You haven’t heard from me in awhile. There’s a reason for that.

To put it simply: I wrote a novel. For those who have already been following, I have turned the Case of the Grinning Golly into a full-length novel with a new title: The Grinning Golly Murders.

Yeah, it’s basically the same title, but the new one flows better.

For those who are wondering whether it will be the same as the web serial I published earlier this year — it’s not. I’ve added a lot more content and fleshed out some of the characters more to make it fit better into novel form.

For those who love murder mysteries and thrillers, this will be a tense but fun read.

If you didn’t read my original web series, you will still enjoy the twists and turns Jackson Harlow goes through while trying to find the answer to his all-consuming question: Who Killed Dolly Mercier?

The book is coming on May 29. If you’re a fan of ebooks, you can preorder it here. You can order the paperback on the release date.

I’m very excited as this is my very first novel! I hope you will all enjoy it and I thank you in advance for your support and encouragement.

I’ll see you soon!

Jeff Charles

This is a long episode, and it will be shortened by some email servers. If you aren’t reading in the Substack app, please open this in your browser to see the whole episode.

Previously on The Clean Fix, Jackson Harlow pushed ahead to prove teen electrician Steve Vasquez was framed for Julian Vane’s murder, bringing in civil‑rights lawyer Remy Bishop, hacker Charlie Liu, and fixer Blaise Moriarty as he uncovered Vane’s secret six‑figure gambling debt and worked The Sanctuary Network’s Freedom Gala with Estelle Mason and his enigmatic ex, Cassandra Rose, to expose the powerful interests behind the killing.

Location: Law Offices of Bishop & Associates

Time: 9:00 AM

If there was one thing I could say about Remy Bishop, defense attorney extraordinaire, it’s that he makes a damn good cup of coffee. In fact, he’s also a formidable cook.

That’s what I was thinking as I sat across from him at his desk, sipping on my second cup of brew. I always told him he should start his own restaurant, but he always says he prefers lawyering.

“You really need to show me how you make this stuff,” I said.

Remy wagged his finger as his eyes narrowed. “Nah, it’s a trade secret. If I shared my magic, then I wouldn’t be special anymore.”

“Is coffee the only thing that makes you feel special then?”

“That, and my world-famous gumbo.”

He was right on that count. His gumbo was on par with my grandmother’s, which is no easy feat.

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” I said.

“You can, but you’d lose. Now then, about the Vasquez case…”

“Anything new to tell me?”

“I met with Lena Thorne yesterday while you were out hobnobbing with the rich and famous.”

“Sir, I’ll have you know I have never hobnobbed a day in my life. What I was doing is known as ‘rubbing elbows.’”

“Right. Well, while you were elbow rubbing, I spoke with Ms. Thorne, who wasn’t very happy to see me.”

“Why would New Orleans’ most ambitious prosecutor not want to see you, Remy?”

“Aside from the fact that I’m the only defense attorney who has ever beaten her, I can’t imagine why,” Remy said with the smuggest of expressions on his face. “But what I do know is that Steve’s preliminary hearing is set for Wednesday and Thorne is pushing hard for a plea deal.”

“That’s to be expected. Anything else?”

“Yeah, but nothing good.”

I took another sip, bracing myself for more bad news. It seemed like at every step, things were going wrong. I needed a break.

“It appears one of Steve’s cellmates told the prosecution that Steve admitted to the killing.”

I groaned. “Jailhouse snitch?”

“Jailhouse snitch,” Remy said, nodding.

“C’mon Remy, jailhouse snitches are about as reliable as a Buick with no tires.”

“Hey, don’t kill the messenger, brother,” Remy said putting up his hands in surrender. “This only makes me even more suspicious that the whole thing is a frame job.”

“Me too.”

“But even when I rip the snitch to shreds, they still have the gun, gold chain, and his truck near the scene of the crime.”

“But we still have the doorman’s log issue.”

“Yes, but...that ain’t gonna be enough.”

I stood and headed for the coffee pot. I knew I would need the caffeine to get through this day — and the rest of the week.

“I have a lead on someone who might be the actual killer,” I said.

“Lay it on me.”

“We found out Julian Vane was a big time gambler — but he wasn’t very good at it.”

Remy shrugged. “I guess everyone has a vice.”

“Not only was he a gambler, he preferred the underground scene instead of the casino.”

“I think I know where this is going.”

“Yep. He was in loads of debt to someone named Dom Jernigan.”

Remy’s eyebrows shot up so quickly I almost checked to make sure they hadn’t moved to the back of his head.

“Dice Jernigan,” Remy exhaled.

“Yeah, that guy—wait, how do YOU know who that is?”

Remy winked, “That’s also a trade secret, m’sieur.”

I shook my head and looked at him as if he were a puppy who had peed on the carpet.

“I see you judging me,” Remy said.

“No judgment here,” I said. “Well, maybe a little”

“Even I have to have some fun every now and again, Mr. Sanctimonious.”

“I bet. Shall I continue?”

“You shall.”

Remy set down his coffee mug and leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together. The casual vibe shifted—I recognized the move. Remy was about to get serious.

“Jackson, I’ve been practicing criminal defense in this city for a long time. You hear names. Jernigan’s one of those names that makes people nervous. He’s not flashy or stupid. He’s scary smart and he’s careful.”

“You think he might have killed Julian?”

“I think he’s capable of it,” Remy said carefully. “But capability isn’t guilt. And guilt isn’t proof.” He picked his coffee back up, took a deliberate sip. “Tell me what you have.”

I opened my phone and pulled up my notes. “Charlie found a pattern in Julian’s finances. Big deposits, big withdrawals. Cyclical. Over six months, we’re talking somewhere north of a hundred and twenty thousand moving through his accounts.”

“Gambling,” Remy confirmed.

“Gambling,” I said. “Julian called someone ‘D’ in encrypted messages. Asked for more time. Said he was ‘worried about disappointing someone.’ Said he was going to meet with someone who could help him come up with the money by Friday.”

“But you can’t connect those messages to Jernigan directly.”

“Not yet,” I said. The word hung there—yet. Like I had all the time in the world to nail this down. “But Blaise has a source who places Julian at Jernigan’s games. Multiple times over six months. And two weeks before Julian died, the source witnessed Jernigan pull Julian aside. Threatened him. Said something like ‘You’re out of time. Don’t make me send someone to collect.’”

Remy was quiet for a moment. He didn’t write anything down. He didn’t need to. I’d seen him work enough to know he was running the evidence through some internal calculation, testing it for weight and weakness.

“The source willing to testify?” he finally asked.

“No,” I admitted. The word tasted like failure. “He’s scared.”

“Of course he is.” Remy rubbed his face, and for a second, I saw how tired he really was. Dark circles under his eyes. Stubble that looked like it’d been there for two days. “You’ve got motive. Strong motive. But motive alone doesn’t put anyone at a crime scene. It doesn’t explain how Jernigan—if he’s our guy—got into Julian’s apartment. It doesn’t explain Steve’s gun. It doesn’t explain Steve’s phone showing him at the murder scene. It doesn’t explain the gold chain.”

I felt my jaw tighten. “Maybe Jernigan has someone inside the police department. Helps him with the frame-up.”

“Maybe,” Remy said, but the skepticism in his voice was clear enough. “Or maybe we’re building a beautiful story on a very shaky foundation.”

He paused, unlacing his hands and reaching for his coffee cup.

“I think this is sophisticated,” Remy continued. “But sophisticated doesn’t automatically mean Jernigan. It could be anyone with resources and connections.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Who else has that kind of reach in this city?”

Remy stood and walked to his kitchen without answering. I heard him pour coffee—a fresh pot. He returned and settled back into his chair, cradling the mug like it was keeping him warm in the arctic.

“That’s the right question,” he said finally. “And the fact that you’re asking it is good. Here’s the thing, we’ve got a Wednesday hearing. Three days away. The DA wants Steve to plead guilty. She’s pushing hard because she thinks the evidence is airtight.”

“Maybe they are pushing a plea deal because the evidence isn’t as airtight as they want us to think — especially if we can prove Jernigan killed Julian.”

“But can we?” Remy asked. “Because right now, all we have is a witness who won’t testify, a pattern of gambling debts, and circumstantial evidence of a threat. A good prosecutor—and Lena Thorne is a good prosecutor, whatever else you want to say about her—she’s going to look at that evidence and say ‘Interesting theory, but you’ve got nothing.’ Then she’s going to ask the judge why we’re wasting the court’s time with speculation.”

I felt frustration bubbling up in my chest like bile. “So what do you need?”

“Physical evidence connecting Jernigan to the crime scene,” Remy said, counting on his fingers. “Witness testimony that will hold up under cross-examination. Something that proves beyond reasonable doubt that Jernigan, not Steve, killed Julian Vane.”

“Give me the rest of the week,” I said. “I’ll get it.”

Remy studied me across the desk. I could see him weighing something—not just the evidence, but me. Whether I was asking for something reasonable or chasing ghosts.

“There’s something else,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Even if you find proof that Jernigan killed Julian, that doesn’t automatically clear Steve. The prosecution won’t let it go that easy. I wouldn’t be surprised if they argued that Steve did it on Jernigan’s behalf.”

I shook my head. “That’s insane.”

“It’s a narrative,” Remy corrected, and there was something almost professorial in the way he said it. “And narratives are what win trials if the evidence can support them, even loosely. Besides, if Jernigan is involved, it’s highly unlikely that he would do the deed himself. He’d pay someone to do it.”

“True. These people usually don’t do their own ditry work,” I said.

“Those are the questions the prosecution’s going to raise,” Remy continued. “And if we don’t have answers, we lose. Not just the preliminary hearing. The whole case.”

“You’re thinking Jernigan doesn’t make sense as the killer,” I heard myself say.

“I’m saying the frame-up is very, very sophisticated,” Remy replied, weighing his words. “And I’m saying that Jernigan, while dangerous in his way, isn’t a tech wizard. He doesn’t hack phones. He doesn’t plant GPS data. He breaks legs. That’s his skill set.”

I wasn’t sure I agreed with that, even though Remy was making a valid point. Someone like Jernigan would definitely have the resources to pull this off. But the question is: Would he go through all this trouble when he could just make Julian disappear?

“So who would have that skill set?” I asked.

“Someone with institutional access,” Remy said simply. “Someone with money. Someone with no obvious connection to Steve Vasquez on the surface, which makes the frame-up less suspicious. Someone who had reason to want Julian Vane dead.”

He paused, and his eyes met mine. “And someone smart enough to use Jernigan as cover—because they knew people like you would find the gambling debt and run with it.”

I set down my coffee. My hands were steady, but my mind was spinning like the Tasmanian devil.

“I don’t think someone would need insitutional access to pull off this type of scheme. One would need money to pay someone who knows how to do it,” I said.

“It’s possible,” Remy said. “But if Jernigan is the guy, I know you’ll figure it out. The question is: how long will it take?’

“That’s my job. I’ll make sure you have the evidence you need. In the meantime, I just need you to do what you can—find more holes in the prosecution’s case. There’s nobody better than you at that.”

Remy smiled and pointed his finger at me. “And you better not forget it, my man.”

Location: Warehouse District

Time: Afternoon (1:00 PM - 4:00 PM)

“What are you hoping to find out there?” Blaise asked.

We were in his truck headed to the Warehouse District. “At this point, I’d settle for any information that might implicate Jernigan in Julian Vane’s murder.”

“Well, if that’s what you’re after, this would be the place to find it.”

Blaise picked up his phone at a red light and put on some music. The opening notes of the Dropkick Murphy’s “Shipping Up to Boston” blared out of the speakers.

“You’re really gonna subject me to this Irish punk crap?” I said.

Blaise turned to me. “I’ll have ya know, the Dropkick Murphys are musical geniuses, mate.”

The look on my face must have said something like, “c’mon now.”

“Don’t give me that look. I seem to remember you jumping around the bar with the rest of us when this song came on.”

“I was hoping you would forget, after all the pints we had.”

“Why? Because I know your secret? You’re a black man who likes the Dropkick Murphys. You think you’re gonna lose your black card, don’t you?” He said it as if he had finally solved a mystery and I was the suspect.

“You trying to blackmail me, sir?” I asked.

“Perhaps. You keep complainin’, and I’ll tell your secret all over the internet.”

Blaise grinned, satisfied with himself.

“I don’t think so. Remember that time I caught you listening to Marvin Gaye?”

He laughed. “Aye, I do remember. But ya can’t fault me for it. Marvin Gaye is for everyone.”

“You were listening to ‘Make Me Wanna Holler,’ which is specifically about the black struggle.”

Blaise scoffed. “What, ya think only black people have a problem with trigger-happy policing?”

“I’m just saying, you’re as guilty of cultural appropriation as I am.”

We both laughed. We needed to release the tension. What we were about to do could be dangerous, which is why I insisted on having Blaise accompany me. Also, he was far more acquainted with the criminal underworld than I was. In situations like these, two guns were better than one.

After leaving Remy’s office, I knew I had to find something useful — and fast. Jernigan’s nightclub, known as The Ivory Room, was located in the Warehouse District, and I hoped that by talking to some of the district’s residents, we might turn something up before confronting Jernigan himself.

We pulled into the Julia Street public parking lot.

“You got any ideas?” I asked.

“Yeah. I’ve got some people we can talk to. But remember, Jernigan runs things around here. We’ll be lucky if we run into anyone who is willing to talk.”

“Then let’s keep our fingers crossed. I’m sure you’re carrying one of those four leaf clovers, right? Aren’t they supposed to be good luck?”

“I never leave home without it, boyo.”

We exited the vehicle and strolled down the street toward the “Dirty Gator,” a local watering hole known for cheap booze and the occasional brawl. The Mississippi River looked serene, like a sleeping newborn.

A gentle breeze caressed my skin like a cool blanket, which I appreciated given how the sun was beating down on us. The smell of salt water and diesel fuel fused together coming from the boats creeping over the water like lazy alligators.

Dock workers were a-dock working as the afternoon crowd began filing into the area for happy hour. Blaise and I received quizzical looks from passersby. Apparently, a well-dressed black man walking with a giant tattoed red-haired Irish guy dressed in a black tanktop and jeans was a bizarre sight.

“People are looking at you funny,” I said.

“You sure? I thought they were looking at you, what with that long-sleeved fancy shirt and vest.”

“But you’re the one with the tattoos, reeking of danger.”

“Perhaps. But that’s normal down here, mate.”

“Touché.”

We reached the entrance to the Dirty Gator when Blaise stopped. “We’re gonna speak with the bartender. Name’s Stuart. Good guy, but loves the dice, if you know what I mean.”

“Sounds like my kinda guy.”

“I’ve never known ya to be a gambler.”

“Yeah, but I like a good stiff drink every now and again.”

We strolled into the bar, which wasn’t quite packed yet. I followed Blaise to the bar. Stuart looked up and smiled when he saw Blaise.

“Blaise!” he said. He shook Blaise’s hand with both of his own. “How long has it been?”

“Not long enough, apparently,” Blaise said. “How the hell are ya?”

“Ha! You bastard. What can I get ya? First one’s on the house.”

“Nothing right now, my friend and I are looking for some information.”

Stuart looked at me and offered his hand. I shook it, flashing my winning smile.

“I’m Jackson Harlow. We just wanted to ask you a few questions if that’s okay.”

Stuart’s eyes narrowed. “You a cop?”

“Journalist.”

“That might be even worse,” Stuart said, staring at me. A second passed before the smile erupted on Stuart’s face.

“I’m just messin’ with ya. If you’re with Blaise, you’re alright with me,” Stuart said.

“Well, I don’t know about that. This is Blaise we’re talking about.”

Stuart laughed again. “Well, ya got me there.”

“What can you tell us about Dom Jernigan?”

Stuart’s laugh stopped as abruptly as a skipping record player.

“It’s okay, Stu,” Blaise said. “We just want a little information, that’s all.”

Stuart picked up a cloth and began wiping the bar, which didn’t need to be wiped.

“A little information can be dangerous,” Stuart said.

“You heard about that murder that happened in the Garden District a few weeks ago?” Blaise asked.

“Yeah, the rehab guy. Damn shame. It was that Mexican kid who did him in, right?” Stuart said.

“That’s what the police say,” I said. “But we’re not so sure.”

“Really?” Stuart’s eyes widened to the size of silver dollars. “Wait, what does Dom Jernigan have to do with this?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” I said. “Have you heard any chatter about it?”

“No, I’ve heard nothing,” Stuart said loudly. “In fact, nobody has even talked about it. At all. Know what I mean?”

He looked at us as if trying to send a coded message.

“Really? Even though Julian Vane was in debt to Jernigan?” Blaise asked.

The blood drained from Stuart’s face. “How do you—” he stammered. He took a deep breath. “Look man, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I can’t help you.”

“That’s a shame,” I said. “Do you know of anyone who might know something?”

“I don’t. Sorry about that,” Stuart said. “It’s been nice catching up Blaise, and nice meeting you Jackson. But I really need to get back to work.”

Blaise looked at the empty bar, then back at Stuart.

“I got cleaning to do. You know how it is,” Stuart said.

We turned to walk away. “Blaise,” Stuart said. We turned back around. “When was the last time you and Ike hung out?”

“It’s been awhile,” Blaise replied.

“Well, maybe you should visit him. He’d love to see you, I’m sure,” Stuart said.

“Maybe I will,” Blaise said. “I’ll see ya later, Stu.”

We walked back to the sidewalk.

“Well, that was a dead end,” I said.

Blaise grinned. “Not so fast mate. Stuart just gave us our next lead.”

We walked further down the street, which was getting more crowded. A band was setting up near the river. I figured if we didn’t get any information, we could still enjoy some decent Dixieland jazz.

We turned a corner and headed down an alleyway, then back onto another sidewalk. Up ahead, the sound of a lone trumpet playing Chuck Mangione’s “Feels So Good” wafted over to us.

“Whoever that is, he’s pretty good,” I said.

“Aye. And it’s exactly who we’re looking for.”

A 30ish black man stood on the corner blowing his trumpet like his life depended on it. His trumpet case lay open in front of him, filled with dollar bills.

We stood in front of him, waiting until he finished his song. As he played, he nodded a greeting at Blaise. He was scrawny. The type of scrawny that could consume copious amounts of carbs without gaining a single pound.

After finishing his song, he put his horn down and smiled. “Blaise! You shiftless cracker! How long has it been?”

The two men embraced. “It’s good to see ya, Isaac.”

“Wait,” I said. “Isaac? As in ‘Ike?’”

“One and the same brother,” Isaac said, shaking my hand. “Isaac Freeman. And who might you be?”

“I’m Jackson Harlow,” I said, as the meaning of Stuart’s coded message dawned on me.

“Blaise, you been hanging out with other niggas? I thought I was the black friend you use to convince people you ain’t racist,” Isaac said.

“What? What do you—”

I cut Blaise off. “Hold up, I thought I held that honor. Apparently our Irish friend keeps a few of us around.”

“What can I say? I like chillin’ with the homies, knamean?” Blaise said, in the worst impression of a black man I’d ever heard.

We all had a laugh at that. I decided I liked this Isaac dude.

“A little birdie told me you might be able to provide some information we’re seeking,” Blaise said.

Isaac turned to Blaise as a suspicious look crawled onto his face. “Whatchu mean?”

“We’re trying to find some information on Dom Jernigan,” I said. “It’s about the Julian Vane murder.”

“Nigga, you tryin’ to get me killed out here?” Isaac hissed. “Keep it down.”

“Maybe we could go somewhere more private?” Blaise said.

“Damn right we could,” Isaac said. “But you owe me. I was making a killing out here.”

Location: Isaac Freeman’s Residence

Isaac led us further down the street to a warehouse that had been converted into a fancy apartment building. We entered the building and climbed the stairs to the third floor. At least I was getting my steps in for the day.

We entered Isaac’s apartment. He invited us to sit down at the kitchen table while he grabbed some beers without asking if we wanted one. Yep, I did like the guy.

Isaac sat down. “Now, what do you want to know about Jernigan?”

“It’s about the Julian Vane murder,” I said.

“But wasn’t it a Mexican dude who killed him?” Isaac said. “Do you think he was working for Dom?”

“No,” I said, screwing off the bottle cap. “I think he was set up.”

Isaac sat back and whistled. “A frame job? I had a feeling about that. All that evidence against him, it was way too clean, know what I mean?”

I nodded, taking a sip. It was a citrusy IPA that made my taste buds tingle.

“That’s why we’re here,” Blaise said. “The suspect’s mother asked Jackson to look into it.”

Isaac took a swig and looked at me. “You a cop?”

“Why does everyone ask me that?” I said.

“I mean, you do kinda resemble that one guy from Law & Order,” Blaise said.

“Bullshit. You’re just saying that—” I began before Isaac finished the sentence.

“Because you think we all look the same,” Isaac said.

“I’m not racist. I got two black friends,” Blaise said with a faux sanctimonious air.

That got another laugh. “I’m a journalist,” I said.

