The first light of Tuesday, December 7, 1999, crept through the cracked blinds of Steven Bird's shotgun house on Magazine Street, casting jagged shadows across the living room's scarred coffee table. The air hung heavy with the damp chill of a New Orleans winter, the faint hum of a streetcar clanging in the distance a reminder of the city stirring beyond his solitude.
Bird sat on the sagging couch, his flannel pajamas rumpled, the revolver from last night's encounter still clutched loosely in his hand. The clock on the mantel ticked toward 6:30 AM, its steady rhythm a counterpoint to the restless thud of his heart. Amelia Hartman's words—"It's far more extensive than you realize"—echoed in his mind, a riddle wrapped in the shattered remnants of the TSCM-99 tracker scattered across his bedroom floor.
He rose, the floorboards creaking under his weight, and moved to the kitchen nook—a cramped space with a gas stove that hissed when lit and a Formica table bearing the scars of frugal meals. The scent of yesterday's coffee lingered, mingling with the musty dampness seeping through the walls. Bird filled a dented percolator with water and grounds, the ritual grounding him as the brew began to perk.
His thoughts churned—Thomson's pale face in the ICU, the silver chain's weight around his neck, the bar's hostile glare, Amelia's cryptic departure. The opium smuggling, "C.S.," the shooter—it was a web he'd stumbled into, and last night's encounter had snagged him deeper.
Outside, the street awakened: a vendor's call for pralines drifted through the open window, punctuated by the honk of a delivery truck. Bird sipped his coffee, the bitterness a stark contrast to the sweetness of the morning air. He needed to act—Amelia's warning to stay out of trouble clashed with his duty, his guilt over James, his vow to Thomson.
The station awaited, but first, he had to process. He dressed in his uniform—navy trousers with a red stripe, long-sleeved shirt with epaulets, badge gleaming—each movement deliberate, the leather holster creaking as he secured his revolver.
The drive to the station was a blur of jazz and river mist, the Taurus's engine growling through the French Quarter's narrow streets. At Broad Street, the NOPD building loomed, its brick facade weathered by decades of service. Bird parked, the lot quiet at this hour, and stepped inside.
The bullpen buzzed with the morning shift—typewriters clacking, phones ringing, the scent of chicory coffee thick in the air. Dickson spotted him, lanky frame leaning against a desk, toothpick in hand.
"Morning, cher," Dickson drawled, his eyes narrowing. "You look like you wrestled a gator and lost. What happened after I left?"
Bird hesitated, the apartment scene flashing—Amelia's scar, the tracker's shatter. "Had an unexpected visitor last night," he said, keeping his voice low. "The woman from the bar. She broke in, claimed she's a private detective hired by Thomson to track the smuggling. Said the chain I took had a tracker—TSCM-99, some 1998 model. I destroyed it."
Dickson's toothpick stilled, his expression darkening. "You sure about this, Steven? That's a bold move, smashing evidence."
"She said it was keeping me alive, that the seller was tracking it," Bird explained, his tone edged with doubt. "Called herself Amelia Hartman. Insisted I stay out of it, but I can't. Not with Thomson targeted."
Dickson rubbed his jaw, the stubble rasping. "If she's legit, she's deep in this. That tracker—TSCM-99's military-grade, used by PIs and spooks. Destroying it might've spooked the seller. We need to move careful, cher. Lewis won't like this."
Bird nodded, the weight of his decision settling. "What's our next step?"
"Plainclothes today," Dickson said, straightening. "We'll hit the streets, dig into that opium lead. Cypress Point Lane's still on the table—smugglers mentioned it. But first, we brief Lewis. He'll want to know about your visitor."
The captain's office loomed ahead, a fortress of authority. Bird steeled himself, the mystery of Amelia—and the shadow of C.S.—driving him forward. The hunt was far from over.
***
The New Orleans police station buzzed with a gritty, late-afternoon hum on December 7, 1999. The air hung heavy with the scent of chicory coffee and stale cigarette smoke. The air hung heavy with the scent of chicory coffee and stale cigarette smoke. Outside, the distant wail of a siren blended with the faint jazz notes drifting from a nearby French Quarter bar, a reminder of the city's restless pulse.
An hour after their tense meeting with Captain Lewis, Steven Bird and Corporal Richard Dickson sat at Bird's cluttered desk, a corner refuge amid the station's din. The desk was a battlefield of paperwork, a half-eaten muffuletta sandwich, and a chipped coffee mug, its contents long gone cold. Bird leaned back in his creaky chair, his hazel eyes shadowed with frustration, while Dickson perched atop the desk, one leg dangling to tap the floor, the other bent with a notepad balanced on his knee. His pencil scratched furiously, jotting down fragmented thoughts as the weight of their rejected proposal lingered.
