“Possibly,” Xavier says. “Possibly the day before, depending on how close to midnight the murder actually occurred.”

  “Thank you, X,” I say. “The point is, we can’t ignore this if there’s any possibility he was actually meeting with Scott Russo. Who could we talk to who might know if they were meeting?”

  “We got the information for his assistant, but we didn’t interview him. He wasn’t even in town the day of the parade,” Detective Bronson says.

  “Then now is the time to interview him,” I say. “He might know something about why Russo would have had a meeting with Joseph Palmer. Or if he actually did.”

  “I’ll set it up,” Bronson says.

  Half an hour later, we’re at what used to be Scott Russo’s studio space. His former assistant, Leo Cahill, is going through everything in the tight space and trying to make sense of it all.

  “What’s going to happen with all of this?” I ask.

  “Scott’s parents are supposed to be in town in a few days. I guess, technically, the equipment and everything, even the notes, belong to them. But I hope they’ll let me hold on to it,” he says.

  “Are you going to keep the podcast going?” I ask.

  “That’s what I want to do. I worked my ass off with Scott to get this thing off the ground. I don’t want to see it die just because he did.” My eyebrows lift, and Leo looks slightly embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound like a complete ass. I don’t handle things like this well.”

  “I understand,” Xavier says, an endorsement he will never understand but I take seriously.

  “What I mean is, Scott and I talked about this podcast for a long time before we ever launched it. And after we did, I was always right there doing everything I could to help him. I handled research, interviewed people, handled a lot of the tech. People listened to Scott’s voice and everything, but I was the one behind the scenes carrying the bulk of this thing. I don’t want to just let all of that go,” he says.

  “That makes sense,” I tell him. “You put a lot into it. It seems only logical that you wouldn’t want to have to lose all of that hard work now. And it would be a meaningful way to continue to honor Scott. What can you tell us about this podcast?”

  “It was dedicated to true crime,” Leo says. “We chose cases and delved into them from different angles, sometimes presenting unpopular theories as to what happened or talking about controversial cases from different perspectives. Not everybody loved the things we had to say, but it was gaining a really strong following.”

  “That’s what I heard. Did you know of any upcoming projects Scott was working on that you might not have been involved in?” I ask, trying to be as careful as I can not to upset him with the question.

  Leo nods. “He was working on something he said he wasn’t ready to tell even me about yet. He was really secretive about it.”

  “You don’t have any idea what it might have been about?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “No. He wouldn’t even give me a name.”

  “Would you be able to check his calendar for me and let me know if he had a meeting set for a specific day and time?” I ask.

  “Sure,” Leo says.

  Bronson checks the notes we jotted down before leaving the department and gives the date and time of the “S. R.” notation on Palmer’s calendar. Leo goes over to a computer sitting on a table and clicks through a few commands. He nods.

  “Yeah, he had a meeting at that time. It doesn’t say with whom or what it was about. Just ‘Meeting.’ That must have had something to do with the project,” he says.

  It’s obvious in his voice that the thought of Joseph Palmer doing a project that didn’t involve his dedicated and clearly driven assistant bothered Leo to his core.

  “Thank you so much for your help,” I say. “If you can think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to give us a call. And we might be getting back in touch with you.”

  “Sure,” Leo says again. He pauses, emotion seeming to take over where he’d fought to keep it away. “You’re going to find who murdered Scott, right?”

  “We’re doing everything we can,” Bronson tells him. “Thank you. You’ve been really helpful.”

  He nods, and we leave the studio.

  “He was definitely meeting with Joseph Palmer,” I say when we climb into the detective’s car for the drive back to the department. “Which means I would bet Russo’s secret project is about something having to do with Palmer. But what?”

  “The jury situation?” Detective Bronson suggests.

  I give an uncertain shrug. “I don’t know. Why be so secretive about that if that was all it was? He’s already spoken out about it and been in a bunch of media coverage about that whole situation. It isn’t like he was going to be breaking his silence or anything. Why not tell Leo about it?”

  “That’s true,” Bronson says. “I don’t know. But I also don’t know what else it could be.”

  “We need access to Palmer’s computer. Did you get a warrant to go through it?” I ask.

  “Yes. The team should be going through it soon,” Bronson says.

  I call Celeste as we’re leaving the police department.

  “Can you meet up for a drink?” I ask.

  “Twice in one day,” she says later when we meet up at the bar a block from Xavier and my hotel. “How could I be so lucky?”

  “I wish it were just because I have so much free time and thought I’d hang out with you more, which I do, but this is about work,” I say.

  “Oh,” Celeste says, then she arranges herself on the barstool and nods. “I figured as much. Have you found out something else?”

  “I went to Joseph’s house to look at his office and found a note on his calendar that he had a meeting with ‘S. R.’ I figured this had to be Scott Russo, and we went to talk to his assistant. He wasn’t in town on Mardi Gras, so he hadn’t been interviewed, but he really didn’t have anything to say, except to confirm to us that Scott also had a meeting at the same exact time that Palmer’s meeting was, but there was no note about who it was with,” I say.

