Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller by David Lyons Page A

of the state police. Not New Orleans Eighth District and not Roscoe Fitch.”
    “Don’t call me Roscoe. It’s Fitch. Just Fitch.”
    “Okay, Fitch just Fitch. Let’s go home.”
    “I want to see that ship,” Fitch said.
    “Where are you going?” Boucher asked.
    “The Houma Navigation Canal runs into the Intracoastal Waterway and extends about thirty-seven miles southward to the Gulf of Mexico. Dumont has their shipyard alongside the canal. We won’t have to go on their property. I’m going to find a spot on the other side. We’ll just park and watch for a while. Maybe we’ll see something, maybe not. It’ll be like a picnic. You up for a couple po’boys?”
    “I don’t have much of an appetite.”
    The name of the vessel was the Gulf Pride, and findingit could not have been easier. Fitch used Google Maps on his cell phone to locate the company’s private docks. There was no problem finding a spot on the other side of the navigation canal where they could watch. Larger than most of the gulf’s offshore fleet, the ship was easily spotted.
    “It’s loaded,” Fitch said. “Look at the waterline. It’s going out with the tide, what do you want to bet?”
    “I wonder what it’s carrying. And where it’s going.”
    “As to the second question, that should not be too difficult to find out. With the size of that vessel, it’s not cruising the shore. How many deep-water offshore rigs are operating right now?”
    “That shouldn’t be too hard to find out either.”
    “Should be a piece of cake.”

CHAPTER 9
    I T WAS LATE AFTERNOON by the time they got back to New Orleans. Fitch dropped Boucher off at his house.
    “I’d better show my face at work,” Fitch said.
    “I’d better get to the office too,” Boucher said. “By the way, isn’t tomorrow night your date with that woman you met?”
    “Don’t remind me. I’m nervous as hell about it.”
    “I’m sure it will go fine. What have you planned?”
    “Dinner.” Fitch told him where.
    “That’s a bad idea for a first date. I know it’s popular. That’s the problem. It’s crowded, too noisy for conversation, and the service is fast because they’re trying to turn tables. The owner told me they try to do three covers per table a night. You need something at least a little more sedate, if not romantic.”
    “I don’t want any romantic shit. This is a dinner, that’s all.”
    Boucher picked up a scrap of paper from the console, took out a pen, wrote something, then handed it to Fitch. “This is where I suggest. Call and ask for Ted and tell him I recommended his place.”
    “Is it expensive?”
    “No. If this woman is worth your time, she’s worth the price of a nice dinner. Look, Malika is coming tomorrow. I don’t know how long she’ll be staying, but I’m sure there’ll be an evening we can go out together. Maybe you should postpone your plans till we can arrange a double date.”
    “Listen to us,” Fitch said. “We’ve got dead people everywhere we turn, and I’m talking like a high school kid with a zit on his face before prom night. No, I’m going out tomorrow. Thanks for the advice. I’ll be fine.”
    “I know you will. Just watch your language.” Boucher got out of the car. He looked at his watch, then ran to his pickup. He had to get to the office without delay and face judgment from a sweet little lady with the scent of talcum powder.
    The peace offering of fresh flowers in a reusable vase helped, but Mildred still had something to say about his unexplained absence. “Everything has been properly filed, Your Honor, but the work isn’t going to do itself.”
    “You are absolutely right, Mildred. I plan on stayinglate tonight. If you have a few minutes to explain your filing system to me, I’d really appreciate it.”
    “I’ve already written this guide”—she held up a piece of paper. “It explains everything, but sure, let me show you. Oh, wait, I almost forgot. This came for you by messenger.”
    She