Opera Garnier [1]

[The Exodus]

Welcome to the Opera Garnier, which, despite its name, houses both an opera company and Paris’ premiere ballet troupe. Attached is the Paris Academy of Music. Inside the baroque walls of the Garnier, though, you’ll find more than just singers, dancers and students. The building’s history contains enough ghost stories, war stories, and love stories to be turned into its own production.

[blueeyeddevil]

OOC: Reese and Santiago!! ^__^

Reese Cordova

It was end of Reese's first day back from her long stay at the counselling center. It felt incredibly wonderful to be able to move and dance again. She had missed it a great deal. Though even her joy at dancing again couldn't combat the awkwardness at returning suddenly after being out for two months. There were many pitying looks and several too enthusiastic greetings from members of the ballet that she was sure had never said two words to her in her entire time here. Still it was better than having them be whispering behind her back or to outright shun her.

She pulled on a tee shirt and sweatpants over her dance clothes, preparing to leave. She was gathering her things into her favorite silver duffel bag when she saw Santiago over in the wings, probably inventorying props or some other Stage Manager duty. She waited for him to notice her before smiling brightly and waving energetically. Seeing him here in the familiar setting just made her return to the Opera House feel that much more like coming home. He was a huge part of what made the Opera House special to her and her heart warmed at the sight of him.

She skipped over to him feeling very happy, even for her. She had to admit that her stay at the counselling clinic had made her feel a great deal better. She hurtled into him, though she doubted it would even cause him to step back, hugging him. "And seeing you here makes my first day back complete," she said with a small laugh. "How has your day been going?!"

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Santiago loved his job. Sometimes, he forgot how much. But since MaCarthy had jumped ship for the Moulin Rouge, Santiago was getting reacquainted with his opera house. He felt like a husband, forgiving his adulterous wife and relearning her and trying to meet her demands, which had been taken care of by another on the side. The first week without MaCarthy was like the first week of what Santiago could imagine marriage counseling to be: a stressful rekindling of old feelings, recognizing failings, trying to keep up with forgotten demands. The second week, he wished for his blissful ignorance again. He wanted MaCarthy to come back and pick up the slack because he was working twice as hard to get anything done and being told that what he was doing wasn’t quite good enough. But by week three, Santiago and the Garnier were at peace, working back into their old routines with a few new surprises thrown in for good measure. He didn’t want a new assistant. He didn’t want anyone challenging his authority. He was backstage now, pencil tucked behind his ear as he went over stage cues with a frustrated opera singer. She’d been missing them left and right all rehearsal, which made for a frustrated stage manager. But, f*ck it. This was his job and he loved it.

“Senorita,” he said, trying not to growl out the words. “It’s simple. When the violins stop, you enter stage left. Upstage. Otherwise, you’re in front of the tenor.”

It was true what they said about opera singers. You had to steer them yourself. Santiago had to lead the girl to where he wanted her, smack down a tape X, and walk her through it, and she still gave him a deer-in-the-headlights look. Santiago sighed.

“It’s like this,” he said. “You’re walking in on him professing his love to another woman. But he can’t see you. So you have to be behind him.”

The girl’s face lit up with understanding and she thanked him profusely. Probably for not throwing her script and screaming, which was what he wanted to do. She scurried off and Santiago leaned against the catwalk ladder, wondering how much clearer he could have been. Before he could put all his weight against the ladder, a force collided into his stomach, sending him hurtling backwards anyways. He looked down to see Reese with her arms wrapped around him in the tightest embrace imaginable. A grin stretched over Santiago’s lips, all thoughts of the ditzy singer gone.

"And seeing you here makes my first day back complete," she said with a small laugh. "How has your day been going?!"

“There’s my favorite girl!” Santiago said back, laughing. “Better with you here!”

A few stage hands looked over at him. Monsieur Ortiz didn’t laugh or get affectionate on the clock. And yet, here he was, hugging Reese back. He couldn’t help it. She’d been in the hospital; he’d seen her almost every day, watching her slowly get better, gain proper weight, regain life. Her presence was the most reassuring thing he could have imagined. He rubbed her shoulders and then held her arms-distance from him to look at her. She was a little softer looking; nothing anyone but Santiago would likely notice. It sent a warm rush into his stomach; relief.

