Diagonally across the square from the Cabildo is Café du Monde, open 24 hours a day, well known for the café au lait with chicory and beignets served there continuously since the 19th century.
—from Wikipedia, the online encyclopedia

The blonde detective looked down at the ornate, Spanish-style iron, her fingertips caressing the cool metal as her blue eyes unfocused, drifting back to the New Orleans’ precinct she and Ashley had visited earlier that day.

The precinct was old, and had that well-worn, frayed at the edges type of dirt that was ground into the floor tiles and soaked into the walls; the kind that only years of polishing or a complete renovation could get out. It was crowded, too, the benches and walls full of people waiting to talk to an officer. However, both the detectives were smart enough to head back to the hotel and get their badges before going to the precinct, and the shiny gold shields had given them immediate assistance.

The detectives they spoke to about the case were quite hush-hush about the entire thing, but Spencer hadn’t liked the way their eyes lit up when she produced the bloodied tarot card. They had taken their fingerprints to eliminate the contamination that had occurred when they picked up the card, taken their hotel information and given them a small business card in case they remembered anything else.

Spencer sighed. Her gut told her that there was more to this than they were letting on, but her head told her to drop it. She was on vacation. She was supposed to relax.