The encounter with Lewis had left a sour taste. The captain's voice—gruff and unusually strained—had dismissed their investigation into the "C.S." opium lead, insisting the state police handle Senator Thomson's shooting. "This is beyond your pay grade, boys," Lewis had growled, his forehead beaded with sweat, his usual calm replaced by a jittery edge. "Let the big dogs sort it—don't poke where you ain't wanted." Bird and Dickson exchanged glances, sensing something off. Lewis' reluctance felt personal. Bird filed that suspicion away, vowing to probe later.
Dickson broke the silence, his voice low. "Captain's actin' mighty strange, Bird. More heat than I've seen him take on a case like this."
Bird nodded, rubbing his neck. "Yeah, felt like he was dodging us. Like he knows something and don't want us near it. But his rejection ain't stoppin' us. We're seein' this through, come hell or high water."
Dickson smirked, tapping his pencil. "Damn right. Man's got a shadow over him, and I ain't buyin' his 'let it be' line. State police can twiddle their thumbs—we got our own hunt to run." Dickson slid off the desk, stretching his lanky frame, and ambled toward the small television perched on a filing cabinet. The screen flickered with static before settling on a live broadcast.
Flashes of cameras erupted, paparazzi and local journalists swarming a lavish birthday party for affluent business magnate Colin Swanson. The man stood at the center, waving with a practiced smile, his silver hair gleaming under chandeliers. Dressed in a tailored suit, he fielded questions with smooth confidence, his voice booming through the station's speakers.
Dickson returned to the desk, leaning against it. "Sure went through a lotta trouble just to celebrate his birthday," he muttered, shaking his head.
Bird's lips twitched. "Well, the rich are gettin' richer. Got assets to last half a century, but they won't spare a dime for the poor man."
"It's always been that way with the rich, Steve," Dickson replied, scribbling again. "Not every one's a philanthropist. Those who are? Probably just showin' they care, not meanin' it." A brief silence settled, the station's noise filling the gap. Then Bird's eyes lit up.
"'C.S.'! You think it ties to Colin Swanson?" Dickson paused, his brow furrowing. "Can't say if it could or does. But if it does, we'd have here a prime suspect."
"Then we best haul him in for questioning," Bird said, leaning forward.
"Patience, Bird," Dickson cautioned, raising a hand. "You can't touch a rich man like him without evidence. They'd rip us to shreds if we tried. So, patience."
Bird's jaw tightened. "I still say we investigate."
Dickson grinned, a spark in his eyes. "Only way to dig into him is to crash his party."
"I don't recall us gettin' an invite," Bird countered. "These gigs are for the upper crust, not folks like us."
"Then we go as upper crust," Dickson said, standing. "No uniforms today."
"Would that work?" Bird asked, skeptical.
"Long enough to snag some useful info," Dickson replied. He straightened, adjusting his stance. "You comin'?"
Bird hesitated, then nodded. "I don't guess I couldn't. Where's the location?"
Dickson's grin widened. "Garden District. That's where the affluent and men of influence like Swanson reside—big mansions, oak-lined streets, perfect for a party like this. His place is likely near St. Charles Avenue, close to Commander's Palace. Think we can handle this, Bird?" Dickson asked.
"I believe that if we play our cards right, we won't need guns," Bird said, a determined glint in his eye.
"Perhaps," Dickson agreed, a wry smile tugging at his lips. The two men left the desk, weaving through the station's bustle toward the exit.
Their plan was set—to don tuxedos and blend into Swanson's party in the Garden District, gathering clues on "C.S." and his shady dealings. The late-afternoon air hit them as they stepped outside, the city's pulse quickening with jazz and distant laughter, pulling them toward the unknown.
***
The two men left the desk, weaving through the station's bustle toward the exit. The afternoon air hit them as they stepped outside, the city's pulse quickening with jazz and distant laughter. They headed to a thrift shop on Magazine Street, where they bartered for ill-fitting tuxedos—Bird's a size too tight across the shoulders, Dickson's sleeves brushing his knuckles. With bow ties crooked and shoes polished with spit, they drove Bird's sedan toward the Garden District, the engine coughing as they navigated the oak-shaded streets.