“You look good, carina,” he told her appreciatively. “How are you feeling?”

[blueeyeddevil]

Reese Cordova

Reese grinned broadly as Santiago’s arms enveloped her in a warm hug. Every day he seemed to loosen up more and more. The Santiago she knew in the past would never have never returned a hug during work hours and while that had never stopped her from hugging him in then, it was nice to have him return the small gesture of affection. It was certainly a turnaround from the first time she had hugged him on this same stage what felt like ages ago. He had returned the hug even then, but it had been stiff and reserved. This one now was relaxed and comfortable.

“There’s my favorite girl!” he declared with a warm laugh at her greeting. “Better with you here!” She smiled at him as he held her back now with his hands on her shoulders as if taking in her appearance. “You look good, carina,” he said. While she was still having trouble believing that, she was grateful for the sincerity in his words. ”How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Really good! I feel stronger than I have in a long time,” she told him. “I am just incredibly happy to be back at the Opera House and dancing again. I’ve missed it here.” She gazed fondly at the familiar surroundings and enjoying the familiar ache of her limbs after a long rehearsal. This was where she belonged and she was slowly coming to realize that she had seriously jeopardized not only her health, but her beloved career. If eating was what was going to keep her able enough to dance then she would do better.

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Just because Reese looked great didn’t mean she felt great. She’d looked fine to Santiago a month ago, totally healthy, and then she’d been hospitalized for an eating disorder. He made a promise to himself—one that he hoped he could keep—to pay more attention to the details as far as Reese was concerned. She needed someone on her side.

“Really good! I feel stronger than I have in a long time,” she told him. “I am just incredibly happy to be back at the Opera House and dancing again. I’ve missed it here.”

“We’ve missed you, too,” Santiago said.

The other dancers had certainly missed her, but they could tell Reese themselves. Santiago spoke for himself and for the Garnier. The building was livelier with Reese within its walls; Santiago, too, was happier. His chest wasn’t as tight, his shoulders weren’t as tense knowing that Reese had been released and was healthy enough to return to work.

“Do I need to ask you for a doctor’s note?” he teased, leaning back against the railing lazily. He’d been the one to ride with her in the ambulance that night what seemed like forever ago. Reese was excused from missed days at work as far as Santiago was concerned.

[The Exodus]

OOC: Madeleine and Scotty! BIC:


Madeleine de Chandon

If she had to hear how glamorous he job was again, Madeleine de Chandon would scream. The Garnier’s student outreach program had its grand tour of the opera house and conservatory and because they were (as always), short staffed, she got stuck leading a group of preteen girls and their mothers through the ancient building, rattling off interesting facts and history (her version of it, anyways).

“And this is supposedly the infamous ‘Box Five’ in the Phantom of the Opera story,” she said in a bored, flight-attendant tone. “Supposedly.”

“Ooh, wow!” the girls invariably gasped.

One of the mothers, a mousy-haired hippo of a woman made a noise that suggested to Madeleine she was about as tantalized by that idea as a sane person would be about finding out their hot coworker fancied them. Either that, or maybe she was having a hot flash. Madeleine wasn’t really sure; the woman was fanning herself. Just when Madeleine was about to dial for medical help in box five, the hippo woman grabbed her arm with stubby fingers.

“Isn’t it just so glamorous to be here?” she cooed. “I wouldn’t mind the possibility of a bodice-ripping Phantom sweeping me to his dungeon!”

I wish I could lock you up in a dungeon, Madeleine thought, turning the same puce color as the woman’s daughter.

