by all accounts be a primary suspect, is a sign of the pervasive corruption and complicity in our government.
Given the dependence of Mr. John Thiroux on the well-known hallucinogenic drink absinthe, as well as his excessive consumption of whiskey and frequent opium smoking, it is not a stretch to imagine he could have carried out such an act of violence. Despite who he is, and who he may or may not have contributed funds to, if a man commits a crime, he should be held accountable for it.
It would seem the police agree, or at least fear public reaction otherwise, as they have set out to investigate Miss Donovan’s murder, and by witness report are focusing their attentions on Mr. Thiroux.
The light was good. It hit the side of Sara’s face, reflected in her blond hair, and showed the healthy rich color of her arms and legs. Gabriel lifted his camera and took another picture of her, zooming in on her face, clicking multiple times as her eyes went wide and she made a sound of distress.
“Stop!” Her hand went up in front of his lens, actually bumping it with her fingers in her vehemence.
He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable, so he lowered the camera. But he wasn’t sorry he’d taken the shots. Sara was a study in contrasts, like the city around her. She was strong, but fragile, had endured tragedy, yet was still beautiful. Perhaps more so now that her eyes spoke of suffering and lessons learned. He had noticed that her hands moved restlessly, always pulling at something—her dress, her hair, her purse, like she was always pondering, worrying, watching.
There was no particular logic to it, but he was attracted to her, and he recognized the danger in that. But it didn’t make him any less intrigued.
“So how much do you know about the history of New Orleans?” He rewrapped the camera strap around his wrist and started walking.
“Just a vague outline.”
“In 1849 New Orleans was a city that had grown quickly because of the influx of immigrants into the port and Americans who moved in for business opportunities after the Louisiana Purchase. There were also a huge number of gold rushers who stopped in that year on their way to California to make their fortune. Picture a couple of hundred thousand people living in a hot, humid city surrounded by water. A thriving port, lots of sailors and gold rushers—that all leads to drinking, gambling, and prostitution. And of course, the aftereffect of that is crime. They say there was a murder a week in New Orleans at that time.”
“Which explains the attitude in some of those newspaper articles. They seemed disgusted.”
“Exactly. But people get used to violence if they see enough of it. And if it’s contained in an area where no so-called decent people live, then it’s easy to ignore.”
“I don’t know how anyone gets used to violence.”
Gabriel glanced back, surprised at how breathless Sara’s words sounded. They were walking up Dumaine at his pace, and he realized he was striding way too fast. Sara was breathing hard, and she was still two feet behind him, her eyes trained on the precarious sidewalk.
He slowed down. “Sorry. I have long legs.”
“And I have short ones.” She glanced up and smiled. “These sidewalks could stand to be replaced.”
“But that’s part of the charm of the Quarter. And I’ve seen women negotiate Bourbon Street in high heels after kicking back shots, and it’s amazing to me that they don’t break their ankles.”
“I’ve never been to Bourbon Street. This is my first time here.”
“Maybe we can go tonight. You need to at least say you’ve been to Bourbon Street.” Gabriel had no idea why he made the offer. Well, actually he did. It was because he was trying to make conversation with Sara, trying to make her comfortable around him, and he liked the idea of showing her around. That small, nagging attraction was driving him too, and he knew it, should stop it, but wasn’t.
“Sure,” she said. “That
Given the dependence of Mr. John Thiroux on the well-known hallucinogenic drink absinthe, as well as his excessive consumption of whiskey and frequent opium smoking, it is not a stretch to imagine he could have carried out such an act of violence. Despite who he is, and who he may or may not have contributed funds to, if a man commits a crime, he should be held accountable for it.
It would seem the police agree, or at least fear public reaction otherwise, as they have set out to investigate Miss Donovan’s murder, and by witness report are focusing their attentions on Mr. Thiroux.
The light was good. It hit the side of Sara’s face, reflected in her blond hair, and showed the healthy rich color of her arms and legs. Gabriel lifted his camera and took another picture of her, zooming in on her face, clicking multiple times as her eyes went wide and she made a sound of distress.
“Stop!” Her hand went up in front of his lens, actually bumping it with her fingers in her vehemence.
He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable, so he lowered the camera. But he wasn’t sorry he’d taken the shots. Sara was a study in contrasts, like the city around her. She was strong, but fragile, had endured tragedy, yet was still beautiful. Perhaps more so now that her eyes spoke of suffering and lessons learned. He had noticed that her hands moved restlessly, always pulling at something—her dress, her hair, her purse, like she was always pondering, worrying, watching.
There was no particular logic to it, but he was attracted to her, and he recognized the danger in that. But it didn’t make him any less intrigued.
“So how much do you know about the history of New Orleans?” He rewrapped the camera strap around his wrist and started walking.
“Just a vague outline.”
“In 1849 New Orleans was a city that had grown quickly because of the influx of immigrants into the port and Americans who moved in for business opportunities after the Louisiana Purchase. There were also a huge number of gold rushers who stopped in that year on their way to California to make their fortune. Picture a couple of hundred thousand people living in a hot, humid city surrounded by water. A thriving port, lots of sailors and gold rushers—that all leads to drinking, gambling, and prostitution. And of course, the aftereffect of that is crime. They say there was a murder a week in New Orleans at that time.”
“Which explains the attitude in some of those newspaper articles. They seemed disgusted.”
“Exactly. But people get used to violence if they see enough of it. And if it’s contained in an area where no so-called decent people live, then it’s easy to ignore.”
“I don’t know how anyone gets used to violence.”
Gabriel glanced back, surprised at how breathless Sara’s words sounded. They were walking up Dumaine at his pace, and he realized he was striding way too fast. Sara was breathing hard, and she was still two feet behind him, her eyes trained on the precarious sidewalk.
He slowed down. “Sorry. I have long legs.”
“And I have short ones.” She glanced up and smiled. “These sidewalks could stand to be replaced.”
“But that’s part of the charm of the Quarter. And I’ve seen women negotiate Bourbon Street in high heels after kicking back shots, and it’s amazing to me that they don’t break their ankles.”
“I’ve never been to Bourbon Street. This is my first time here.”
“Maybe we can go tonight. You need to at least say you’ve been to Bourbon Street.” Gabriel had no idea why he made the offer. Well, actually he did. It was because he was trying to make conversation with Sara, trying to make her comfortable around him, and he liked the idea of showing her around. That small, nagging attraction was driving him too, and he knew it, should stop it, but wasn’t.
“Sure,” she said. “That
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