Who: Felix Jäger, Remy LeBeau, possible others. Where: Shreveport, Louisiana. When: January 15, 1963. Rating: PG-13 for safety. Summary: If the police aren't properly investigating Dorothy James' murder, other people have taken it upon themselves to do their job for them.
Some people figured Louisiana was always hot the way it was in the summer. Remy (Gambit, he reminded himself)--
Gambit was only thinking about that because of the reporters he'd seen scavenging the area like a mess of crows, dressed down in their summer weight clothes and looking chilled over mugs of hot coffee. He knew better, especially this early in the morning, and kept his black jacket--beaten but still just fine, he figured--buttoned to the throat as he walked down this semi-secluded stretch of shoreline. The lake winds tousled his already messy hair, and if anything he wished he'd worn something warmer. As soon as the sun really got up he'd be better, he reminded himself, and he'd wonder what he was doing up so early if the truth was he hadn't just stayed up so late. He was a bastard (literally and all, he reckoned was the case, though of course he couldn't know for sure) but he'd still found things to do so at least this Felix wouldn't have to be awake before the sun came up.
Or maybe he deserved that and worse, but that was what Gambit was here to find out, one way or another. It was why his sunglasses were tucked into the pocket of his jacket--not the same pocket as his cards--and not on his face, which was a relief in its way as much as it was a challenge to the rest of the world to say something about it. It hadn't always been that way, but thinking about the past wouldn't do anyone favors. They had enough of the now on their plate.
With that on his mind, and not much else, Gambit spotted the car the girl's parents had promised him would be there, and once he got to it he knocked hard on the windshield. Repeatedly.