The woman reacted the same way when Madeleine said they’d just finished a production of “Orfee et Eurydice”. And when Madeleine took them to the rotunda where the annual anniversary gala was held. Everything was so glamorous. So very glamorous. Madeleine wished. Each time the woman cooed over something “glamorous”, Madeleine was struck by how not-glamorous that thing was. Rehearsals never went smoothly. Costumes were a pain to have fitted, particularly on time. Audition process was arduous for the auditioners and for the judges. Dealing with management, Ortiz, and patrons; frustrating, headache-inducing, and irritating. She could tick everything off. The Italian language wasn’t glamorous, it was a pain for the teleprompters to translate. The list went on and on and on. So much so that when Madeleine could finally get a moment alone in her office, she was having a staring match with her personal liquor cabinet. She’d bought it at an antique shop and sworn to management she would use it to keep her purse and other belongings in. Which, she did.

Also, whiskey, wine, vodka, and a multitude of flavored liquors and sodas. A girl had to self-medicate sometimes. And she was the only girl on the top staff panel. She was outnumbered, so she deserved to have something for herself. She justified a lot.

And it was taking every last bit of resolve not to pour herself a glass of something strong to get rid of the burgeoning pain behind her eyes. Christ. She could hardly think of a reason to deny herself pleasure anymore. This was as glamorous as it got in reality. A personal, well-stocked liquor cabinet and the nagging sensation that drinking on the job was trashier than Madeleine would have usually thought.

[Deleted]

Scott Price

Scotty Price was skipping through the Opera Populaire hallways.

Not because he was a happy go lucky guy at the moment, or he had won a trip to a place such as Disney Land, but because it seemed to be the fastest transportation on foot to get to where he needed to go. Skipping was better than walking, earned more distance than jogging, and was just plain out more enjoyable than sprinting.

Everyone around him either glared, some girls stopped to wave, and others laughed. No matter what anyone tells you, attention whether it be good or bad, is one of the most enjoyable feelings.

Scott Price was on a mission though. It was almost closing time at the Opera House, and he needed to discuss having an extra rehearsal tomorrow evening for the chorus member dancers in front of him, so he could see what he was currently looking at. He hadn't been able to take a peek at the dancers yet and it was something that completed the picture in his mind, and kept him up at night. Scotty wasn't even sure he had met the choreograph- Oh, excuse him, Ballet Mistress. That was the title here, if he wasn't mistaken.

Finishing his skipping, Scotty looked down at his piece of paper that had the name and directions to the office of a-

"Madeleine de Chandon ..." Scott murmured aloud, looking at the door. Beautiful name; was Paris known for having velvet sounding names? Of course, it was because it did not come with the American nasal accent.

Catching his breath, shoving the paper into his inside suit pocket, he placed a hand against the door frame, and knocked.

Madeleine. Sounded like that cartoon from a long time ago. Scott Price leaned his forehead against his hand so he was right in front of the door, nose almost touching, and closed his eyes for a moment. His mind wanted to picture what she looked like, because that's what Scotty did and most everyone did before they met someone. A Ballet Mistress probably was older, had more strength, extremely skinny-mini since they tend to want leaner frames, and wrinkles of knowledge from all the years of ballet experience.

What a long day it had been. His shut eyes seemed way too comfortable. Sleeping was not allowed anymore after having this opera challenge. Not that Scotty could sleep if he wanted to. He planned on staying at the Populaire all night to do some more planning and script analyzing. What sounded good was a hot bubble bath and a gin and tonic, with some Glen Miller blaring in the background. Maybe not, blaring. His temples were already doing that for him.

Opening his eyes, he knocked once more a little more slowly, but not to the point of annoyance, in case she was in there. Just because Scott Price decided to stay there all night, didn't mean a Ballet Mistress was going to.

When the door opened, Scott Price remained leaning against the frame, eyes open with a smirk that some swore never left.

But who Scotty thought was going to meet, was nothing like who he was seeing right now.

[The Exodus]

Madeleine de Chandon

To drink, or not to drink, that was the question. D*mn near existential, if you asked Madeleine. I drink, therefore I am. There is no good and evil, only gin and those too weak to drink it. She was full of those suddenly. Madeleine wanted to laugh at her own cleverness, but without the alcohol actually in front of her, it would just make her look like a madwoman.