  “That has to mean they were meeting with each other,” Celeste says.

  “That’s what I think. And Leo, Scott’s assistant, said that Scott was working on some highly secretive project that he wouldn’t even tell him about, even though Leo did most of the research and a lot of the other work for the podcast. In fact, he’s hoping to keep the podcast going now.”

  “Was he doing a podcast on his time on the jury?” Celeste asks. “The podcast was usually about controversial views on things, so maybe he was planning on highlighting how differently Joseph talked about his experience from what everybody thought was going on with that case, and what he said the evidence and testimony told them as opposed to what everyone thought was going to be presented.”

  “That’s what the detective thought too,” I say. “But here’s the thing. Palmer has already talked about this situation a lot. He hasn’t hidden it, and you said he was really open about everything. If that’s the case, why would they need to be secretive about doing a podcast about it? I can understand why somebody might think that him speaking out so much would cause retaliation, but why would they go after Scott Russo? He wouldn’t be saying or broadcasting anything that hasn’t already been done, and none of the other people who interviewed Palmer have been hurt in any way. I just don’t think any of that makes sense.”

  “When you put it that way, it does seem strange,” Celeste says. “He didn’t shy away from talking about his experience and the outcome and everything when he was interviewed. I can’t imagine there would be any major secrets he could break through the podcast. Unless he was going to come forward and say that all he had already spoken about wasn’t the truth and that they really were manipulated and coerced into saying what they did.”

  “I guess,” I say. “But why would he do that? And if that was the case, why wouldn’t other people from the jury have come forward to refute what he was saying? He put himself at so much personal risk by speaking out, but he also put the rest of the jury at risk.”

  “Someone could have gotten to him,” she says.

  “It’s interesting that you say that because I was about to tell you that I went to speak with The Board.”

  “You did?” Celeste asks, sounding shocked by the revelation.

  “Yes,” I tell her. “After you and I talked about them, I was really intrigued. They sound like an interesting force, and I wanted to know more about them. I looked them up at the library and read about what they’ve done in the community. You’d said you thought they might have been tangled up with Joseph Palmer, so I decided to go talk to them to see if they had any insights about his murder.”

  “Did they tell you anything?” she asks in a slightly hushed tone.

  “I only got to speak to one of them, Alec Walker, and he really didn’t have much to say. He seemed convinced that it was retaliation for the jury participation and couldn’t imagine any other reason why anyone would want to hurt him. I got a really eerie feeling from him. He was too calm, and his response was really smooth, almost like it was rehearsed, something he knew he was going to say or had already said to someone else. It was just really weird,” I say.

  The bartender comes over and takes our drink orders. Celeste waits until we have the drinks in front of us to reply.

  “Just be careful,” she says.

  “Careful?” I ask.

  “Things have a way of happening to people who cross The Board,” she says.

  “Celeste, I need you to be honest with me. Do you think they could have had anything to do with Joseph Palmer’s death? Or Scott Russo’s?” I ask.

  “I don’t know how to answer that,” she says. “All I can say is that it seems very close. I hate to think that I hope this was the work of a group of traffickers, but that’s less scary than wondering about the power and ruthlessness of a group intrinsically woven into my community. The thought of them being capable of doing anything like this has always been at the back of my mind, but now that it could be real, it’s terrifying.”

  She seems truly unnerved, and that only underscores the feelings growing in me about The Board.

  The next morning, I wake up with an idea. I call Detective Bronson as Xavier and I are walking down the block to a little diner to have breakfast.

  “Has the parade float where Scott Russo’s body was found been investigated?” I ask.

  “Yes,” the detective tells me. “Remember, it’s also where he died, according to the medical examiner. The crime scene investigation unit did a thorough examination of the float and collected evidence on the day he was murdered. Unfortunately, there wasn’t very much evidence to collect.”

  “They haven’t done anything to the float, have they? They haven’t destroyed it or anything?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “We told the sponsors of that unit to preserve the float and make sure it was accessible to us for further examination as needed. It’s being kept in the warehouse with the other parade floats and materials.”

  “Perfect,” I say. “I would really like to go see it, if that would be all right with you.”

  “Sure,” he says. “That would be fine with me. What are you looking for?”

  “I’m not entirely positive,” I admit. “I just want to see the float and where they prepared for the parade. We already know that the medical examiner believes Scott Russo was alive inside that float for some time before he came up out of the hatch. That means whatever hap pened to him likely happened right there in the warehouse. I would really like to get an idea of what was happening as they were preparing for the parade.”

  “Not a problem,” the detective says. “I’ll contact the organizer of that parade unit and let him know that you’ll be coming by. He’ll let you in. There should be some people at the warehouse working on their floats and displays. I was told people continue with their work throughout the year so that they’re ready for the celebrations each year.”

