Page 9 of Dominion's Guard
"The camera wipe is evidence. Someone with technical capability accessed that system remotely and erased the footage from the hours around the murder. That's destruction of evidence, which means there was evidence to destroy."
Hebert leans back. "That's a reach, Broussard."
"With respect, sir, it's a logical inference supported by the circumstantial evidence we do have. A man is missing. A witness says she saw him killed. The surveillance system that would have recorded the killing was remotely destroyed. Those facts aren't unrelated."
"They're also not proof." He puts his glasses back on. "I'll give you the rest of the day. Pull whatever you can on the camera system, run the missing persons angle, see if forensics turns up anything at the garage. If you don't have something solid by end of shift tomorrow, this goes to the bottom of the pile. I've got cases with bodies, Broussard. Bodies beat theories."
"Understood."
I walk back to my desk. It's not a yes, but it's not a no. I have roughly thirty-six hours to turn a phantom case into something real.
Fontenot glances up as I sit down. "Hebert give you the ghost murder?"
"Missing person with circumstantial evidence of foul play."
"Right." He leans back, arms crossed. "You know what I think?"
"I know what you're going to say."
"I think you're chasing a dead end because the bartender's pretty and you feel sorry for her." He says it casually, the way partners say things that are meant to land. "No body, no blood, no case. Even if some rich guy didn't come home last night, that doesn't mean he got clipped in a parking garage. Means he's sleeping it off somewhere."
"His phone's off and his car's not at any of his known addresses."
"So he went on a bender. New Orleans, man. It happens."
I don't argue. Fontenot's not wrong from where he's sitting. Without physical evidence, this looks like exactly what patrol called it: a waste of time. But Fontenot wasn't at Rapier Strategic in the early hours this morning. He didn't see Renata's hands shake while her voice stayed level. He didn't hear the professional cleanup she described, the lighting change, the complete absence of evidence where a body should have been.
And he doesn't know Lawrence ordered Blanton's Single Barrel neat at the same barstool twice a week for years. He doesn't know the man is a Dominion member. He doesn't know any of it, and I can't tell him without opening a door I need to keep shut.
My phone buzzes with a text from Remy:
If you need access to your witness, coordinate through me.
I knew the protection detail was in place. I saw Remy start organizing it before I left Rapier Strategic this morning. But this text is different. This is Remy drawing a line, and the message is polite, professional, and unmistakable: she's behind their wall now, and I go through him to reach her.
It complicates things. My primary witness is under the protection of a private security firm run by former Special Forces operatives who took this on because their sister asked them to, not because NOPD requested it. If I need Renata for follow-up questions, a formal interview, a scene walkthrough, I'm negotiating with Remy instead of picking up the phone.
But the fact that he's formalizing this tells me everything I need to know. Margot doesn't put her brothers' firm on a bartender because of a bad dream. She does it because she believes Renata. And Margot doesn't rattle.
I text Remy back:
Understood. I'll be at Dominion tonight. We should talk.
His response is immediate:
Come as a member. We'll figure the rest out.
I spend the afternoon working the edges. I pull Lawrence Blanchard's financial records through official channels and find no unusual activity in the past month, no large withdrawals, no signs of someone preparing to disappear. I contact his doctor's office and learn there are no health issues that would explain an unplanned absence. I run his plates, and the car hasn't pinged any NOPD readers since last night.
Lawrence didn't run. Lawrence is dead, and someone with significant resources made sure nobody could prove it.
I arrive shortly after Dominion opens, through the member entrance, badge locked in my glovebox where it belongs. At the club, I'm not Detective Broussard. I'm Andy. I've been a member for a couple of years now, vetted like everyone else, subject to the same protocols.
I change in the men's locker room, trade the suit and tie for black leather pants and a white linen shirt that looks like it came from a Renaissance Fair shop, which it did, open at the collar with the sleeves rolled to the forearm. The shift that happens when I pull the locker shut is more than wardrobe. The detective stays in the locker with the suit. The man who walks out onto the floor is someone the precinct has never seen.
I've tried to keep those two lives separate since I walked through these doors the first time, and the fact that they're about to collide over a murder case and a bartender with hazel eyes and a mouth I want to do things to that have nothing to do with police work is a complication I can't afford and can't avoid.
Remy finds me before I reach the main floor. He's leaning against the wall outside the locker corridor, arms crossed, waiting like a man who knew exactly how long it would take me to change.
