Chapter 7 - Whispers in the French Quarter Jazz ClubBy 2:00 AM, the storm clouds rolling off the Gulf broke open over New Orleans, washing the humid streets in sheets of heavy rain.
Julian and I sat inside the shadowy corner booth of Blue Heron, a clandestine jazz club tucked away behind a wrought-iron gate in the heart of the French Quarter. The club was nominally closed to the public, but the owner—an old-school jazz saxophonist named Silas who owed Julian a lifetime of debt—kept the back doors open for us while federal agents secured the perimeter outside.
The air inside was thick with the scent of bourbon, melting wax, and aged mahogany. A lone pianist played a slow, haunting blues melody in the corner, the notes echoing softly against the brick walls.
“Drink this, Elena,” Julian said, sliding a warm glass of honeyed bourbon across the small wooden table. “You need to warm up before we head to the federal courthouse for the morning depositions.”
I took the glass with trembling hands, sipping the warm liquid. It burned pleasantly down my throat, driving away the last remnants of the chill from the shipyard.
“Do you really think Charles and Camilla will be convicted?” I asked, looking across the table at Julian’s shadowed profile. “People like them... they always seem to have a backup plan, a hidden lawyer, an offshore account.”
Julian took a slow sip of his drink, setting the glass down with a soft click. “Not this time, Elena. The evidence we recovered from the carriage house vault is ironclad. Federal judge Sterling is an old friend of my father’s who never forgave Charles for the smear campaign that ruined our family name twelve years ago. By tomorrow afternoon, the Dupont name will be nothing more than a cautionary tale in the financial papers.”
At that moment, Silas the saxophonist walked over to our booth, tipping his fedora respectfully.
“Mr. Cross,” Silas said in a gravelly voice. “There’s a man waiting in the alley behind the kitchen. He says he was the chief accountant for Dupont Maritime back in 2013, and he’s carrying the original wire transfer receipts that prove Charles embezzled the reserve funds.”
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Julian’s eyes sharpened instantly. He stood up, adjusting his suit jacket, and looked down at me.
“Stay here, Elena. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
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