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“On my way.”
I tuck my phone into my back pocket and hand Zeke his once I get to the study. Jericho and Robbie are seated on the couch. Zeke gestures to one of the armchairs and he sits on the one opposite mine.
“I hope you’re not hurt too badly, Blue,” Jericho says.
“Thanks. I’m sorry Isabelle was hurt because of me.”
“It sounds like my brother made sure Hoxton paid the price.”
I glance at Zeke who is quiet.
“You’ve lied to us at least once before, Blue. I expect honesty going forward.” Jericho doesn’t beat around the bush.
“Already handled, Brother,” Zeke says, sounding bored.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Jericho says. “I’ll be very honest myself. I don’t like my brother risking his life to save a stranger. One who tried to blackmail him.”
“I—”
“I don’t know what to make of you just yet and I hope, for your sake, you will be trustworthy going forward,” he adds.
“Enough, Jericho,” Zeke says. “I told you. It’s been handled.”
Jericho puts his hands up. “Just want to be sure Blue here knows where I stand. I won’t let my brother destroy himself for a stranger.”
“I said enough.”
“If you two are finished arguing,” Robbie starts, breaking into what is quickly becoming a very awkward situation. “I present the elusive Antoine Girard.”
Robbie turns his laptop around and we all look at the face on the screen. It’s a man who appears to be in his late forties, early fifties. He’s of average height and build, his expression neutral enough, there’s nothing that stands out about him. It doesn’t look like he knows the photo is being taken. Zooming back out, I see the one thing that sets him apart from others. The pinned sleeve of his coat.
He’s the one-handed man who was at my house that night three years ago.
“Antoine Girard is fifty-two years old, unmarried and childless. He’s also the last remaining male of the Girard family. His younger brother passed away a year ago. That brother’s son will eventually inherit the Girard fortune upon his uncle, Antoine’s, death. It stands to be said it is quite the inheritance. You’ll notice the coda?”
He hits a button, and another photo fills the screen. This one is of Girard walking toward a waiting sedan and the way he’s turned his head, the coda tattoo is visible on his neck.
“That is taken outside the airport. Mr. Girard flew into New Orleans late last night.”
At that, my heartrate doubles.
“Where is he now?” Zeke asks.
“That is perhaps the most interesting part of this. He is apparently a guest of Councilor Augustus.” He hits another button, and we can see the heads of two men in front of what looks to be a guesthouse on the grounds of a large mansion. Six men encircle the two facing one another.
Robbie sets the laptop aside, stands and pours himself a whiskey from the liquor tray against the wall.
“Gentlemen?” He gestures to the whiskey before his gaze falls on me. “Excuse me. Blue?”
“No, thanks,” I say, and Zeke also declines. He pours for Jericho and resumes his seat.
“Are you ready for your history lesson?”
“Get to it, Robbie. I don’t pay you by the hour.”
“Touché.” He sips his drink.
“What is most interesting about Girard staying at Augustus’s guesthouse is that about twenty-five years ago, the two became bitter enemies. But let me start at the beginning. The coda, a musical symbol, signifies, as you may remember from music lessons at school, a finale or conclusion. The Girard family adopted it as their insignia two centuries ago. Turns out there has been more than one musical protégé birthed by Girard genes.”
