“The first time I brought Dominic’s dry cleaning back on foot,” Luca said, “I went the wrong way on Chartres and ended up at the river. Stood there for ten minutes trying to figure out how I felt about it.”
“And.”
“I knew I’d made the right call moving back from Chicago. The city gave me the river for orientation. I know that’s not a rigorous analysis.”
“Did it need to be?”
He thought about it for a step or two. “No. It didn’t.”
The street compressed further as we approached Jackson Square. The evening light turned gold, catching the ironwork overhead and throwing patterned shadows down across the worn pavement. From a second-floor window came the smell of something cooking in butter—shallots and herbs.
It was already too late in the evening to enter the garden, but the pedestrian walkways remained open.
The painters were packing along the fence line, sliding their canvases into black cases. Tarot readers folded their tables and gathered their cloths. On the cathedral steps, a trumpet player ran a slow descending phrase, the notes going soft at the edges before they crossed the square.
The cathedral’s three spires rose against the amber and violet sky. By habit, I looked for all of the doors and access to alleys.
Luca stopped and stood still. He turned slowly to sort out his physical orientation.
“Horns were here first.” He walked north several paces and stopped. He pointed. “The drum came from over there. Someone had it in a car on Decatur. You can hear the door in the video if you go back and listen for it.”
He moved again, drawing an arc with his arm toward the cathedral steps. “The second line formed along that side. It moved in from the street.” He faced the garden. “Dominic took his position in there.”
There was a single shallow step that would have elevated him above the main grade. He would have been visible from the upper floors of every surrounding building.
“Did anyone organize it?”
Luca looked at me. “I think I mentioned I don’t know, but my best guess is Henri Fontenot had something to do with it.”
He knew more than he’d shared. I’d cut him off by insisting on documented information first.
“Why do you believe that? Did Henri conduct too?”
“No.” Luca watched the trumpet player break down his case. “He was in the crowd. I went back through the video twice this week. In the last five seconds, near the end of the video, he’s watching Dominic conduct.”
“Did you ask Dominic for clarification?”
“Not yet.”
I signaled for Luca to remain in place while I walked the perimeter alone.
It was a reconstruction of the event in my head. I had turned a corner and was heading back toward Luca when a flash went off.
A photographer crouched at the fence line, twenty feet away. The white burst of light threw sharp shadows across the flagstone. Tourists flinched, and two checked their phones.
Luca was where I’d left him, arms crossed, watching the last tarot reader fold her cloth. He’d scrunched his nose slightly as if something unpleasant had passed by.
“Anything?” he asked.
“If he had something to do with starting the crowd, he would have watched Dominic take charge. That would have been… difficult.”
Luca didn’t respond immediately. He glanced over his shoulder before speaking.
“He was at the Orpheum fundraiser in April. It was a donor reception. He spoke to Dominic twice: once at the bar, and once near the door on his way out. He seemed lighter than I’d seen him in years. I remember thinking his health had improved.”
More information that wouldn’t come from files. It came from seven years of reading the room.
The square had mostly cleared. The gas lamps came on, with orange circles of light pooling across the flagstones.
