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      To everyone who loves New Orleans—its culture, history, architecture, music, food and, most of all, the spirit of its inhabitants. And especially to those who lived through the devastation of Katrina and have helped in rebuilding the city they love. And a special nod to my Louisiana and Mississippi friends and family who truly know what it means to live in the path of Gulf hurricanes and their fury.

       Chapter One

      Remy Comeaux pulled up in front of the lavish Saint Charles Avenue mansion just before dark on Sunday evening. Nice digs, he thought as he took out his wallet and grabbed a few bills to tip the limo driver. Had he shown up in his beloved beat-up pickup truck, it might have been a little harder to crash the party. He wanted nothing to spoil the surprise he had planned for the guest of honor.

      The last time he’d seen Lee Barnaby had been the day Katrina had roared into New Orleans, drowning Remy’s hopes and dreams along with much of Crescent City. The night he’d lost Carlotta. His fiancée. His reason for living. His heart.

      Lee had been only the deputy superintendent of police then. Not that most civilians or cops referred to him that way. In everyday matters, it was simply Chief or Deputy Chief. Tonight Barnaby was celebrating his rise to the top rung of the department. Remy was back in town to make sure his reign was short-lived.

      Remy adjusted the uncomfortable silk cummerbund of his rented tux as he walked up the paved path toward the plantation-style home with its massive white pillars and wide verandas. Light spilled into the gathering twilight, and music and laughter drifted through the open doorway.

      An aging, mustached butler stood sentinel at the heavy wood-and-etched-glass double doors. He scrutinized Remy for a few seconds, as if he were trying to place him. Evidently the limo and monkey suit were not enough to sell Remy as an invited guest.

      “Good evening,” Remy said. “Looks like I’m at the right place.”

      “Yes, sir. Can I have your name, sir?”

      “Andre Comeaux,” he said, using the first name of a cousin who just happened to be one of LSU’s former legendary quarterbacks. “Just flew in from the West Coast. Wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”

      “Yes, sir,” the butler said, finally buying his act and flashing a welcoming smile. “Welcome to the Delacroix home.”

      “Thank you.”

      “Mrs. Delacroix requests that her guests gather in the ballroom at eight o’clock. Until then, the first floor of the house and the back gardens are at your disposal. Enjoy yourself.”

      “Thanks. I’m sure I will.” Remy walked away as the next guests arrived and the butler went through his rehearsed spiel again.

      It didn’t take but a minute of wandering for Remy to realize that locating Lee Barnaby among the throng of guests in the sprawling house might not be as easy as he’d figured. A waiter passed with a tray of cocktails. Remy accepted a vodka martini. This was his first and no doubt his last foray into New Orleans old-money high society. He may as well partake of the perks.

      He had to admit the house was impressive, though he couldn’t imagine living here. Where would a man prop up his feet, pop a top and flick on the TV to watch a Saints game? Surely old man Delacroix had a man cave that was off-limits to Marilyn Delacroix’s interior-design team.

      Remy made the rounds from room to room, doing his best to remain inconspicuous as he scanned the partiers. He didn’t come across Lee, but he recognized a few of the chief’s pets from his old days with the department. The suck-ups who’d done Lee’s bidding without question had no doubt moved right up the pay scale.

      Amazingly, none of them recognized Remy, even though he practically ran into one of Lee’s go-to cops from the pre-Katrina days. Charlie Gibbons had been the man who’d fastened the cuffs around his wrists the night Remy had been hauled off to jail.

      Had he noticed Remy, he’d have no doubt raced to give Lee a heads-up that trouble was stalking the party scene. Fortunately, good old Charlie was far too engrossed in the cleavage of the woman draped across his shoulder to notice Remy.

      Admittedly, Remy had changed a lot in eight years. He’d gained a few pounds—all muscle. Working out at a local gym and coaching a boxing team of underprivileged boys had become his grief-and-frustration outlet once he’d moved to Houston and started his own private detective agency.

      He’d let the military haircut grow out. His nose, which had had been broken a couple of times playing football and again when he was a narc detective, had finally been straightened by an expert surgeon. And the boyish grin that Carlotta Worthington had loved had been replaced by a wary, brooding edge—or so he’d been told.

      He stepped into a spacious dining room with rows of tall windows that offered views of a meticulously tended English garden lit by what appeared to be strings of stars strung through the spreading branches of dozens of century-old live oak trees.

      There were no chairs at the beautifully crafted antique mahogany dining table, but it and an equally impressive sideboard were laden with

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