  I get the directions to the warehouse where all the parade materials are kept, and Xavier and I head there after breakfast. I was expecting to see someone waiting outside for us, but there’s no one. I try the door, and it opens, so we walk inside. I can hear muffled voices coming from somewhere in the warehouse, and I move deeper into the large space.

  It’s a surreal experience roaming through the bright, festive floats left behind as if they are sleeping on the polished cement floor. Looking at them, I can almost hear the music and laughter that defined the festive parade before the horrors of Scott Russo’s death were forced on all of us.

  “I’ve already explained this to you,” I hear as I move further into the space and approach the king’s float.

  “It has already been examined. It was searched that day. What else could you want with it?” another voice demands.

  “I told you before, this float is still considered an active crime scene. A man was murdered in or near this float, and right now we don’t know how it happened. It is critical that we maintain access to it so that we can continue to investigate this murder,” the first voice says, which I now recognize as Detective Peter Bronson.

  He sounds like he’s struggling to keep himself calm and steady, but he is obviously getting frustrated by the man who is angrily confronting him.

  “You can’t just expect this thing to sit around indefinitely and for us to accept that. People are in and out of this warehouse working on their floats and other holiday celebration materials all year. This isn’t just for Mardi Gras. People do work on all the festivals of the year in this space, and they shouldn’t have to confront this thing every single time they come in. The town shouldn’t have to face the bad memories of this float all the time. You need to tell me when I’ll be able to destroy it,” the man demands.

  “I can’t give you a specific time,” Detective Bronson says, “and that’s something you’re simply going to have to accept. You don’t have a choice. It’s being kept here as a courtesy to the police department because there’s nowhere for us to store it in our facilities. We already had this discussion when it first happened, and I thought you understood.”

  “I understood that you needed to investigate. I didn’t realize you were saying it was just going to sit around for however long you felt like having it here,” the man says. “This isn’t something any of us want.”

  “It isn’t what we want either, Tyson. This isn’t a fun investigation for us. We’re the ones who have to find out what happened to Scott Russo. The least you can do is not touch a float,” the detective says.

  “Detective?” I say, coming around the side of the float to where they are standing.

  Detective Bronson looks like he’s guarding the float, standing with his feet spread apart and his arms crossed over his chest like he’s preventing the other man from accessing the vessel. He looks at me as I approach.

  “Dean,” he says. “I’m sorry. I meant to be at the door to meet you.”

  “It’s no problem,” I say. “The door was open, so we came in. I hope that’s all right.”

  “That’s fine. Tyson Kressley, this is Dean Steele. He’s a private investigator consulting with the department.”

  I notice he didn’t specify that I was consulting on the Joseph Palmer case, and I wonder if that means he is now investigating both murders as potentially linked. The name sounds familiar, and I search my memory as the man reaches a hand out toward me.

  “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Steele. I know I speak for the town when I say how much we appreciate all the effort that is going into solving this horrible crime. Our town isn’t used to things like this, and we eagerly look forward to finding out the truth so we can all rest more easily. Now, if there’s nothing else, Detective Bronson, I have things to attend to,” Kressley says.

  Bronson gestures for him to leave, and as he walks away, it occurs to me. Kressley is a member of The Board. That makes sense. They were the ones who sponsored the bulk of the parade, so it would be logical for them to be the sponsors of the most important float in it.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Detective Bronson says when Kressley is gone. “I’m glad you called me about coming to the warehouse today. When I called Tyson to ask him to be here to let you in, he told me he was already planning on being at the warehouse to start the process of dismantling the float. I had to come and talk him down from it.”

  “I thought you said you’d already talked to the organizers about not doing anything to the float,” I say.

  “We did. Right from the beginning, the police here told them not to do anything to the float, and the CSU reiterated that after their initial investigation. He seems to think that he should have the ability to make that decision for himself, though,” the detective says.

  “I’m glad you got here to stop him.”

  “So am I. Let me show you everything.”

  We walk up to the float, and he shows me the door that leads into the space beneath where the throne is stowed. I step inside, surprised at how large the space is. I was expecting it to be much more cramped, but it’s big enough for me to stand up straight and walk around a bit. There are still boxes of the beads that the king was supposed to throw out during the parade stashed in one corner, and I can see the mechanism for lifting up the throne.

  “What did the CSU find when they investigated?” I ask.

  “Like I said earlier on the phone, not much. They noticed some scuff marks on the floor of the float and found a blue feather. That’s it.”

  “No fingerprints on the throne or anything?” I ask.

  “No,” he tells me.

  “The medical examiner said that he was shot with a small bullet that didn’t cause external bleeding and that he was also beaten. How could that have happened and then he was put in the float?” I ask.

  “That’s what we’re all trying to figure out,” Bronson says.

  We climb out of the float, and I notice some other people in the warehouse working on other floats. Others further down are working in what looks like a workshop area. I remember what Tyson said about people using the warehouse year-round for the various celebrations and festivities that occur on Twilight Cove, and I wonder if some of the people have decided to try to put the terrible events of Mardi Gras behind them by moving on to the next big celebration.