You’d be a bit unhinged, too, if you were in Madeleine’s shoes.

Sure, her crisis was currently about whether to pour herself a rum and coke or a vodka and cranberry, but no one should have to play bartender for herself, while drinking alone in an office. Clearly, there were bigger, worse things afoot.

After all, shouldn’t a ballet mistress’ job be glamorous, after all? It combined dance, which though grueling work, was the most captivating of the arts with the word “mistress”, which oozed sex appeal. Mistresses were sexy. Inherently so. Charismatic, charming, curvy and a lot of other “C” words. Contrasted with wife: the unsexy woman doing laundry and feeding the kids. She’d given up the prospect of wifehood for glamor, so shouldn’t Madeleine be dripping in both sex appeal and diamonds? Or, you know, intrigue? Something? Nope. She wasn’t nearly as glamorous as people thought and that in and of itself was disappointing and disturbing.

She wished she’d been a mob moll in 1920s America. Or a film star in the 1960’s, when being French and female was fashionable everywhere. Or Napoleon’s mistress. No. Not his mistress. His wife. Josephine. She’d scratched her way up from prostitution to soldier’s wife to empress. Pity such Cinderella social-climbing didn’t happen anymore. Certainly not to Madeleine.

She’d dated two of the wealthiest men in Europe. She’d been engaged to one of them. She’d been a prima ballerina, star show girl, and ballet mistress all. But there was that tricky glass ceiling. No way but down for a woman at her point in life.

Wow. She was getting pseudo-drunk just ruminating on her desire to be drunk. That had to be of interest to some philosopher or psychologist somewhere.

She was getting that drink. As much as it reeked of classlessness, drinking on the job was preferable to wishing she was an empress. She could get drunk; she could not get coronated. That wasn’t the glass ceiling. That was just the facts.

Still. It was nice to dream.

Madeleine pushed out of her chair and got up. She bent at the waist to rummage through her liquor cabinet. And only then, did she realize there was a pair of eyes on her. Her first thought was: Sh*t.

Her second thought was of who it might be. With her luck, it was Ortiz or one of her dancers, catching her preparing for a nip from the bottle. Or worse: one of the girls from the tour. Or a patron.

She shut the cabinet and stood up straight. She counted to three before turning around.

A handsome, square-jawed man in a suit leaned against the doorframe. Madeleine couldn’t believe she hadn’t heard him knock. Actually, she could believe that. She hadn’t been listening. She just couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen him. She would never deliberately ignore a beautiful human being.

Well, she would, but only if there was a very good reason to ignore that person.

There was no such reason here. A handsome man standing in her doorway, wearing a suit meant one thing in Madeleine’s mental catalogue. He was a patron. She supposed that was why no one fired her. If there was one thing Madeleine was good at, it was sweet talking the patrons into supporting the opera, into giving more money, into proposing certain courses of action. No doubt one of the managers—or, more likely, Ortiz, since he kept giving her distasteful tasks lately—had sent this man down the bureaucratic line to Madeleine. She smoothed out her dress, running her hands along the clingy, purple fabric, and smiled. She extended a hand.

“Sorry about that,” she said, suddenly not sorry that he’d probably gotten a good view of her backside. She extended a hand to him. “Madeleine de Chandon. What can I do for you?”

[plantnerd92]

OOC: Sold to Reese and Lori. No talky to the Coloradan. Please and thank you. BIC:

Dakota Erickson

Since he was in Paris, Dakota figured he was going to see the sights it had to offer. And one of those happened to be the Opera Garnier. He smiled as he walked down the corridors, thinking about how jealous his baby sister would be. She was a HUGE fan of the Phantom of the Opera. He stopped to take pictures every now and then so he could send them to her back in Colorado.

He managed to peek into the backstage and watched with a smile as the company rehearsed. It was pretty cool how they all tried to get things to come together. However, a flash of short, dark hair caught his eye. He stood, watching dumbstruck at a dancer who made him think of some sort of woodland fairy. Her pixie-like frame and hairstyle made her look delicate and beautiful as she danced gracefully, almost seeming like she was floating because her footwork was so light. Dakota thought ballet was for sissies, but this particular dancer had him eating crow.

