Chapter 9 Quinn
NINE
Quinn
The city is still visible through my office window, but the light has already receded from the buildings. The glow from my monitors feels too harsh by comparison, so I switch on the desk lamp and let the warmer light settle over the desk.
Stone Intermodal fills both screens. Corporate structure on the left. Payroll records and authorization logs on the right. I’ve been inside this file for two hours, tracing signatures and reporting lines, and I still haven’t reached the bottom of it.
Keller’s name appears exactly where I expected it to. On salary. Title listed as Strategic Partnerships and External Relations. It sounds substantial without saying much.
The moment I saw his last name tied to this company, I drew a clean line. Federal investigator. Company under quiet review. That should have been enough.
But precision matters.
I move through the authorization logs again, slower this time.
Ridge signs off on shipping contracts across multiple divisions.
Wells’ credentials surface repeatedly in system audits.
Cain’s name is tied to East Coast logistics development stretching back several years.
Reeves appears in an advisory capacity that aligns with what I know about his military service.
Even Rhodes, still a full-time student at Loyola, carries a title in one of the holding entities. In a privately held company of this scale, that isn’t unusual. Legacy families distribute titles early. They train the next generation long before they hand them authority.
When I return to Keller’s file, the difference becomes clear.
He draws a salary. He carries a designation.
But when I map operational authority against the shipping lanes I’ve been reviewing all week, his name never intersects them.
He doesn’t approve of container movement.
He doesn’t authorize vendor payments. His digital signature does not appear anywhere near the financial arteries I was tasked with examining.
His role sits beside operations, not inside them.
That doesn’t clear him. It doesn’t implicate him either. It simply defines the boundary more accurately than I had before.
I lean back in my chair and study the structure chart again. The brothers are distributed across divisions, but distribution is not the same as involvement. Some of these roles are functional. Some are symbolic. Some exist to keep ownership clean while authority remains concentrated elsewhere.
Keller’s appears to fall into a different lane entirely.
If he isn’t embedded in the logistics arm of the business, then whatever he does exists outside of it. He said finance. I want to understand what that actually means.
I widen the search parameters and pull state-level corporate filings.
The separation is immediate.
A standalone LLC registered under Louisiana gaming regulations. Fully licensed. Compliant. Current on renewals. Keller Stone is listed as the managing member and primary operator.
I open the the filing and read it carefully, line by line.
The operation is structured as private, invitation-only card games with clearly defined buy-ins and documented liquidity management protocols.
It operates under state oversight, and every renewal is current.
There are no violations, no pending investigations, and no administrative flags buried in the compliance history.
It has nothing to do with freight, and it is not concealed inside the Stone Intermodal structure. The LLC stands on its own licensing framework, legally distinct and financially separate from the port operations I have been reviewing for the past week.
He told me he worked in finance.
In a narrow sense, that is accurate.
He manages capital flow in controlled rooms. He vets participants before money ever touches the table. He oversees risk and payout in environments built on discretion and trust.
It isn’t corporate finance in the traditional sense, but it is financial in every way that matters. He manages capital in controlled rooms, oversees liquidity, and builds relationships where money changes hands under agreed terms.
I pull up a feature article profiling New Orleans’ most exclusive private gaming experiences.
The language is polished and deliberate, describing curated risk environments designed for high-net-worth clientele who value discretion as much as the game itself.
The venues rotate to maintain privacy. Guest lists are tightly vetted.
Buy-ins start in the six-figure range and climb from there.
I sit back in my chair and read it again, slower this time, letting the structure of it settle into place.
A week ago, he was just a stranger at a gala. Then he became the son of the murdered man. Then, an employee of the company I’m quietly reviewing.
To add insult to injury, he’s also the operator of private tables where money and influence circulate under controlled conditions and carefully curated guest lists.
Nothing I have reviewed ties him to container routes, vendor disbursements, or the shipping irregularities I’ve been mapping for days. His professional sphere runs alongside the port, not through it, and the distinction is clear in the data.
That does not mean the lanes never intersect. Influence rarely stays contained to one room.
I close the browser and rest my hands flat on the desk, grounding myself in the cool surface.
I cannot decide yet whether this makes my involvement with him simpler or more complicated. The ethical line still exists. It has simply shifted from where I first drew it.
It’s just not where I first drew it.
I grab my bag and head for the door. I'm going to be late to meet Leah. It's our wine-and-paint night. She texted me three reminders this afternoon and threatened to show up at my office if I bailed.
The hallway is quiet. My footsteps echo against the tile. I take the stairs instead of the elevator. My legs need the movement.
The studio sits on Magazine Street between a bakery and a yoga studio, its front windows fogged from bodies and heat. Through the glass, I can see rows of easels and a chalkboard that reads Tonight: Mississippi at Dusk in looping pastel.
Leah is already inside when I arrive, waving me over with a paint-streaked hand.
“I was starting to think you really were going to ghost me,” she says as I slide into the seat beside her.
“I would never.”
“You say that. I saw the hesitation dots in your last text. And you're going on ten minutes late.”
"Sorry, bestie. I couldn't get out of that damn office. But I'm here now. And I will never ghost you. Pinky promise."
The room smells like acrylic paint and boxed wine. Twenty strangers stand behind easels, following along as an instructor with purple glasses explains how to “let the water move organically.”
Someone in the back of the room laughs, cutting over the instructor’s voice. A few people at their table lean in toward each other, heads close, giggling. I glance over out of habit and then turn back to my canvas.
Leah follows my gaze and gives me a look. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Not relaxing. Keep your eyes and ears here, with me. This is our date night, remember?”
I pick up a clean brush, dip it in the blue paint, and put a dot on Leah's hand. We laugh, and all is right with the world.