The Swanson mansion loomed ahead, a sprawling estate with wrought-iron gates and gas lamps casting a warm glow. Music and laughter spilled from the open windows, the party in full swing. At the gate, a stern guard checked a guest list, while a second patrolled the perimeter. Dickson spotted a chance—tailing a late-arriving couple, they slipped through with a nod and a mumbled "traffic," their tuxedos blending into the crowd. Inside, crystal chandeliers dazzled, and the scent of bourbon and jasmine filled the air. Waiters weaved with trays of oysters and champagne, while Colin Swanson held court near the grand staircase, his silver hair catching the light as he toasted with a glass.
"We need intel, not a fight," Bird whispered, scanning the room. "Let's mingle, see what we can hear."
Dickson nodded, grabbing two champagne flutes. "I'll hit the bar, chat up the staff. You work the crowd. If we spot a way to his office, we take it—but only if it's clean."
They split up, Bird weaving through guests, catching snippets of gossip about Swanson's shipping empire. A nervous waiter mentioned a "private study" off the main hall, used for "business talks." Seizing the moment, Bird slipped down a side corridor, dodging a guest who eyed him curiously. He found a dimly lit library, its shelves lined with leather-bound books, and began noting details—a ledger on a table, a safe in the corner—when the door creaked open.
A woman stepped in—her auburn hair cascading over a sapphire gown that clung to her curves. Her green eyes widened, then narrowed with recognition. "Well, well," she purred, her voice a velvet trap. "You're no guest. Who are you, lurking in my husband's shadows?"
Bird straightened, his pulse racing, the tuxedo straining. "Ma'am, I—uh—I got turned around," he stammered, but her knowing smile suggested she saw through the lie.
"Turned around, huh?" the woman stepped closer, her perfume intoxicating. "You don't look lost to me, Officer. Or should I say, detective?" Her gaze flicked to the ledger in his hand, and a flicker of unease crossed her face before she masked it with a coy tilt of her head.
"I don't think it's right, ma'am, for you to pin me as a detective just like that," Bird said, straightening up and aiming for a steady tone, hoping to shake her off his trail. His voice held firm, though his pulse thumped under the tight tuxedo, the fabric tugging at his shoulders. The dim library seemed to shrink around him, the leather-bound books on the walls hinting at Swanson's hidden world, their worn spines throwing jagged shadows across the oak floor.
"Look, I know you're a cop," the woman shot back, her voice smooth but edged with certainty. She tilted her head, auburn hair catching the soft glow of a brass lamp, her sapphire gown shimmering as she shifted. Then, almost to herself, she muttered, "When was that?" The party's distant buzz—laughter, clinking glasses, a jazz tune—filtered through the walls. Her green eyes sharpened. "Last week. I stopped by the station, asked for help getting out of a rough marriage, but you…"
"Hold up—how could that have been you?" Bird cut in, his tone firm, almost sharp. He stepped back, the ledger crinkling in his grip. The room's air thickened, a mix of old paper and her jasmine scent swirling around him.
"It was me, alright," she said, a faint smile breaking through. She waved a hand at the plush room—the velvet drapes, the carved mahogany desk, the safe gleaming like a locked vault. "Folks might think I'm nuts for staying in this marriage, crazier still for wanting out of all this luxury into something tougher. But I guess we all need some real connection."
"And you're laying this out why?" Bird asked, narrowing his eyes, sizing her up for the catch.
"Not sure," she admitted, her gaze dropping before locking back on his. "Figured you might get it." Then, quick as a snap, she stepped closer, her gown rustling. Bird tensed, hand brushing where his badge would've been, her perfume hitting him like a wave. Her eyes held a flicker of need beneath the playful front.
"I just want out of this dead-end marriage," she went on, voice low. "I'd do anything to make Colin look like the bad guy here."
"You're cool with setting up your own husband?" Bird asked, his brow creasing as the weight of it sank in. The room pulsed with unspoken years of wealth and secrets.
"Come on, man. I doubt all of Colin's 'business' is on the up-and-up," she said, a wry edge in her tone. "I've peeked at his hidden files—he's got stuff he doesn't want me seeing. I've been digging for dirt to use against him, but half of it's gibberish to me. Maybe you'd want a look."
Wow, talk about a lucky break! The thought raced through Bird's head, a surge cutting through his doubts. This could be the key to linking "C.S." to Colin Swanson, cracking the opium case and Thomson's shooting wide open. But a chill crept in—why was she so open? Sure, she'd hinted at a loveless marriage, maybe using this as her way out, but trust wasn't something he could hand over easy, not with a mansion full of eyes just outside.