"Wow..." he murmured softly, before one of the producers shooed him away, and told him to come back for the actual opera, instead of trying to watch it for free. Dakota reluctantly did as he was told, and started again with his self-tour.

[blueeyeddevil]

Reese Cordova

As much as she loved dancing, she was getting a little fed up with these two a day rehearsals. She understood that with the Opera coming up, they needed to make sure they were in a good position to perform, but she was starting to wonder if it was too much too soon after her stint in rehab. Her doctor had cleared her to go back to dancing but she had probably not meant 12 hours a day.

She was feeling quite worn down as she was gathering her things to return to her dorm. She hadn't even bothered to change out of her rehearsal dance outfit, instead simply shoving off her shoes and replacing them with a comfy pair of black converse sneakers. She didn't think she would be able to walk back to the dorms unless she did at least that. And still, she had managed to be so sluggish putting her shoes on, all of the other dancers had cleared the dressing room already, leaving her behind.

She threw her bag over her shoulder and started to walk to the door that would take her on her route back to the dorms, but was shocked to find it was closed. There was no door handle on this side either as it was generally kept open during the day and only opened from the other side. Reese began to panic just a bit, thinking she was going to have to walk all the way around the outside of the Opera House to get back to the dorms! She could not handle that. She finally began beat her tiny fists against the door in the hopes that someone was still out there and would hear her. "Hello?!! Is there anyone out there?! Can someone please open the door?!!" she pleaded.

Finally the door opened to reveal a ruggedly handsome young man who towered over her by at least a foot. A wave of relief washed over her as her blue eyes looked up at him. "Oh thank you!" she cried, reaching out and hugging the stranger. "I fell behind and they had already shut the door so I was stuck," she explained, everything rushing out at once. She looked up at him again, realizing this man didn't seem familiar at all. "Oh. I don't think I recognize you...do you work here?"

[plantnerd92]

Dakota Erickson

Dakota had managed to explore about half the opera house, and walked down another corridor, only to be startled when he heard someone banging on one of the doors.

"Hello?!! Is there anyone out there?! Can someone please open the door?!!" an obviously female voice called from behind it. Dakota stood there for a moment, before going to open the door. He was stunned to see the same dancer he'd been watching rehearse earlier. His brown eyes widened with shock as their eyes met. A look of relief washed over the girl in front of him, and she reached out to hug him.

"Oh thank you!" she exclaimed, as she hugged him. Dakota smiled with pleasant surprise, as he lightly patted her short dark hair. She was so tiny! '"I fell behind and they had already shut the door so I was stuck," the girl explained, everything rushing out at once. Suddenly she looked up at him again, and a look of confusion crossed her face.
"Oh. I don't think I recognize you...do you work here?" she asked him. Dakota laughed, and shook his head.

"Nope. I'm just here giving myself my own personal tour. This place is really cool! My name is Dakota, by the way," he introduced himself, holding out his hand for her to shake.

"I saw you rehearsing before they chased me away from the backstage. You were amazing out there!" he exclaimed with a smile, feeling slightly embarrassed. "And that makes me sound like a stalker. I swear I'm not," he said, laughing nervously. He wondered at his sudden shyness around this girl. She seemed pretty sweet.

[blueeyeddevil]

Reese Cordova

She really needed to learn to be more careful. She was just so outgoing that she didn't stop and think about the people she was hugging. For all she knew this guy could have been a psycho killer and she had just thrown her arms around him in a grateful hug. He didn't look anything like a psycho killer though, with a kind, handsome face. He smiled at her as she suddenly recognized that that she didn't know him, asking if he worked here.

"Nope. I'm just here giving myself my own personal tour. This place is really cool! My name is Dakota, by the way," he said with a distinctly American accent, holding out his hand for her to shake. She smiled and slipped her tiny hand into his own much larger hand. She shook it politely, feeling suddenly completely embarassed about her earlier panic.

