Chapter 12 Keller
TWELVE
Keller
Float Building: Many krewes partner with professional float builders months in advance of Carnival, designing elaborate, themed floats that reflect the year’s chosen motif.
The process is highly coordinated and costly, blending artistry, engineering, and secrecy to preserve the spectacle until parade night.
As I walk, I pull out my phone and check it for the first time since we walked down to Masquerade. There are several calls and a text from Marcus.
Got some things to show you. I'll be at the office for a few hours if you want to drop by.
I respond immediately.
Sorry, just seeing this. Are you still there?
I unlock my vehicle and hop in, starting the engine. His response comes back about thirty seconds later.
Office. You still coming? I hadn't heard back so I wasn't sure.
Be there in 20 minutes.
Marcus Devlin's office sits above a pawn shop in the Marigny. There's no sign on the door, no name on the button to ring him. Just a street number.
I climb the narrow staircase and knock once. The door opens immediately.
Marcus steps aside to let me in. The space is small. Two monitors glow on a desk cluttered with hard drives and cables. A single lamp lights the room.
"I hope I didn't interrupt anything," Marcus says.
I ignore the nicety. "What did you find?"
He moves to the desk and pulls up a file on the left monitor. "Guest logs from the Asbury. Backend access. Goes back to 2015, so we're in business."
"Where are you with it? Any way to track down people once you have a list?"
"I'm working through the cross-reference now. The system archives every six months and stores them separately. It's going to take time to pull the right batch without triggering a security flag."
I lean against the edge of the desk. The monitor shows rows of names, dates, and room numbers. Nothing stands out yet.
"How much time?"
"Three days. Maybe four."
Longer than I want, but faster than most people could manage.
"What else?"
Marcus switches to the other monitor. A photograph appears. It's one of the photos I'd sent him after we spoke, so he knew who specifically to look for.
"I ran facial recognition through available databases. Nothing came back. Either he's not in the system, or the image quality isn't clear enough for a match."
I study the photo again. My mother's hand rests on his shoulder as she leans in too close to a man who isn't her husband. A knot forms, pulling low in my stomach. It's the same dull pressure that followed me for years after she died.
"Keep going," I say. "The hotel logs are the best lead we have. If he stayed there more than once, we'll have a pattern."
Marcus nods. "I'll let you know when I have something solid. I have a few other things I want to try, too."
I straighten and move toward the door. My hand grabs the knob.
"Keller."
I glance back.
"This seems personal. You sure you want to open this can of worms?"
No, but I need to. "Yes."
Morning light filters across Audubon Park. The air is soft and warm. Birds call from the trees overhead. I stand near the entrance, hands in my pockets, watching joggers pass by.
Quinn appears at seven exactly.
She moves up the path with strong, efficient strides. Her legs push forward in a rhythm that reads practiced and instinctive. She wears black running shorts and a gray tank top, both clearly meant for function over appearance. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail that swings slightly as she runs.
I step forward from the entrance.
She spots me and slows to a jog. Then a walk. Her breathing stays controlled, no heaving.
"You're early," she says.
"So are you."
She stops a few feet away. Her eyes flick down to my shoes. I wonder if they’re so shiny she can tell I bought them yesterday afternoon.
"Ready?" she asks.
"Ready as I'll ever be."
We start moving together. She sets the pace, and I match it without comment. The ground is solid under my feet, the air green and earthy. Very uncharacteristic of the city.
Oak trees stretch overhead, branches heavy with Spanish moss.
Quinn doesn't speak for the first few minutes. I don't either. The rhythm builds between us naturally. When I slow slightly to adjust my stride, she mirrors me without breaking pace. When she speeds up, I follow.
A woman passes us walking a golden retriever. The dog pants happily, tongue lolling. Quinn glances at it, and a smile crosses her face before fading back to focus.
"City's waking up," I say.
She nods. "This is my favorite part of the day. Before everything gets loud."
We round a curve in the path, and the river comes into view beyond the trees. Sunlight catches the water in scattered gold patches. A barge moves slowly upstream, dark against the light.
Quinn slows to a walk. I match her again. She breathes deeper now, but is still controlled. Sweat dampens the edges of her hairline.
"How often do you do this?" I ask.
"I try to at least a few times a week. It clears my head and gets me moving, since I spend most of the work day behind a computer."
By now, we've been running close to forty minutes. There is a peace about it once my lungs got over the initial assault.
"We just hit four miles. You good, or want to keep going?"
I stop jogging as my answer and double over as I catch my breath. She stops a few steps ahead of me and stretches her quad.
"You okay?" She asks.
"I'm good. I liked it, but my body needs to get used to the cardio."
"Let's walk it off, maybe grab a coffee or something."
"Yeah, that sounds great."
We pass a tarot reader setting up at a small folding table beneath a tree. Candles, cards, and a worn purple cloth spread across the surface. The woman arranging the cards looks up and smiles at us. She's older, maybe sixty, with silver hair wrapped in a scarf.
"I've got a special deal for you two beautiful people. Two for one. Come on. Join me."
Quinn stops.
"Let's do it," she says.
I glance at the table. "You believe in that?"
"No. But it could be fun."
The tarot reader gestures to two chairs across from her. "Good morning. Sit, please."
We sit. The woman reaches for Quinn's hands first, turning them palm up. The silver bracelet clinks on the small metal table. She studies the lines without speaking, then looks at Quinn's face.
"Opportunity," she says. "Advancement. A choice between loyalty and truth. You'll have to decide which matters more."
Quinn's fingers twitch. It's a small movement, barely there, but I see it.
"Let's come back to that, yeah?"
Quinn smiles faintly and nods her head once. Then the reader releases her hands and reaches for mine. Her touch is warm and soft, like she just put on lotion. She traces one finger along the center of my palm. The clamminess from our run is still present.
"Maternal presence," she says. "Unresolved weight from the past. It will demand answers soon."
My chest tightens. The air is heavier suddenly, and I pull my hand back and lean away from the table.
I stand and drop cash on the table.
"My leg is cramping up. You two finish, I'm going to go over here and stretch."
I'm lightheaded. I tell myself it is the run and the sudden stop, not the fact that a stranger just put her finger on the one thing I do not discuss.
What the absolute fuck?