You left your coffee mug on the piano again.
I folded it and left it where I’d found it.
I opened a bottle of white wine, poured a glass, sitting at the kitchen table with the courtyard doors cracked open two inches. I heard Thiago’s steps in the hallway.
He appeared and looked at me. “Something happened today.”
“Several things.” I wrapped both hands around the wine glass without lifting it. “I need to sleep on them.”
He crossed to the counter and picked up the folded note, reading it. He found a pen, wrote, and left the paper where it was. Then he opened the refrigerator, took out the iced tea, and leaned against the counter, giving me room.
After a moment, I unfolded the note.
Thiago’s response below mine:That was Dominic.
He watched me from the counter. His gaze softened, and a quiet smile touched his mouth, the kind meant for one person and no one else.
“The rehearsal,” he said. “Anything I should know?”
“Bridget missed a cue in the climactic sequence. Small. She corrected immediately.” I sipped from my glass. “You might not have noticed from the back of the house.”
“But you did.”
“Yes.”
“Connected to anything?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Chapter ten
Thiago
Michael called at six forty-two, while I still had Henri Fontenot’s financial records open on my tablet. When the intelligence warranted, he skipped texting and went straight to voice.
“Eight months,” he said, in place of a greeting. “Spaced and deliberate. Eight hundred dollars monthly, never sent to the same account twice. They’re routed through three shell entities. The pattern’s clean. I’m not sure yet of the destination or purpose.”
I’d been sipping cold coffee from the night before and set it down.
“What caught my attention was the interval. This isn’t someone hiding money. The spacing is too consistent, thirty to thirty-two days, every time, in the same amount. It’s almost ceremonial.”
“Like a recurring contract.”
“Like he’s honoring an obligation. Yes.”
He hung up.
Outside, the St. Charles streetcar bell sounded, and I thought about Henri Fontenot at the Tremé reception. The handkerchief Luca pointed out. The angle of his body, keeping Dominic in his sightline without appearing to look.
Eight hundred dollars. Thirty-day intervals. He’d been doing it for eight months, which put the first payment in December, well before the public announcement of the anniversary concert.
Someone had known early. They had access to Dominic’s plans. Someone Henri trusted.
I smelled the aroma of coffee rising from downstairs, accompanied by citrus. It was the lemon trees or Luca’s preferred dish soap. He was setting the morning in motion, making coffee before anyone asked.
I closed the Fontenot file to go downstairs and join him.
***