"I'm Reese. Its nice to meet you," she said warmly, light British accent lilting through her words. "You don't sound like you're from around here. Did you just move to Paris? Are you liking it here? Are you planning to work here at the Opera House?" As always, a ton of questions came pouring out at once. She blushed a little and caught herself. "Ummm sorry about that. Just take it one at a time." She gave a small laugh as she looked up at him.

"I saw you rehearsing before they chased me away from the backstage. You were amazing out there!" he said, suddenly looking embarassed himself. "And that makes me sound like a stalker. I swear I'm not," he assured her.

Reese laughed again and shook her head. "Oh, of course not!!" she declared. "And thank you. You're really sweet. I've been dancing my whole life! I can't think of anything I love doing more. So it means a lot you'd say that." This Dakota was really sweet and she couldn't help enjoy his company.

[plantnerd92]

Dakota Erickson

The girl tentatively put her hand in his, and Dakota smiled when he realized how much his hand dwarfed hers.

"I'm Reese. Its nice to meet you," she introduced herself with a warm smile, her accent revealing her British descent. "You don't sound like you're from around here. Did you just move to Paris? Are you liking it here? Are you planning to work here at the Opera House?" she asked, her questions coming out in a rush. She suddenly looked embarrassed with how fast she was talking, and Dakota decided that she looked impossibly adorable. "Ummm sorry about that. Just take it one at a time," Reese said with a small laugh. Dakota liked her laugh. It chimed like a little bell, and it was very heartwarming. He grinned at her, and told her what he thought of her dancing, as well as promising that he wasn't a stalker. Reese just laughed again, shaking her head.

"Oh, of course not!! And thank you. You're really sweet. I've been dancing my whole life! I can't think of anything I love doing more. So it means a lot you'd say that." she told him, and Dakota blushed like a schoolgirl. His sisters would tease him for months if they ever saw it.

"It's totally true, though. All that practice definitely paid off," Dakota said with an earnest smile. "As for your earlier questions, yeah. I got the opportunity to come to Paris when I graduated from college. I'm just seeing the sights, and entertaining at bars. It's not real glamorous, but it's something," he offered with a smile. "I'm from Colorado."

[Deleted]

Scott Price


First and foremost, Scotty Price would like to thank his lucky stars or whatever magic it took for that door to open with just a knock. Scotty felt the urge to search for any cameras around, because it felt as if he may be on a gameshow where he did just indeed opened door number one. What the director was now meeting eyes with was very much number one as far as top notch derrieres were concerned. Scotty's eyebrows flickered upward, the side of his lips twitching into a boyish smirk. He would be but a fool to not appreciate a killer-diller tush. Not only did she have that, but she seemed to be rummaging through the liquor cabinet- as he assumed with the clanging and clinking, and from his view point where he was leaning. Now that was Scott Price's kinda' gal.

This dame was obviously not the ballet mistress, he assumed. It would have been too good to be true. Scotty weighed his options. He could either scram and come back early in the morning when the big cheese of ballet was actually in her office, or he could take a load off and enjoy this cup of sugar. Did he even need to weigh in those options? Of course Scotty Price would stick around for this. It would be completely out of character not to. Plus, he was the director now. It would be shameful not to introduce himself. Playing the 'director' card had so many advantages. Scott supposed this may have seemed slimy of him, but hey, he wasn't the one who opened that door.

Watching with still amusement, the woman had stood up and Scotty felt himself squinting. Had she felt that he was there? He held his breath until she turned around, and that's when his breath was completely at a loss at this point. Scotty Price remained still, but if this were a cartoon, considered his jaw dropped to the floor. This broad looked like one of this pin-up girls. She was Elizabeth Taylor brought back from the heavens to shoot an arrow through his old-fashioned heart.

"Sorry about that." She said to him, coming over, as if there were actually something to apologize for. Scotty still sported a grin, highly enjoying how his hectic night was turning out, if a name was all he was going to get. She extended a hand, but he continued to look at her smashing features.

"Madeleine de Chandon. What can I do for you?"

Come again?

