He storms off into the conference room, and one by one, others follow him in—state police, Homeland Security, more FBI, NOPD, and Cunningham, who nods at me to join him.

I feel like going back home to Vanessa and, yes, even Marlene.

But I steel myself and go in.

By the time I’m able to get into the crowded room, I stand in the corner, along with others who don’t have the juice to sit around the conference room table. I only recognize about a quarter of the attendees—local, state, parish—and Morgan goes through a detailed report of how they’re trying to track down Billy Needham. Photographs are all over the television and internet. Wiretaps have been placed on his business and home phones … as if, I think. His credit cards have been flagged to announce any activity. Every employee who either currently works or has worked for Billy is being interrogated. All of his properties have been raided, and are under surveillance.

All good work, but still, too late.

We were all too late.

A brief pause and I call out, “Casualties. What’s the number on casualties?”

The air grows still and Morgan looks down, and then a burly tactical NOPD officer—still in black jumpsuit and battle rattle—pushes forward to the conference room table and says, “Well, this is what I’ve got.” He unfolds a sheet of paper and says, “Hard to believe, but number of deaths is under twenty.”

A murmur of voices, and the officer—his nametag says DUBUS—says, “And some of those are from being trampled. Wounded is about fifty or sixty, but shit, guys, it could have been worse, much, much worse.”

Dubus folds up the paper. “Luckily we got intel about the red and green glasses. Once my shooters got prepped, we shot the bastards every time they appeared, like gophers popping up from their burrows. So thanks to whoever got that intel out.”

I keep quiet.

So does Morgan.

The meeting breaks down with lots of arguing, more talking, and I try to slip out, and Cunningham grabs my arm.

“Need your help.”

I say, “You got it, Chief.”

CHAPTER 88

Cunningham and I do a “walk and talk” as we go deeper into the concrete bowels of the LeMont Federal Building, and he gives me a debrief of the terrorists that were seized and arrested once the shooting stopped.

“Damnit, Rooney, the only thing they’ve got in common, is that they’ve got nothin’ in common!” he says as we clatter down a concrete and metal stairway.

He gives me the intel:

Five in custody. Two tractor drivers, three gunmen.

That’s five accomplices to terrorism.

Five potential cooperating witnesses.

Five possible leads on Billy.

All of the suspects are men. All were arrested carrying illegal weapons and wearing costumes speckled with UV-reflective paint.

“But that’s where it ends,” Cunningham complains. “There’s no connecting thread.”