Shadow Of Death

Chapter 3.2

CHAPTER THREE

Chasing Shadows

The next few days blurred together, just a constant chase through New Orleans. The city throbbed around them as they hunted. Bird and Dickson stalked the French Quarter’s cramped alleys, jazz leaking from open doors, gumbo scent tangled up with the damp river air. They slogged through the Garden District beneath heavy oaks, grilling shopkeepers and vagrants, boots scraping over old cobblestones. Every lead—bartender, cabbie, street vendor—just faded out. The nurse’s description stuck with them: blonde, scar, gray coat. Over and over, they flashed grainy Polaroids from hospital security, “Seen her?” Most folks shook their heads. Some spat. A few just stared at their uniforms with open resentment.

By Monday night, Bird looked beat. Lines dug deep into his face, his eyes shadowed under the brim of his NOPD cap. Dickson, always solid, tugged at his wrinkled jacket and leaned against a lamppost on Decatur Street. The Mississippi stung the air. “We’re spinning our wheels, cher,” he muttered. “City’s swallowing her whole.”

Bird set his jaw and scanned the crowd: tourists snapping photos, locals watching them with suspicion. “She’s out there, Rick. That chain wasn’t random. She knows something about Thomson.”

Their luck finally turned late Monday, when a nervous barmaid at a dive on Chartres Street tipped them off. “Saw a woman like that,” she whispered, hands shaking as she cleared glasses. “Hangs out at The Black Pelican—rough crowd, officers. Careful.”

The Black Pelican crouched at the edge of Tremé, paint peeling, neon sign flickering like it was on its last legs. The air reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke leaking from cracked windows. Inside, danger seeped from every corner. Bare bulbs swung overhead, casting shadows over a sticky floor. Men in battered leather and faded jeans lined the bar, eyes hard, watching everything. A jukebox wheezed out a Hank Williams tune, twang battling the low rumble of voices. Plenty of them were armed—Bird spotted a holster under one guy’s duster, a knife glinting at another’s hip. This place didn’t want cops. It was a haven for upstate criminals and folks who flat-out hated the law.

Bird walked in first. His uniform looked sharp but he was tense, the revolver at his hip a cold weight. He scanned the room and spotted her. By the counter, dark fedora tilted low. Black clothes, blending into the gloom. The scar above her lip caught the light as she leaned in to order coffee. After days of chasing ghosts—smoky backrooms, rain-soaked alleys—there she was. He nudged Dickson, who hung back by the door, and muttered, “That’s her. Let me handle it.”

Dickson just nodded, eyes sharp, holding his spot to watch Bird’s back. Bird moved in, footsteps slow and steady. The creak of his boots vanished into the bar’s noise. He stopped at her side, voice calm but clear. “Ma’am, I’d like a word.”

She didn’t turn. Just traced the rim of her mug. Bird cleared his throat, a little more official now. “Officer Steven Bird, NOPD. We’re following a lead, and your visit to Tulane Medical Center a few days back—where Senator Thomson’s recovering—looks pretty suspicious.”

She just sat there, silent, letting the tension grow. Bird didn’t blink. “Look, ma’am, there’s one way you walk out of here without more trouble: tell me what I need to know.”

She took a slow sip, eyes still hidden. Her voice, when it came, was cool and careful. “And what’s that, Officer?”

“For starters,” Bird leaned in, “what were you doing at the hospital when a senator showed up full of bullet holes?”

Her lips twitched, just a hint of a smile, sharp as a razor. “That’s for me to know and for you not to know.”

“That attitude’s not helping,” Bird shot back, steady as ever. “I can detain you right now.”

“You don’t seem exactly ‘professional,’ sir,” she cut in, turning to face him. The brim of her fedora hid her eyes, but her mouth—scar and all—lined up perfectly with the nurse’s description. “You can’t arrest me without evidence.”

“People get detained for less,” Bird shot back, sounding pretty sure of himself. “I’d bring you in as a person of interest, not a suspect. See the difference?”

She raised her coffee again, her voice low and dark. “Means you’ve got nothing solid. You can’t touch me.” She twisted her boot on the floor and turned away, ready to bolt. Bird’s gut told him she was about to run. He lunged, grabbed her arm—firm, but careful.

Suddenly, someone from the crowd stepped in—a guy dressed like a cowboy, no hat, face weathered and pissed off. He shoved Bird back, voice rough. “Lady’s made her choice, Officer. She don’t want your company.”

Bird stumbled but caught himself, trying to look unfazed. “This isn’t your business.”

The cowboy planted himself between them, not moving an inch. “We respect lawmen who mind their own business.”

Bird squared up, hand hovering near his holster. “You really think you can just ignore the law?”