Scotty Price twisted in his position against the door frame, and his eyes flickered in a shock, but not so much to give away and insult Madeleine de Chandon. This was Madeleine de Chandon though, the Ballet Mistress? Well, she was the packaged deal of the cat's meow. Scott knew he needed to give more credit to Mistress'. If not before, but now he would do so, and he had Madeleine de Chandon to thank for that.

Sliding his hand out of his dress pocket, Scotty shook her hand firmly, almost forgetting why he was there and what he needed her to do for him. At least, in what she could do for him work related.

"Whadya hear whatdya say, Misses de Chandon," He said enthusiastically in a murmur, shaking her hand, not feeling or seeing a ring. Which, he was not too upset about, but a little shocked. Not married by choice or- Well, that had to be it. A man woulda' killed to put a ringer on that pretty little finger.

"I'm Scott Price." He told her smoothly, letting go of her hand and returning it into the pocket. "The director of the upcoming production for this fine institution."

Cocking up his head toward what was behind her- which he was going for the liquor cabinet- "I don't mean to disturb you right when you're breakin' into your giggle water-" He internally slapped himself for using the 40s slang term. Scotty needed to realize that not everyone was obsessed with the old times as much as he, and with first impressions, people may think of him as insane or a poser. "But may I speak with you for a hot sec?"

Scotty Price smirked, "Or as many seconds as you'll give me."

[The Exodus]

OOC: BS BIC:


Santiago Ortiz

“We got Ramirez’s testimony before he hung himself,” Joseph Dubois said. “He admitted to the murder of Lorenzo Reyes last night.”

Santiago nodded. Dubois office was surprisingly cheery. Pictures of his family—parents, siblings—lined the desk, grinning up and oblivious to the horrific nature of the conversation above their heads. The walls were a soft cream color, warmer than he would have thought.

“What I don’t get,” Dubois said, standing up and crossing to a minifridge. He pulled out two water bottles and offered one to Santiago. “Is how you solved the case. No offense.”

“I told you,” Santiago said, taking the bottle, but not opening it. “I’m a private detective. It’s what we do.”

“Yeah, see… Most private detectives investigate shady business deals. Online hacking. Unfaithful spouses. Not homicide. That’s usually our job.”

Santiago shrugged. He wasn’t going to explain everything. Catalina hadn’t given him away during questioning as an ex-gangster, far too interested and invested in this case. He wouldn’t undo her favor now that she was home safe and sad in Le Meurice and he was stuck catching up with Joseph Dubois after hours.

“I grew up with Catalina. She came to me when her brother went missing. Neither of us thought it was a homicide case.”

Dubois seemed satisfied by this answer. He leaned back and chugged half of his waterbottle. Santiago looked beyond him. He wished he could just go home and grieve. He had grown up with Catalina, yes, but Lorenzo had been his friend and mentor. Somewhere between friend, enemy, brother, father, and boss. When they were younger, the pair of them spent some nights sitting in an old, rusty car, waiting for a target to emerge.

“Men like us don’t live long, Diego. I could be dead next month. If I am, you look after Lina for me. Got it?”

Santiago had been twenty at the time. Lorenzo had outlived his own prediction by about eleven years. An admirable feat. But still. Men like them… Men like Lorenzo didn’t live long. Santiago was out of that life now and all he wanted was to go to Catalina’s hotel room and hold her. Fulfill his promise to his former leader.

The static of Dubois’ radio tore Santiago from his reverie.

“They think it was a suicide,” the voice said. “We need a couple detectives on site. Le Meurice, Room 420.”

Catalina.

Santiago leapt to his feet and rushed towards the door.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Dubois snapped. He scrambled after Santiago down the hallway. “This is a police case.”

“Catalina…”

“Leave it. You’ve done enough.”

--

Santiago stood outside Le Meurice. Red and blue lights flashed, casting an eerie glow on everything. He lurked, just beyond the yellow tape. He couldn’t distinguish what people were saying, but it didn’t sound good. It was the low murmur of funerals and murder scenes. Santiago squeezed his eyes shut.

