Which means I won’t be able to spot their target here in St. Roch from the comfort and safety of a moving car. I’m going to have to look a little closer.

On foot.

Great. I’m about to take a stroll through a warzone.

What could possibly go wrong?

CHAPTER 53

Circling back around, I see plenty of open spots on Spain Street.

But no way am I going to park on the block of the man I killed.

That’s not just disrespectful. It’s suicidal.

So I hook a right onto Prieur Street and pull over at the edge of St. Roch Park, a small oasis of green space in this concrete desert. I notice a group of guys playing a rough game of pickup basketball. Many are dressed in yellow. Wonderful.

Before I exit my car, I check to make sure my pistol is fully loaded, even though I know it is. Just one of those last-minute reassuring good luck charms, and I’m going to need all of the good luck I can scrape together.

Carefully sliding it into the back of my jeans, I take a deep breath and step out. Keeping my back to the basketball players, I turn and casually walk toward Spain Street.

So far, so good.

I scan each abandoned building I pass, looking for recent signs of police entry. Like a doorframe splintered by a battering ram. A discarded pin from a stun grenade on a walkway. A tactical glove dropped on the lawn or something similar.

But it’s tough to tell which homes even are abandoned, and which are occupied. One house might look run-down, but will have lights on inside, or a child’s tricycle in the driveway. Another might be in okay shape, but its windows are covered by rotting two-by-fours, or its front door is spray-painted with a big red X.

Soon I reach Spain Street—and feel my skin tingle.

This isn’t where Grant and I exchanged gunfire. But it’s where I staked him out and started chasing him on the night that changed my life—and ended his.

Pushing my unease aside, I continue walking down the sidewalk, inspecting every structure I pass for telltale signs.

Nothing.

I’m almost at the end of the block when I do finally notice something.

With my nose.

The sweet, musky aroma of creole-style barbecued shrimp. Mmmm.

Someone must be grilling nearby. Someone who really knows what they’re doing, too. The mix of spices smells pretty unusual.

The cop in me wants to move on, but the chef in me wants to know more, especially if the home cook lives nearby and saw the FBI raid. If I can bond with this potential witness over food, maybe I can walk away with a new recipe and some new intelligence.