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accepted fact throughout the division, although never proved, that Duvall was the primo operator they'd been after for years. He had more connections to drug trafficking than whores did to herpes.
    Every trail led to him, but ended just short of contact. There was no solid proof against him, but Burke knew the son of a bitch was a player.
    A big-time player.
    Yet, here he was, living it up in his fancy house, celebrating Kevin Stuart's death with a big, blow-out party.
    Movement at one of the rear doors interrupted Burke's bitter reflections. He shrank farther back into the foliage so as not to be seen by the woman who made her way along a path to a gazebo.
    She was alone. For a time, she leaned into one of the support columns, then she made a slow circuit around the gazebo, trailing her hand along the ivy-covered railing. When she returned to her original spot, she leaned against the support column again, this time placing her back to it.
    Burke saw her face for the first time and, although he didn't speak it out loud, he thought, Wow.
    Her black hair looked iridescent in the cool, bluish light, while that same moonlight made her skin appear as pale and translucent as alabaster. The short black cocktail dress showed off a lot of leg.
    Her breasts swelled above the scooped neckline.
    Burke immediately pegged her as one of the expensive whores who worked the classy hotel bars where conventioneers from out of town were eager to spend huge sums of money for an hour or two of carnality with what they were promised was a genuine, hot-blooded Creole gal.
    Burke smiled grimly. He bet this one was higher priced than most. She had a look about her that said I'm expensive and worth every penny.
    She was the kind who could hold out for clients with Duvall's flash and finances.
    Not that she would have to hold out. A man with a bankroll like Pinkie Duvall's didn't have to surround himself with ugly women. Maybe this one had been hired only for the night as a party decoration Or maybe she was the girlfriend of one of the guests. Or she could be a permanent hanger-on who put out routinely for Duvall and his friends in exchange for designer clothes and good drugs.
    The keeping of mistresses had been an accepted practice in New Orleans since the city was first settled. Flesh peddling was a major industry in any convention town, New Orleans was certainly no exception. Every cab driver in the city knew the address of Ruby Bouchereaux's place.
    Her girls were top-notch. Ruby herself was one of the richest women in the state.
    But there were also the street hookers who worked the dark corners of the Quarter. They would give blow jobs in an alley for a hit of crack.
    They were no more selective than the crib girls who had made Storyville one of the most notorious red-light districts in the world.
    Regardless of the price tag, there was no shortage of work in the Big Easy for a hard-core whore.
    But even as the thought crossed his mind, Burke realized that this one didn't look hard-core. Since drug dealing and prostitution often crossed lines with each other, he'd learned a lot from watching these girls. He could size one up and know immediately if she was going to succumb to the life or if she possessed the killer instincts to survive.
    He wouldn't put his money on this one to make it. She was classy, all right. But she didn't look rapacious and calculating. She looked. sad.
    Still unaware that she was being watched, she relaxed her head against the ornate ironwork and closed her eyes. Then she slid her hands down her body until they met at the center of her lower abdomen.
    Burke's mouth went dry. His gut clenched.
    The guys working Vice routinely circulated pornographic videos, films, or magazines that had been confiscated for evidence. It wasn't Burke's habit to watch them, but he was as normal as the next guy, and what man, cop or otherwise, could turn away from this scene without waiting to see what was going to happen next.
    Actually, nothing