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Mississippi River, I drove toward New Orleans. A steamy piece of bog crunched between Lake Pontchartrain and the Mississippi River, the city had originally been claimed by France in 1718, when that country swept its prisons clean of its derelicts, loading them onto boats bound for New Orleans. With a crime rate today to rival that of New York, it seemed as if some of their descendants still had a good hold on the city. When I had first arrived, I had been advised to live in or around Slidell. Rents were cheaper, it would be easier to get to work, and there was a lot less crime. But after a week of living in the local Econolodge, looking at strips of fast-food joints, creosote factories, and sawmills, I had decided to blow my budget and head where I was most comfortable. While it’s not New York, at least New Orleans is crowded, claustrophobic, and noisy. I felt right at home.
    Once again my salary was being eaten up supporting a small and expensive apartment, but it was worth it. Situated in the French Quarter, the tiny two-story building of pale pink plaster had black wrought-iron tiers and balconies as intricately woven as my grandmother’s tatting. A minuscule courtyard and garden in back was a tropical jumble of multicolored flowers. Sweet-smelling magnolias mingled with angel’s trumpets, as flaming hibiscus competed with ginger lilies for precious space. But what had clinched the deal was the artwork strewn about the place. Small concrete satyrs romped in the garden, lusting after stone angels. A devil-head fountain spouted water over its long curling tongue, splashing onto nude maidens as they slept among the water lilies, the shade from banana trees dappling their bodies with intermittent rays of sun. Plaster masks of long-dead movie stars lined the wall outside the owner’s apartment, in an ode to Norma Desmond. From the owner’s taste in art, I gathered I had found a kindred spirit. I knew he was the kind of man who still dressed up for Halloween.
    The upstairs apartment was small, which suited me fine. Having grown up in New York, I’m uncomfortable when faced with too much space. Fronting Chartres Street, the living room led to a closet-sized Pullman kitchen, which I managed to keep clean through minimal use. The bedroom in back had French doors leading onto a balcony that overlooked the courtyard, and was vaguely reminiscent of Tennessee Williams and his cast of dysfunctional characters. Old and in bad condition, the building was loaded with atmosphere and charm.
    Stripping out of wet and muddy clothes, I left what I could of the marsh lying on my bathroom floor as I turned on the water in the tub. I planned on my usual evening activity of soaking for a while with a glass of wine and a trashy magazine, when I noticed the red light blinking on the answering machine. When I pressed the playback button, a familiar, deep Southern voice reached out toward me.
    “Bronx, get your ass over to 138 Ursuline Street. There’s been a murder in the Quarter.”

Two
     
    The building was right around the corner from the old Ursuline Convent. Locating the apartment, I flashed my badge and pushed through the crowd already gathered outside the door, eager to catch a glimpse of the body. While the DEA, the local police, and Fish and Wildlife sometimes worked on cases together, I’d never been included on a murder before. But having viewed more than my fair share of dead bodies both on TV and in the movies, I felt prepared for whatever might await me inside. Besides, if the case was a break from working on ducks, I was grateful for it.
    As I entered the apartment, my umbrella, as well as the rest of me, dripped a large puddle of water onto the floor, but I had a feeling the tenant wouldn’t mind. Without being stopped, I made my way past a small circle of people, finally entering the room where the largest group huddled. What awaited me was a bloody scene. The bedroom walls were streaked with ribbons of red paint, except