Then again, I’ve heard rumors about what that man’s capable of.

Maybe it’s not so empty after all.

I look to my line of customers.

“Hope you enjoyed the show,” I call out. “Ready to eat?”

The happy shouts of encouragement lift my spirits as I go back to Killer Chef.

CHAPTER 57

Aside from the husband of the woman I’m falling in love with showing up and threatening to ruin my life, the first brunch shift in our new-and-improved truck goes off without a hitch. It’s the only one we’ll work today, as we’re still a day away from being fully stocked and up and running.

But it’s a good shift: Our equipment holds up. Our food turns out great. Our customers all go home happy. What more could you ask?

But about midway through, I start feeling antsy.

I’m champing at the bit to get out there again. To dive back into my investigation. To keep putting together the pieces before it’s too late.

So after I swear to Marlene I’ll make it up to her, she agrees to do the cleanup alone. The minute our last po’boy is served, I jump into my car and hit the road.

My destination is Lake Terrace. An exclusive neighborhood nestled along Lake Pontchartrain.

More specifically, I’m heading to the tacky McMansion on Oriole Street that David Needham calls home.

There’s not a shred of doubt in my mind that man knows a hell of a lot more than he let on. He wouldn’t talk to me in his restaurant, surrounded by bodyguards. But tonight, I’m going to give him one more chance. To confess.

Am I counting on it? Of course not. But this time, I’m bringing a lot more to the party than just a hunch.

I have that photo of him and Farzat at the Crescent Care event. The pictures I took of the bomb-making workshop in the garage.

And my Smith & Wesson, which is never leaving my side again.

I merge onto the I-10 … and only get about a quarter of a mile before I realize that was a stupid idea. It’s still early, but the highway is crawling with traffic.

I sigh and lean my exhausted head against the back of my seat.

At least I’m not in a hurry. David’s probably working late at one of his restaurants tonight. I’ll have to stake his place out for a few hours until he comes home. Good thing I have a Killer Chef specialty—a blackened catfish sandwich with duck-fat fries—a fully loaded iPod, and my memories of last night with Vanessa to tide me over.

I’ve barely moved an inch in this bumper-to-bumper nightmare when my phone rings.

Speak of the devil. It’s Vanessa.