“Right, I knew your name sounded familiar,” Isaac said, nodding. “Bayou Chronicle, right?”

“That’s me,” I said.

Isaac nodded. “Look man, I hear things sometimes. When you play every club in this city, people get drunk. The say things,” Isaac said. “But this shit’s dangerous, know what I mean?”

“We get it, Ike. We really do,” I said. “But we don’t want an innocent man spending the rest of his life in prison for something he didn’t do.”

“Man, you know how this shit works. Even if the guy didn’t do it, dude’s brown. They gonna throw the book at him anyway,” Isaac said. “This city don’t care about nobody who has a modicum of melanin.”

I looked around the apartment. The furnishings were sparse, but cozy. A portrait of Miles Davis hung on the wall. I wondered how a street musician could afford this type of place.

As if reading my thoughts, Isaac said, “I do the trumpet thing to make some extra money. I’m actually run a web design business. Best in the city.”

“If you ever need a website, this is the guy to call,” Blaise said.

“Damn right,” Isaac said proudly. “Y’all want another beer?”

We both said yes. Isaac drifted into the kitchen.

“He’s being coy, but he’ll tell us what he knows,” Blaise said.

“I hope so. But if he doesn’t, at least we got a couple beers out of it,” I said.

Isaac returned with three more bottles. We clinked the glass and took a sip.

“Look,” Isaac began. “You can’t tell anyone what I’m telling you. I like living.”

“We won’t,” I assured him.

“I don’t know much. But I was talking to a few guys the night after it happened, before the police had a suspect,” Isaac said.

“What did they say?” I asked.

Isaac took another long pull from the bottle, as if trying to pour courage into his body.

“They said that guy’s gambling habit caught up with him. That he tested Jernigan’s patience.”

“Who told you this?” Blaise asked.

Isaac shook his head. “Look y’all, I want to help. I really do. But this is some serious shit, know what I mean? I don’t want trouble, and I don’t want to get anyone else in trouble.”

“That’s understandable,” I said. “I don’t want anyone to get in trouble either. I’ll be straight with you, Isaac. I’ve known Steve since he was a little kid. The government targeted him for selling weed after his pops died.”

Isaac shook his head. “That’s fucked up.”

“You know how it is, Ike. People like Steve don’t stand a chance against those fuckers in City Hall who want people to think they’re tough on crime,” Blaise said. “And you know who they like to go after. Seen it a million times.”

“I ain’t surprised. Seems the police are always on the prowl to meet their quota,” Isaac said.

“The thing is, Steve doesn’t deserve any of this. He’s never hurt anyone. Someone is setting him up, Isaac. If it’s Jernigan, then we need to know,” I said.

“Look, I get it. I don’t want to see another innocent guy in prison, but this isn’t anything to play around with,” Isaac said.

“All we need is a name,” I said. “Nothing else. Steve can’t go to prison.”

Isaac didn’t say anything. He finished his beer and set the bottle on the table. “This shit better not come back on me,” he said.

“It won’t,” I said.

Isaac turned to Blaise, “You know Damon Clarke?”

“No,” Blaise answered.

“Well, he’s a small-time hustler,” Isaac said. “Hangs around the docks at night. It’s where I get my weed. He’s the one who told me. Couldn’t shut up about it. But I didn’t have time to talk. He can tell you what you need to know.”

“I appreciate it,” I said.

“Seriously. This might be just what we need,” Blaise said.

“Yeah, well, if this does come back on me, I’ll shove that trumpet so far up your ass that when you fart it’ll play ‘Danny Boy,’ you hear me?” Isaac said.

Blaise grinned, “I’d prefer something from The Cranberries.”

“Well, we’d love to ‘linger’ a bit longer, but we have to go. Nice meeting you Isaac,” I said.

He rolled his eyes at my joke.

Location: Warehouse District Docks

Time: 6:28 p.m.

Blaise and I grabbed some sandwiches and headed to the dock area where Isaac had told us Damon Clarke would be. We sat down on a bench and gorged ourselves on catfish po’ boy sandwiches.

“So, what do you think? Do you think this Damon guy might have the information we need?” Blaise asked while chewing on his sandwich.

“Sounds promising. The real question is whether he will be willing to share,” I said.

“That it is. But I’m sure between the two of us, we’ll figure out how to persuade him.”

We sat and watched people walk to and fro around the docks. Isaac had given us a description so we would know what Damon looks like. Tall. Black. Dreadlocks. He was also a street musician — at least as his cover.

It took a few minutes, but eventually, I spotted him. Damon found a spot on the docks in a location that was barely visible. The street traffic in the area was light, but not enough to make Damon look suspicious.

He was carrying a guitar case and a stool. He set up his equipment and began strumming. That was our cue.

We walked over to Damon and stood there, as if we were listening to his dulcet tones banging out Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song.” Bob Marley and dreadlocks — not cliché at all, right?

After he hit the last chord, Blaise and I applauded and dropped a few bucks into his guitar case. Damon nodded his thanks.

“You’re pretty good,” I said.

“I appreciate that, man,” he replied.

“Are you Damon Clarke?” I asked.

His eyes narrowed. “Who’s asking?”

“I’m Jackson Harlow. This is my friend Blaise. Before you ask, we’re not cops,” I said. “Isaac told us you might be able to help us with some information.”

Damon relaxed, but not completely. “Isaac’s a good guy. Definitely wouldn’t send no cop in my direction. Whatchu need?”

“We’re looking into Julian Vane’s murder. You were familiar with him, right?” I asked.

“Sure,” Damon said.

“We have reason to believe he was framed. We also know he was deep in debt to Dom Jernigan. Can you tell us about that?”

Damon paused, looking down at his guitar case. “What makes you think I know anything?”

I didn’t say anything. Damon nodded, “Right. Isaac.”

“Jernigan threatened Julian, we know that much,” Blaise said. “But we don’t have any other context. We were hoping you could help us with that.”

“Look, I can’t tell you nothin’. I don’t know anything about that guy.” Damon said, fiddling with his guitar.

“I think you do,” I said.

Damon shook his head.

“This is important, Damon. An innocent man could go to prison,” I said, trying to ignore the frustration building up in my chest.

“Happens every day,” Damon shrugged. “Ain’t my problem. Fuck him.”

I paused. My gut burned like a California wildfire. If it were Damon facing a life sentence, he’d certainly have wanted someone to clear his name. But here he was, all too willing to let another innocent person go down. It was time to take a different approach.

“I could make it your problem,” I said.

“What’d you say?” Damon asked, putting his guitar down and getting off his stool.

I moved closer, looking down at him, almost face to face. Blaise tensed, ready for action.

“You heard me,” I said. “I told you I’m not a cop. But for you, I could be something much worse.”

He stood there, eyes locked on mine, daring me to try something. His body tensed as if expecting me to swing on him. But I had more effective ways of getting what I wanted.

“I write for one of the most popular news outlets in New Orleans,” I said. “You know what that means, Damon?”

“What?” He said.

“It means all he has to do is write a nice little exposé on your extracurricular activities,” Blaise said behind me.

“He’s right. I can’t arrest you, and I wouldn’t even if I could.” I said. “But I’m sure NOPD would love to know more about you. Maybe they’d come pay you a visit — in front of everyone. I’m sure your clientele would appreciate knowing you’re on the government’s radar.”

“Fuck you. I ain’t ‘fraid of you,” he said. His eyebrows raised slightly as his shoulders gave a little shudder.

“Have it your way. Come on Blaise, it’s gonna be a long night if I’m going to have this story published tomorrow morning, bright and early,” I said.

Blaise and I turned to leave. We made it three paces before Damon spoke up. “Hang on, man.”

We turned back to Damon. “What Damon?” I said.

“Look man, I’m not trying to be dick. But you don’t understand this shit. My ass could be on the line,” he said.

“I get it. But my friend is facing a life sentence — or worse. We won’t let anyone know you told us anything,” I said.

He nodded and beckoned for us to come closer.

“I knew Julian,” Damon said. “He was a regular at The Ivory Room — that’s where Jernigan has his gatherings.”

“So if we wanted to speak with him, that’s where we would go?” I asked.

“Sure, if you have a death wish,” Damon said, scratching his goatee.

“What about Julian?” I asked.

“He told me himself, man. I ran into about a week or so before he got killed,” Damon said, his pace quickening.

“What did he say?” Blaise asked.

“I ain’t never seen him so scared. He was shaking. Said Jernigan was gonna kill him,” Damon said.

“Because of the debt?” I asked.

“Hell yeah, man. He owed Jernigan $100,000. But he didn’t have the money,” Damon said. “Jernigan is nicer than Mary Poppins — until you owe him money.”

“What happens when you owe him money? You ever hear of him killing anyone?” I asked.

“Sure. Everyone here is terrified of the guy,” Damon said. “He’ll give you some time. But if you don’t pay up, then you come up missing.”

“You think that’s what happened to Julian?” Blaise asked.

“I mean, they’re saying it was that Mexican kid, right? But if you’re right about him being framed, then that’s the only other thing that could have happened,” Damon said. “Jernigan don’t play around, best believe.”

“Do you know anyone else who might have ended up the same way?” I asked.

“Naw man, but you hear things around here, know what I mean?” Damon said.

I wanted to establish that Jernigan had a history of making people “disappear.” If I could get a name of someone else who went missing after owing him money, maybe that rabbit hole could yield some information that could connect him to Julian Vane. So far, I wasn’t having any luck.

“What else did Julian tell you?” I said.

“He said Jernigan threatened him. Said he only had a few more days,” Damon answered.

I nodded.

Damon froze. His eyes widened. His mouth opened and closed like he wanted to say something, but it just wasn’t coming out.

“Damon, you ok?” Blaise asked.

Damon didn’t answer. Terror settled on his face. He blinked twice.

“Damon—” I couldn’t get the rest of my words out before Damon exploded, sprinting down the dock.

“What the hell was that?” Blaise said.

“I don’t know—he must have seen something that spooked him,” I said.

We looked around, back toward the street. The night crowd was still out, drunken pedestrians stumbling down the street with clownish smiles smeared across their faces.

“You see anything?” I asked.

“Nope. Nothing suspicious.”

“Well, I suppose we got the information we need. I think it’s time to pay Jernigan a visit. You free tomorrow night?”

Blaise nodded, looking at me as if he wanted to say something.

“What?” I said.

“What you said to Damon about—”

“Yeah, I was bluffing,” I said. “He pissed me off. But I wasn’t gonna feed him to the system.”

“I figured,” Blaise said. “It was probably better than the method I’d have used to get him to talk.”

“He’d have had a lot more to worry about than Jernigan, that’s for sure,” I said with a laugh. “You ready for some blackjack?”

“Hit me,” Blaise said.

Location: Memory House Antiques

Time: 10:00 a.m.

“So, how’s the investigation going, detective?” Estelle asked.

We were sitting at a table in the kitchen area at Memory House Antiques, drinking coffee. It was good, but not as good as Remy’s. But I made sure not to tell her that.

I needed some time to regroup and formulate my plan of attack for our upcoming conversation with Dom Jernigan. Estelle was a great sounding board. Like the Dr. Watson to my Sherlock Holmes.

“Detective?” I said.

“I was trying to be dramatic. Would ‘inspector’ work better?”

“Too British. And weird.”

“Gumshoe?”

“Do I look like a Raymond Chandler character to you?”

“Well, your last name does rhyme with Philip Marlowe,” she said. “How’d it go with Blaise last night?”

“Well, we met a cool cat named Isaac Freeman.”

“Cool cat? Are you a beatnik now?”

“No, but he’s a jazz musician, so I figured it was fitting.”

“Yeah, if you’re living in the 1950s.”

“He led us to a guy named Damon Clarke, who was pretty helpful — until he suddenly sprinted off like Usain Bolt for no apparent reason.”

Estelle arched her eyebrows. “Why’d he do that?”

“I have no idea. We looked around, but couldn’t figure out what spooked him.”

“What did he tell you?”

I went over the conversation with Damon and told her Blaise and I planned to visit Jernigan at The Ivory Room. Estelle’s brow furrowed.

“Jackson—” Estelle began.

“I know. We’ll be careful.”

“No seriously. If this man is as dangerous as that Damon guy said, do you really think this is a good idea?”

“It’s the best we got so far.”

Estelle looked down at her coffee cup. She didn’t say anything.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I—” her voice trailed off. She picked up her cup, then set it back down.

“Estelle. You can tell me.”

“I’m just worried,” she said. “I know you know what you’re doing. But I also know you tend to throw yourself into situations that might be better suited for the police.”

“Who me?” I gasped.

“I’m being serious,” Estelle said, fighting the laugh that almost forced its way out. “I haven’t forgotten how you chased Kyle down knowing he was a killer. You could have died.”

“But I didn’t.”

She didn’t answer.

“I’ll be okay,” I said. “Blaise will be with me. He won’t let anything happen. I promise.”

“Don’t let this go to your head, but you’ve been a good friend to me. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t. Unless I catch you putting pineapple on your pizza or some other Nazi nonsense.”

She laughed despite herself. I smiled, triumphant.

“Seriously, I’ll be careful. You don’t have to worry,” I said, knowing she would anyway.

“You tell Blaise that if anything happens to you, he’ll have to deal with me,” Estelle said.

“And I’m sure that’s probably the only thing he fears.”

An employee poked her head in and let Estelle know someone was there to see her.

“Oooooh, does my Estelle have a gentleman caller?” I said. “Shall I leave the premises so he doesn’t get the wrong idea?”

She punched my arm. I pretended it hurt. “No, you weirdo. That’s probably Patricia. She said she wanted to visit around this time.”

We stood and I followed her out of the room to the front of the store. Patricia was admiring some records placed next to an old turntable that probably hadn’t been used since The Commodores were a hit.

Estelle and Patricia embraced. “You’re looking good, sis,” Estelle said.

“Oh please. I barely had time to do my makeup this morning,” Patricia said with a wave of her hand. She looked at me. “Hey there Mr. Journalist!”

“Well hello there Miss Sanctuary. Nice to see you again,” I said.

Estelle took us to a table off to the side. She grabbed Patricia a cup of coffee and sat down.

“How’s work going?” Estelle asked.

Patricia rolled her eyes and smiled. “Busy as ever. Between clients and speaking at events, I rarely have time for anything else,” she said. “Cassandra relies on me more than people know.”

“Well, I guess that’s what happens when you’re the face of the organization,” Estelle said.

“You’re the face of The Sanctuary Network?” I asked.

Patricia took a sip. “I suppose you could say that,” she said, blushing. “I just try to present a good image. Show people that change is possible.”

Now I understood what Estelle told me about Patricia before. She seemed sincere, but her tone almost suggested the line had been rehearsed countless times. But, given how long she’d been with the Sanctuary, she’d probably said the phrase more times than she could remember.

“And you also see patients?” I asked.

“We prefer to call them clients,” she said. “I’m also a licensed counselor.”

“She’s being modest,” Estelle said. “She is THE counselor. She’s helped tons of people.”

Patricia fumbled with one of the many rings on her finger. “Without Cassandra, I wouldn’t be helping anyone. She helped me deal with my addiction. Been clean for two years.”

“That’s awesome,” I said. “You’re quite an inspiration.”

She blushed again. “So how’s your article about the Sanctuary coming along?”

“Well, I wasn’t actually covering the gala. I’m investigating Julian Vane’s murder.”

Patricia’s eyes widened for a beat before the smile returned to her face. Her shoulders went tense. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped her cup.

“You okay?” Estelle asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine just—” she didn’t finish the sentence.

Estelle touched Patricia’s hand.

Patricia gave Estelle’s hand a squeeze and forced herself to relax. Her eyes looked like they were elsewhere. “Guess I’m still shaken up over it, you know?”

I nodded. “Losing a co-worker like that can’t be easy.”

“It’s not. I’m still trying to get over what happened to Dolly, seven months later,” Estelle said.

Patricia picked up her coffee. A fleeting tremor shook her hand. She glanced at the window.

“I just don’t know how someone could do that to him,” Patricia said. Her eyes moistened. “He was one of my favorite co-workers. Always quick with a corny joke to lighten the mood.”

“Was he acting any different before it happened?” I asked.

Patricia twirled a dark lock of hair and looked up. After a beat, she answered. “Well, yes. Julian seemed…a bit off about a week before he was killed.”

I waited. She went back to fumbling with her ring and glanced out the window.

“It’s hard to explain. He kept saying he was scared about letting people down. But I had no idea what he was talking about,” Patricia said.

“Maybe family?” Estelle said.

“That’s what I thought at first,” Patricia said. “But I don’t think he was all that close to his family. His mother was sick in the hospital and his dad walked out on them when he was seven.”

“I wonder who he was talking about.” Estelle said. “Did he have a girlfriend?”

“I think so. He was quite a Casanova. People gossip, you know? But nobody knew who she was,” Patricia said. “But he was always meeting someone. We figured it was work stuff, but some thought he might be seeing his latest fling.”

“Do you know if he liked to gamble?” I asked.

Patricia opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“I don’t think so,” she said a little too quickly. She took another quick glance out the window and turned back to us. She gave a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “But I’m gonna have to cut this short. I have to get to my next client.”

We stood. “It was great seeing you both,” Patricia said. “Let’s do it again soon, when I have more time.”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you later,” Estelle said.

Patricia turned and walked through the door.

Estelle folded her arms over her chest and frowned. She looked at me.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” I asked.

“She seemed off. Usually Patricia’s so put-together.”

“You mentioned she seemed different at the gala too.”

“She was. There must be something going on with her.”

I went home to get some rest and catch up on some work. Even though I was working the Vasquez case, there were other articles to write. Patricia kept nagging at the back of my mind like an irritating little sister.

I figured she was acting strange because of Julian. It’s one thing to lose someone because of an accident. It’s quite another to have a friend shot to death in his home.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something else there. Had she known something about Julian’s gambling problems? I didn’t know, but I had other things to focus on at the moment.

Location: The Ivory Room (Jernigan’s nightclub), Warehouse District

Time: Evening (8:06 PM)

It was time to see Dom “Dice” Jernigan. I met Blaise back at the Warehouse District in the same parking lot. He had traded in his tanktop for a long-sleeved black shirt a size bigger than what would normally fit him. This meant he was concealing a pistol under his garment. I had mine on me too — as always.

“What took you so long?” Blaise asked.

“What? I’m right on time.”

“You’re six minutes late.”

“Bro, we’ve been through this before.”

“Right. CPT. Got it. You ready for this?”

“I’m ready.”

We walked to Girod Street where The Ivory Room sat. Its entrance was nondescript, as if trying not to avoid too much attention. Probably the way Jernigan wanted it.

We entered the club and were greeted with the sounds of Duke Ellington and the smell of sweat mixed in with booze. It wasn’t a large room, but not small enough to be called cozy.

An empty stage sat lonely in the left corner. On the wall standing at the rear of the room hung pictures of jazz legends. Charles Mingus. Wynton Marsalis. Louis Armstrong.

To the right was the bar, our destination. We approached a 20ish bartender who asked us what we wanted in a voice that suggested he wanted us to hurry so he could get back to doomscrolling on his phone.

“We’re here to see Jernigan,” I said.

“He’s not here,” the bartender didn’t look at us, his gaze fixed on the screen.

“It’s important. He’ll want to talk to us,” I said.

“I told you, he’s not here,” he said.

Blaise’s hand shot over the bar so quickly that it looked like a blur. He snatched the phone.

“Tell Jernigan it’s about Julian Vane,” Blaise said evenly.

“What the hell, man? He’s not here. Give me my damn phone,” the bartender whined.

Blaise slipped the phone into his pocket and smiled at the bartender as if he were an old friend.

“I was wondering, would it hurt you more if I slammed your fuckin’ head on this bar?” He looked at the bartender like a shark eyeing a fish. “Or would it be worse if I threw your phone in the Mississippi?”

The bartender’s mouth hung up as his eyes grew ever so larger.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen, mate,” Blaise said as if teaching a kid how to tie his shoes. “You’re gonna walk your scrawny arse back there and tell Jernigan that if he doesn’t wanna have a conversation, maybe his relationship with Julian Vane might end up all over the internet.”

“They don’t pay me enough for this shit,” the bartender muttered while wandering through the door behind him.

Blaise waited a beat, then said, “Y’know he’s right.”

“About what?”

“They probably don’t pay him enough.”

“So is that how you usually persuade people to do what you want?”

“Nah. Usually I’ll start by punching them in the face to get their attention.”

“But you didn’t this time. You’re getting soft.”

“Maybe I am.”

The bartender returned, his shoulder slumped. “He’s ready to see you. Follow me.”

He led us through the door into a hallway. We walked into a room at the back into an office that expanded almost to the size of the bar area.

Jernigan sat a table off to the side with three other men enjoying a heaping plate of pasta. He didn’t get up as he approached but turned and looked us over.

“Dominick Jernigan?” I asked.

He gave one nod. He was wearing a bright white suit over a black dress shirt. “Who are you?” he asked as if we met at a cocktail party.

“We need to talk,” I said.

