Murder in the Rue Ursulines by Greg Herren

silent other than the clip-clopping of a mule’s hooves in the distance and every once in awhile, a wisp of voice would break through the silent fog, a broken fragment of a sentence swallowed again into the quiet. As I crossed Bourbon Street, the headlights of a yellow Toyota caught me by surprise and I jumped onto the opposite corner, my heart pounding from the close call. That would have been five hundred points in Jephtha’s game, I thought to myself, shaking my head. I took some deep breaths to calm myself, and started walking again.
    Loren hadn’t had to tell me Frillian’s address. The location of their house wasn’t a closely guarded secret. Everyone in New Orleans had known within moments of their decision to buy a house here which properties they were looking at—and the smoke signals were already floating before the ink was dry on the bill of sale. To outsiders, the idea of any sort of privacy in the French Quarter may have seemed insane—but ironically, if privacy was your main concern in choosing a home, the Quarter was actually the place to go. Many of the homes were hidden from the street by massive brick fences with broken glass embedded in the top, or coils of razor wire to deter those with criminal intent. Even those houses whose front wall brushed the sidewalks were closed off once the shutters were shut and latched.
    And Frillian’s home was one of the most secluded houses in the lower Quarter. It was L-shaped. One narrow side of the L touched the sidewalk. The shutters were always closed on that side. It was brick, and a seven-foot brick wall that leaned towards the street extended from that edge of the house all the way to the wall of the next house. The previous owner had opted for razor wire rather than broken bottles for the top of the fence. Almost in the very middle of the fence was a solid black iron door, with a mail drop slot at about waist level.
    A few yards further down was a black iron garage door. On the other side of the brick fence, tall bamboo lined the inner side, so that a passerby could just catch a glimpse of the upper floor of the house, where it sat on the very back of the lot. Nothing inside the fence was visible from the sidewalk. A riot of bougainvillea spilled purple flowers and green leaves over the top between the gate and the garage door. Black hitching posts with horse’s heads lined the gutter. Next to the gate, a gas lamp flickered through the fog.
    As I approached the door, I glanced up and, inside the bougainvillea, saw a tiny security camera pointing a small, glowing red light at me. I resisted the urge to wave at the camera.  There was a bell to the right of the door, and I was reaching to press it when the door swung open silently.
    “Come on. Get inside before someone sees you.” A man about my height, dressed completely in black, grabbed my left arm and pulled me inside. I weigh 240 pounds and stand six-feet-four in bare feet, so this was no mean feat. He slammed the door behind him and I got a good look at him when he turned back to me. He was actually a few inches taller than me, and he had the solid, thick body of a power lifter. He had to weigh at least three hundred solid pounds. His biceps strained at the sleeves of his tight, short-sleeved black cotton shirt. He was also wearing pleated black pants. He looked to be in his forties; his head was completely shaved. His eyes were dark brown, and his face was creased with lines radiating out from his eyes and the corners of his mouth.  “Sorry to be so rough.” He gave me a sheepish grin. “But you wouldn’t believe what the paparazzi will pull to try to get in here.” He stuck out a huge hand. “Jay Robinette, head of security.”
    His grip was strong, and I got the sense he wasn’t even using a tenth of his strength to squeeze my hand. I was grateful for that, but when you’re built like that, you don’t need to show off how strong you are. “Chanse MacLeod. Nice to meet you,