Meanwhile, I whisk a few eggs with chunks of smoked andouille sausage and diced green pepper, and make a tasty Cajun-style scramble.

When both dishes are done, I plate them, add a parsley sprig garnish, and stick them in the warming drawer of the oven along with a scribbled Post-it to try to lighten the mood:

Dear Vanessa, Eat me.

I don’t have much of an appetite this morning, but I force down a couple bites of a toasted baguette smeared with creole tomato-basil jam. I chase it with some coffee with chicory. Then, at a quarter to six, I hit the road.

The streets, as I expected, are practically deserted. Only a smattering of city sanitation workers are out, sweeping up the mounds of beads, empty cups, and other debris clogging the sidewalks and gutters. It’s the calm before the storm.

I park on Gravier Street, alongside the granite fortress that used to be my second home. I trudge up the stone steps. I enter the glass-walled lobby.

I look around, not sure who—or what—I’m expecting. I see a few third-shift officers ambling through. And a couple civilians in the waiting area, many in flamboyant costumes, all of them passed out drunk.

I check my watch. It’s a few minutes before six. Now what?

I wait. I fidget. I twiddle my thumbs. I rub my temples.

Just as I’m starting to wonder if this whole thing was a bust, I hear a hoarse voice call to me: “Rooney. Good. You made it.”

CHAPTER 72

Cunningham slowly walks along the corridor before the empty sergeant’s desk. His clothes are stained, rumpled, and his weary eyes look like they’re about to shut from exhaustion in mid-step. A couple of cops I’ve met on the force have served in Afghanistan or Iraq prior to joining the NOPD, and they’ve mentioned the look a soldier gets after hours of threats and combat, with no relief in sight: the thousand-yard stare.

He has that haunted look.

“Come on back,” he says, voice weary. “We’re about to get started.”

My former boss turns and shuffles down the building’s central corridor. I follow and wait a few seconds for some kind of explanation. It doesn’t come.

So I ask: “Chief, what’s going on?”

Cunningham starts to reply and then a coughing fit chokes his voice for a moment. Then he clears his throat and says, “Don’t say ‘I told ya so,’ but I really wish I’d listened to you. Wish I’d given you more resources. Wish I hadn’t caved to all the politics. Wish I’d pushed back harder when the Federal Bureau of Ignorance shoved us locals aside.”

I take zero satisfaction in his words. I didn’t agree to help him because of pride—or out of spite. I wanted to serve my city. Do the right thing.