Jernigan paused before looking over at his companions. He gave a subtle gesture, as if not wanting to waste energy. The men stood and strolled out of the room, glaring all kinds of threats at us. I gave a friendly smile back.

“Have a seat,” he said. His voice was silky, but carried an edge.

We sat.

“Now then, Mr. Harlow and Mr. Moriarty, what can I do for you?” Jernigan asked.

His jet-black hair was slicked back with enough gel in it to turn his it into a helmet.

“So, you already know who we are,” I said, without a hint of surprise.

“When people are asking around about me, I make it my business to know who they are,” he said. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“We’re good,” Blaise said.

He turned his gaze to Blaise, looking him over. “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Moriarty,” he drawled, with a hint of a smile. “My bartender will probably have nightmares for weeks.”

“He’ll get over it if I give his phone back,” Blaise answered.

“He could probably use less screen time anyway,” I said.

Jernigan chuckled. “You’ll have to excuse him. He’s my nephew, so he gets a bit protective.”

“Over his phone, or you?” I asked.

That brought another smile to his face. He smoothed his hair, which didn’t need any smoothing.

“You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

“Should we be?” I asked.

“Depends on how this goes,” he replied, his eyes narrowing. “I could have my men make you disappear with a snap of my fingers.”

“You probably could,” Blaise said. “The question is, would they do it fast enough to keep one of us from putting a bullet in your brain?”

“Probably not,” Jernigan replied, as if he were talking about the weather.

A few seconds passed. Jernigan’s face brightened and his shoulders relaxed.

“It’s a relief, you know,” Jernigan said.

“What is?” I asked.

“That you’re not afraid,” Jernigan said, twirling some spaghetti on a fork. “Usually when people don’t want me to see their fear, they bang the table, put on a whole melodrama for my benefit. It’s annoying.”

“I can imagine,” Blaise said.

“Tell us about your relationship with Julian Vane,” I said.

“What relationship?”

I paused. “You know who I work for, right?”

“I’m well aware of your journalism, Mr. Harlow,” Jernigan said, taking a sip of red wine.

I leaned forward. “I doubt you would want me to publish details of your relationship with Julian, would you? The money he owed you? The threats?”

“I’d sue you into oblivion. I’m a legitimate business man,” Jernigan said cooly.

Blaise snorted. “Right. About as legitimate Al Capone, I’d imagine.”

“Of course you could sue,” I continued. “But it wouldn’t stop the police investigation that would come after, which you already know. I’m sure that kind of attention would be quite expensive for you business.”

A long sigh came from Jernigan’s mouth. The type one would give an unruly child.

“Fine,” he said. “Ask away.”

“Julian owed you money, right?” I said.

“Of course he did. He owed everyone money. That’s what gamblers do,” he said.

“Did he owe you enough money to have him killed?” I asked. I figured the direct approach was best.

Jernigan’s eyes widened subtly. He took a bite, savoring his dinner.

“He owed me enough to annoy me,” he said.

If he was flustered, he didn’t show it.

“We’ve heard what happens to people who annoy you, Dom,” Blaise said.

“Oh, I’m sure you have. I pay good money to make people think certain things about me,” Jernigan replied. “But, contrary to what people think, I don’t kill — especially those who pose no threat to my wellbeing.”

“Yet, we know you threatened Julian, several times,” I said. “Do you expect us to believe you were just trying to shake him up?”

Jernigan set down his glass and leaned forward. “Mr. Harlow, I don’t kill my customers — even when they owe me money. It’s bad for business. Dead men don’t pay their debts.”

“Where were you the night Julian died?” I asked.

“Where I always am. Here. Running my club. I’m sure there are at least ten people who could verify this,” Jernigan said.

“I bet they could,” I said, just to be saying something.

“I’m not always up on the news, but I could have sworn that I read somewhere that the authorities already caught the guy who did it,” Jernigan said.

“They didn’t. The guy they caught was framed. That’s why we’re here,” I said.

“You think I framed him?”

“The evidence we have so far seems to suggest it,” Blaise said.

“The threat? His debt? That’s hardly enough evidence to pin this on me,” Jernigan said.

“It’s a start,” I said. “If you’re familiar with me, you know I’ll find what I need.”

Jernigan was still leaning forward. His fingers formed a steeple.. “Let’s think about this for a second. If this guy was framed as you say, it would take more sophistication than a guy who runs card games.”

“Would it, though?” I asked. “I hear you make plenty of money. It’s not hard to believe that you could pull it off.”

Jernigan shrugged. “You think I make enough to fake GPS data? Plant evidence? Find a worthy patsy? These are not the methods someone like myself would use.”

“It’s not that hard to believe,” Blaise said.

“Well, you can keep trying to pin this on me, but I assure you, you’re wasting your time,” Jernigan said, checking his phone. “I’d love to continue this conversation, but I’ve got some pressing matters to attend to.”

“I’ll follow the evidence where it leads, Jernigan. Hopefully it doesn’t lead to you,” I said.

We stood and turned to walk away when Jernigan’s voice stopped us. “I’m confident that you will see that I’m not the one you’re looking for. When you finally realize that feel free to come back for a few drinks. On me,” he said.

We walked back to the bar area. Blaise tossed the bartender his phone. He barely caught it, but immediately opened it like a heroin addict getting his fix.

As we made our way back to the parking lot, Blaise spoke up. “I dunno Jackson. He’s way too calm. Guilty people don’t act like that.”

“Sure. But he could be a really good liar. People like him don’t survive in this game by being an open book,” I said.

Blaise shrugged. “I guess you got a point there.”

Still, Jernigan made some good points. Concocting a frameup of this type isn’t exactly the modus operandi of a guy who runs an underground gambling operation. People like him prefer to make their victim quietly disappear. But it didn’t mean it couldn’t happen, especially if there was more to Julian’s death than gambling.

Location: Phone call to Jackson (Jackson is in car with Blaise, driving home from nightclub)

Time: 10:30 PM

I was scrolling through my phone after I got home—checking X for any updates on the case, refreshing the Chronicle’s story comments, looking for anything the street might be saying about Julian Vane.

The usual digital archaeology. A lot of “fuck the police,” a lot of “RIP Julian,” a lot of people with strong opinions and zero information. In other words, X.

Sweat ran down my forehead and my shirt stuck to my back. I had forgotten to leave air conditioning on. I turned it on, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and settled onto my couch with my laptop, pulling up Charlie’s encrypted message thread.

Nothing new from him in the last few hours.

I was about to text him an update when my phone rang.

Charlie.

“You’re up late,” I said.

“Jackson, I found something,” Charlie said. No greeting. “I’m looking at Julian’s financial records—the ones you got from his apartment—and there’s a pattern I missed the first time.”

I sat up straight. “What kind of pattern?”

“Okay, so you know about the gambling debt, right? The $120 to Jernigan?”

“Yeah. Damon confirmed it tonight. Said Jernigan threatened Julian two weeks before the murder.”

“Right, right. Well, that’s real. But there’s something else.”The machine gun clatter of Charlie’s typing came through the phone. “Every month, Julian has two separate transaction clusters. The gambling losses to Jernigan—those are sporadic, unpredictable. But there’s another pattern. Monthly deposits coming in from a shell company called Clean Fix Solutions. Five grand every two weeks like clockwork.”

I felt my pulse quicken. “Clean Fix Solutions?”

“It looks like a pharmaceutical company. But here’s the weird part. Those deposits don’t match any medical record, any prescription refill, any legitimate billing. They’re coded as ‘consulting fees.’”

“Consulting fees for what?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. But it gets weirder. Three weeks before Julian died, those deposits stopped. No payment. No explanation. Then, five days before the murder, Jernigan’s messages to Julian go from ‘you owe me’ to ‘we need to talk about your obligations.’ Not your debt. Your obligations.“

I stood up and started pacing. “You’re saying Julian was working with Jernigan?”

“No. I’m saying Julian might have been working for someone else. The Clean Fix deposits suggest he had another source of income,” Charlie said. “And when those deposits stopped, he panicked. Owed Jernigan money with no way to pay it back. That’s when Jernigan gets serious.”

I thought about Damon’s testimony. “Julian was trying to get money from another source.”

“Charlie, where are these deposits coming from? Who’s paying Julian?”

“That’s where I hit a wall. Clean Fix Solutions is incorporated in Delaware, owned by a parent company called Heritage Health Alliance. It’s a shell within a shell.”

My mind was racing. Clean Fix Solutions. Heritage Health Alliance. Julian was definitely not a medical professional. None of it made sense yet, but it had to be connected somehow.

“Can you find out what Clean Fix Solutions actually does?” I asked.

“Already on it. But Jackson—whoever killed Julian probably wanted to keep this quiet. The connection to Clean Fix, the pharmaceutical thing, whatever Julian’s real job was. That’s your lead. Forget Jernigan for a second. Find out what Julian was actually doing for Clean Fix. Find whoever runs that company. I bet that’s where you’ll find your real killer.”

I wanted to believe him. Part of me did. But Jernigan’s threat to Julian, Damon’s testimony, the timing—it all still pointed to the gambling boss. Also, this shell corporation game could be something Julian was doing with Jernigan.

“Charlie, I appreciate this, but Jernigan threatened Julian about the debt. About his obligations. It fits.”

“Yeah, it fits,” Charlie agreed. “But Jackson, what if ‘obligations’ meant something different? What if Julian was obligated to Clean Fix, not just to Jernigan? What if Jernigan was just the pressure point?”

The line crackled between us.

“Just... check it out, okay?” Charlie said. “Find out who runs Heritage Health Alliance. Find out what they’re actually doing. Find out why Julian was CMO of a pharmaceutical shell company. I wouldn’t be surprised if it came back to Jernigan.”

“I will,” I said. But my certainty wavered for just a second. “Good work, Charlie. Get some sleep.”

I hung up and looked at my laptop screen. Clean Fix Solutions. Heritage Health Alliance.

A pharmaceutical company.

And Julian—apparently their CMO—dead in his apartment.

It could have made sense. If Jernigan didn’t kill over simple gambling debts, what would he kill over? Perhaps there was more to Julian’s relationship with Jernigan that it seemed. This was already getting to be quite a tangled mess and I was the one who could untangle it.

Location: Cassandra Rose’s Residence, Garden District

Time: Monday, 4:45 PM (morning text, afternoon visit)

The text came at 9:47 AM while I was reviewing Charlie’s financial research at the Chronicle:

“Coffee this evening? My place. I’d like to see you.”

I wanted to see her too. She’d been lingering in the back of my mind like an itch I coudn’t reach. But the last thing I needed was a distraction — especially not THAT kind of distraction.

I decided that I would take a rain check, then responded “yes” before I could talk myself out of it. Those deep doe-like brown eyes were burned into my consciousness, but it was nothing like seeing them in person.

So much for avoiding distractions.

Cassandra’s mansion sat behind wrought-iron gates on Prytania Street—old money architecture, antebellum bones, the kind of place that whispered wealth without shouting it from gilded rooftops. An old, but stout housekeeper in a neatly-pressed maid uniform let me in, pointed me toward the study, and vanished.

Cassandra was waiting by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the late afternoon light hitting her at an angle that made her look like a starlet informing Mr. DeMille that she was ready for her closeup. I felt like I was the main character in a Dashiell Hammett novel.

A cream-colored silk blouse and black slacks gripped her body. Her raven-colored hair cascaded down around her shoulders like a waterfall. My heart knocked at my chest as if begging to get out.

“You came,” she said, stepping toward me with a smile brighter than a floodlight.

“You asked,” I said.

“I did.” We hugged for what felt like hours, but wasn’t quite long enough. “Can I get you something? Wine? Coffee?”

“Coffee’s good.”

But she didn’t move toward the kitchen. Instead, she led me to a sitting area—leather couch, a fireplace, walls lined with books that looked like someone had actually read them. She poured two cups from a carafe that was already waiting.

“I thought you might come,” she said, handing me one. “I prepared.”

We sat. The coffee was excellent. Everything about her was excellent, which was part of the problem.

“How’s your investigation going?” she asked, her walnut-colored eyes locked on mine.

I updated her—carefully. The gambling debt, Jernigan’s threat, Damon’s testimony yesterday at the docks. I watched her face as I talked, looking for tells. She was a good listener, engaged but not reactive. She would have made a great therapist.

“We found him playing guitar down by the docks,” I said. “Isaac Freeman—do you know him? He’s connected to your world somehow. He directed us to Damon.”

“Isaac,” Cassandra said, placing a finger on her chin. “Yes, I remember him. He’s done work for Sanctuary. Nice man.”

“Right. Well, he told us about Damon Clarke. We went to the docks, convinced Damon to talk about Julian. Damon knew him from the neighborhood, said Julian was terrified of Jernigan, owed him over one hundred thousand dollars.”

Cassandra took a sip of coffee. Her hand trembled for a split second. Something flickered across her face—a tightness in her jaw, a micro-expression of something I couldn’t quite name.

It was gone as fast as it came.

“And Damon was willing to testify?” she asked.

“I don’t know about that. He was pretty scared, but he gave us what we needed.”

Cassandra set her cup down. “That took courage. Going up against someone like Jernigan.” Her jaw relaxed as her lips parted slightly.

“Well, I had Blaise with me, so I’m not quite as brave as you think,” I said. “But it was necessary. Damon was the first real witness who could place Jernigan with Julian before the murder.”

Cassandra let out a long breath and looked toward the floor to ceiling window. Her eyes moistened.

“You okay?” I asked.

She paused for a beat. “I—” her voice trailed off as if she didn’t know what to say. “I knew he had struggled with a gambling addiction in the past. But I had no idea this was going on.”

I scooted closer to her on the couch and took her hand. It was warm.

“It’s not your fault, Cass,” I said. “I don’t see how you could have known.”

She took a breath and exhaled slowly.

“I mean, he looked so tired and stressed lately,” she said. “Like he was hardly sleeping. I thought he was just going through some personal issues.”

“But you had no idea it was this bad,” I said.

She nodded slowly. “Yes. I just don’t know why he didn’t come to me.”

“He might have been worried about disappointing you.”

“I certainly wouldn’t have been happy about it. But I’d have paid off his debt in a heartbeat. There’s no way I’d let him be in danger.”

“I know.”

She picked up her cup and took another sip.

“Jackson,” she said, rubbing her arm. “Are you sure you should be pursuing this? Why not just tell the police what you found out about Jernigan?”

“I know a detective on the force,” I said. “But I don’t expect anyone in NOPD to take this seriously until I have solid proof.”

“You literally found out about his gambling debt to someone known for killing people who don’t pay up,” Cassandra said. “How could they ignore that?’

“Normally, that should be enough to warrant more of an investigation,” I replied. “But the prosecution is hellbent on fingering Steve for this. They won’t look elsewhere unless I have the smoking gun, so to speak.”

“Jackson,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want you to do this. I’ll be worried about you. We just reconnected...I’d be...it would be hard to deal with.”

“You shouldn’t worry. I’m a badass,” I said.

A short laugh escaped her mouth. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“You’re doing that thing where you make me laugh to make me feel better.”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

“Sorta.”

Before I could respond, she stood. The light was changing—that golden time of day before sunset that makes everything look like it’s being lit by a giant lantern.

She grabbed my hand and led me toward the window.

We stood side by side, looking out at the manicured gardens, the Spanish moss hanging from the oak trees, the slow death of the day. We were still holding hands.

“I’ve always liked you,” she said finally. “I never stopped. You’re idealistic. Stubborn. Reckless. All the things that make people dangerous to themselves.”

“Should I be flattered?” I asked.

She turned to face me. Up close, her eyes were darker than I remembered. “You should be careful.”

“I’m pursuing the truth,” I said.

She pushed a lock of hair out of her face with her other hand. “I know. It’s—what I love about you.”

“I shouldn’t have let you get away Cass,” I said.

“You’re one of the bravest people I know.” She smiled up at me. “But not all that smart.”

She was right. I hated that she was right. But before I could say anything, we closed the distance between us.

The kiss was intentional. Controlled. Her hand came up to the back of my neck, pulling me closer, and for a moment all thoughts of Jernigan, Steve, Julian, and everyone else melted into the background like mist.

She pulled back far sooner than I would have liked, her forehead against mine. “You should know—” she started to say.

My phone rang and I barely resisted the temptation to hurl it across the room like a baseball.

“Sorry,” I muttered, reaching for my phone.

Cassandra stepped back. Her shoulders fell, but she gave my hand a squeeze before moving toward the window, giving me privacy.

I answered. “Blaise?”

“Jackson.” His voice was tight. Controlled in that way that meant he was barely controlling something. “The police found Damon.”

My stomach dropped.

“Where?” I asked, though I already knew the answer wasn’t going to be anything I wanted to hear.

“Alley off Tchoupitoulas. Near the docks where we met him yesterday. He’s been dead for hours. Stabbed. Multiple times.”

I felt the words hit me, but they didn’t land right. Didn’t make sense.

“When?” I heard myself ask.

“Coroner’s saying somewhere between eleven PM and midnight last night. Body’s been there most of the morning. Someone finally called it in about an hour ago.”

“How did you find out?” I asked.

“People around here talk.”

Last night. While I was at home processing Charlie’s call about Clean Fix Solutions, someone was busy murdering Damon Clarke. Was it because he spoke with us? Or something else?

“I’m on my way,” I said.

“There’s nothing you can do here, mate. Maybe you should call your detective friend. Fontenot.”

“I’ll do that,” I said before hanging up. Cassandra was still at the window, her back to me. But something about her posture had changed. She was rigid now. Tense.

“What happened?” she asked, not turning around.

“My witness,” I said. “Damon. He’s dead. Murdered last night, after we talked.”

Cassandra turned slowly. Her body went rigid and her mouth fell open. “Oh my God,” she whispered.

“Oh, Jackson,” she said, coming toward me. “I’m so sorry.”

She reached for me, and I pulled her into an embrace. She smelled like the same floral scent from before, and for just a moment, I held onto her like she was the only real thing in a world that was suddenly too sharp, too real, too close.

But something in my chest had gone cold.

This is a long episode, and it will be shortened by some email servers. If you aren’t reading in the Substack app, please open this in your browser to see the whole episode.

Previously on The Clean Fix, journalist Jackson Harlow answered a desperate call from Imelda Vasquez, whose teenage son Steve was arrested for the murder of wealthy rehab executive Julian Vane, with Steve’s gun and the victim’s property conveniently “found” as evidence against him. Convinced Steve was being framed, Jackson clashed with Steve’s volatile gang‑leader brother Hector “Hex” Vasquez, secured reluctant help from defense attorney Remy Bishop, and confided in antique‑shop owner Estelle Mason as the media rushed to brand Steve a teen kingpin. Jackson discovered that Vane was a star fundraiser for a high‑profile rehab outfit led by his alluring ex, Cassandra Rose, and accepted her invitation to their glitzy “Freedom Gala,” determined to dig past the polished image and find whoever really set Steve up.

I headed to The Bayou Chronicle after a few hours of restless sleep. I entered Mavis Carroll’s office and sat down in front of her desk.

She looked up from her computer. “Look what the cat dragged in. What are you doing here on this fine Saturday morning?”

“I was bored, so I figured I’d find a reason to bother my favorite editor-in-chief.”

“Ah. Sticking to what you’re good at, I see.”

I’d worked at The Bayou Chronicle my whole career. It was the only outlet I could find that wouldn’t force me to parrot government propaganda.

Mavis and I went way back. Yes, she was my boss. But we were also good friends. She had a tough exterior, but was soft as a feather deep down inside.

She opened a drawer and took out a Jolly Rancher. If there was one thing Mavis couldn’t resist, it was candy.

“You hear about the Julian Vane murder?” I asked.

“I have. It’s been all over the news. I’m surprised you didn’t jump on that story.”

“Well, about that—”

Mavis’ expression morphed into an “uh oh” expression.

“At least hear me out before you give me that look, boss lady,” I said, pasting on my winning smile.

She pointed at me and said, “See, when you get that smile on your face, I know I’m about to need gallons of Pepto Bismol. What’s going on with this case?”

“Imelda, Steve Vasquez’s mother, wants me to see if I can help her son. She knows he didn’t kill Julian Vane. I know it too.”

“You’ve seen the evidence the police have on him, haven’t you?”

“I’m well aware. I spoke to him yesterday. I also wasted a few minutes with his useless public defender.”

“And you still think he didn’t do it?”

“No. It has to be a frame job.”

Mavis rubbed the back of her neck and sighed. She knew where I was going with this.

“What holes have you found in the police’s story?”

“None yet.”

“What’s Steve’s alibi?”

“He was at home. But nobody else was with him.”

“How did his gun end up at the crime scene?”

“I have no idea.”

“Of course, you don’t.”

“I just started investigating yesterday. I’ll find something.”

“‘Something’ isn’t going to cut it, Jackson. You’re making a wild claim here — that this guy was framed. You’re going to need a Mt. Kilamanjaro of evidence.”

“I know it doesn’t look good, Mavis. But I’ve known Steve since he was little. He’d never do something like this.”

“People change.”

