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I crossed over the streetcar tracks and into the French Quarter. The colorful buildings with their cast-iron balconies always made me smile. Delicious scents wafted from the eateries, and up-tempo jazz echoed from the bars.
The distinctive, black-and-white spires of the Saint Louis cathedral were visible ahead. I dodged around a few early revelers—any time was a good time to get the party started in New Orleans—who sounded like they’d already had a few too many Hurricanes.
Reaching Pirates Alley, I did a quick scan, stepping over some of the deeper cracks between the cobblestones. It was said that the alley had gotten its name from the pirates that had hung out here centuries before to enjoy New Orleans’ temptations. Others said it was because pirates and criminals were transported down this route on their way to prison.
Whatever the truth, it was a popular street known for being haunted. Tourists did night tours.
Up ahead, a small group of people stood, laughing and talking.
Hearing footsteps, I turned. George Batt hurried toward me, passing the alley’s famous lamp post, hunched over inside his dark coat. He was middle aged, and carrying a little weight around the middle, his brown hair thinning.
“Hi,” I said.
He gave me a jerky nod and pulled some folded, crumpled papers out of his coat. “I photocopied a list of private sales from the auction house.” He raked a hand through his hair. He’d clearly done it a few times already. He looked around.
“George, take a deep breath.” I kept my tone low and calm.
He swallowed. “No one saw me make the copies, but I thought someone was following me earlier.”
“You saw someone?”
He shook his head. “I just…felt it.”
“That’s just the nerves.” I took the papers and shoved them into the pocket of my hoodie. “This is helpful. You’re doing the right thing.”
“Not if I end up dead.”
“George, just breathe.”
He managed a shaky breath. “I’ve got to go.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
After he’d left, I waited a few minutes before I headed out. I took Bourbon Street on the way back. There were more partygoers here. One group of men ahead of me was singing loudly. A man with a saxophone played on the corner.
I wanted to get back to my apartment and look at the list. This could be the break I needed.
At that moment, I felt a prickle on the back of my neck.
I didn’t react, just kept walking. Then I paused and crouched, pretending to tie my shoelace. I glanced to the side, but didn’t spot anybody.
Damn, George was making me nervous, too.
I rose and broke into a jog. It took a few blocks, but I shook off the creepy sensation. I did take a circuitous route home, though.
When I finally let myself back into my apartment, I spread George’s papers flat on the table.
“Let’s see what we’ve got.”
I froze.
One name popped out instantly.
Kavner Fury.
My throat tightened. He was only listed once, and it didn’t appear that he’d made a habit out of private sales. I tapped my nail on the line with his name. This one was for a painting—an oil of a Creole woman, attributed to painter George Caitlin.
I quickly ran a search on the painting on my laptop.
