“I was in the CBD this morning checking a warehouse lot. Canal Street reminded me of a project, and I decided to call you. Henri co-funded it through the Preservation Alliance back in ninety-two. It was a community music space. I salvaged ironwork from the building before a partial demolition. It’s still in my warehouse.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because that building ultimately turned into something else. The community use got stripped out. Henri fought for three years to stop it and lost.” A pause. “That was one building. I’ve heard his name on three or four others, going back decades.”
“Are you saying his investment in this city is older than I would understand?”
“I’m saying a man like that has been watching things he built get turned into other things for fifty years. You asked me once what that does to a person.” He paused for a few beats. “Depends on whether they properly grieve it or keep count.”
A towboat pushed against the current on the river, engine audible across the water.
“He kept count,” I said.
“That’s my guess.”
We said goodbye, and I sat another minute watching the river move. Then I stood and walked the rest of the way home.
Chapter fourteen
Thiago
Iwas in the stage-right wing of the Orpheum with my phone against my ear. A union carpenter pushed a cart of road cases past the loading door without looking up.
“Devereaux bought the flash unit three months ago,” Michael said. “Two weeks after that, a compatible wireless detonator. Same supplier and same invoice chain.”
I watched the loading entrance and the path from there to the wing. Twelve feet. Clean approach. Clean exit, if no one had a reason to be watching that door.
“Burn risk?”
“Minimal if it’s placed correctly. It’s not designed to damage anything.” I heard papers shuffle. “Controlled concussive light burst. Three to five seconds of visual disruption, maximum. Every head in the building will turn toward the source.”
“He’s not the shooter then,” I said.
“No, he’s providing the opening.”
A stagehand came through the wing carrying two folding chairs under one arm and a coffee in his free hand, managingboth without apparent difficulty. I stepped back against a fly rail support and let him pass.
“There’s more.” I heard Michael tapping on a keyboard. “Devereaux and Micah Landry have a documented connection. Touring production in Baton Rouge three years ago. Devereaux ran effects support. Micah was one of his references on the crew application.”
As Michael spoke, I watched Micah measure the stage floor.
“That’s contact,” I said. “Not proof of a conspiracy.”
“The stage world is small. People vouch for each other. This may be nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
“No, I didn’t say it was.”
More typing. “I’m still working the Bridget thread, but if Devereaux’s your distraction, he doesn’t need the front of the house. He needs one door and a reason to be near it.”
“He already has both,” I said.
I ended the call and walked to the loading entrance.
A truck turned onto the service lane. Two men in work clothes got out and headed for the loading dock. The union steward waved one through without lifting his pen from the clipboard. The other held up a credential and was already walking past me before the steward finished looking at it.
I watched them disappear inside.