“Not Steve. Not like this. He doesn’t have it in him. He didn’t even know the guy.”

Mavis popped another Jolly Rancher in her mouth, probably wishing it was laced with arsenic. I couldn’t blame her for being skeptical. One, she’s a news lady. Two, the evidence did look damning.

“Are you sure you’re not letting your connection to the family cloud your thinking?”

“I won’t pretend it isn’t affecting me,” I said, leaning forward. “Like I said, I’ve known that family for years. They’re good people. But I can stay objective. If it turns out he actually did the murder, then I’ll have to deal with it.”

“And what happens if you find out he was framed?”

“How long have you known me, Mavis?”

“Long enough to know you’re going to place yourself in all kinds of danger to find out who really did it.”

I gave her a thumbs up. “Give the lady a cigar.”

“Jackson, I don’t want you getting hurt. I haven’t forgotten what happened with the Dolly Mercier case. If you’re right — and that’s a HUGE if — this could be more dangerous than that Weston kid.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“You better. I’m keeping you on a short leash on this one. Go ahead and investigate. But the moment it gets too sticky, I’m taking you off the story and giving it to another reporter that won’t give me heartburn.”

“I’m not THAT bad, am I?”

“You don’t want me to answer that. If you’re going to look into this, you might consider talking to your former ‘acquaintance.’ Have you gotten in touch with her yet?”

“Yes. The Sanctuary Network is having a gala tonight. Cassandra invited me. I’m going to interview her there.”

“And that’s ALL you’re going to be doing, right?”

“Scout’s honor, boss lady.”

“I’m going to give you a word of advice. I found out through a series of little birds that the DA has taken quite an interest in this case.”

“That tracks. This is the perfect case to boost his political career.”

Lena Thorne’s boss would be leaning on her hard to get a conviction in Steve’s case. Julian was well-loved and high-profile. They needed to send someone up the river for his death –– even if it wasn’t the right person. I couldn’t even count the number of articles I’d written about overzealous prosecutors putting people behind bars even in the face of evidence showing they didn’t commit the crime.

“He wants Steve to go down, and he’s pulling out all the stops to make sure that happens,” Mavis said. “That’s why Thorne is on this case.”

“Anything to score some cheap political points. Even if it means throwing a kid behind bars for the rest of his life.”

“You know how he operates. He’s ruthless. Once he finds out you’re digging into this case, he’s going to be gunning for you.”

“He’d better hope his office is doing everything above board. Because if it’s not, it’s going to be on our website for all to see.”

“I can almost guarantee he’s not. One of those little birds suggested that he’s gearing up for a run against Mayor Lemaine in the next election.”

“Really? Lemaine’s only been mayor for a few months. Sounds like Bagwell’s starting early.”

“He’s targeted journalists before. He doesn’t like it when we get a little to close to finding finding their dirty laundry.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he’s got that Don Henley song on repeat in his car.”

“I’ll work some of my sources to see if I can find any information about the case and let you know what I find,” Mavis said.

“I’d appreciate that.”

Orleans Justice Center

Saturday: 10:00 a.m.

I met Remy Bishop at the jail. We stood outside as he finished his cigarette. He was wearing his usual non-court attire, white dress shirt, tan slacks, and a five o’clock shadow that refused to vacate the premises.

I couldn’t calm my beating heart, which felt a Xenomorph trying to burst out of my chest. I reminded myself about all the times I’d covered his cases. He always represented underdogs — and fought hard for them. This made Steve a prime client for Remy. I knew this, but my heart continued doing its jackhammer routine.

“I took a look at the affidavit. Their evidence is damning. But there’s some holes. I’ll wait until after we speak to make sure the police actually messed up.”

“The police actually made a mistake? Perish the thought,” I said. If I examined ten cases, nine of them would feature at least one glaring error on the part of NOPD’s finest. If everyone they arrested had a half-decent lawyer, they could rip the prosecution apart like a lion going after a zebra. It’s why they preferred to target low income targets. Bullies stay away from those who might fight back.

“But don’t get your hopes up. If I’m right, it still ain’t gonna be enough to prove Steve’s not guilty.”

“Every little bit counts.”

Remy dropped his cigarette into the ashtray and we stepped inside.

Steve looked gaunt, as if he had aged ten years since the last time I saw him. His shoulders slumped so low I thought his hands might touch the floor. He looked up at us, looking like he was carrying a whale on his shoulders. But small glint in his eyes told me the fight happened left him yet.

“Steve, this is Remy Bishop, a defense attorney. We go way back. He’d like to speak with you about your case,” I said.

Steve perked up. “Okay,” he said.

“Nice to meet you Steve. Jackson told me about your case.”

“Okay,” Steve said again.

“How are you holding up?” Remy asked.

Steve paused for a beat, as if he didn’t expect the question. “Not good, man. A few nights ago I was at home playing Call of Duty. Now I’m in this place. The food sucks. The people suck. Everything sucks,” he said. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second to dam the river of tears fighting to break through.

“I don’t doubt it, brother,” Remy said. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, but before I do, I need you to know something.”

Steve nodded..

“I need you to tell me the absolute truth. Don’t leave anything out — even if you think it’s irrelevant. Even if you think it makes you look bad. I can’t help you if I don’t know everything.”

Remy almost sounded like he was reciting a script. He must give this warning to all his clients.

“Okay. I can do that,” Steve said, folding his hands.

“Did you kill Julian Vane?”

Steve looked like he’d been slapped. “That’s what you’re asking me? I thought you were hear to help—”

Remy put up a hand. “I have to ask this, Steve. I need to hear it from you.”

“Fuck no, man. I didn’t kill that guy. I never even knew him. This is all bullshit—”

Remy interrupted, “I understand.”

Remy had an internal lie detector that would make the FBI’s machines look like a toy car. If he believed Steve, that made me even more confident.

“Walk me through what you did on the day of the murder,” Remy said.

“Man, it was like, over a week ago—I don’t know,” Steve said.

Remy nodded. “Please try. Tell me as much as you can remember.”

Steve rubbed his chin. “I woke up. Ate breakfast. Then I went to work. I’m training to become an electrician.”

“What time do you usually get off work?” Remy asked.

“We usually finish up about five or six o’clock,” Steve said.

“What did you do after that?” Remy said.

“I already told the police all this, man. Why do I gotta go over it all again?”

Steve wasn’t helping himself, so I chimed in. “Steve, this is serious. You’re facing a life sentence — if you’re lucky. I know it’s frustrating, but living in a cage for the rest of your life is much worse, you know what I mean?”

He opened his eyes wide, as if suddenly remembering he was being accused of murder.

“I know,” he murmured. “After work, I went to Landry’s—it’s a bar—and had a few drinks.”

“Can anyone confirm that you were there?” Remy asked.

“Yeah, I met a few friends there.”

“What time did you leave?

“I can’t remember. But I think it was a little after 10,” Steve said. “I went straight home after that.”

“Can anyone confirm you were at home?”

“No. My mom was at her friend’s house. She had my little sister with her.”

Remy typed some notes on his phone. “Have you ever met Julian Vane in any context? Work? Mutual friends?”

“No I—I never met the guy,” Steve said.

“You sure?” Remy asked.

“Yeah,” Steve said.

“Alright. Let’s talk about the gun. When was the last time you physically touched it?” Remy asked.

“I’ve had that gun for years. Kept it under my passenger seat, but never really used it. It’s been almost a year since I handled it. Kinda forgot it was there,” Steve said.

“Why did you get the gun in the first place?” Remy asked.

“I live in a bad area, man. Had it for protection.”

“Did anyone else know you kept it under the passenger seat?”

“Just my brother. He always said to make sure I have it on me.”

But Hex definitely wouldn’t have told him to keep it under the passenger seat. Even he wasn’t that reckless.

“Has anyone broken into your truck?” Remy asked.

“I don’t think so. I haven’t had anything stolen,” Steve answered.

“Over the past few weeks, have you noticed anything strange in your daily routine? Anything happen that doesn’t normally happen?” Remy asked.

Steve rubbed his chin again and looked at the ceiling.

“Nothing I can remember,” Steve said, finally.

“Do you remember seeing that gold chain in your truck?” Remy asked.

“No—I’ve never seen that thing in my life. I don’t know how it got there. Someone—someone had to have planted it,” Steve said.

Remy paused. The gears were turning in his head. I hid my anxiety. “I did find something Steve. Something that could help.”

Steve sat up straighter. “What did you find?”

“I took a look at the affidavit,” Remy said. “The doorman’s log shows nobody visited Vane on the night of the murder. In fact, nobody even entered the building between 9:30 and 11:30. Remember, the murder happened around 10:30 p.m.”

There was a hint of a smile at the corner of Steve’s mouth. His eyes flew up.

“See? I couldn’t have done it. Ain’t no way a doorman wouldn’t notice someone like me coming into that building,” Steve said.

Steve gestured excitedly, as if he were talking about a cool action scene in a Liam Neeson movie.

“If nobody saw me there, then that means I’m being set up,” Steve said.

Remy waited for Steve to calm down. “Steve, this inconsistency is positive for you. But it’s not enough,” he said.

“Why though?” Steve sounded like a child being told Santa Claus wasn’t coming this year.

“Because I guarantee the prosecution has already figured out how they will play this in court,” Remy explained. “It definitely helps. But we need more to convince a jury you didn’t do it.”

“It’s still better than nothing, Steve. We have to take every win we can get. Remy needs as much evidence as possible. That’s my department,” I said.

“Fuck,” Steve said.

“I do have some better news, though,” Remy said.

“What’s that?” Steve asked, hopeful.

“If they messed this part up, there are probably more mistakes I can use against them in court,” Remy said.

He paused a beat. “For that reason, I’m going to take your case. I think there’s a good chance you’re being railroaded here and I think we can prove it,” Remy said.

Steve let out a long breath, as if he had been holding it for hours. A smidgeon of hope crept onto his face.

“Thanks man. I feel like...nobody’s been in my corner except my family,” Steve said.

“Speaking of family, how’d it go with Hector yesterday?” I asked.

Steve’s eyes darkened. He folded his hands again.

“I ain’t gonna lie. He’s pissed, Jackson. I’m afraid. I told him not to do nothing and he said he wouldn’t. But the longer I’m in here, the more he’s gonna wanna do something, know what I’m saying?”

“Yeah. I was concerned about that too. I had a talk with him at your mother’s house. We’re going to have to keep an eye on him. We don’t need him making anything harder for you, or himself.”

“I don’t know if I ever told you this,” Steve began. “But Hector’s the reason I never got busted for weed. Cops found my stash in my car a few years ago. Hector told them it was his.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yeah, man. I told him not to do it. But he made me promise to stop slinging and find a real career. He knew it would break Mom’s heart to see me serve time,” Steve said.

“How long was he in?” Remy asked.

“Four years. He got out about two years ago,” Steve said.

Remy whistled. “That ain’t good, but it could have been worse. They can pop people for up to 10 years for possession with intent to sell.”

“You know what’s crazy?” Steve said. “He never even got mad at me. Even when he was locked up. He seemed like he was pissed at himself.”

That made sense. If there was one thing Hector valued above everything else, it was his family — especially his brother. Hector had told me ages ago that he never wanted his brother to follow in his footsteps. I made my choices, man. But I want my brother to make better ones. I’ll kick his ass if I see him becoming like me.

The door behind Steve opened and the guard came into the room.

“Looks like our time is up,” I said. “We’ll be back when we have more information.”

Steve’s shoulders slumped again as he slowly rose from the chair. Whoever did this to him was going to pay.

We were back outside the building. Remy lit a cigarette.

“Seems like a good kid,” Remy said.

“Yeah, perfect target for the government, if you ask me.”

“Their absolute favorite. So, what’s the next step?”

“I’m gonna dig into the court documents and police reports and see if I can’t find more mistakes,” Remy said. “But that ain’t gonna be enough. I need something definitive. Otherwise, Thorne’s gonna rip me to shreds.”

“I’ll get what you need, Remy.”

“Good. Because if I lose to that woman again, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

Lagniappe Coffee Shop

Saturday: 3 p.m.

I usually work alone. It’s simpler that way. But if Steve was being framed, there was probably something big. Probably bigger than I could handle on my own.

I sat alone at the Lagniappe Coffee Shop, staring at my laptop screen like a rubbernecker at a train wreck.

Julian Vane lived a lifestyle far above his pay grade. I needed to know how. But the problem is that the person best suited for what I needed was on my shit list.

I could have enlisted one of The Bayou Chronicle’s tech guys. But I had a feeling I would need the best on this, and the best I knew was a guy named Charlie Liu.

I held my phone in my hand for what felt like hours. The last person I wanted to speak with was Charlie. We had some history.

When I worked the Dolly Mercier murder, he was paid to astroturf a social media campaign against me. But it wasn’t the usual “this reporter is biased” claptrap. I had pulled up social media and saw the history of my dead ex-wife and daughter staring back at me. That was Charlie Liu, someone who could rip your life apart with the click of a mouse.

It turned out that he was paid anonymously by Theo Guidry, fixer for Mayor Pierce Lemaine. Guidry manipulated Charlie into thinking he was functioning as a sort of watchdog exposing media bias.

But we were friends — at least casually. He should have known better.

To be fair, he was devastated when he realized he’d been duped. But I wasn’t ready to let it go — and I thought I’d never be.

I stared at my phone screen. Charlie’s contact information stared back.

I thought about Julian Vane. He lived a lifestyle far beyond his pay grade. I needed to know how.

I could have enlisted one of The Bayou Chronicle’s tech guys. They were competent enough for public records requests or scraping a few emails.

But I had a feeling I would need a virtuoso, and unfortunately, the best virtuoso in New Orleans was the guy whose phone number my thumb hovered over.

I took a deep breath. Then dialed Charlie’s number.

He picked up on the first ring. “Jackson?” His voice shot up an octave. “Hey, man. Hey. How are you?”

“I’m fine, Charlie. Listen, I’m looking into the Julian Vane murder.”

“Yeah, I saw. The Sanctuary thing. That’s all over the news. They found the gun, the prints, everything. Looks pretty cut and dry, honestly.”

Charlie was usually pretty amped up. When he had a few energy drinks in him, he would talk faster than a coked-up auctioneer.

“It’s not. The kid they arrested, Steve Vasquez? He didn’t do it,” I said.

“Oh.” There was a pause.

Then, quickly, “Okay. Okay, so what do you need? I mean...if you need something. I’m not saying you need something, but if you do, I’m... I’m totally available. I mean, I’m not busy. I’m available if you needed help. With the case. Or whatever.”

I cursed my mouth as it cracked a little smile. Charlie was a genius hacker with the interpersonal skills of a nervous jackrabbit.

“I need you to trace Julian Vane’s finances,” I said. “He was a counselor at Sanctuary, but he was living like a king. Expensive apartment, clothes, the works. I need to know where the money came from.”

“Okay, yeah. Yeah, I can do that. I can definitely do that.” He was talking faster now, the anxiety bleeding into excitement. “Bank accounts, credit cards, cash flow, everything. I’ll dig into his digital footprint. If he found a penny on the sidewalk, I’ll find it.”

“That’s exactly what I need.”

“This is... Jackson, this is really cool that you’re asking me. I know things have been weird between us, and I get it. I totally get it,” he said, without taking a breath. “What I did during the Mercier case was inexcusable. I’ve thought about that a lot, actually. Like, way too much. Therapy-level too much. Mental institution too much. But if this is a chance to—I mean, if you need help, I want to help. For Steve. For justice. For whatever.”

“Charlie.”

“Yeah?”

“Just focus on the money. Can you do that for me?”

“Oh, absolutely. One hundred percent. I’m on it.” I could hear the clicking of a keyboard already starting in the background. “Vane probably had a secondary account if he was trying to hide things. People always do. Credit union, maybe. Or peer-to-peer transfer apps. Let me poke around the dark web versions of his usual platforms.”

“How long will this take?”

“A few hours? Maybe less if he wasn’t careful. And honestly, Jackson, most people aren’t that careful. They think they’re clever because they use two different banks—”

I cut him off before he could settle into his rant. “Just call me the second you find something concrete.”

“I will. I’m already in. This is going to be good, Jackson. I can feel it. We’re gonna crack this thing.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. “Thanks for calling me. For trusting me with this. I know I haven’t exactly earned it, but... thanks.”

“We’ll talk later.”

“On it. I’ll call you soon.”

I hung up and sat back in my chair, nursing cold coffee. I had no doubt Charlie Liu was going to find the answer I needed. That’s all that mattered.

The rest would sort itself out.

Share

The Shotgun Bar & Grill

Saturday: 2:30 p.m.

I hadn’t planned on involving Blaise Moriarty in this, but the truth was I needed someone who could move between the street world and my world without raising eyebrows. Blaise was that person.

I called him from my Jeep.

“What’s up?” he answered on the second ring, his Irish accent faint but present.

“I need a favor. I need you to come with me to meet someone. Street level.”

There was a pause. Blaise didn’t ask questions unless they mattered. “When?”

“Now. Pick you up in twenty minutes?”

“I’ll be outside,” he said, and hung up.

Blaise was already waiting when I pulled up to his apartment in the Seventh Ward—a modest shotgun house that he’d somehow made feel like a fortress. He was wearing jeans and a dark t-shirt, and even in casual clothes, he carried himself with the kind of quiet menace that made people instinctively not want to get on his bad side.

He was 6’4”, built lean and hard, with wavy dark red hair and pale blue eyes that could go from friendly to lethal quicker than lightning.

He got in the car without preamble.

“So what’s this about?” he asked.

I drove, and I talked. I told him about Steve Vasquez sitting in Orleans Justice Center, about the frame-up that was too easy, about how Imelda had come to me asking for help.

I told him about Remy taking the case, about the preliminary hearing that was coming, about the prosecution’s evidence that looked airtight but somehow felt wrong.

“And you’re investigating solo?” Blaise asked.

“For now. I’ve got Charlie Liu looking into Julian Vane’s finances. But I need to make sure Hector doesn’t do anything rash.”

“That won’t be easy,” Blaise said.

“If it were easy, we wouldn’t be having so much fun.”

Blaise was quiet a moment, staring out the window at the city passing by. When he spoke, his accent had thickened slightly. “Hector’s usually pretty level-headed. But when it comes to his family, all bets are off.”

“That’s why I need you to help me rein him in,” I said.

Blaise’s expression didn’t change, but I saw something flicker across his face—something like approval mixed with resignation. “Alright then. You know where he operates?”

“Lower Ninth Ward. There’s a bar called Shotgun.”

“I know it,” Blaise said. “Pull up here.”

We parked a block away and walked. The neighborhood was the kind of place where people learned not to ask questions about their neighbors’ business.

The buildings were weathered, the streets were quiet, and the eyes that watched us from windows were the eyes of people who’d learned to mind their own.

Shadows was a squat concrete building with a red neon sign that flickered intermittently. Blaise pushed open the door like he owned the place, and I followed him inside. Hip-hop beats hit us the moment we entered the building.

The bar was dim, lit by beer signs and the glow of a muted television showing a Saints game. The smell of sweat, booze, and despair dominated the room like an occupying force.

There were maybe six people inside, and every single one of them knew exactly who Blaise was. They nodded slightly but didn’t acknowledge us directly.

Hex was in the back, in a booth that gave him a view of the entire room. A few of his soldiers stood like statues behind the booth, glaring at us.

“Jackson, Blaise,” Hex said, nodding at the two of us. His voice was smooth and controlled, far different from when we last saw each other. “You find out who framed my brother yet?”

“Still working on it. Remember, I just started investigating,” I said, sitting across from him. Blaise slid into the booth beside me. “But I do have some information that leads me to believe he was framed. This isn’t just a misunderstanding.”

“No shit,” Hex said flatly. “We both know Steve ain’t capable of something like this. Tell me what you found.”

I laid it out. The gun with Steve’s prints. The GPS data showing his phone at the crime scene. The gold chain in his truck. The weak alibi. The doorman’s log that said nobody entered the building.

“That inconsistency,” Hex said, catching it immediately. “The doorman log. That’s real?”

“According to Remy Bishop—he’s Steve’s lawyer now—yes. Nobody entered between 9:30 and 11:30. The murder happened around 10:30.”

Hex sat back, processing. “So either the doorman’s lying, or Steve couldn’t have done it.”

“Also, he didn’t even know his handgun was gone. We’re going to have to find out how it went missing.”

Hector picked up his beer, sat back, and nodded.

“Someone wanted Steve to take the fall. Which means whoever actually killed Julian Vane had the resources to set this up. Frame him, plant evidence, make it stick.”

“What about the victim?” Hex asked. “Who was Julian Vane?”

“That’s what I’m working on. He was a counselor at the Sanctuary Network—an addiction treatment facility. Supposedly a recovery success story. Remy thinks if I can understand Julian’s actual life, understand who he was connected to and what he was involved in, I can find the real killer.”

“And what does your gut tell you?” Hex asked.

