I’m this close to cracking this case wide open. The FBI has to know that. They’re fools to keep me at arm’s length when I can be so useful to them. I still don’t know why they’re doing it. But it doesn’t matter. The last thing I need right now is some G-man reaming me out and slowing me down. Or tailing me and getting in my way.

I’d wanted to stop home for a shower and change of clothes. Instead, I blow right past my house and keep going.

I have a new destination in mind. And some new people I want to talk to.

Although I have a dark feeling they won’t be all that chatty.

No matter. With the stakes this high, I have ways of being … persuasive.

CHAPTER 48

An hour later I pull up to a grim, red-brick commercial building. Its paint is peeling. Its windows are cracked. Its walls are marred with graffiti.

But it’s still the nicest building on the block.

I’m in Mid-City, a scruffy part of New Orleans most tourists never visit. It’s mostly working-class, very diverse, with low rents and a fast-growing immigrant population.

The perfect place for an Islamic charity to set up shop to help the community.

Or, to set up a front. For other purposes.

Crescent Care doesn’t list their physical address on their website or Facebook page. To find this address, I had to go back to the financial records from Emily Beaudette. Scanning the building now, there’s no signage, either. This could all be for legitimate security reasons. They may not want the attention.

Or, it could be part of a ruse. Because the group has a lot to hide.

It’s still pretty early, not even eight thirty. And there are no lights on inside the building. So I decide to wait it out, see if anybody shows up, which—unfortunately—could be a while.

Fortunately, I swung by a fantastic but lesser-known local eatery on the way over: Hoang Pham Café & Bakery, makers of the most mouthwatering Vietnamese pastries this side of Hanoi. I hungrily tuck into a flaky, savory meat pie known as bánh pa tê sô, and a few chè trôi nước, sugary jellied rice balls sprinkled with sesame seeds. I pair it with a Vietnamese-style iced coffee, sweet and creamy and packing a powerful caffeine punch.

I’m dusting off my hands when I see an older, paunchy man limping up to the building’s front door. He looks Middle Eastern, has a bushy white beard, and wears an olive-green taqiyah—religious skullcap—white slacks, and a short black jacket. When he starts unlocking the door, I nod with satisfaction. He’s an employee. Probably a very solid source of intel.