“Only when cops turn into pests,” the cowboy growled. Around them, the bar’s crowd shifted, tension thickening. Bird felt the mood turn ugly—hands slid under jackets, eyes narrowed. The cowboy flashed a revolver from his pocket, just a glint of steel, and suddenly, others followed—guns, knives, whatever they had. The whole place felt ready to explode.

Bird wasn’t used to this kind of open defiance. He knew he was outnumbered. Facing them alone meant suicide. He straightened, met the cowboy’s eyes. “This isn’t over.” Kept his voice steady, even though the threat was real, and backed toward the door. Dickson fell in beside him without a word as they stepped out into the cooler night air.

Outside, the city air smacked Bird in the face. He stormed over to his black ’95 Taurus under a flickering streetlamp, slammed his fist down on the hood. Let out a grunt—anger boiling over. Dickson grabbed his shoulder, steady. “Take it easy, Steve. Breathe.”

Bird exhaled hard, his anger fading a little under Dickson’s calm. “We almost had her, Rick. Could’ve brought her in, asked some questions. She knew something.”

“Don’t let it eat at you,” Dickson said, voice firm but not unkind. “Be glad you’re walking out of there. She picked that bar for a reason—she knew the cops don’t have friends there. For a second, I thought you were going to start something with that cowboy.”

“I thought about it,” Bird admitted, leaning against the car, arms crossed. “I could’ve handled him.”

“In a fair fight, one mistake and you’re done,” Dickson warned. “Sure, you handled four guys in an alley, but some of these folks are real shooters. They’d drop you before you even draw. That’s the job—chasing shadows, digging in the dark. Sometimes it’s smarter to walk away.”

Bird nodded, letting it sink in. “So how do we bring her in? That crowd would tear us apart if we tried again. Maybe showing up in uniform was a mistake.”

Dickson agreed, opening the car door. “Tomorrow, we go plainclothes. Blend in, unless we have to show the badge. For now, we need a new lead.”

Bird checked his watch—almost seven, sky turning deep blue. The drive back to central New Orleans stretched ahead. “I still think we should bring her in.”

“You just want a fight, don’t you?” Dickson said, laughing as he settled in. “That bar showed us what happens if we push too hard.”

“They can’t just shoot cops and get away with it,” Bird argued, getting behind the wheel.

“Some do,” Dickson said quietly. “Don’t die for nothing.”

“So we’re just letting a criminal walk?” Bird said, frustration clear in his voice.

“If she’s involved, there’s no proof she’s part of the shooting,” Dickson said. “She could just be a bystander. We don’t know.”

“I feel like there’s more going on,” Bird said, starting the engine.

“If there is, this isn’t how we find it,” Dickson replied. “Let’s go.”

Bird nodded, not happy, but he pulled away. The engine’s low hum filled the silence as they reached the station—the old brick building, windows barred and glowing under the streetlights. They split up with a nod; Dickson headed for his own car, Bird dragging himself back to the Taurus.

He felt the weight of the day—a hospital’s harsh smell, Thomson’s pale face, the chain’s mystery, the bar’s cold welcome. He drove home down Magazine Street, letting the city’s shadows swallow up the rest of the day.

****

Steven Bird’s shotgun house looked just as tired as he felt—faded green siding, porch sagging, one rusty old chair guarding the place like it had nothing better to do. Inside, not much to see. A beat-up couch, coffee table full of scratches, and a battered oak table where he kept his revolver. The air smelled damp, mixed with the sour leftovers of yesterday’s coffee.

He peeled off his uniform and dropped it on the nearest chair, then shuffled to the bathroom. Small space, chipped sink, a shower that coughed up rusty water. Still, the hot water helped. It washed off the bar smoke, took the edge off the night, but couldn’t shake the memory of that woman’s scar.

Later, in faded flannel pajamas, Bird dropped into the only cushioned chair in the living room. The springs groaned under him. The clock over the mantel ticked past 8:30, each second stretching out, the silence thick enough to choke on. He almost drifted off, but then—a faint scrape from the bedroom snapped him awake. Instinct took over. He grabbed the revolver, its cold metal steadying him, and moved down the hall, bare feet against cold linoleum.

The bedroom door hung open just enough to let a slice of light spill out, flickering like something—or someone—was moving inside. The fridge hummed in the background. Papers rustled. A drawer clicked. Someone was in there, turning his stuff over. Bird crept closer, gun up, heart hammering. What were they even after?

His uniforms, a couple of books, that silver chain—none of it worth much. Still, the fact that someone broke in made his resolve harden.