I thought about it. Something about reeked. The stack of evidence against Steve — it was too clean. Too easy.”My gut tells me it’s not random. The frame-up is too sophisticated. Too many layers. That takes resources, planning, institutional knowledge.”

Hex nodded slowly. He looked at Blaise, “You’re quiet.”

“I’m just taking it all in. Jackson updated me on the case on the way over,” Blaise said.

“Well, what do you think so far?” Hex asked.

“I don’t know your brother. But if Jackson says he’s innocent, he’s innocent. The question is: Who would be capable of such a sophisticated frame job?” Blaise said.

I jumped in, “Hector, who in the streets would be able to pull off something like this?”

Hector looked at the ceiling and scratched the back of his neck. “Nobody I know of,” he answered. “But I’ll start putting some feelers out on the street.”

“That would help,” I said. It would also keep his crew occupied with something productive instead of painting the streets with blood, but I didn’t mention this part.

As if reading my thoughts, Hector said, “I don’t have a problem looking into things for you. But I wasn’t playing about what I told you before.”

“I know you weren’t. I just need some time.”

“You don’t have much time. At some point, my boys are gonna expect action. You know how it is. I can’t look like no punk,” Hecter said.

“Steve’s preliminary hearing is in two weeks,” I said. “If I can find real evidence before then—”

“Then Steve walks,” Hex finished. “And nobody else has to get hurt—except the people who set up my brother.”

Blaise shifted slightly beside me, but he didn’t interrupt.

“Hector, when we find out who did this, we have to let the authorities handle it.” I said. “I hate the system as much as you do, but if you do something stupid, it’ll only be worse for you and Steve.”

“There’s gonna be consequences Jackson. We ain’t just gonna let this ride.” Hector’s eyes narrowed. “And I really hope you don’t get in our way.”

“And what happens if we do?” Blaise asked as if he were asking about the weather. He leaned forward, his face blank. I resisted the temptation to give him the “what the hell are you doing” look.

Hector raised an eyebrow. “You really wanna go there Blaise?”

“I’m just sayin’,” Blaise responded, his Irish accent making more of an appearance. “We all go back a long way. Be a shame to find ourselves at odds, mate.”

Hector looked at the two soldiers, who hadn’t moved an inch since we arrived. He gestured for them to go away. When they were out of earshot, he leaned forward. “Look man, you think I want this shit? I just want my brother free. But you both know how this game works,” he said.

“I understand,” I said. “But like I said, you don’t want the kind of attention that comes with what you’re saying.”

Hex didn’t argue. He took another sip of his beer.

“Let me put it this way. When you find out who did this, you better make sure you get to them before we do.”

I got the message. He knew I was right. But he couldn’t appear weak. If the authorities took care of the culprit, then it would mean he’s off the hook.

The last thing I needed was for his gang to complicate things while getting Hector in trouble. I would have to make sure I keep giving him something to do — a way to contribute.

“It looks like we’re on the same page,” I replied.

“Then we’re done here,” Hex said. “I’ll keep holding my guys back. Keep them busy. You find something concrete we stay in touch, but we stay distant.”

We fist bumped and stood.

Outside, walking back to the car, Blaise was quiet. When we reached the Jeep, he looked at me. “Well, that coulda been worse,” he said.

“It could have been better,” I said.

“Well, ya gotta look on the bright side, mate.”

“What side is that on?” I asked.

The Harlow Residence

Saturday: 3:45 p.m.

My phone buzzed. A text from Estelle: You alive?

I was working at home, checking emails, catching up on other articles I was working on. I remembered that tonight was the Sanctuary Network’s gala and I was supposed to ask Estelle to accompany me.

I called her.

“Hey,” she answered. “I was starting to think you’d gone full hermit.”

“I wish I could,” I said. “But this case is keeping me busy. Speaking of which, you free tonight?”

“Depends. Are you about to ask me to do something ridiculous?”

“Maybe,” I said. “There’s a fundraiser gala tonight. The Sanctuary Network. I got an invitation from Cassandra Rose.”

There was a pause. “Well look at you Mr. High Society,” she said.

“Keep messing with me and I’ll go out and buy myself a monocle and start calling people ‘dear boy,’” I said. Estelle laughed.

“She invited me to their big fundraising event,” I said. “I need to learn more about where Julian Vane worked, the people he knew, what his world looked like. I was thinking maybe you’d want to come with me.”

“Ah, so this is a work thing,” Estelle said, a hint of amusement in her voice.

“My dear Estelle,” I said, affecting a horrible British accent. “Part of being a world-class journalist is hobnobbing with the aristocracy.”

“Uh-huh,” Estelle said. “Well, I’d love to see Patricia again. Maybe I can meet Cassandra too? She’s kinda a hero of mine.”

“Oh lord,” I said. “Are you gonna be fangirling the whole time?”

“I’ll try to keep it to a minimum, but I’m not making any promises.”

“That’s all I ask.”

“And you’re definitely not awkward about seeing your ex in a social setting,” Estelle said, dripping with smugness.

“I’m completely fine,” I said.

“You’re terrible at lying,” Estelle said. “But okay. What time do we need to be there?”

“It starts at eight o’lock, but Cassandra knows I run on CPT, so there’s no rush.”

“You told her about colored people time?” Estelle laughed.

“Well, I had to have an excuse for why I’m always late, didn’t I?”

“I’ll start getting ready. You wanna pick me up at seven?” Estelle said. “We should eat before we go. And Jackson?”

“Yeah?”

“Wear the blue suit.”

“Your wish is my command, ma’am.”

After I hung up, I stood at my closet and found the blue suit. It was the one I’d bought three years ago for a wedding I never made it to. It still fit, which was something.

Cousin Boudreaux’s Restaurant

Saturday: 6:30 p.m.

Estelle sat across from me, picking at a chicken salad. She wore a sleek black cocktail dress that fit her like she was born in it. Her locs was tied back into a simple ponytail.

I updated Estelle on what I had learned so far and my conversation with Hector.

“So you have to figure out who framed Steve and have them arrested before Hector gets to them?”

I nodded, taking a bite of my catfish po’ boy sandwich. The flavor made me feel at home.

“But this is only if you can hold him and his gang back long enough to catch the bad guys?”

I nodded again.

“And you also have to prove Steve’s innocence, even with all the evidence against him?”

“Yep. That about sums it up.”

She sighed. I took another bite.

“Well, if there’s anyone who could do it, it’s you,” she said, picking at her salad.

“I hope you’re right. But I don’t know. The evidence against Steve is so damning, that if I didn’t know him, I’d think he’s guilty.”

“Yes, it’s not looking good.”

“Also, I don’t know how long I can keep Hex and his gang from going all helter skelter.”

“You’re probably right. But one thing I’ve learned about you over the past six months is that you work these types of cases like a pitbull.”

My phone rang. I answered.

“Yo, I found something,” Charlie Liu said. His keyboard was clicking in the background, rapid-fire. “And I mean really found something.”

“Talk to me,” I said, bracing myself for Charlie’s verbal barrage.

“Okay, so Julian’s finances are weird. Not like, normal-weird. Weird-weird. I got into his secondary accounts—the stuff he was hiding—and there’s a pattern. A very specific pattern.” He sped up, the words coming out staccato, like a machine gun. “We’re talking deposits and withdrawals, cyclical, rhythmic. Five grand in Tuesday, seven grand out Thursday. Ten grand in Monday, twelve grand out Wednesday. The amounts are too precise to be living expenses.”

My chest tightened. “Gambling?”

“Gambling,” Charlie confirmed. “And I’m not talking about fantasy football or casual poker nights. I’m talking about serious money, serious losses. I found a digital notepad he kept—just rough notes, nothing official—tracking his debt to someone.”

“To who?”

“That’s where it gets interesting,” Charlie said. “There’s a name. Multiple variations of it. Dom. Sometimes Dice. The notes are fragmented, but they all reference the same person. And the amounts owed are escalating. By the time Julian died, he was carrying almost one hundred twenty thousand in debt.”

I leaned against the wall. That was serious money. The kind of debt that got people hurt.

“There’s more,” Charlie said. “I found a draft text message that he never sent. Two weeks before he died. It just says: ‘Please, I just need more time.’“

That sounded like the plea of a man who desperately wanted to keep his kneecaps intact.

“This is helpful,” I said. It was actually brilliant, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that.

“Wait until you hear the rest,” Charlie said. “Whoever this ‘Dice’ character is, he’s not some small-time operator. The way he’s tracking the debt, the way he’s collecting—this is organized. This is the kind of person who doesn’t lose money.”

“Can you find a last name? A location? Anything I can actually work with?”

“I’m digging,” Charlie said. “If Julian owed this much money to someone this organized, and if Julian ended up dead, those two facts are probably connected. We’re talking bigger than street-level crime.”

“I know,” I said.

“There’s a lot here. But I’m still working on it.”

“Just keep digging,” I said. “I need answers.”

“You’ll get them,” Charlie said. “But be careful, okay? Be actually careful. Not Jackson-Harlow-diving-into-dangerous-situations careful.”

I hung up. Estelle looked at me.

“That was Charlie?” she asked.

“Yes. I needed a tech wizard. He’s the best I know.”

“After what he did to you?” she asked.

“I’m still pissed. But this is about Steve. I’m putting my personal feelings aside.”

Estelle looked at me as if she were trying to figure out a jigsaw puzzle.

“I haven’t forgiven him,” I said. “I don’t think I ever will.”

“Never say never.”

The Sanctuary Network Headquarters

Saturday: 9:00 p.m.

By the time we turned off St. Charles, the streetcar bells were a memory and the city had gone quiet in that particular Uptown way—old an new money insulating itself from noise of the plebes.

I eased my Jeep through the open iron gates of The Sanctuary Network. Live oaks lined the drive on both sides, massive things with trunks like marble cathedral columns and Spanish moss hanging down in gray-green curtains. Uplights at their bases threw the branches into sharp relief against the dark, so it felt like we were driving under the ribs of something ancient and expensive.

“Subtle,” I said.

Estelle sat beside me. Her black dress was devoid of wrinkles and hit the exact line between elegant and dangerous. Heads were going to turn, and not just because of the car that sounded like it needed a nicotine patch.

“You’re making me feel like James Bond with that dress,” I said.

“If only you were Daniel Craig. Or Idris Elba.”

“Is that your way of mocking my British impersonation?”

“I mean, it’s not as bad as Keanu Reeves’ in Dracula.”

“I’ll take it.”

The campus rose ahead of us, framed by a brick perimeter wall. The main building looked like it had been a convent in a previous life—three stories of pale stucco and weathered brick, tall arched windows glowing warm behind old iron balconies, a dark slate roof cutting a clean line against the sky.

Somebody had spent a lot of money making sure the place said legacy and respectability from the street.

Just to the right, a newer wing broke the illusion—a glass-and-steel box grafted onto the historic shell, all sharp angles and floor‑to‑ceiling windows. The lobby inside was lit up like an aquarium, silhouettes moving behind frosted glass.

I pulled up toward the circular drive where valets in Sanctuary-blue jackets were already jogging to intercept cars that cost more than my student loans ever had. My Jeep coughed once as I put it in park, like it, too, knew it didn’t belong between a black Escalade and a silver Mercedes.

One of the valets opened Estelle’s door before I could. She stepped out, and the kid’s professional smile stuttered for half a second. Couldn’t blame him.

I came around and handed over the keys to a young man whose name tag said, “Patrick.” The valet gave my Jeep the kind of look one would give a vegan dish at a BBQ.

“She’s a classic,” I told him. “Talk to her nice, she’ll behave.”

He laughed politely and drove off very carefully.

Estelle and I climbed the front steps together. Up close, the main building was even more deliberate. The brick had been repainted, the stucco refreshed, but not so much that it lost its age.

The iron railings on the double doors were original or very good liars. To the left of the entrance, a stone monument sign sat in a bed of manicured shrubs: THE SANCTUARY NETWORK in brushed metal, and beneath it in smaller letters, Where Recovery Becomes Life.

“That’s not bad,” Estelle said, nodding at the tagline. “A little on the nose, but it works.”

“They probably paid a branding firm six figures to come up with it,” I said. “Somewhere there’s a guy in Brooklyn telling people he saved lives with a font choice.”

She bumped her shoulder lightly against mine. “Try not to be a complete cynic for one night, okay? They do help people, Jackson. Patricia’s not the only one.”

“Ready?” Estelle asked.

“After you,” I said.

She took my arm, and together we stepped through the doors into the light.

Stepping into the building felt like walking through the wardrobe that leads to Narnia.

The lobby of The Sanctuary Network hit you all at once.

The space was soaring—thirty feet of vertical silence with a ceiling of exposed dark wood that made you feel small and powerful at the same time. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light across pale Italian tile.

To the right, a marble reception desk curved like a wave, staffed by women in navy blazers who looked like they’d been trained at some finishing school that taught hospitality as a weapon.

But it was the walls that made the statement. They were covered in photographs—client testimonials in shrine-like fashion. Before and after pictures.

A woman who’d been gaunt and hollowed out smiling with weight back in her face. A man with his arm around a prodigal son he thought he’d lost forever. Names and recovery dates in elegant typography. Marcus—347 days sober. Jennifer—1,005 days clean. DeShawn—recovery and three college credits.

The message was inescapable: We save lives here.

To the left, a corridor opened up toward the ballroom proper, and from that direction came the sound of a string quartet playing Vivaldi, the warm murmur of expensive conversation, the clink of glasses. Waiters in white gloves drifted past like phantoms, carrying champagne and canapés on handcrafted trays.

A young woman in a Sanctuary blazer appeared at my elbow before I’d had time to take it all in. “Mr. Harlow? Ms. Mason? Welcome. The ballroom is this way.” She gave us a programmed smile and led us into the ballroom.

Estelle squeezed my arm—a tiny message that said play nice—and together we let ourselves be guided toward the light.

“Oh, there’s Patricia,” Estelle quipped like an excited schoolgirl. “Come and let me introduce you.”

We walked over to a young woman, mid-20s, slender, and ready to socialize. Her long, dirty blonde hair stretched to the middle of her back. She wore a yellow dress and a hint of mischief in her smile. She reminded me of a a ‘70s “Flower Power” hippie chick. All she needed was a daisy in her hair.

Patricia saw Estelle as we approached, and her face morphed into a smile that reached the blue of her eyes.

“Stellie!” Patricia squealed.

“Trishie!” Estelle squealed back.

I didn’t squeal at all.

They embraced like they were sisters who hadn’t seen each other in years. Patricia looked at me and asked, “Is this Jackson Harlow, the illustrious journalist?”

It was then that I knew Patricia and I were going to get along just fine.

Estelle gave Patricia a playful slap on her hand. “Please. His head is big enough. If you go on like that, he’ll look like a hot-air balloon.”

“I’ll have you know my head is exactly the right size, ma’am,” I said, shaking Patricia’s hand.

“Stellie has told me a lot about you,” Patricia said, winking.

“And it’s all true — except the bad stuff,” I said.

She laughed.

“That Mercier murder. That was just awful. I’m so glad that guy is in prison,” Patricia said.

“Me too,” I said. “I’m going to let y’all catch up. I have some journalisming to do.”

“Okay,” Estelle said. “Good luck with Cassandra.”

I tipped the hat I wasn’t wearing and explored the ballroom. A lady in a blue blazer approached me, holding a tray of pigs in a blanket, and asked if I cared to indulge.

I did.

“Jackson!” I knew who it was before I even saw her. I turned around to see Cassandra Rose, wearing a bright crimson dress that gripped her curves like a latex glove.

“There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you,” I said.

She scoffed. “You’re a bad liar, Jackson Harlow. I know you just got here. CPT, right?”

I held out my fists as if she were about to handcuff me. “Take me in, officer.”

Cassandra laughed and we hugged. Her jet black hair smelled like a mix of jasmine and citrus. We broke the hug, but she didn’t move back. She stood close and looked up at me, her brown eyes glimmering.

“It’s so good to see you again,” Cassandra whispered. “You look good Jackson.”

“Not as good as you, Cass,” I said, using weapons-grade willpower to focus on her face instead of her plunging neckline.

“We need to talk, yes?” she said.

“If you have time.”

“For you? Always. Follow me.”

Cassandra Rose’s Office

Saturday Evening

She led me down a hall and into an elevator that went to the second floor. I followed her down another hall into an office that was probably bigger than my house.

Fancy paintings adorned the walls, leading us further into the room. A large oak desk stood toward the back of the office, in front of columns of floor-to-ceiling windows. A clear vase perched on the desk, holding a bouquet of red roses, Cassandra’s namesake.

She took my hand and led me to a large couch placed between the door and desk. “I’ll make us some drinks,” she said.

As she fixed our drinks, I texted Estelle, “I’m in Cassandra’s office. Will be back down soon.”

“K try not to fall in love. I think Patricia has a crush on you.”

I laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Cassandra asked as she set down my drink. She sat down next to me, close enough that I could smell the jasmine again.

“Just an inside joke,” I said.

“And who’s that beautiful young lady I saw on your arm?”

Her smile remained on her face, but looked forced.

“A friend. We met during the Dolly Mercier case. She worked for the victim,” I said.

I thought I saw a hint of relief pass over Cassandra’s face. Or maybe I was imagining things. I picked up the glass and took a sip.

“Kamikaze on the rocks,” I said. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did.”

I took another sip and took in the room and its owner. It had been years since I’d had drinks with Cassandra. But it felt like it had only been a few days. I yearned for this more than I even realized.

“Believe it or not, I’ve missed you, Jackson.”

“I missed you too, Cass. It’s been way too long. Judging from the look of this place, y’all are doing pretty well here.”

She took a sip of blood red wine that was probably bottled while Napoleon Bonaparte walked the Earth.

Cassandra sighed. “Yes, it hasn’t been easy. But I like to think we’ve saved lives.”

“I’ve heard nothing but good things about The Sanctuary Network.”

She gave a weary smile and took another sip.

“I’m glad. Seems like every time I turn around, there’s another talking head or politician talking about how our program is a waste of time.”

“Ah, the ‘tough on crime’ crowd?”

“The very same. They complain about us all the time. They say we’re making things easier for criminals, soft on crime, all that nonsense.”

Her face turned about as red as her dress, and I knew it wasn’t just the wine.

“These people—they don’t care about suffering,” she said, her voice rising. “They just want to lock people up.”

“Locking people up makes people feel safer—even if they aren’t. It also doesn’t help when politicians constantly make addicts out to be criminals.”

Cassandra nodded. “They complain about judges sending people to The Sanctuary instead of just throwing them behind bars.”

I took a sip. The drink was excellent. Cassandra hadn’t lost her touch. Her shoulders relaxed, and she gave a sigh that seemed to last five minutes.

“I’m sorry for getting so amped up,” she said. “Sometimes it gets to me.”

We used to talk about this often. How the system preys on those who have a hard time defending themselves. How the government used drug prohibition to expand its reach. Cassandra started The Sanctuary Network after she lost her brother to an overdose. His death devastated her family, but she managed to use it to build something beautiful in his honor.

“Cassandra, you know you don’t have to apologize. I remember how passionate you are about this. I’ve always admired you for it.”

She smiled as our eyes met. “I remember you being pretty passionate too, Jackson Harlow.”

Cassandra had a certain charm. She could make any statement sound intimate, like you were the most important thing to her at the moment. It’s why her employees and supporters were so loyal to her. Many of those who worked at the Sanctuary had been with her from the beginning. Some were former clients who Cassandra saved when they were at their lowest point.

It was also why my heart was beating so hard, I thought it would explode.

“So, about Julian Vane,” I managed to say.

Her eyebrows perked up, as if she just remembered why we were sitting alone in her office.

“Yes, Julian,” she said, her eyes suddenly downcast. “What do you want to know?”

“If my information is correct, he’d been working for you for almost a decade. What was his role here?”

“He was our chief marketing officer. He handled all our social media, our website, and a bunch of other things that are over my head.”

“Was he good at his job?”

“Very. That man could raise funds at the drop of a hat. He more than tripled our following online. Almost like he was born for the job.”

“He used to be a client, right?”

“Yes. He was addicted to fentanyl. Almost overdosed twice before the judge sent him to the Sanctuary.”

“Wow, twice?”

“It’s more common than you think. He was lucky to survive—” her voice trailed off. Her eyes glistened as she fought back tears.

I took her hand. “I know this is hard on you. You already have a lot on your shoulders, and you just lost someone you care about.”

She sniffed, but managed to maintain her composure. She gave my hand a squeeze, then took another sip.

“It’s a lot. But you know me. I manage,” she said.

“I have some more questions, is that okay?”

She straightened her dress and crossed her legs.

“Yes, of course.”

“From what I know about Julian, he seemed to live pretty well for someone who works for a nonprofit — even as an executive. Do I need to switch careers or did he have another source of income?”

She giggled, which is exactly what I wanted.

“Well, if we ever have an opening for our public relations department, I’ll keep you in mind,” she laughed again before answering my question.

“I don’t know where Julian got his money from.” She shrugged and took another sip. “I think someone told me he came from money. I’m not sure how true that is. I never asked him.”

