Claire DeWitt and the City of the Dead (Claire DeWitt Mysteries #1)

by Sara Gran

I was getting a reputation as a good detective but impossible to deal with. I had a temper. I had no patience. I’d shot four people. I’d killed two. None were in self-defense.

Mick scowled. “It isn’t about me,” he said. “People always say that,” I said. “But it’s always about them.” “Please,” Mick said. “They’ve been dying to get their hands on this city. Did you see the plans? The plans they made? You can get them on the Internet. They got plans for the whole city, all divied up. Fucking Trump is talking about a deal on Canal Street. Fucking Donald Trump.” “Right,” I said. “I’m sure the powers that be are very concerned with this place. I’m sure Trump and Rockefeller are arguing over it as we speak. Dubai has nothing on New Orleans. That’s why they let it—” “It’s like Iraq,” Mick said, ignoring me. “They had this whole town bought and sold before it even began. Oil pipeline and everything.”

“Sometimes,” Andray said, tears streaming down his face, “sometimes the world seem so fucked up, like nothing make any sense at all. Like there’s no sense at all. Just—just vicious like that. Just vicious. But then sometimes, sometimes, it’s like—like it all fit together perfect, like a puzzle. Like you find this little piece, maybe five years ago, maybe ten years ago. And then years and years later, you see where it fits. And you see it made sense all along. Only you was too blind to see it. Too small to see it all at once.” He sniffed. “Don’t seem like that now, though.” I wanted to hug him but I figured he might shoot me. “But maybe someday,” I said carefully, “you’ll look back and the pieces you have now, all the little bits that seem so awful—maybe they’ll all fit together just right, and it’ll all make sense.” I didn’t know if I believed that myself. Andray shrugged. The door slammed shut; he stopped crying and our moment of friendship was over. He turned around to his friends behind him.