When he stayed quiet, the woman broke the silence. "Bet you're wondering if you can trust me. Guess it's a leap of faith, huh?"
"If I'm gonna trust you, let's start with a name, ma'am," Bird said, keeping his voice even, testing the ground between them.
"Elizabeth Swanson," she replied, softening a bit. "But call me Lizzy."
"Steven Bird," he offered back, holding her gaze.
"Alright, detective, come with me," she said, a spark in her eye.
"I'm not a detective, not yet, though," he corrected, a slight flush hitting his neck.
"But you've got the guts for it," she tossed back.
Then she turned, leading the way out of the library, her gown swaying as she moved toward a shadowed hallway. Bird paused, the ledger in hand, its pages a silent promise. The corridor stretched ahead, lined with stern-faced portraits. The party's noise faded, replaced by creaking floorboards and the steady tick of a grandfather clock at the hall's end.
Lizzy's heels clicked with purpose, guiding him deeper into the mansion's core—toward Colin's chambers, where truth might lurk beneath layers of power and lies.
The air cooled as they went. Bird's mind spun—could this be a setup, a trap by Swanson to catch an eager cop? Or was Lizzy's desperation real, a hand reaching for help?
The hallway tightened, gas lamps flickering, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts. A door loomed ahead, its dark wood etched with patterns, locked for sure, but Lizzy's steady stride suggested she knew the way—key or not.
His heart raced, the thrill of the chase blending with a gnawing unease, each breath hinting that this evening could turn his life upside down.
The Garden District estate was a fortress built on silence. It loomed larger with every step, its towering brick facade softened by ivy that snaked up the walls, yet the wrought-iron balconies cast jagged shadows under the flickering gas lamps.
The evening hummed with the party's distant revelry—tinkling glasses, a saxophone's mournful wail, and the murmur of voices spilling from open French doors. Inside, the scent of polished wood, aged bourbon, and the faint musk of old money permeated the halls, while chandeliers dripped crystal light onto marble floors worn smooth by generations.
Yet beneath this grandeur lurked a tension, a whisper of secrets tucked into the corners where servants moved like ghosts, their faces etched with the quiet resignation of the unseen. As Lizzy led the way, Bird trailed behind, his steps measured to avoid drawing attention.
Servants passed them—a maid in a crisp black uniform balancing a tray of oysters, her eyes flicking past without curiosity; a butler adjusting a candelabra, his gaze fixed ahead as if they were invisible. A young footman hurried by with a stack of linens, not sparing a glance. Bird's brow furrowed. Why the indifference? Typically, the mistress of such a house wouldn't roam with a stranger without her husband's knowledge—unless this was routine for her.
His mind churned as they ascended the grand staircase, the polished banister cool under his hand, each creak of the steps echoing in the vast space. Did Lizzy often sneak off with others, her husband's absence a silent permission? The thought deepened as they climbed to the third floor, the air growing cooler, the party's noise fading into a muffled drone.
She guided him toward a hidden corner, the hallway narrowing into a shadowed nook where a plain door stood out against the ornate decor. Bird's suspicions sharpened. This wasn't a casual library door; it was thick and secure, built for keeping things in or people out. He fought the urge to signal Dickson, his hand brushing the walkie-talkie in his pocket. He was walking into a locked room with a stranger, relying on a woman whose only motive was spite.
They reached the door, and Bird watched as Lizzy produced a key from a hidden fold in her gown, its metal glinting briefly before she turned it in the lock. Stolen from Colin, he mused, or perhaps a secret copy. A man like Swanson would visit this room anytime; she'd need her own access—quiet, unnoticed.
The door swung open, revealing a dimly lit chamber, its air stale with the scent of ink and leather. Lizzy crossed to a file cabinet against the far wall, her heels clicking on the hardwood, while Bird scanned the space—dark wood paneling, a heavy desk cluttered with papers, a safe tucked into the corner like a silent guardian.
She pulled a file and handed it to him, her fingers brushing his as he took it. Bird flipped through the pages, the rustle of paper filling the silence. The documents hinted at something sinister—vague references to shipments, coded dates—but nothing concrete to nail Colin for illegal dealings. Then a name jumped out: Stuart Salazar, a Canadian-Portuguese crime lord based within Louisiana, but outside New Orleans.
Bird's memory stirred—Salazar, arrested multiple times over the past decade for drug investments, weapons trafficking, amassing an illegal arsenal through his crew. A dangerous figure, his assets built on crime, though he'd dodged recent raids. An editorial flashed in Bird's mind: Salazar prized family above all, welcoming allies into his fold unless they broke his code of trust—betrayal meant death.
