CHAPTER 68

“Sorry, sir, we’re closed.”

The valet is waving his hands at me as I step out of my car.

I’m parked in front of Petite Amie, the Garden District saloon-turned-bistro owned by Billy Needham, David’s cousin. He’s the guy who comped me that incredible meal a week ago.

He’s also the one who told me about all the strife and discord tearing his family apart. About David’s paranoia. His threats of violence.

Billy’s the reason I tumbled down this rabbit hole in the first place. Coming here tonight is a Hail Mary, but maybe he can help me claw my way out.

“That’s okay,” I say to the valet. “I’m not here to eat.”

I approach the restaurant’s glass façade, cup my hands around my eyes and peer inside. The ornate chandeliers and the house lights are on. The wait staff, typically prim and proper in front of diners, are chatting casually with one another as they sweep the floors and strip the tables.

I give the locked door a few knocks to get the attention of a busboy stacking chairs nearby. He glances at me, then ignores me. I knock again. Harder.

“Hey!” I call through the glass. “You. Yeah, you. Listen, I gotta talk to your boss. Tell Billy Caleb Rooney’s outside. It’s urgent. As in, life or death urgent.”

The busboy’s indifference morphs into concern. He stops stacking chairs, hesitates, then steps away and walks through the dining room toward the kitchen.

Seconds turn to minutes. As I wait, I think. About the winding path that brought me to this desperate moment. And about what exactly I’m going to say to Billy.

How the hell do you tell a man you barely know that, thanks to him, you’ve come to believe his cousin is a terrorist?

Here he comes, emerging from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. As Billy unlocks the door and lets me in, his face is a mask of worry.

“Caleb,” he says. “Hi. Is everything all right?”

“Hey, Billy. Why don’t we have a drink. Because it’s not. Not by a mile.”

From the foyer showing the celebrity grip-and-grin pictures and his personal flying photographs, he ushers me over to his restaurant’s shiny mahogany bar. As I take a seat, he steps around behind it.

“I already cut my bartender for the night,” he says. “What can I get you? I’m not much of a mixologist, but I can make a mean Ramos gin fizz if you’re in the mood for—”

“Just the house bourbon. A double. You’ll probably want one for yourself, too.”