I drag a thin line of darker blue along the top edge of the sky, trying to mimic what the instructor just did. My line comes out too straight, too deliberate. The river on my canvas looks like a blueprint.
Leah’s river looks like actual water.
She has the blue bleeding into purple, gold threaded through it like the last light of day. When she adds another stroke, she doesn’t hesitate. She just lets it run.
“How are you doing that?” I ask, nodding toward her canvas.
“If you stop fighting it,” she replies, then reaches for the bottle and tops off my glass like it’s part of the lesson. "The paint does it for you."
The instructor moves to the front of the room and starts talking about reflection and how the river should “hold the sky.” I try, but my hand keeps tightening around the brush. I paint the horizon line again because it isn’t level enough. Leah watches me do it twice, then leans closer.
“You must be buried with the new job,” she says lightly, blending a streak of violet into the top of her sky. “You’ve been quiet this week.”
“I have been busy,” I reply, keeping my eyes on the horizon line I’ve redrawn twice.
“Mm.” She tilts her head, assessing the river on her canvas. “And what about your knight in shining armor? Might he be stealing all of your free time?”
I pause just long enough that she notices.
“We’re not seeing each other,” I say, dipping my brush into a thin wash of gold.
Leah’s brush drops against the edge of her palette with a soft clatter. She turns fully in her chair to face me.
“Wait, what? Why?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Last time we talked,” she says carefully, “you were practically glowing. You told me you didn’t want to leave his place the next morning. You said you almost missed work because you were standing at his kitchen counter, drinking coffee, talking, and admiring his happy trail.”
I roll my eyes at her, irritated that she has to remind me how amazing that morning was.
I drag the gold across the surface of the water, but it comes out too defined, too sharp. The instructor is talking about softening edges. I ignore her.
“Yeah,” I say. “Well. I found out the next day he’s the son of the damn dead guy I’m looking into.”
Leah blinks once.
“As in,” she says slowly, “the Robert Stone?”
“Yes.”
“The company you’re reviewing.”
“Yes. His last name is Stone. He's Keller Stone, Robert Stone's son.”
She leans back in her chair, processing that, then looks from my rigid river to my face.
“Okay,” she says, calmer now. “That’s… inconvenient. But why does it have to be a deal-killer?”
“Inconvenient is one word for it.”
The instructor walks past and tells us to let the colors bleed into each other. Leah nods politely and does exactly that. I don’t.
“So where are we?” she asks.
“He asked me to dinner two days after the night, and I told him I couldn’t do dinner. And that was it. Crickets ever since.”
Leah studies me for another beat, then reaches for her wine. “Hold on. Slow down. You found out he’s a Stone, and your solution was to cut him off without even talking to him?”
“I can’t talk to him about what I’m doing.
You know that,” I say quietly. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you about it, technically.
I was assigned to quietly review Stone Intermodal to determine whether there’s enough there to justify a formal investigation.
If I disclose that to him, I compromise the review before it even does what it's supposed to do.”
Leah nods once, not dismissing it. “Okay. I understand that part. You can’t tell him. But I’m still not clear on why that automatically means you can’t see him.”
I set my glass down and wipe my hands on the rag beside my water jar, buying a second to organize my thoughts.
“I found an article that listed the corporate structure,” I explain. “His name is on payroll under Strategic Partnerships and External Relations. At first glance, that makes him an employee of the company I’m reviewing.”
“I don't really understand what you mean by 'first glance,'” Leah says.
“Well, when I dug further, his role doesn’t intersect with shipping operations. He doesn’t sign off on container movement or authorize vendor contracts. But he is technically a paid employee of Stone Intermodal. And he's his son, for fuck's sake."
Leah’s brush glides through a streak of gold, and she lets it run into the blue without trying to contain it.
“So what does he actually do?”
“He runs private tables,” I say. “High-stakes card games.”
She lifts her brows. “Poker.”
“Yes. Among other things, I'm guessing. I don't know. Cards.”
“Is it illegal?”
“No.”
“Is he under investigation?”
“No.”
“Connected to the port?”
“Not operationally, that I can tell.”
Leah tilts her head. “Then what exactly is the line you think you’re crossing?”
I hesitate, because that is the question.
“He’s adjacent,” I say finally. “His last name is Stone. The family controls the company. Even if he’s not embedded in the logistics side, he benefits from the same holdings.
If something surfaces and it turns out I was sleeping with one of the sons while reviewing the business, that looks compromised. ”
Leah leans back in her chair and considers that.
Leah studies me. “Quinn, are you trying to protect your career, or are you trying to protect yourself from something else?”
"Okay, let's forget he's Robert's son. Let's assume there isn't a boundary issue since he doesn't actually work for the company. Did you hear me say he runs a gambling operation!"
"This is Louisiana, Quinny. Everyone gambles."
"It's not about gambling. It's about proximity, power, and influence. The kind of people sitting at those tables could be the same people I'm trying to track. It's messy. It's just too much."
"You're reviewing a corporation, not building a case against this man. Quinn, that's a stretch, even for you."
"Not yet."
Leah sets her glass down and leans forward, elbows on butcher paper.
"Listen to me. If something changes, you step away. If he crosses a line, you stop. But right now? He's a guy you had insane chemistry with. A guy who pulled you out of traffic and asked you to dinner. Let your hair down, for Christ's sake."
I pick up my brush again and focus on the canvas, and don't answer. I want to believe what she's saying, but the voice in my head tells me to run for a plethora of red flags.
"Can we talk about something else? I thought this was our date night, not bag on Quinn night."
Leah groans and blows a hair out of her face dramatically. "You're no fun."