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trajectory of the bullet to an office building more than a hundred yards from the parking lot. The slug, which had passed through Chris's brain and had been recovered from the car in front of hers, was a .223 and had to have been fired from either a hunting rifle or a sniper rifle. The caliber was general use for hunters, military snipers and police sharpshooters in close quarters. Ray noted, "That old veteran you talked to, knows his stuff. A .308 could have penetrated glass, maybe hit someone else. Not likely with the .223. Makes me think even more the person is one of us or military. The guy's target was specific. Hunters probably wouldn't worry about a ricochet. A .308 would be their choice."
    Baker groaned, "These days with the new strict laws promoted by the late great Robert LaFontaine, even hunters have to register their rifles. A .308 would be even harder to trace."
    Ray agreed. "I'm loath to believe a fellow law enforcer or a military person could be responsible. Of course, the weapon could have been obtained illegally or have been in circulation before the strict laws were enacted."
    "Let's not forget Latrice was retired military," Baker grunted. "Veteran status hardly negates culpability."
    "I can never forget." Ray rubbed his middle where his reminding scars remained.
     

    In Baton Rouge, FBI Agent Patrick Swift had a team investigating a string of high profile art thefts. Thirteen paintings in various state capitals had been stolen with the latest in Baton Rouge. Patrick waited for his team to convene. Looking at his watch, he realized he had about fifteen minutes to spare before everyone was expected back from a short break. He dialed his friend in Eau Boueuse.
    "Raiford Gautier," came the answer.
    "Hey, it's Patrick. I just wanted to check on you."
    "Hanging in there. I've started a new project. And I have too much bullshit going on with the company not to stay focused."
    "Keep busy. Chris would want you to move on with life. As soon as I put this case to rest in Baton Rouge, I'll run down. Maybe we can hit a few golf balls."
    "Okay. I could use a friend."
    "You have Ray."
    "True, but he's not objective."
    Patrick laughed. "I'm not either. Gotta go. My team's arriving."
     

     
    "Okay, gang, settle down," Patrick Swift said to his special team. "We've been jetting all over the country: Phoenix, Little Rock, Sacramento, Denver, Jackson, Atlanta, Albany, Oklahoma City, Columbia, Salt Lake City, Richmond, Boston, now here—Baton Rouge. All state capitals, but this one feels off. What's different? What's the same?"
    A young black woman raised her hand.
    "It's not school, Beil," Patrick said with a smile.
    "Yes, sir. Well, all the art pieces belonged to minorities."
    "A racist connection?"
    She shrugged.
    Pursing his lips, Patrick nodded. "Could be. But what's odd?"
    An older agent fidgeted. "I'm not superstitious, but number thirteen is the only state capital hit that isn't an FBI field office. All the others have been."
    "Excellent," Patrick mumbled. "So—we have a thief or thieves, maybe being paid by a racist collector who for some reason wanted to lure us to Louisiana. Thirteen?" He scratched his curly coppery head. "You know, it's creepy because I worked the Latrice Descartes case here when her thirteenth victim was her undoing. I just got off the phone with her thirteenth intended male vic. He's a good friend. This just gives me the willies."
    After concluding with his team the thief or thieves were being paid by a collector, the team left the local police precinct for dinner. Outside as they nonchalantly discussed where to eat, Swift dropped in his tracks, and a crack. The other agents quickly drew their weapons and found cover, but no other shot was fired. Swift was dead less than two months after Detective Christine Gautier.
    The caliber of the slug matched the one used in the slaying of Christine Gautier. The trajectory of the bullet showed the shot came from the bank over one hundred yards away.