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from Speedy’s tire shop, only one had a record, but Murphy put that record at the top of his list.
    Sometime between 10:00 PM and 11:00 PM —it was impossible to pinpoint the time, because Murphy wasn’t sure exactly when Speedy had started recording—a Chevy Camaro had driven past the tire shop. Because the security camera was black-and-white, Murphy couldn’t tell the color, but SLIX listed the Camaro’s color as red.
    The license plate came back registered to Jonathan Deshotels of New Orleans. Deshotels was a twenty-year-old scumbag with arrests for burglary, felony theft, and rape. In a rare moment of functionality, MONA actually showed the disposition of Deshotels’s rape charge. A year and a half ago, he pleaded guilty to a reduced charge of sexual battery. He got a suspended sentence and was placed on five years’ probation. A cush deal for a rapist.
    As a convicted sex offender, young Deshotels had to keep local law enforcement apprised of his current address or risk having his probation revoked and being sent to prison, where he would likely be raped himself. He also had to stay away from schools, playgrounds, and other places where kids congregated.
    Nothing in Deshotels’s record indicated he was a pedophile, but Louisiana’s sex-offender law, like those of most states, didn’t differentiate. All sex offenders got treated like child molesters.
    At 9:00 PM , Murphy was parked down the street from Deshotels’s last known address, a small duplex uptown on Octavia Street. He had been watching the place for more than an hour. So far he had not seen the red Camaro.
    The architectural design of the house Murphy was watching was known as a shotgun double. Local lore says the houses, which have a simple, rectangular floor plan, got their name because a person could fire a shotgun in the front door and out the back door without hitting anything in between.
    Murphy wanted to know why Deshotels had been cruising the backstreets around the courthouse late Tuesday night.
    Like most scumbags, Deshotels used several addresses. He had listed this one on Octavia Street as his home address when he was last arrested six months ago. The arrest had been for a probation violation, but the bust had not resulted in Deshotels’s probation being revoked. More than likely he had skipped a meeting, and his probation officer had had an arrest warrant issued just to throw a scare into him.
    Murphy could only hope Deshotels hadn’t moved since then.
    So he sat in his car, watching the right side of a shotgun double from half a block away, waiting for a red Camaro to drive up, a red Camaro that might never arrive. Surveillance was so much fun.
    The handheld police radio lying on the seat beside Murphy squawked. “Twenty-five fifty-five to twenty-five fifty-four.”
    It was Gaudet. Murphy picked up his portable radio and keyed the microphone. “Twenty-five fifty-four, go ahead.”
    “What’s your twenty?”
    Murphy gave him the address, then added, “It’s one way, lake bound. Come up from the river side.”
    “I’ll be there in ten.”
    “Kill your lights before you turn onto the block.”
    “Ten four.”
    In his rearview mirror, Murphy saw Gaudet turn off his headlights a block away and slid his piece-of-shit Caprice in behind Murphy’s even-bigger-piece-of-shit Taurus.
    Murphy watched as Gaudet slipped out of his car and crept up the right side of the Taurus. For a big man, Gaudet could move like a cat, sneaky when he wanted to be. He eased into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut. “What’s up?”
    “Did you win?”
    “What?”
    “The case,” Murphy said. “Did the good guys win?”
    Gaudet shook his head. “Judge granted a continuance.”
    Murphy nodded. It happened all the time. You spent two days in court waiting to testify, then the case was continued.
    “What you got?” Gaudet asked.
    Murphy pointed through the windshield. “The one with the porch light on. That’s the last known address of a