“That you understand where you are and when. Light colors reflect the sun. Avoiding neutrals makes you look like you’re at least occasionally a fun person.”
He selected three shirts, all in colors I wouldn’t have chosen and likely more useful than the ones I had.
Then he held up a pair of olive linen trousers. He said they were the color of summer leaves after rain.
“That’s not a conservative choice,” I said.
“No,” Luca replied. “You don’t need to be conservative. You need to be present.”
I bought the trousers.
I shoved the garment bag into the back of the SUV, and we walked to a coffee shop half a block ahead. Outdoor tables sat close to the sidewalk. We took one in partial shade. Luca ordered iced coffee, and I elected for the sweet tea I was finding essential.
For the first five minutes, we talked about practical things: Eamon’s arrival and Dominic’s assessment. Then Luca asked, “Where did Thiago come from?”
“You know I’m from New York.”
“I mean the name.”
It had been a long time since anyone had asked.
“Santiago Rafael Reyes,” I said. “My father wanted Rafael. My mother wanted Santiago. A kid in kindergarten shortened it to Tiago. Somewhere along the way, I altered the spelling.”
“And you kept it.”
I sipped the tea. “It kept me.”
Luca accepted that without trying to pry it open further.
The conversation after that was easy. No strategy or lists. No discussion of the threat matrix. He told me about a preservation fight over a Marigny cottage that had nearly become a blood feud conducted through zoning language. I told him my friend, Mattheo, Teo for short, once convinced me to attend a Yankees game just to prove there were forms of suffering unrelated to work. Luca laughed into his coffee.
It was the first hour since taking the job protecting Dominic that didn’t feel like I was on duty. Maybe that was the primary reason for Eamon’s arrival. Giving me a break.
On the walk back to the car, my phone vibrated. It was Michael.
I read the text once, then stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk.
Luca took two more steps before turning. “What.”
I showed him the screen.
Michael:Calvin Devereaux purchased a theatrical flash device from a Baton Rouge supply house in May. Invoice confirmed.
Calvin Devereaux had been peripheral in Michael’s earlier notes. He was a theater technician. An occasional contractor called in when older venues needed someone who could work around patched systems without blowing the whole rig. He had done temporary work at the Orpheum off and on for years.
More importantly, he had helped with technical coordination for a cluster of civic arts events after Katrina, including one tied to the anniversary period in 2006.
He had legitimate access to the Orpheum with no one questioning why he was there.
Luca read the text. “I can’t think of any current shows that would use that. If it were strong enough, a flash device could blind half the house for two or three seconds, but it would be visible sitting onstage.”
“If it were on the stage.”
Luca looked at me. “The balcony?”
“It would make everyone look up and cause a distraction,” I said.
“While the real action happens elsewhere.”