“What about his relationships? Was he close to any of his co-workers?”

She leaned forward and placed her chin in her hand. “He would go out for drinks with some of the other employees sometimes. He got along pretty well with Shelley LeBlanc. She’s one of our counselors.”

“Were they dating?” I asked.

“I don’t think so. I doubt she was his type.”

“What’s his type?”

“Flashy. Wealthy. He liked women of a certain…pedigree,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Said he had an image to maintain.”

“I guess Julian and I have something in common,” I said with a sly grin.

She chuckled. “Oh really? Is that your way of flirting, Jackson Harlow?”

“Not at all. You’ve ruined me for other flashy and wealthy women.”

She paused, staring at me with a look that told me she knew I was full of it.

“Okay, maybe I’m flirting a little,” I said.

There was that smile again. Her cheeks flushed slightly.

“Maybe you should flirt a lot,” she said. “Should we have another drink?”

“We’d be fools not to.”

She stood up and floated over to the bar. My phone buzzed. It was Estelle.

“You still alive?” she wrote.

“Yes.”

“You still clothed?”

“You jealous?”

“🤮🤮🤮,” she replied.

“I’ll be back down soon. Just a few more questions.”

“K. I need to talk to you about Patricia.”

“Sounds good.”

“You talking to your girlfriend?” Cassandra was coming back toward the couch, two drinks in her hands. A flash of annoyance swept quickly over her face.

“She’s just a friend. And yes.”

That made her smile again, which was contagious.

“Good.” She sat back down and handed me my drink. We clinked glasses and took a sip.

“Where were we?” she asked.

“I was about to ask if Julian might have had a gambling problem.”

She was about to take another sip, but paused. She put her glass down and crossed her legs.

“That was a long time ago,” she said.

Cassandra played with one of the gaudy rings on her finger and ran a hand through her hair.

“Do you think it might have something to do with the murder?” She asked.

“I don’t know. But I’m trying to get a better picture of who he was.”

“I really don’t want to make him look bad, Jackson.”

“I don’t either. We all have our vices. Nobody will think he deserved to die for being human.”

She sighed. “Well, I suppose it’ll come out eventually if it’s true. He did have a gambling problem, along with his other addictions.”

I didn’t respond.

“Some of the other employees were talking about it. Said he’d been gambling again. I thought it was just gossip. But he swore he wasn’t hooked again.”

“Did you believe him?”

“No.”

“Did he spend a lot of time at the casino?”

Cassandra looked away, as if me being out of her sight would make the questions go away.

“No. He wasn’t that type of gambler.”

“What does that mean?”

She turned back to me, her eyes downcast. “He was more of the underground type, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I do.”

“But I don’t know where or who he was gambling with.”

“I see. I only have a few more questions, Cass. I know you need to get back to the party.”

“It’s fine. I need a break from it anyway and you’re the perfect distraction.” She smiled.

“How was he acting before his death? Did you notice anything strange?”

She thought for a moment.

“I don’t know if this is relevant. But about two months ago, I noticed he was taking notes in a little notebook,” she said. “He had it with him everywhere — always scribbling. About meetings, patient stories, all kinds of stuff.”

I nodded.

“I asked him about it. He said he was taking notes on our operations to hone his marketing strategy. Gathering stories he could tell on social media.”

“I see. Were you concerned?”

“About what?”

“Well, that he might accidentally — or deliberately — publish sensitive information?”

“N-no, of course not,” she said a little too quickly. “He would...he would never do anything that would hurt The Sanctuary. He believed in our work.”

“You sure?”

Her grip tightened on her glass. I was afraid she would break it. “I’m sure,” she said, her eyebrows arching.

“Cass, I’m not trying to upset you. I just want to make sure I get the facts right.”

Her face relaxed. “I know Jackson. I’m sorry. I’m just under a lot of pressure right now, you know?”

“I know,” I said. “Is there anything else you remember?”

She stopped to think for a moment. “Not really. But there was one thing—” her voice trailed off.

“What was that?” I leaned forward.

“I don’t know. It’s probably not even related.”

I smiled. “Let me be the judge of that.”

“One of my employees mentioned seeing Julian meeting with someone at Café Du Monde about a month ago.”

“Man? Woman?”

“Woman. But Jace, my employee, said he didn’t get a good look at her. It loooked like they were trying to be discreet, sitting in the corner, that kind of thing.”

“One of his wealthy, fancy girlfriends?”

“Could be. But like I said, I doubt it’s even relevant.”

“Okay. Can you let me know if you learn anything else?”

“Of course, Jackson. It’ll give me an excuse to see you again.”

Against my better judgment I said, “Maybe we could get together sometime soon, when I don’t have to interrogate you like a cop.”

Cassandra laughed as we stood up, preparing to go back downstairs. We faced each other, standing close enough that I could smell her hair again. Her eyes hypnotized me, drawing me in like a siren at sea.

This wasn’t the time. “We’d better get back to the party.”

She took my hand, still looking up at me. “Yes, we probably should…or….” She let the question hang in the air.

My phone buzzed. A text message. From Remy. He had great timing. Or crappy timing. I hadn’t made up my mind yet.

“Yo. Call me tomorrow. Something I want to run by you,” he wrote.

I responded with a thumbs up.

Cassandra didn’t let go of my hand. We walked back into the hallway toward the elevator.

She pressed the button with a well-manicured finger and turned toward me. “You better not be lying to me, Jackson,” she said like a schoolmarm disciplining a student.

“About what?”

“About us getting together again soon.”

“Scout’s honor, ma’am.”

“And if you ever call me ‘ma’am’ again, I’ll put arsenic in your kamikaze next time.”

“Fair enough.”

Subscribe now

The Sanctuary Network Lobby

Saturday Evening

I splashed cold water on my face. I could still smell the jasmine and citrus lingering like a spurned lover.

I stared at my reflection in the restroom mirror. I’d just spent an hour with one of the most powerful people in New Orleans and left with more questions than answers. And a knot in my chest that had nothing to do with the investigation.

Cassandra and I had parted ways years ago, but being with her just then, it felt like it had only been a day.

And I wanted more.

But I couldn’t focus on that. I had a murder to solve and a prisoner to free. I wondered whether Julian’s gambling problem was related to his death. From what Charlie told me, he owed quite a bit of cash — but to whom?

There was also Julian’s notebook. It could be exactly what Cassandra believed it was, but something nagged at the back of my mind. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I dried my face with a paper towel and reminded myself to take a long, cold shower when I got home.

I made my way back to the lobby where the party was. There was a short hallway leading to a door, which piqued my curiosity. Normal people would have kept going. But my journalist brain wouldn’t allow me. I opened the door to what appeared to be an office area. Desks spread out across the wide room holding up laptops and other items.

This was clearly not a guest area. There was no reason to be snooping around there. But that never stopped me before.

I was about to go deeper into the room when voices reached my ears from a smaller office across the room. One voice was low and measured clearly male. The other was young, female, and nervous.

I didn’t want to get caught in a restricted area. I turned to leave when the office door opened.

A man the size of an elephant walked through, followed by a wide-eyed blonde who looked as if she would rather be anywhere else.

I locked eyes with the sasquatch. He was about six-foot five, two inches taller than me, and as wide as a silverback gorilla. He wore a white dress shirt with a black vest. He’d rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms as large as tree trunks. A dragon tattoo emblazoned the side of his neck.

“Mr. Harlow,” the sasquatch said, his voice flat. He strode leisurely across the room — faster than he looked. I looked up at him as he shook my hand, which felt like a vise grip threatening to crush my fingers.

I’m not used to having to look up to see someone’s face. But here I was.

“Hey there Mr…?”

“Vargas.”

“Just Vargas?”

“Just Vargas.”

“Like Madonna.”

His eyebrows lifted, confused.

“You know, just one name?” I said. “Like Cher?”

He didn’t laugh, but a thin smile appeared on his face. Why didn’t anyone appreciate my sense of humor?

“The main ballroom is back that way,” he said.

“Yeah? Sorry, haven’t been here in awhile. Got lost.”

He looked at me as if I’d just told him I have some prime oceanfront property in Wyoming to sell him on the cheap.

He wasn’t threatening, but there was something in his eyes. Or maybe the lack of something. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I could tell this was not a man I wanted to piss off.

The blonde gave me a concerned look before she skittered out of the room in the opposite direction.

“So what do you do here, Vargas?”

“Head of security. I make sure everyone is safe. And I make sure people don’t accidentally wind up in places they don’t belong.”

There was that thin smile again.

“Right. Well, sorry about that.”

“It happens,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ll head back to the party. Nice meeting you.”

“Likewise.”

***

I wandered through the ballroom looking for Estelle amidst a sea of designer suits, fancy dresses, and expensive champagne.

“Jackson Harlow!” a deep booming voice sounded behind me. A ball of rage grew in the pit of my chest.

I turned around to see Mayor Pierce Lemaine’s smiling face heading my way. My shoulders tensed, as if ready for a fight.

But this was not a man you fought with fists.

“Long time no see,” he said as if we were childhood friends. “You don’t call, you don’t write.”

“I knew I smelled something sleazy. Should have known it’d be you, mayor.”

Lemaine affected a wounded expression. “Oh come on. You’re not happy to see me?”

“I’d be happier if I were talking to you behind bars.”

Lemaine laughed, and meant it. “Don’t be like that Jackson. You still mad about that woman? What was her name…Delia?”

He must have seen the rage flashing across my eyes because he took a step back and put up his hands in mock surrender.

“It was Dolly,” I said.

“Whoa there, tiger,” he said, with that grin. “We’re in public, remember?”

“You don’t have to worry about that, Pierce.” He flinched when I used his first name instead of his title. “I’ve got something worse planned for you.”

I met Lemaine when he was still a councilmember and mayoral candidate about seven months ago, when I was investigating the murder of Dolly Mercier, owner of Memory House Antique shop.

After a weeks long investigation and another murder, I discovered that the killer was Kyle Weston, who worked as Lemaine’s intern. He also killed a young activist named Sadie Broussard. It turned out that Lemaine had subtly used his influence over the young man to manipulate him into killing Dolly because she was selling historical racist relics at her shop.

Then he tried to have Kyle killed before he could talk. A corrupt police officer shot him three times after I found him out, but he’d survived.

Still, Lemaine was slick as an oil leak. He never actually ordered Kyle to kill anyone, so he was insulated from consequences — for now.

“I get you’re still mad about,” he said. “But one day, you will understand why it had to happen.”

“What are you doing here, anyway?”

He straightened his tie. “Me? I’m a firm supporter of The Sanctuary Network. Cassandra was very kind — and generous — to me during my campaign,” he said.

“That’s because she doesn’t know what you are,” he said. “Maybe I’ll change that.”

Lemaine’s face drooped into a scowl. Now he was the one who looked like he wanted violence — a wish I would gladly grant..

To my disappointment, he restrained himself.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m already mayor, right?” he laughed again.

I longed for the moment when I would wipe that fucking smile off his face. But I remained calm.

Lemaine looked confident. Powerful. Untouchable. “Are you covering the gala for The Bayou Chronicle?”

“Something like that.”

“You’re forgetting who I am, Jackson. I already know you’re looking into the Julian Vane murder. You’re here trying to gather information, aren’t you?”

I didn’t answer.

“I admire your dedication to justice,” Lemaine said, like a father giving advice to his son. “But I have to say, I’m a little concerned.”

“A kid’s in jail for a crime he didn’t commit,” I said. “I’m not gonna let that stand. You don’t plan on trying to stop me, do you?”

He looked at me like I was a child who just fell off his bike. “Jackson, of course not. But you’ve seen the evidence against him, right? It is what it is.”

I didn’t respond.

“But I’m more worried about you stirring up trouble for no good reason,” he said.

“Oh really? Are you afraid I’m going to find something...inconvenient?”

“Not at all. Believe it or not, I want justice just as much as you do.”

“Like you did for Dolly and Sadie?”

“Look, Cassandra does fine work here. One of her employees was viciously murdered in his own home,” he said as if going into a campaign speech. “Whatever your problems are with me, you poking around here might cause some to get the wrong idea. That’s the last thing I would want”

“That sounds like a threat,” Jackson said.

“It’s friendly advice,” Lemaine said. His voice remained smooth, almost sympathetic. Like a doctor explaining a terminal diagnosis. “I know you mean well. But sometimes good intentions can lead us into dangerous places. Places where we don’t belong.”

“In my experience, places I don’t belong are just places people like you would rather leave hidden,” I said.

“Well, I need to get back to it. It was nice seeing you again, Jackson,” Lemaine said, shrugging. “Keep up the good work. I’m still a fan.”

I smiled like a shark. “I appreciate it. Maybe one day I’ll write something that changes your life — permanently.”

The smile remained on his face, but his quickly blinking eyes gave him away. Was that a hint a fear?

Good.

***

As Lemaine walked away, I felt an arm loop itself through mine.

“I’m impressed,” Estelle said.

“Yeah?”

“I was watching you two across the room. I was surprised you managed not to break his jaw.”

“It was tempting. But I resisted,” I said. “How did it go with Patricia?”

Estelle’s face fell. More than troubled—concerned. She guided me away from the crowd to a quiet nook at one of the corners of the room.

“She was perfect. Too perfect. Like she was performing recovery instead of living it.”

“What do you mean?”

“She kept saying things like, ‘I owe Cassandra everything’ and ‘Sanctuary saved my life.’”

“Sounds about right. Didn’t you tell me this place saved her life?”

“Yes...but there was...something about how she said it. It was like a script. A word-for-word script,” Estelle said. “And when I asked her about how she spends her days—like, what does she actually do—she got real vague. Said she does ‘community work’ but wouldn’t give details.”

I studied Estelle’s face. She wasn’t the type to imagine things or misread social interactions.

“Maybe she’s just nervous?” I said.

“Maybe,” Estelle said. “But I remember Patricia from before all this. She was funny, messy, real. Tonight, she felt...curated. Like she’d memorized a part in a play and she was performing it perfectly. Every emotion in the right place. Every word exactly right. It’s hard to explain...I guess you’d have to see for yourself.”

“She might be going through something that she didn’t feel comfortable telling you with all these people around. One of her co-workers was just murdered. She might have been close to him.”

“You might be right. Maybe I’ll give her a call later, see if she wants to grab some coffee.”

We stood together in silence, watching the minglers mingle. Guests moved between conversations like a game of musical chairs. Waiters drifted around the room with plates full of champagne, canapés, and just the proper level of deference.

The string quartet was playing “Por Una Cabeza.”

“Isn’t this the song from True Lies?” Estelle giggled.

“Yes, it is the song from True Lies,” I said, affecting my best Arnold Schwarzenegger accent.

“Good thing Cassandra isn’t here. You’d probably reenact that ballroom dance seen. Or maybe that part when Jamie Lee Curtis does the strip tease?”

“You hush your mouth, woman,” I said, trying my best to pretend I wasn’t thinking that exact thing.

Estelle made a zipping motion across her mouth.

***

Estelle and I continued our rich people watching. A tall, freshly polished man with a reddish beard locked eyes with me. He almost sprinted over to us.

As he got closer, a smile jumped onto his face. “Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but are you Jackson Harlow? The journalist?”

“Depends. Are you from the IRS or Amway?”

Estelle rolled her eyes, but I knew she thought it was funny. Everyone thinks I’m funny. The man gave a hearty laugh.

I put on the most smug expression I could muster and looked at Estelle as if to say, “See?”

He was delicately gripping a champagne flute, looking immaculate in his tailored blue suit. His shoulder-length hair was about as red as his beard.

“Fortunately, I’m not here to rob or scam you. But I read your work all the time. I never thought I’d get to meet you.”

“I appreciate that Mr…?”

The man flinched, as if he just remembered he left his pants at home. “I’m so sorry about that. My name is Simon Ash.”

“Simon Ash?” Estelle said, her voice rising. “Aren’t you on that podcast? I knew your voice sounded familiar.”

“Podcast?” I said.

“Yes. The Loose Ends podcast,” Simon said.

“I think I’ve heard of that,” I said. “True crime? That kind of deal?”

“You got it,” Simon smiled. “I loved your work on the Dolly Mercier case. That was some wild shit, man.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“You know what I found fascinating about that case?” Ash continued, his eyes shifting between Estelle and I. “How predators work. Not the obvious kind—not the ones who hunt in the open. But the subtle ones. The ones who hide in plain sight. The intelligent ones. Like Kyle Weston.”

Something cold slide down my spine.

“The best predators,” Ash continued, sounding like we were recording a podcast episode, “are the ones who understand human psychology. They understand that people want to believe the performance. They want to believe that the beautiful facade is real. The hero narrative. So predators give people what they want. They perform so convincingly that everyone—and I mean everyone—starts to believe their own story.”

He took a sip of champagne, letting the words hang in the air, making me wonder how many glasses he had consumed. Estelle looked at me, her expression bemused.

I didn’t respond. I just waited, aware that Ash wasn’t finished.

“Just like Kyle,” Simon continued before stopping abruptly. “Oh man, I’m sorry. I just get excited about this kind of thing.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be a successful podcaster if you didn’t,” Estelle said.

His face reddened, embarrased, but also flattered.

“So what brings you to this party?” Estelle asked.

“Oh, Cassandra invited me.” He leaned closer, as if telling us a secret. “Apparently, she’s a fan of the podcast.”

“Yeah, now that you mention it, I think that’s how I heard your podcast,” I said. “She wouldn’t stop playing it.”

Simon nodded. “She mentioned you would be here.”

He paused, and then lit up as if he just thought of an idea. “Hey, would you be interested in coming on the podcast to talk about the Mercier case?” You’d be a perfect guest,” he said.

I knew he didn’t just think of the idea. But I played along. “That might be cool,” I said.

“Let’s exchange numbers.”

We did.

Simon flashed another smile. Something behind me grabbed his gaze.

“Hey, there’s Beverly Hayes with her husband,” he said. “They’re major donors to The Sanctuary. Let me introduce you.”

Before I could decline he led us over to the couple.

***

I watched the couple as we made our way across the ballroom. They stood there, like statues.

Beverly stood beside her husband, the perfect accessory. Beautiful. Composed. Present but not present. Her hand rested lightly on his arm, the gesture of a dutiful wife. Her smile was professional. Her eyes were somewhere else entirely.

Then something happened across the room.

Cassandra laughed at something someone said. It was a genuine laugh, warm and unguarded.

Beverly’s entire body went rigid.

For a fraction of a second—her face did something. Pain flickered across her features like lightning. Longing. Grief. Raw emotion. The unguarded moment of someone who’s just realized they can’t have something they want more than anything.

Simon guided us toward the Hayes couple with the ease of a tour guide.

The man was standing with his wife Beverly, looking at the wall of client testimonials. Before and after photographs. Recovery stories. The visual proof of Sanctuary’s work.

“Judge Hayes, Mrs. Hayes,” Simon said warmly. “I’d like you to meet Jackson Harlow and Estelle Mason. Jackson is a journalist with The Bayou Chronicle. Estelle works in antiques.”

The judge extended his hand with a smile that coverd his whole face. “Always happy to meet people interested in the Sanctuary’s work. Call me Robert.”

Beverly smiled politely, but Jackson noticed her grip on the Judge’s arm tightened slightly. Almost imperceptibly.

“Your work here is impressive,” I said, shaking the Judge’s hand.

“Thank you,” the judge said. “Cassandra has built something really special. Really transformative. There’s no telling how many people she has saved.”

Simon excused himself almost immediately. “I’m going to grab something to eat. They have some exceptional vegan options tonight. Please, enjoy the rest of the evening.”

He wandered away, leaving us with the Hayes couple.

***

“How long have you been involved with Sanctuary?” I asked the judge.

“Cassandra and I go back several years,” he said. “I’ve been fortunate to see the work firsthand. It’s remarkable what she’s accomplished,” he said.

Beverly remained silent, her eyes still on the photographs. Her gaze lingered on a picture of a beaming Julian posing with some famous actor.

I stepped toward the wall of testimonials. “The success rate seems exceptional,” I said, nodding at the before-and-afters. “Are these real transformations?”

“Absolutely,” the judge said, moving to stand beside me. “These are our success stories. People who came in broken and left rebuilt. It’s one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever been part of.”

“What about the ones who don’t make it?” I asked. “The people who come and don’t get better?”

The judge’s expression shifted slightly. A flicker of something—discomfort? Defensiveness? It was there and then gone in an instant.

“Everyone’s journey is different, I suppose” he said carefully. “Some people need more time. Some people aren’t ready for the work it takes to change.”

Beverly’s grip tightened on his arm again.

“Julian Vane was one of Sanctuary’s success stories, wasn’t he?” I asked, watching Beverly’s face carefully.

“Yes,” the judge said. “A remarkable young man. His passing was a tragedy.”

Beverly’s jaw clenched. She looked away from the photographs toward the ballroom, toward where Cassandra was standing near the orchestra.

“Did you know him well?” Estelle asked.

“Professionally,” the judge said. “Through Sanctuary business.”