He pressed himself behind the door, barely breathing, time stretching thin. He couldn’t stand there all night. With one breath, he pushed the door wide. The hinges whined. “Hands where I can see them!” he shouted, gun aimed.

The intruder froze, just a shadow against a room that, weirdly, looked tidier than before. “Turn around!” he ordered.

She did. Bird’s heart stuttered. The fedora on the cabinet gave her away, and there, plain as day, was the scar above her lip—the woman from the bar. “You,” he blurted out, feeling a mix of relief and vindication. He almost let his guard down, but stopped himself. “I knew you were trouble. My gut was right.”

She just stared, not saying a word. Bird glanced around—bed made, books stacked, his clothes folded. She’d been through everything, but you’d never know it. Suspicion gnawed at him. “You don’t have to say anything,” he said, voice even, “but I need to know what you’re looking for.”

Nothing. The tension built up, squeezing his patience thin. “Are you going to talk or not?”

“Where’s the chain?” she asked. Her voice was sharp, no nonsense.

“Chain?” He thought of the silver one from those alley thugs. “What chain?” He played dumb, testing her.

“Don’t play games,” she shot back, lowering her hands, daring him. “I know you have it. Where is it?”

“How do you know that?” Bird’s grip tightened.

“You took it from the goons in the alley. I didn’t realize its importance until now.”

“And what’s so special about it?”

“There’s a tracker inside,” she said, sounding more like an investigator than a thief. “TSCM-99, old model. Built into the links.”

“A tracker?” Bird frowned. “Who’s keeping tabs on me?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, “but since the opium never got delivered, the seller probably thinks it’s still with whoever’s got the tracker. Right now, that’s you.”

“Prove it,” Bird challenged, not buying it.

She just stared him down. “Where’s the chain?

Bird eyed her, then gave in. He lowered his gun, pulled the chain from under his shirt, and handed it over, every move careful. She worked her fingers over the cross, pried it open, and sure enough—there was a tiny chip tucked inside. Bird snatched it away, slammed it against the wall. The thing smashed, pieces flying.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said, voice sharp with warning. “You’re playing with fire, and you’re not being careful.”

“I hate being watched,” Bird shot back, pulse still racing.

“That tracker was your shield, like it or not. With it active, the seller thought everything was fine. I could’ve used the signal to find out who’s behind all this, but now? That’s gone. Not smart.”

Bird thought of Dickson, always harping on about keeping things quiet. “You been following me?”

“I have,” she said, not even flinching. “It’s the only way to keep you alive.”

“Who are you?” Bird asked, letting the gun sink a little.

“Amelia Hartman,” she said, and her voice gave nothing away.

“Very well, and I’m—”

“Yeah, I know who Steven Bird is,” she cut in, not missing a beat.

“So, who are you really?” He leaned in, his curiosity edging out any caution he had left.

She didn’t hesitate. “I’m a private detective. The Senator hired me to dig into the city’s dirty dealings. I was tracking opium smugglers, making headway, until you got in the way. I needed those guys on the street so I could follow the trail, but you stepped in. Now you’re making things harder for me.”

Bird frowned. “That still doesn’t explain how you knew about the tracker in the chain.”

“It’s mine,” she said, admitting it with a shrug. “Kind of. I planted it in the shipment, figured someone would find it. Stirred up trouble in their crew, just like I hoped. They switched the tracker to another chain to keep tabs on the delivery. Meanwhile, I was letting the seller run wild, thinking he was untouchable. I was collecting evidence the whole time.”

Bird pressed on. “So who’s running this show?”

Her face hardened. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?” he said, not backing down.

“It’s safer if you don’t know,” she said quietly. “The Senator wanted proof—enough to take down the smugglers and everyone backing them. I was close, until you blew up my plan. Now you’re involved because I don’t want you getting yourself killed.”

She glanced at the door and started to leave. Bird called after her, “Look, whatever you’re into, I can help.”

She paused, half-turning. “I know you’re good at what you do, but stay out of this. The Senator’s a target now, which means they probably know about me too. I need to disappear for a bit. If I need you, I’ll be in touch.”

“So you have my number?” Bird asked, hope flickering in his eyes.

She just smiled, a little cold. “I’ve got what I need.”

“And if I need to reach you?”

“You won’t.” Her voice was flat, no room for argument. “Just stay out of trouble. This is bigger than you think.” She slipped out, the door closing behind her with a soft click.

Bird stood there, the room neat and quiet, nothing like the mess spinning in his head. Amelia Hartman—her name, her tracker, her warning—tangled everything up. The Senator, the opium, whoever was pulling the strings—it all felt huge, way past what he thought he was dealing with. But one thing was clear: he couldn’t walk away now. He was going to dig until he found the truth, no matter what it cost.