.
Burke glanced at him through the rearview mirror. “Oh, sorry. The car that the shooter left at the scene had been stolen. The cops went to the address on the registration and found the stolen car’s owner on the ground a few feet away from Mule’s Range Rover.”
Molly sighed. “The car’s owner was dead?”
“Yeah,” Burke said. “The guy had a rap sheet, so he was known to NOPD. Drug dealer. Made some meth, that kind of thing. He’d been dead for at least a few hours when they found him. There was a set of fresh tire treads in the ground near the Rover. Probably from a sedan. The treads didn’t match those of the stolen car left at the scene. That’s all I know right now.”
“Okay,” Molly said slowly. “Hoodie Guy brought his own vehicle, switched it for Meth Guy’s car, drove it to the bayou to dispose of a body, killed Mule, then got away in Mule’s Range Rover, and drove back to where he stole the car, switched back to his own vehicle, then drove away?”
“Close as I can figure,” Burke said.
Molly yawned. “I’m wondering if Hoodie Guy knew Meth Guy or if it was a random theft of opportunity?”
“Good question,” Burke said. “I wondered the same. And if they did know each other, from where?”
“I’m wondering how you’re all still conscious,” Gabe muttered under his breath.
Molly leaned into him as much as her seat belt would allow. “Just used to long hours, I suppose. But my brain is winding down, for sure.”
“Close your eyes,” Burke said. “We’ll be back to Farrah’s place soon.”