“Mrs. Hayes?” I turned to Beverly. “Did you know Julian?”

Beverly’s hesitation was barely perceptible, but it was there. A moment where she had to decide what to say.

“I...I knew of him,” she stammered. Her voice was steady, but there was something underneath it. A tremor. “He was a kind person. Very kind.”

“It must have been difficult,” Estelle said, sensing the shift in Beverly’s energy. “To lose someone connected to The Sanctuary. Someone who mattered.”

Beverly’s eyes shifted to Estelle for just a moment. There was something like gratitude in that look.

“It was,” Beverly said. Her eyes were still fixed on the ballroom, on Cassandra. “It’s difficult to lose anyone. But especially someone who...who helped you. Who understood you.”

Cassandra was standing near the orchestra, accepting compliments from a city councilman. She looked radiant. Powerful. Completely in control of every person in this room.

“We should probably let you get back to your guests,” I said.

“Of course,” the Judge said, already preparing to move back into the social morass of the gala. “It was wonderful meeting you both.”

***

Estelle and I were both exhausted from all the social interaction. We headed toward the exit when Cassandra intercepted us.

She was smiling, but I could see she was also tired. Running a gala must be tough, especially when you were orchestrating every conversation, every relationship, every moment. The Sanctuary’s cash flow depended on many of the people in the room.

“You’re leaving?” she asked, a note of disappointment in her voice.

“Early morning tomorrow,” I said. “Work calls.”

“I’m glad you came,” Cassandra said. She hugged Estelle briefly, professional but warm. “It was so lovely meeting you Estelle. I might swing by your shop one day.”

Then she turned to me.

The hug lasted just slightly longer than it should have, but not as long as I would have liked. I smelled the jasmine again. Felt her warmth and the pull of history and chemistry and everything that had passed between us.

When we broke apart, she held my arms for a moment, looking up at me.

“Call me,” she said quietly.

“Will do” Jackson said.

“And be careful, Jackson.” She turned to Estelle. “Make sure he’s careful. I’m sure you know how he is.”

Estelle flashed a knowing grin. “Oh, I’m aware.”

“I mean it,” Cassandra said, turning back to me. Her expression had shifted. Something more worried. “There are a lot of people in this city who don’t appreciate questions being asked about things that matter to them.”

I understood.

“I’ll be careful,” I said. “I promise.”

She released his arms and stepped back, and the public persona slid back into place like armor.

In the car, Estelle was quiet for a moment as I pulled out into the night.

“Just say it,” I said.

“Caaaall me,” Estelle said, imitating Cassandra’s breathy alto.

“What?” I said, though I knew exactly what she meant.

“The way she looked at you,” Estelle said. “The way you looked at her. Even Stevie Wonder could see there is history there.”

“Ancient history,” I said, navigating the streets with practiced ease.

“Didn’t look so ancient to me.”

I didn’t respond. Just drove in silence, replaying the entire evening in his head. Vargas’ tattoo and empty eyes. Lemaine’s smile and his threat. Patricia’s performance. Beverly’s grief. Simon’s bizarre observations about predators.

And Cassandra. Always Cassandra. At the center of everything. A twinge of longing grew in my chest.

My phone buzzed. I checked it at a red light. A text from Blaise: “Call me. Got something on Jernigan. Street sources confirmed. It’s solid.”

Jackson looked at Estelle, then back at the road ahead.

“Change of plans,” he said. “We need to make a stop before heading home.”

“Where are we going?”

“To find out what Blaise knows about Julian’s gambling problem,” I said. “The game is afoot, Mason,” I added in the worst British accent I could muster.

“Nerd,” Estelle said.

The Vasquez Residence

Friday: 9:00 a.m.

I thought the rest of the paint would chip off as I knocked on the front door of the Vasquez residence. The double shotgun house had seen better days, but still managed to survive in Mid-City New Orleans.

I’d known the Vasquez family since high school, and the yellow and teal paneled home hadn’t changed much in over two decades. The bars on the front window mirrored those of the rest of the neighborhood, denying entry to the bad crowd and quietly showing visitors what kind of neighborhood they were in.

Imelda answered the door. She was a handsome woman. Hispanic, stout, with a smile that felt like a warm fireplace in the winter. But today was different.

Her eyes were bloodshot and the puffiness told me she had been crying. “Jackson. I’m so glad to see you. Thanks for coming.” she hugged me tight and didn’t let go.

I could feel her sobs before I heard them.

She broke the hug after a few seconds. “I’m sorry. I’m being rude. Please come in,” she said, choking down more sobs.

“No, it’s okay. I got here as soon as I could,” I said.

The inside of the home fared much better than the outside. Imelda always took pride in creating a warm atmosphere. It smelled faintly of spices, which provided any visitor with a preview of what to expect if they were lucky enough to have one of her home-cooked meals.

Imelda had called a half hour ago, frantic. She was so upset she struggled to tell me what had happened, only that her son Steve Vasquez was in trouble.

“Please, have a seat. Do you want anything to drink?”

“No, I’m good, thanks.”

I sat down on a worn brown couch. Imelda sat next to me. She was in her early 50s, but looked like she was barely turning 40. Still, the worry lines on her face revealed her struggles — and her toughness.

“Jackson,” she began in accented English. “Steve is in jail. They say he killed someone.”

The stress inflated in my chest like a hot-air balloon.

“What happened?”

“Police showed up last night...I think there were ten men with rifles and body armor...I didn’t hear them knock, just boom!”

Having reported on corrupt policing for over a decade, I could easily predict what Imelda would tell me next.

“They broke through the door and came in screaming,” Imelda said, fighting the tears back. “Two of them pinned me to the ground while the others looked for Steve.”

I imagined the scene, screaming officers holding Imelda down. The stress balloon in my chest turned into fury.

“Where was Bianca?” I asked. She was the youngest child, about 11 years old.

“She was sitting where you are now, reading,” Imelda said. “They left her alone. They wanted Steve.”

At least the officers didn’t give Bianca the same treatment they gave her mother. Still, the sight of armed men bursting into her home would traumatize adults. I couldn’t imagine how it affected Bianca.

“Okay. What happened next?”

“They...they brought my son out of the kitchen and threw him to the ground. They searched him and said he was under arrest for murder.”

Imelda’s breathing quickened to the point I was concerned she was hyperventilating.

“Did they say who the supposed victim was?”

“Yes, but I don’t remember his name.”

“I’ll check with the police. Do you know where they are holding him?”

“Orleans Justice Center.” Her voice was raw, as if she’d been screaming nonstop for hours. I took her hands in mine.

“Have you spoken to the police since they arrested Steve?”

“I..,I tried to tell them he was a good boy,” Imelda replied trying to keep her breathing in control “He would never kill anyone...he was getting his life back together—” she couldn’t finish the sentence.

The tears came again, but she still kept what was left of her composure.

I knew why she had called me. Of course, the police wouldn’t take her seriously. Their job was only to arrest who they were told to arrest. That’s how the system works.

“I didn’t know who else to turn to. You know more about this stuff than I do. We can’t afford a lawyer.”

“I’m glad you called me, Imelda. I will do everything I can to figure this out. Does Hector know?”

Hector “Hex” Vasquez was Imelda’s oldest child. He was in his mid 20s now. To say he ran with a bad crowd would be like calling Mt. Everest a hill.

“He’s on his way.” Imelda’s brow furrowed. “Can you talk to him? He was so angry, I’m afraid of what he might do.”

I understood. I waited with Imelda until we heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. Seconds later, Hector opened the door, which was easy since the police had broken it during the raid.

“Mom, what the fuck happened? What did—”

Hector stopped when he saw me.

“Jackson? What are you doing here?” he asked.

Imelda answered for me, “I called him after I talked to you. He’s going to help Steve.”

Hector nodded. “I appreciate that brother, I really do. But I got this handled.”

He wore a blue flannel and khaki work pants. He was about six feet tall and lanky. Tattoos covered his arms.

“Handled?” I asked. I knew exactly what he meant, but I figured I’d ask anyway.

“Yeah, me and my boys are gonna figure out who did this shit to Steve and we’re gonna deal with them.”

That’s what I was afraid of. Hector was the leader of the 509ers street gang. They dealt in low-level drugs. They weren’t the biggest gang in New Orleans, but they were active enough to be considered dangerous.

“Hector, I know you’re pissed,” I said. “I am too. But whatever you’re planning is only going to make it worse.”

“Well, what the fuck are you gonna do, write an op-ed?” Hector snapped.

“Mijo!” Imelda yelled. “Please...Listen to him.”

I knew it wasn’t personal — and I also knew what Hector could become when he was angry. I tutored him and Steve when they were still in elementary school. They had looked up to me in a way.

“There are better ways to go about this,” I said. “We know Steve couldn’t have killed anyone. The key is proving it.”

“Fuck that,” Hector said. He dropped into an easy chair. He stood again and started pacing. “All these pendejos will see is a Mexican killer. You’re a black man, Jackson. You know how they see us.”

“I don’t disagree,” I said. “But the safest way for Steve — and you — is to beat them at their own game. I’ve seen it happen. They aren’t all powerful.”

“Fuck you, Harlow. You ain’t seen what I seen in these streets. It’s easy for you to say in your nice cushy office.”

That was it.

I stood. It only took me three steps before I was in Hector’s face. He flinched slightly, but didn’t back away.

“Fuck me? That’s how you wanna play it Hex?” I growled. “I’m here trying to keep your sorry ass out of jail. It’s bad enough that your brother is getting railroaded. You think your mother wants to see you behind bars too dumbass? Or are you only thinking about yourself?”

Imelda let out a sob, but composed herself.

Hector didn’t respond, but the gears in his head were turning.

Finally, he said, “Fine. We’ll try it your way. But if it doesn’t work, I can’t make any promises.”

“That’s all I ask,” I said. My eyes never left his.

Hector walked past me and sat down next to Imelda, who had begun crying again. He put his arms around her.

“It’s ok mom. It’s gonna be ok,” he said.

He looked at me. “I didn’t mean all that shit I said,” he said. “You know I respect you.”

“I get it. But it’s still raw. I get it. But we have to do this in a way that keeps everyone out of the system.”

“I hope you can do something. I know you got connections,” Hector said.

“I’m going to visit Steve. You want to come?”

“I’m going to stay with mom. Tell Steve I’ll be by later. Let me walk you out.”

I said goodbye to Imelda and assured her I would be in touch. Hector followed me to my Jeep.

“Hey man, I didn’t want to say this in front of mom. I’m gonna do this your way. But the streets are already talking,” he said. “When they find out Steve got popped for some shit he didn’t do, I don’t know how long I can hold them back.”

“Just do your best. We still have no idea what happened. For all we know, their case is weak and Steve could be out sooner than later,” I said.

“I hope so. But if you need my help on anything, you got my number.”

“I do. I’ll talk to you later.”

We shook hands and did the bro hug and I climbed into my Jeep.

Orleans Justice Center

Friday: 11:42 a.m.

It took a little over an hour sitting on a plastic chair under bad fluorescent lights, but eventually a deputy called Steve’s name and walked him to the booth and lowered him into the chair behind the glass.

He looked about as I’d expected. His eyes widened as he walked into the room and saw me sitting on the other side. They were red, which told me he hadn’t slept. He ran a hand through his dark curly hair. At 19 years old, Steve looked like any other kid with his whole life ahead of him. But now, his future was uncertain.

Steve picked up the phone on the other end. “Jackson? I haven’t seen you in a minute. What are you doing here?”

“Your mom called me. Told me what happened. How are you holding up?”

“I don’t know man, I confused.” He straightened a little in the chair. “But I’m hanging in there, y’know?”

After being friends with Steve and his family for years, it was obvious to me he was trying to put up a strong front. But his quivering hands told me a different story.

“Hector told me to tell you he will come visit later today.”

Steve nodded.

“Steve, I want to help. Tell me what happened.”

“Jackson, you’ve known me since I was ten. You know I didn’t shoot nobody I—”

I put up a hand. “You don’t have to convince me Steve. But you might have to convince a jury. If I’m going to help, I need you to tell me everything you know.”

He sat back in his chair, trying to collect his thoughts. His shoulders slumped as if he were carrying St. Louis Cathedral on his back.

“They interrogated you last night, right? What did they say?”

“Those cabrones think I shot some guy named Julian...Julian Vane?”

“Who is Julian Vane?”

“I dunno man. I think he work at a rehab facility or something.”

I filed the name away for future reference.

“They said I killed him in some drug deal gone wrong,” Steve said.

“I have to ask. Was this a drug deal?”

Steve recoiled, as I’d just insulted his mother. His face darkened and redness formed under his skin.

“Fuck no, man. I ain’t in that shit no more. I didn’t kill him.”

I put up a hand again. “Steve, I’m not interrogating you. I’m just getting the facts.”

He let out a long breath and folded his hands on his lap.

“Sorry. It’s just...I never even met the guy, y’know?”

“I get it. Did they tell you what evidence they have?”

His eyes turned toward the table in front of him, which told me I wasn’t going to like what he said next.

“They found my gun in his apartment. With my fingerprints on it.”

I nodded, maintaining my poker face. “Go on,” I said.

“They also found his gold chain and wallet in my car.”

A knot began forming in my stomach. This already wasn’t looking good. Still, I knew he wasn’t guilty.

“The police said my truck was caught on surveillance footage near his apartment.”

“Was your truck stolen?”

“No.”

I paused, which Steve interpreted as doubt.

“I didn’t do it,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Steve, I know you didn’t do it,” I said. “I’m on your side—but is there anything you’re not telling me? I can’t help you unless you tell me everything.”

“That’s it. There’s nothing else — at least not that I can remember.”

I paused to think. Steve’s gun was found at the crime scene with his fingerprints on it. Most killers would have at least tried to hide the murder weapon somewhere. But sometimes people panic, drop the weapon, and the flee the scene.

But something wasn’t right.

“Steve, could someone have stolen your firearm?”

“Maybe. But I don’t think anyone broke into my truck — that’s where I keep my piece.”

“When did you notice it was stolen?”

A sheepish look crept onto Steve’s face. I knew what it meant.

“You didn’t notice it was gone, did you?”

“Look man, I kept it under the passenger seat. I never use it so I forgot it was there for awhile. I have it for protection, y’know?”

I resisted the urge to lecture him on responsible gun ownership. I thought I’d drilled that lesson into him when he first started carrying.

“When did the murder happen?”

“About a week ago, I think.”

“So, if someone stole your gun, it would have been at least a week ago. You keep your truck locked, right?”

“Yeah, man.” He looked at me as if I’d asked if he knew how to tie his shoes.

“What about the gold chain?”

“I didn’t know it was even in my truck. I bet someone planted it there.”

As far-fetched as it sounded, I thought so too. But how? When?

I knew time was running out, so I asked, “We will probably have to pick this up later. Have you spoken with an attorney yet?”

He snorted. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“What’s his name?”

“Carl Brady. But he’s useless. He’s already telling me to take a plea deal. He thinks I did it.”

I wasn’t surprised. Most public defenders are overworked, with cases piled ceiling high on their desks. They didn’t have the time to mount a viable defense. And many might as well be prosecutors for all the good they do their clients.

“I’ll talk to him. See what I can find out and if I can get him to take this seriously.”

The door opened and a guard stepped in. Time was up.

“I gotta go. Please tell mom I’m okay,” Steve said.

“I will. Hang in there. I may have some tricks up my sleeve.”

He flashed a weak smile and drifted out of the room.

Public Defender’s Office

Friday, 12:30 p.m.

I sat across from Carl Brady, his worn faux wood desk separating us. I was waiting for him to finish up a phone call. He slouched in his chair and gazed at his desk, listening to the caller. The bags under his eyes could have carried enough water to fill the Grand Canyon.

The call finally ended. He looked at me. “What can I do for you?”

“My name is Jackson Harlow. I’m a journalist with The Bayou Chronicle. I want to ask you some questions about the Vasquez case.”

He leaned forward in his chair. “If you’re a reporter, then you understand I can’t tell you much. Confidentiality and all that.”

His face was the color of an apple, which told me he’d consumed copious amounts of bourbon in his lifetime.

“I know. Just tell me what you can, if you don’t mind. Steve’s a friend.”

“Well, he’s not doing himself any favors, I’ll tell you that.”

“What do you mean?”

“His gun was in the victim’s house. The victim’s gold chain was found in his truck. The investigators say his truck was near the crime scene.”

“He told me.”

“Then you know about as much as I can tell you.”

“What do you know about the victim?”

Brady shuffled some papers around on his desk. He picked one up and read from it as if he were reading the charges to a jury.

“Julian Vane. Age 39. Lived in the Garden District.”

“He had money, then.”

“Apparently. He works for The Sanctuary Network. It’s a drug rehabilitation center.”

The Sanctuary Network had a stellar reputation. It’s founder, Cassandra Rose, and I had a two year-long fling a long time ago. We had bonded over our opposition to the war on drugs. Her organization embodied the notion that addiction should be treated as a health condition, not a crime.

I decided not to let on what I knew about the place.

“The Sanctuary Network? I asked.

“Yeah. That’s where they send all the druggies. I’ve heard some good things about it.”

“Steve said he didn’t know the victim.”

“I’m sure he did.”

“You think he’s guilty, don’t you?”

“You—you know I can’t tell you that.” he hesitated. “The DA’s office is already talking plea deals. I told Steve he should take it. He might be released by the time he’s 45.”

I was less than shocked. This guy wasn’t going to fight for Steve. He’d already written him off. I didn’t think I could get anything useful out of him. I thanked him for nothing and left.

I walked across the parking lot to my vehicle. As I approached my Jeep, I heard the sound of footsteps hitting gravel behind me.

“Jackson Harlow?”

I turned around and saw a man wearing a grey blazer, white dress shirt, and grey slacks. But he might as well have been wearing a uniform, because his entire manner screamed police officer.

“Yes, that’s me.”

He was gnawing on gum like a beaver on a piece of wood. He was mid-height, probably late 40s, his dark hair greying at the temples. His clothes were at least one size too big for him.

“I read your stuff sometimes. Its not bad, even though I think you could go easier on law enforcement,” he said.

“Is this where you tell me there’s only a few bad apples and I shouldn’t imply that they represent all police?”

He gave a short laugh and put his hands up like he was guilty. “Nah, not this time.” He spit the gum onto the ground and retrieved another piece from his pocket.

“I’m Ray Dufresne. NOPD. I work narcotics.”

I had heard of Ray “Razor” Dufresne. He was something of a star to the “tough on crime” crowd. He won several awards for bringing in drug dealers and users. It was almost like he had a sixth sense when it came to finding and busting those who ran afoul of the law.

“How can I help you, detective?”

“I was curious. It’s not every day we get a visit from a journalist of your caliber.”

“Well, someone has to keep y’all on your toes.”

Dufresne’s laugh sounded like air traveling through lungs lined with sand. His yellow teeth told me he was a heavy smoker.

“I suppose so. But if I had to guess, you were here to visit the Vasquez kid, right?”

This wasn’t a guess. Dufresne could have easily found out who I spoke with. I let him continue.

“I knew that kid from when he was slinging dope down in Mid City. I saw the evidence against him. He’s going down, partner.”

Dufresne rubbed his chin, looking like he’d place my king in checkmate.

“For starters, it’s been five years since he was selling weed — and only weed,” I said.

“Yeah but—”

“Secondly,” I interrupted. “I’ve known Steve since he was in elementary school. You got the wrong guy.”

“You know we found his gun in the victim’s apartment, right?”

“Yes. And I know about the gold chain too.”

Dufresne’s spread his arms as if to say, “See? I told you so.”

“But,” I said before he could cut in. “This is New Orleans, where the boys in blue don’t always play things by the book. That alone is enough for me to question whether there is more to this story.”

Blood rushed to Dufresne’s face. I don’t normally like to antagonize cops. But this man’s undeserved swagger annoyed me.

He swallowed his anger and said, “I’m pretty sure everything was done properly in this case — unless you have evidence?”

“Well, I just got started,” I said. “So if there is something to find, you better believe I’ll find it. If I had to tell you how many times I caught your department in scandals, we’d be here until next month.”

“Look, if there’s some funny business here.” HIs face softened. “I want to know about it. I know you don’t believe me, but we’re not all corrupt around here.”

Dufresne reached into his coat pocket, retrieved a business card, and handed it to me. “If you find anything out of the ordinary, you give me a call, partner” he said.

I took the card and nodded. “I’ll do that,” I said, not sure if I actually meant it.

“I mean it,” he said. “I think he’s guilty. But if you find out something different, I’ll do anything I can to help.”

There was something off about this guy. But to be fair, I felt that way about most cops. Most on the force didn’t appreciate my reports about their malfeasance. But they usually didn’t approach me about it. Perhaps this guy was only an overeager detective.

“I appreciate it. By the way,” I began. “What can you tell me about the victim?”

“I didn’t work the case, but I know a few people on the team that did. He was shot three times, center mass. He worked for The Sanctuary Network — Chief Marketing Officer or something fancy like that.”

“How long had he worked there?”

