Excerpt: Survivor's Guilt: A Bloody Murder Mystery

The Times-Picayune hadn’t released a name or description of the rape victim. I wondered if it was worth calling Levin. I decided to eat the muffin first, that decision helped along by Feliz making me a fresh latte.
“What’s on your mind?” she asked.
I showed her the article while breaking off a piece of muffin. “Dios mio. I hate reading about that stuff. Arthur told me that violent crime has been down the last couple years. You think this is the same rapist?” She dropped her voice, the bells indicating someone had entered the shop had just rung.
“I won’t know unless the victim looks like me. Who’s going to tell me that?”
A male voice that sounded vaguely familiar sounded to me. “Tell you what, Zo?”
I turned on my stool. A well-groomed black man was approaching me. His name was Nate Dodson, who had the crime beat on the Times-Picayune. When I’d first met him, he’d been an ambitious cub reporter, eager to get on the crime beat. Now, nearly seven years later, he had the crime beat, and no longer had the wide-eyed innocence of a young man just starting out in the world.
“How are your sources in the police department, Nate? Feliz, pour the man a cup of coffee.” Feliz raised her eyebrows—I usually met Nate with defensiveness and suspicion.
“Informative on a good day,” he eyed me cautiously. I had been where he was. He’d built up some contacts by now, didn’t want to compromise them. Sometimes, however, reporting meant you trade a little information now, for a lot more down the road.
“What do you know about the rape in Louis Armstrong Park?” I took the paper from the counter and found his byline.
“Just what’s in the paper, Zo, you know me. Just the facts, ma’am.” He sipped his coffee, added more sugar, sipped again and smiled smugly.
“You’re too young to remember Dragnet, Nate. So am I. The movie doesn’t count.”
“What did they tell you about the victim?”
Dodson’s eyes narrowed. “What’s in it for me, Zofia?” That was better. My friends called me Zo. It always annoyed me when Dodson did; he was useful on occasion, but he was not my friend.
I took my time meeting his eyes, focusing on my muffin. This was a good recipe, versatile, too. Then I smiled. “I’m surprised a guy as bright as you didn’t put it together. Come to think of it, you never came and asked questions about Paul Lazlo’s murder. Why not?”
If he’d had the complexion for it, I swear he’d have been blushing. “I, um . . . was strongly urged to let the story die a natural death.”
“And you listened? Nate, I’m surprised at you.”
“Give me a break, Zofia. You know Freedom of the Press is mostly illusory. Besides, I learned from what happened to you in Chicago. Some truths don’t always want to come out.” He made a face that made him look like he’d been sucking on a lemon. It wasn’t attractive. A flash of his younger, eager face crossed my mind. I realized I was sad to see it gone.
“Nate, this is strictly off the record. The night Paul Lazlo was murdered, there was an attemped rape as well. A tall, blonde woman, not dissimilar from the woman in the Irish Channel.”
“You.” He stated factually.
I gave him an affirmative nod. “I ask you again, what can you tell me about the victim in the park?”
“I don’t have a name or a description. Hang on a second. He whipped out the flashiest smartphone I’d ever seen and hit speed dial. Feliz refilled his coffee. “Hi, it’s me, can you talk? Great. Listen, I promise not to use the answer to this question until you tell me its okay. What can you tell me about the rape victim from Louis Armstrong Park?” Pause. “No, I don’t expect her name, can you tell me what she looks like?” Longer pause. “Pam, I think you might have a serial rapist on your hands. No, there’s not two victims, there was almost a third and I’m sitting here right now.”