Thirty minutes later and after some heated discussion from the observation room, Cunningham opens the interrogation door, and the frustrated FBI agent storms out. I slide in, holding a slim folder in my hands.

“Hey there, Reggie,” I say. “Can I call you Reggie? I’m Caleb.”

I take a seat opposite Broussard and flash a friendly grin. That’s not an easy task when you’re staring down a domestic terrorist, even if he isn’t directly responsible for killing anyone. But it’s what I’ve got to do. I’ve interrogated lots of suspects over the years in holding cells like this one. Angry men who shot and killed their girlfriends. Overwhelmed women who beat their children. Twisted fellows who took depraved pleasure in stalking and assaulting women.

But none were part of a terrorist team or plot, which still might not be finished.

He just glares at me. Wary.

“First things first,” I say. “Why don’t we get you out of those cuffs?”

Now he’s really thrown.

Knowing I’m being watched, I turn and look at the two-way mirror, wordlessly imploring Cunningham to send someone in here with a key.

“I can see exactly what you’re trying to do,” he says, grinning. “Classic good cop, bad cop shit. Next you’re gonna offer me some water and a snack. You’re trying to buddy up to me to get me to talk. Well, it ain’t gonna work.”

I shrug. “That’s pretty smart of you, Reggie. But I’ve got a surprise for you. I’m not a cop.”

“You a lawyer, then?” he asks. “A public defender?”

“No on both counts,” I say. “I’m just doing a favor for a friend of mine on the force. A local, like you … like me. Nowadays I work as a chef.”

He looks skeptical. “For real?”

“Oh, yeah, for real,” I say. “I spent some time at Brennan’s, Commander’s Palace, Gautreau’s … you learn from the best, right?”

He says, “Where you working now?”

“Got my own food truck,” I say. “Move it around, place to place, it’s called Killer—”

“Chef!” he exclaims. “You’re the dude that runs that food truck, yeah, I know about you.” He then looks over at the twoway mirror. “Then why are you here, talkin’ to me, man?”

“Like I said, doing a favor for an old friend,” I say.

The door opens and a slim, angry-looking FBI agent comes in, and without a word, unlocks Broussard’s cuffs and walks out, slamming the door behind him. Broussard rubs his wrists and sighs.

“That feels good, thanks,” he says. “So what’s the favor you’re doing?”

“Just trying to help him and the FBI figure out what went on this morning, but let me tell you, just between you and me, those outsiders don’t know shit.”