Sniffing the air like a human bloodhound, I follow the scent onto Galvez Street, and spot tufts of gray smoke coming from a backyard three homes down. I make my way over. I quietly and carefully walk down the driveway and behind the house.

An old African-American woman is working the grill. She’s flipping skewers of shrimp, peppers, and onions while humming what sounds like a church hymn. A boy, maybe three or four, is playing with blocks on the brown grass behind her.

“Hi there, good morning,” I say, as friendly as possible.

The woman stops humming and eyes me with suspicion. “You lost, child?”

“No, ma’am. I was just walking by when I smelled your amazing creole-style prawns. I’m dying to know what’s in your spice rub. Is that cardamom? Allspice?”

The woman glares at me, even more skeptical.

“I smell somethin’ too,” she says. “Somethin’ fishy. I’m gonna give you to the count of three to remove yourself from my property, before I call the damn pol—”

“Ma’am, you’ve certainly got a good sense of smell and an even sharper pair of eyes,” I interrupt. “I used to be police, but not anymore. I’m in private business now, trying to find out if the police recently raided an abandoned house nearby.”

The barbecue sizzles and spits. She just stares at me with the well-deserved suspicion that this and many other neighborhoods have of a white stranger coming onto their property.

“Please,” I say. “Do you remember seeing anything like that? Probably late at night? It’s really, really important.”

The woman scrunches her lips. “The police are always up in here. Botherin’ us. Or worse. One of my neighbors? Lost her son to a cop’s bullet not long ago. Shame.”

I freeze—and try to maintain my poker face as best I can. Am I caught?

“But now that you mention it,” she continues, “the police were here on Thursday. Around two o’clock in the morning. Their sirens and shoutin’ woke me up. I was mad as hell … until I saw they were finally takin’ care of that crack house on Johnson Street.”

“‘Finally’?” I ask.

“I called ’em about it a few times. Damn thing seemed to pop up out of nowhere. One day it’s an empty old shack. The next, mean-lookin’ folks are comin’ and goin’ like it’s a Winn-Dixie the day before Thanksgivin’.”

Jackpot! If what Cunningham told me is true—that the sleeper cell keeps setting up new locations at the drop of a hat—this woman’s story makes sense.

“What do you mean by ‘mean-looking’?” I ask. “Were they Arab?” The woman cracks a sassy smile. “Child,” she says, “they looked like you. A couple were talkin’ in Spanish. But most? They were white folks.”

White? All right, so much for a jackpot. Maybe it’s a bust. Damnit.