The Clean Fix: The Ivory Room
Episode 3: Jackson and Blaise continue their investigation and come face to face with a suspect.
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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.