But my God. It’s incriminating. Overwhelmingly so.

The photo shows him linking arms with a man suspected by the FBI of terrorism. A man who, just days ago, was found brutally tortured and killed.

It also proves my hunch that David was lying to me. He was secretly funneling money to a shady Islamist extremist front after all. And no wonder I ended up dodging shotgun blasts when I tried to learn more.

But damnit, I’m still short on details though I’m more sure than ever that David, Farzat, and el-Sharif’s group are all involved in the Mardi Gras attack in a major way.

At least that’s what I think. Until … I start to have some doubts.

And with thickening traffic up ahead, I slow the car, and my rapid thoughts ease as well.

All right, then.

If David really is bankrolling the group’s attack, why the hell would he let himself be seen at one of their charity events? He used multiple shell companies to hide his tracks. He lied to my face when I confronted him. But after all that, he posed for a group photo?

That doesn’t make sense.

The back of my head starts throbbing. All the stress from the past week—including the lack of sleep from last night’s stimulating activities—is finally getting to me.

Coming to a stop at a traffic light, I shut my eyes and rub my temples. All I want to do is head home, take a hot shower, change my clothes. But with so many lives hanging in the balance, I feel guilty for even thinking about myself at all.

And furious when I remember that black SUV waiting for me.

What arrogance by the FBI to box out local law enforcement like this! Especially on a case this serious. It’s reckless. It’s foolish. It’s downright disgusting.

I know Cunningham ordered me to lay low and steer clear of the NOPD while I was consulting on this one. Plausible deniability and all that. But screw it. There’s way too much on the line now. I’m done playing politics. I’m done playing nice.

I take out my phone, intending to give my old chief a ring. I see I have a new text from Vanessa. Sent about twenty minutes ago. Which means that while el-Sharif was firing a gun at me, Cupid was shooting an arrow.

LAST NIGHT WAS DELICIOUS, it says. DINNER WASN’T BAD EITHER ;) HAVE TIME 4 A PICNIC LUNCH IN JACKSON SQUARE? U BRING THE SANDWICHES, I’LL BRING … DESSERT.

Reading her words makes my face flush. Her offer is wildly tempting. But as always, our timing is terrible. I hate to put off a second date after our first went so well. But after this is all over, she’ll understand. At least, I hope she will.

I fire off a reply—pleading for a rain check—then dial Cunningham’s cell.