“Almost a decade. He’s well known in certain circles.”

“Certain circles?”

“You know, the rich folks.” He gave a smile. “The ones whose murders tend to make a splash. Drove a Bugatti. Wore expensive suits. That kind of thing.”

“How could someone working for a rehab center afford all that?”

Dufresne shrugged. “I dunno. But he was loaded, for sure.”

“Who else have you looked at for the murder? Any other suspects?”

“Wait—is this on the record?”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

“I don’t need my name in the papers over this,” Dufresne said. “Like I said, I’m narcotics, not homicide. I doubt they looked at anyone else though. His gun was at the crime scene with Vasquez’s fingerprints.”

“I get it. I’ll call you if I find anything that might pique your interest.”

“Thanks for the talk. But I’m telling you, this kid did the deed, partner.”

Bishop & Associates

Friday, 2:05 p.m.

Lafayette Square was my next stop. Before I left the jail, I sat in my Jeep and looked up Julian Vane, the victim. Dufresne’s take was accurate — this man moved in high circles.

Vane had posted a smorgasbord of pictures with prominent figures among the New Orleans elite on social media. He was flashy. Often wore white suits, his blonde hair tied into a ponytail without even a hint of frizz.

There was a video of an interview with another local news outlet that was reporting on The Sanctuary Network. “At the Sanctuary, we like to take a holistic approach to addiction,” he told the interviewer. “Addicts aren’t criminals. They are sick, and they need treatment, not prison.”

He spoke with the fervor of an activist and the practiced speech of a politician. Definitely not someone who Steve would have come into contact with — at least not knowingly.

The shotgun house on Iberville Street was a relic—one room wide and four rooms deep, painted a fading sage green that looked like it had been chosen during the Clinton administration and never touched again.

The front porch sagged slightly under the weight of a plastic patio chair and a wrought-iron bench that had given up the fight against rust years ago.

I parked my Jeep at the curb and killed the engine. A sign—hand-painted and peeling—hung from a chain near the door: R. BISHOP & ASSOCIATES, CRIMINAL DEFENSE. The “& Associates” part was a lie. It was only Remy Bishop and his paralegal, Mercedes Salinger. But he always told me it made him sound more sophisticated.

The front door was open, propped by a cinder block, and I could hear the low hum of a window unit air conditioner valiantly battling against the afternoon heat. I stepped onto a wooden porch that creaked like it was begging for mercy with each step.

I walked through the door into what had once been the house’s living room.

It was the waiting area. Two metal folding chairs, the kind you’d see at a church basement fundraiser, faced a small desk where a phone sat ringing unanswered.

The walls were cream-colored and bare except for a framed Tulane Law diploma and a black-and-white photograph of the 1992 civil rights march on Rampart Street. The floor was original hardwood, worn smooth in the center, and well used by frantic clients.

The air smelled like old paper and burnt coffee.

“I dunno what to tell you, Frank,” a Cajun-accented voice came from the room further to the back. “I told you, yeah? You can’t tell the judge he’s a douchebag and think he ain’t gonna hold you in contempt.”

Remy’s accent became thicker the further he got from the courthouse or any place where suits and ties aren’t required.

I walked deeper into the office. Remy leaned against his old oak desk. It looked like it once held a quill and parchment. He saw me enter and motioned for me to come in.

“You only got one more day, then you’ll be back on the streets,” Remy said into his phone. “Look, I gotta go. Try not to piss off anyone else while you’re in there.”

He hung up.

“Well I’ll be, it’s Jackson Harlow, super journalist.” He had a mischievous smile on his face as he shook my hand. “How long has it been?”

“It’s been way too long, Gambit,” I said. “I needed to see my favorite defense attorney.”

“Man, they make one cajun character and now I’m stuck with that nickname for life.”

I laughed. “You prefer The Avengers over the X-Men anyway.”

“So what brings you to my humble abode?”

Remy was about 5’11, lanky, and about as Creole a pot full of etouffee and gumbo. He wore light blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, with black slacks. His eyes were weary, like he hadn’t slept in two days. In fact, that was how he always looked.

He sat down behind his desk and gestured for me to have a seat. “You hungry, brother? I made these po’ boys that’ll change your life.”

I believed him. Remy was one of the best cooks I’d ever met.

“You hear about Steve Vasquez?”

“Vasquez? That kid in Mid-City?”

“Yeah.”

“I heard a little something about it, yeah.”

“I tutored him when he was little. Known the family for years.”

Remy picked up a white coffee mug and took a sip.

“He got popped for murder, yeah? The rich dude in the Garden District?”

“Yes, Julian Vane. Worked at The Sanctuary Network.”

“They gonna throw the book at that kid.” Remy shook his head.

“That’s actually why I’m here.” It was time for the sales pitch. “I spoke with Steve earlier today. It’s bad, Remy. His public defender doesn’t seem interested in giving him an actual defense.”

“Figures. These public defenders are more like prosecutor’s assistants these days.”

“I wanted to see if you could look into it. Maybe represent him?”

“Aww shit, I should have known.” Remy put the coffee cup down and pushed back his dark, curly hair. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing tan forearms.

“How bad is it?”

The look on my face told him everything he needed to know.

“That bad?” Remy asked.

I explained the evidence the police collected. The gun. The gold chain. The location of his truck. Remy sat back in his chair and started at the ceiling.

“Jackson, I love ya like a brother, but this kid ain’t gonna make it, no matter who’s defending him.”

“I know Steve. He wouldn’t kill anyone.”

“He got a record?”

This was going about as well as the Vietnam War.

“He got busted for selling weed five years ago,” I said. “But since then, he’s been straight. Last I heard he was working as an electrician’s apprentice. Wanted to start his own business someday.”

“Tale as old as time,” Remy said. “He got railroaded for some shit that shouldn’t be illegal in the first place. But the DA’s office don’t care.”

“Sounds like the DA wants him for this murder.”

“And they will probably get him, Jackson. I can’t help here. I wish I could.”

“Bro, he has nobody,” I said. “His mom is a wreck. She reached out to me to see if I could help. I gave her my word that I would do whatever I could.”

“I understand, but—”

“Remy, I know it looks bad. But there’s got to be more to this story. I know it.”

“There might be. But the system don’t care. You know that.”

“Could you at least take a look at it? Maybe speak with him? They’re holding him at Orleans.”

Remy sighed. He took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with a cloth. I waited. If Remy wasn’t willing to help Steve, I didn’t know what else to do. But I’d been friends with him for years. This was the type of case he loved—those where the government picked on people who couldn’t fight for themselves. It’s one of the reasons we bonded when we met.

“What if he really didn’t do it?” I said. “It means the government will claim another victim.”

Remy said, “Look, I get you’re friends with the guy. But I have other clients who also need my attention.”

The look on my face must have given me away again because he added, “Okay, maybe not many. But still. I need a win. And this ain’t a winning case, no.”

I decided now was the time to drop the bomb. “Then I guess Lena Thorne will take another scalp.”

Remy’s eyebrows shot up so quickly I thought they were about to leap off his face. Then they settled into the rest of his scowl. He looked like he’d caught a guy beating an old woman half to death.

“Lena Thorne is prosecuting the case?” he asked.

I knew this would woprk. Leslie Thorne was the new up-and-coming star in the district attorney’s office. She and Remy had a history, but I was a bit murky on the details. It would be accurate to say he wasn’t a fan of hers.

“You should have led with that. I’ll talk to him.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I’m not making no promises. Just a conversation so I can feel this out, okay?”

“That’s all I ask. I should tell you up front, the family probably won’t be able to pay.”

“I figured.”

“But I’m sure we could convince Imelda to make some of her world-famous tamales for you.”

He laughed. “You know Mexican food is my kryptonite.”

Lagniappe Coffee Shop

Friday, 4 p.m.

Estelle Mason sat across from me at the Lagniappe Coffee Shop across the street from Memory House Antiques. We became friends during the Case of the Grinning Golly.

The shop’s owner, Dolly Mercier, had been bludgeoned to death by a young left-wing activist named Kyle Weston, who is now serving a life sentence.

Mercier had bequeathed the shop to Estelle, who managed her shop for years before her death.

I filled her in on the Vasquez case.

Estelle went quiet, taking it all in. She leaned forward.

“And you think he didn’t do it? Even with all the evidence?” Estelle said.

“He didn’t do it.”

Estelle pulled one of her dreadlocks behind her ear and adjusted her yellow blouse, which gave a nice contrast with her pecan-colored skin.

“But what about the evidence, Jackson? It seems so damning.”

“Yeah it does. But I’ve seen cases like this before. There has to be something else going on.”

“How can you be so sure?”

I took a sip of coffee and settled into my chair. It was hard to explain. I understood that my friendship with Steve and his family could be coloring my perspective. Usually I would account for that. But it wasn’t easy to communicate the kind of person Steve was to those who didn’t know him. I tried anyway.

“I’ll tell you a story. It happened when Steve was about fourteen, fifteen years old. His died had just been killed in an accident on a job site.”

Estelle’s eyes widened. “That must have been hard on them.”

“It was. There was no settlement. No money coming in. His mom had to work double shifts leaning houses in the Garden District to keep the lights on.”

I paused to take another sip, already thinking about my next cup.

“Steve’s little sister Bianca—she was in sixth grade at the time. Her school was doing this field trip. But her family couldn’t afford to pay for her to go, which means she would have been left behind while her friends got to have fun.”

“That happened to me when I was that age. It was humiliating. The other kids teased me for months,” Estelle said.

“Exactly. Steve didn’t want that to happen to Bianca. So he began doing some odd jobs for a contractor—under the table, cash, dangerous shit for a kid that age,” I said. “Electrical work, construction cleanup, anything he could get. He did this for four weeks straight. After school, weekends. All the money went to his mom so his sister could go on the trip. That smile never left her face.”

I sat back in my chair. Estelle waited.

“Bianca went to Colonial Williamsburg or wherever it was. And Steve went back to being broke. That’s not the kind of thing a killer does, Estelle. That’s the kind of person Steve has always been — even when he got into trouble for selling weed.”

“You mentioned that.”

“He started dealing shortly after to help him mother keep things afloat. This was after Hector, his older brother, got involved with the wrong crowd. But Steve hasn’t gotten in trouble since. He made a promise to his mother that he would look for other ways to make money.”

“And now he’s in jail for murder.” Estelle shook her head, her jaw clenched.

“Yes. At least, for now. I plan to find out what’s really going on.”

“I’m glad he has someone like you on his side.”

“I hope it’ll be enough. I know a defense attorney. He promised to speak with Steve, but didn’t commit to representing him yet.”

“I hope he changes his mind.”

“Me too.”

Estelle pulled out her phone. “I’ve been looking at the news about the case. The headlines aren’t great.” She handed me her phone.

DEVELOPING: Executive Brutally Murdered By Teenage Drug Dealer

Julian Vane Tragically Slain, Suspect’s Gun Found In His Home

Teenage Drug Kingpin Brutally Kills Beloved Rehab Exec

This is what I hated about media. Too many outlets pretending to speak truth to power are all too willing to promote the system’s propaganda.

“Typical. They are already convicting him on the airwaves and interwebs. I can’t even imagine what they’re saying on cable news,” I said.

“It makes sense. Julian Vane was a quasi-local celebrity with The Sanctuary Network. Are you familiar with them?”

“Yes, I’ve known Cassandra Rose for a long time. I did a report on them a few years back. They do good work.”

“Really? Small world. One of my best friends works with them too. Patricia Langley. She struggled with drugs since she was a teenager,” Estelle said. “But when she linked up with The Sanctuary, it turned her life around. Like night and day.”

“I believe it. I’m going to reach out to Cassandra tonight, see what she can tell me about Julian.”

Estelle nodded. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill him. I mean, I didn’t know him. But I wouldn’t imagine he’d have any enemies.”

“One thing I learned in this business, you never know what someone might be hiding.”

The Harlow Residence

Friday, 7 p.m.

I was at my home, tearing into a New York strip like a starving Rottweiler. But even a rare steak couldn’t distract me from the Vasquez family.

I was frustrated. I managed to persuade Remy to speak with Steve and had even gathered some information relevant to the case. But I still felt I wasn’t making progress.

It was still early in the process. But I couldn’t get the image of Steve’s weary face behind the glass out of my mind.

It was time to call Cassandra Rose. It had been over a year since I last spoke with her. I covered The Sanctuary Network awhile back. Our relationship ended amicably — we had drifted apart because of our careers. My article went viral, with thousands of dollars in donations pouring into the organization.

If Vane worked for her, then she might be able to offer some insight the police missed.

“Jackson Harlow. This is a lovely surprise,” she answered the phone. “Where have you been?”

“Well, right now I just got done devouring the best steak I ever made.”

“Rare?”

“You know how I feel about communists who burn their steaks.”

“Oh, I remember a lot of things,” she said, giggling. I could almost hear her wink at me through the phone.

“How have you been, Cass?”

“Things were going great until a week ago.”

Her voice was a soothing alto that would put the sirens to shame. But the weariness –– and grief –– wasn’t easy to hide.

“Yeah, I heard about what happened to Julian Vane. It’s actually why I called.”

Cassandra said something unintelligible to another person. I could hear a cacophony of voices tittering on the other end. It almost sounded like a football game.

“Sorry about that. Are you planning to cover this story?” she said, her voice slightly rising.

“I am. I know other outlets have already reported on the murder. But I’d like to dig deeper.”

I didn’t tell her about my mission to clear Steve’s name yet. Depending on how this went, that might have come later.

“Does this mean we get to do another interview? It would be so nice to see you again, Jackson.” Cassandra had the uncanny ability to make any sentence sound seductive. She could read the dictionary aloud and still have men fighting over her like they were trying to win a gold medal.

“Yes. I figured you’d know more than anyone.”

“Well, I don’t have much time right now—things are so busy over here. But I have a few minutes.”

“I appreciate it. Did he have any enemies? Anyone who would want him dead?”

She paused. Someone was speaking to her again.

“Sorry again, Jackson. We’re preparing for our annual Freedom Gala tomorrow night so everything is a bit hectic here.”

“You and your parties.”

“I’ve never heard you complain about our little parties.” I heard her smile through the phone.

“Well, you have a point.”

“So, you asked about enemies.” I was always amazed at how she could go from flirtatious to business in less than a nanosecond. “He had none that I know of. He was very respected in high society. But when you run in these circles, you never see who’s waiting to plunge a dagger into your back.”

“I see.”

“I can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt him though. He did so much good here. But the police seem to have a pretty good case against that young man.”

“Let me ask you this. What kind of work did Julian do for The Sanctuary?”

“Julian ran our marketing team. Social media. Radio spots. That kind of thing. He was a magician when it came to speaking to donors––brought in floods of donations.”

“How long had he been working for you?”

“About nine or ten years. He was actually a client here before he joined the team. He struggled with opioids and turned his life around through our program.”

If I’d had a quarter for every success story I’d heard about The Sanctuary, I could buy more private jets than a televangelist.

“Sounds like he was your poster boy.”

“I think that’s accurate.”

“Did Steve Vasquez ever come into contact with Julian before the murder?”

Another pause. But this time I didn’t hear anyone else speaking to her.

“Sorry, Jackson. They need me in the office to put the finishing touches on the gala.”

“Okay, no problem. Maybe we could set up another time for an interview?”

“Actually, I have a better idea. Why don’t you come join the party tomorrow? I’ll put you on the list. I should be able to pull myself away long enough for a more...intimate conversation.” There it was again. That soft tone that used to drive me crazy.

“That would be a great idea. It would be nice to see you again.”

“Alright,” she chirped. “I’ll see you tomorrow night. Gala starts at 7 p.m. Feel free to bring a date if you want.”

“I’m not dating anyone right now, but I appreciate it.”

“Awwwww,” she cooed in a voice that sounded more enthusiastic than sad. “Well maybe we can fix that tomorrow.”

We hung up. I wasn’t happy about the circumstances surrounding our reunion. But I was looking forward to seeing her again.

Thank you so much for reading The Case of the Grinning Golly.

I’m deeply grateful for every read, every comment, and every bit of encouragement, and I’m especially thankful that so many of you connected with the story’s mood, its emotional core, and the chase for the truth beneath the surface.

The next case, The Clean Fix, is coming soon, and I expect to begin sharing it within the next two weeks.

This time, Jackson finds himself trying to help a friend who has been framed for murder, only to discover that the case is tied to something much bigger than it first appears.

I won’t give away any major turns, but I can say this: the stakes are personal, the danger grows fast, and Jackson will be forced to make decisions that could redefine who he is.

I’m very excited to bring you this one, and I hope you’ll join me for the next ride.

Tomorrow evening, I’m launching a serial murder mystery series called “The Harlow Files. The protagonist is a New Orleans-based journalist named Jackson Harlow who finds himself investigating — and solving — murders.

The first story, titled Case of the Grinning Golly, is about a murdered antique dealer, a city on the verge of collapse, and a journalist willing to burn everything to find the truth.

The victim sold controversial antiques. Someone killed her for it. Or did they? Jackson Harlow stumbles into a conspiracy that reaches into City Hall, into activist networks, into the media itself.

Everyone has motive. Everyone has secrets. And Jackson is about to discover that the person you can trust least might be sitting right next to you.

But, for me, this isn’t just a story—it’s an argument.

The question is: Why write a murder mystery series?

The answer is simple:I love a good murder mystery.

Whether it’s a book, television series, or movie, the mystery genre has always fascinated me even as a child.

Sherlock Holmes. Phillip Marlowe. Hercule Poirot. Sam Spade.

These iconic sleuths have captivated people’s minds for ages. Like millions of people all over the world, I have spent hours upon hours reading (or watching) these stories unfold, eagerly trying to figure out “whodunit.”

I also love to write. For almost a decade, I have used the written form for journalistic purposes, and it remains one of my passions.

I have written many stories exposing government corruption and covering the latest happenings in the culture war.

But, as you probably already know, being immersed in American politics in this era isn’t exactly beneficial for one’s mental health. For years, I’ve lived and breathed politics.

A few months ago, I realized I needed another outlet — a project to work on that wasn’t purely political. I’d always wanted to write fiction from the time I was in elementary school, but I figured it’d be something I would pursue later in life.

But I realized that there isn’t a valid reason for me to wait that long. That’s when The Harlow Files was born.

I’m no John Grisham or James Patterson, but I like to think the characters and stories are unique enough to be entertaining and compelling for my audience.

While politics is not the primary focal point for the series, it does serve as a backdrop — especially in the first case.

In my journalistic career, I’ve watched how narratives get weaponized. How truth gets buried. How power protects itself.

The first case shows how that actually works—not through op-eds or investigative columns, but through a story that makes you feel the machinery of manipulation.”

These stories are not necessarily meant primarily as political statements. For me, it’s important that the story and characters come first. If you’re like me, you probably despise entertainment that seems solely intended to lecture you rather than entertain you.

With The Harlow Files, I believe I have found a balance.

Here is how the release schedule works:

• Tomorrow: Episode 1 releases FREE to all subscribers.

• Thursday: Episode 2 drops as a bonus for all subscribers.

• Weekly: There are eight episodes total, dropping weekly after that.

Why Subscribe to the Paid Tier?

While free subscribers get access to the main story, paid subscribers get the full experience:

• Early Access: You get episodes on Thursday instead of waiting until the following Tuesday.

• Bonus Intel: Exclusive articles written by Jackson Harlow and scenes from other characters’ points of view.

• Quarterly Q&A: A Zoom call with yours truly to discuss the series, the writing process, and more.

Subscribe now

I hope you find the stories compelling and fun. I’m having a blast working on it, and I’d love to hear your thoughts on how Jackson’s first case proceeds.

I’ll see y’all tomorrow evening!

The Harlow Files is the chronicle of Jackson Harlow, an investigative journalist in New Orleans obsessed with exposing government corruption and injustice. Each story—each case—peels back layers of deception, power, and moral complexity. A man driven by grief and obsession, Jackson won’t stop digging even when it destroys him.

Jackson Harlow is a skilled investigator with a dangerous gift: he can read people better than anyone, sense when someone’s lying before they even speak. He’s also a man carrying trauma—the government system he fights destroyed his family a decade ago, and he’s spent every year since making sure no one else loses what he lost.

Subscribe now

Season One: The Case of the Grinning Golly

Jackson’s first case: A beloved antique shop owner, Dolly Mercier, is murdered in her shop. Jackson is determined to find her killer. But the investigation spirals into something far darker than a simple crime.

The suspects multiply. The motives tangle. Political radicals become unlikely allies. A saboteur threatens his investigation in ways that threaten everything he’s built.

Eight episodes. One murder. A mystery where nothing is what it seems.

Coming January 6, 2026

Episodes launch on Substack. Free to read. Subscribe now to stay updated, access exclusive character guides, and join a community of readers obsessed with solving these cases alongside Jackson.

All eight episodes of Season One are written, edited, and ready. This mystery concludes. This case resolves. You’re not waiting for answers—you’re getting the full story, delivered weekly.

Subscribe now