"So what tied Colin to this man?" Bird asked himself. The files didn't spell it out, but the connection sparked a theory. Salazar dealt in cocaine, marijuana, cannabis, tobacco—opium wasn't confirmed, but plausible. "S.S."—could Colin's "C.S." be a counterpart? Bird's pulse quickened. Salazar might be the key, a means to unravel this. He'd need to dig deeper, and that meant involving the big fish somehow.
"You seem to be digging into this, detective," Lizzy's voice cut in, a flirtatious lilt tempered by control as she leaned closer.
"Well, this could give us a solid start to look into your husband," Bird replied, keeping it steady. "We might get somewhere good, but Swanson can't catch wind of it yet—he'd shut it down with his pull."
"Don't worry, I won't breathe a word," she said, her fingers tracing the document's edge, then sliding toward his chin. Bird flinched, caught off guard but holding his ground, her touch a test he wouldn't fail. She needed a young man's fire, but he wasn't filling that gap.
"I think this is enough for now, ma'am," he said, stepping back, ready to bolt. But she shifted, blocking his path.
"What's the hurry, detective? Sometimes you gotta loosen up, enjoy the ride," she said, her tone almost commanding.
"As an officer, I get my kicks from cracking tough cases like this," he shot back. "Mind if I head out?"
"You can't just rush off," she insisted, grabbing his arm. Her grip was light, relying on charm, not force.
"But ma'am, I really need to—" he started, pulling away.
"Imagine how lonely it gets in this big place," she pressed, her voice softening. "No one here cares. I need someone who—"
"I'm not that guy," Bird cut in, voice tight, sidestepping her. Before he could react, she leaned in, planting a kiss on his lips.
The shock hit him, her perfume dulling his senses, her touch stirring a response he fought. For ten seconds, he faltered, a hand grazing her back, kissing back before the memory of Senator Thomson—helpless in the ICU, lifeless eyes—snapped him out.
He pushed her away, breathless. "I'm sorry if that felt out of line, I…" he stammered, words failing. "I'm heading out."
Snatching the dropped file, he bolted, leaving her staring after him, puzzled by his retreat. Descending the stairs, his mind reeled. She thrived on affairs, younger men, a mirror to her husband's infidelity—worse, even. He couldn't entangle himself. Clutching the file, he vowed no repeat, though a nagging sense hinted at another encounter ahead.
The mansion's shadows stretched behind him, its grandeur a mask for the darkness he now carried in those pages.
***
The mansion's shadows stretched behind Bird as he descended the grand staircase, the marble gleaming under the gas lamps' flicker. The surface was cold, a stark contrast to the heat still lingering on his lips from Lizzy's unexpected kiss.
The file clutched in his hand crinkled with every grip, a lifeline to the truth he'd stumbled upon—Colin Swanson's shadowy dealings with Stuart Salazar. The air grew thick with the party's fading revelry, the jazz notes now a distant murmur. Servants moved like ghosts, their refusal to meet his eyes confirming Lizzy had been operating in her own silent zone of power.
Outside, the humid night wrapped around him. He spotted Dickson leaning against the battered sedan. Bird's pace quickened, the file pressed to his chest as if it might shield him from the lingering memory of Lizzy's touch—her perfume still haunting his senses.
"Steve, you look like you've seen a ghost," Dickson said, his voice cutting through the night. His eyes narrowed, catching the tension in Bird's clenched jaw.
Bird swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady. "Ran into some trouble upstairs. Got this, though." He thrust the file toward Dickson, his knuckles white from the grip.
"Salazar? That's heavy," Dickson muttered, scanning the top page under the streetlight's glow. "Canadian-Portuguese crime lord, weapons, drugs—ties to opium maybe? You think Swanson's 'C.S.'?"
"Could be," Bird replied, his tone clipped. "Lizzy—Elizabeth Swanson—handed me this. Wants out of the marriage. But it got messy. She came on strong, tried to… distract me. I pushed back, but it shook me. Can't trust her, but this file is our lead."
Dickson's gaze sharpened. "Messy how? You alright?"
"I'm fine," Bird snapped, exhaling sharply. "Salazar's the key. We need to find his angle, maybe bring him in somehow."
Bird slid into the sedan, the leather creaking under his tension. The engine coughed to life, and they drove into the night, leaving the mansion's corrupt glow behind them.