Page 2 of Whispers in the Quarter

“Alright, universe,” I say, grabbing a red marker and attacking my wall with renewed purpose. “You want to connect Chicago to New Orleans? Let’s see what we’ve got.”

I circle names, dates, locations. My normally precise handwriting grows jagged with intensity. Six deaths in New Orleans over the past year, all ruled natural causes or accidents. All with the same surgical precision as Lauren’s shooting. All investigated by the same medical examiner—Dr. Lucas Gautier, who’d transferred from Chicago just months after Lauren’s death.

The coincidence makes my skin crawl.

My superior’s ringtone cuts through my focus—Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries, because subtle warnings about incoming brass aren’t really my style. His name flashes on my screen: Assistant Director Harrison.

“Blake,” his voice has all the warmth of a morgue drawer. “Tell me you’ve made progress on the Deveraux case. The brass is breathing down my neck about resources allocated to asimple missing persons case.”

I glance between Lauren’s photo and my evidence wall, now a maze of red strings and dark possibilities. “Progress?” I inject enough confidence into my voice to sell beachfront property in Arizona. “Sir, this is anything but simple. I’ve got six connected deaths, a medical examiner with questionable timing, and a waitress who knows enough about tactical ops to vanish without a trace. Give me forty-eight hours.”

“You’ve got twenty-four,” Harrison’s voice drops to a dangerous register. “And Blake? If this connection to Lauren’s case is another dead end, we’re done. Clear?”

The line goes dead. I stare at my phone, remembering how Harrison had been at Lauren’s funeral, had promised we’d find answers. Three years later, here we are.

I grab my jacket, checking my holster out of habit. The Midnight Cypress awaits—a dive bar off Decatur that’s become my hunting ground. Local rumors say it’s where the city’s secrets go to drown themselves in Sazerac cocktails and blues.

The night air hits me like a warm, wet blanket as I step outside. The French Quarter is alive with its nightly carnival—tourists clutching hurricanes from Pat O’Brien’s, a brass band on the corner playingSt. James Infirmary Blues,the clip-clop of carriage tours explaining the city’s haunted history. If they only knew about the real ghosts walking these streets.

The Midnight Cypress squats in the shadows between Decatur and the river, its neon sign flickering like a dying firefly. Inside, the air is thick with bourbon and desperation, saxophone notes weaving through conversations conducted in whispers and meaningful glances. The kind of place where information brokers meet their clients and cartel accountants launder their secrets along with their money.

Ally, the bartender, spots me coming in. Her hands are already moving to pour my usual—Sazerac with an extra dash of Peychaud’s bitters, because when in New Orleans, drink as the locals do. Three months, and she’s never asked for my order or my badge number, though I know she made me as law enforcement the first night.

“Rough night, sugar?” she asks, sliding the drink my way. Her eyes flick to something over my shoulder—a warning.

That’s when I see her.

She’s perched at the end of the bar like a bird about to take flight. Dark hair falling in waves past her shoulders, curves wrapped in a midnight blue dress that whispers money and danger. For a heart-stopping moment, I think it’s Celeste. Butno—this woman’s posture is different, more coiled tension than practiced grace.

I slide onto the stool next to her, letting my jacket fall open enough to show my shoulder holster. A power move, but also a warning. “You know,” I say, pitching my voice just loud enough to carry over the jazz quartet’s rendition ofSummertime, “in a city full of mysteries, you might just be the most intriguing one I’ve encountered yet.”

She turns, and I catch a flash of recognition in eyes the color of aged whiskey. Fear follows fast, but there’s something else—calculation. She’s been waiting for me.

“Agent Blake,” she says, her voice carrying traces of old money New Orleans. “I was wondering when you’d find this place.”

“Funny thing about federal agents,” I reply, taking a slow sip of my Sazerac. “We tend to show up where we’re least wanted but most needed. Like that night in Chicago, three years ago. Corner of Michigan and Wacker.”

Her hand tightens on her glass—a delicate thing filled with something clear and probably lethal. “You should let that case go,” she whispers. “Some doors, once opened, can’t be closed again.”

“Then I’ll burn down the whole house,” I lean closer, catching the scent of jasmine and gunpowder. “Lauren wasn’t random collateral damage, was she? She saw something that night. Something involving your friend Celeste.”

The woman’s breath catches. “Celeste Deveraux is a ghost,” she says, each word measured carefully. “Just like the man you’re looking for—the one who watched from the doorway while your partner died. The one who’s standing by the piano right now.”

Ice slides down my spine. I turn, carefully, and there he is. Tall, elegant in a charcoal suit that probably costs more than mymonthly salary. His face hits me like a physical blow—the same sharp features I’d glimpsed in Chicago, the same cold eyes that had watched Lauren fall.

Alexander Quinn, according to the files that don’t officially exist.

Our gazes lock across the smoky room. A predator’s smile touches his lips, and I know with sudden certainty that he orchestrated this entire encounter. The text, the woman, all of it—a message being delivered.

When I turn back, the woman is gone, leaving behind an empty glass and a cocktail napkin. Written on it in elegant script: “Lauren knew about Project Chimera. So did Celeste. Ask your friend Dr. Gautier about the missing samples.”

I pocket the napkin, adrenaline singing in my veins as I stand. By the time I reach the piano, Alex has vanished like morning fog in the Louisiana sun. But it doesn’t matter. For the first time in three years, I have something solid—a name, a project, a connection.

Outside, the Quarter has shifted into its late-night persona. The tourists are drunker, the music more melancholy, the shadows deeper between the gas lamps. A street performer dressed as Marie Laveau catches my eye, her knowing smile reminding me of Lauren’s last words,“Something’s not right, Ethan. The patterns don’t match.”

I pull out my phone, dialing a number I haven’t used in months. It rings three times before a familiar voice answers.

“Harrison? I need everything we have on Project Chimera and Dr. Lucas Gautier. And sir? Lauren was right. The patterns never matched because we were looking at the wrong puzzle.”

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