Please, Catalina, be okay.

“Hands where I can see them!”

Santiago opened his eyes and realized he was staring down the barrel off a gun. His eyes widened. The stranger with the gun wore a Prefecture uniform. Santiago slowly pulled his hands from the pockets of his leather jacket.

And in a swift moment, the police officer twisted Santiago’s hands behind his back and clapped them in cuffs. The officer, a mustachioed man who likely weighed twenty pounds more than Santiago, shoved the Spaniard against a tree trunk to hold him still.

“You are, as of this moment, a suspect in the death of Catalina Reyes. You can call your lawyer when we get to the station.”

“Mercier! What are you doing?”

Joseph Dubois’ voice could have cut glass. Santiago never thought he’d be thankful to hear it.

“Apprehending a suspect, sir!”

“You mean Detective Ortiz?” Dubois drawled. “He’s with me, Mercier. Let him go.”

The jingle of keys and a clatter as the cuffs fell to the ground. Santiago rubbed his wrists and met Dubois’ gaze.

“Don’t know how to thank you,” Santiago muttered, trying to sound neither too grateful nor too relieved.

Dubois shrugged. Then, grinning, said, “Well. Do you still have Rachel Day’s number?”

Santiago looked at Dubois reproachfully.

“Bad timing. Sorry.”

“Your new partner just told me that Catalina’s dead,” Santiago said quietly. “Can I go see her?”

“Authorized personnel only, Ortiz.”

“Please,” Santiago asked. The word surprised him. Santiago Ortiz didn’t say “please”. He didn’t ask. He certainly didn’t say “please” to Joseph Dubois. And yet, there it was, the pitiful word, cracking through the air. It was broken and quiet and desperate. And it was enough. The two men made their way inside and when they stood outside of the hotel door, Dubois hesitated.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Nothing had prepared Santiago for the sight of Catalina’s lifeless body, floating in the red-stained tub. Nothing had stamped it from his mind in the past few days. He was tired from nights spent at the police station, answering questions and days at the morgue, sitting with Georgette and coffee after identifying Catalina’s body. He floated through the Garnier, listlessly, and had no desire to talk to anyone. Not Myron. Not Rachel. Not Reese. Santiago’s innards ached with hollowness. His entire childhood, everything that held him tenuously to the Gardunas, was dead. He always thought freedom would taste glorious and feel like sunshine.

Instead, it was the same bitter tonic he’d been swallowing for years, multiplied by ten. Tepid. Grey. Hopeless.

Santiago returned to the real world of stage management and production meetings. And suddenly, it all felt meaningless.

Two days after Catalina’s death, Joseph Dubois turned up on Santiago’s doorstep with a bundle of papers.

“Our medical examiner determined that it was suicide,” he said as he and Santiago sat down for coffee and a tense staring match. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh.”

“Monsieur Ortiz,” Dubois said, pushing the package of papers towards Santiago. “Mademoiselle Reyes listed you as her chief inheritor. She left you a letter, but, no one at the station could read it. I think it’s in Spanish or something.”

Santiago read it over and over since then. In true Catalina fashion, it was not a request, but a command that Santiago use a portion of the money she left him to open his own detective agency. She’d made arrangements so that his license was Code Orange—a license for life. Santiago didn’t know how she’d done it or why, but he understood one thing.

You didn’t deny someone their dying wish.

He’d met with his boss this morning to discuss resigning. He demanded on no uncertain terms that if he left, Santiago wanted to name his successor.

Which led him today to the rooftop of the Opera Garnier, waiting for Bill MaCarthy. Santiago looked like hell and he knew it. His face was still bruised from Mercier ramming him into the tree. He hadn’t slept in days. And though he wouldn’t admit it, Santiago has spent several solid hours locked in his apartment, crying, since Catalina’s death. He hadn’t exercised, except to walk Lola, nor had he shaved. Santiago didn’t care if the madman he seemed to be now was how everyone at the Garnier remembered him. He was starting new.

Other prospects, he’d told Rachel. And other prospects there were.