“Reggie, please, you of all people … Billy Needham says he loves this city, and loves folks like you, but when it comes to business, the bucks come first. He was behind that buyout. Wait a bit longer, I’ll get you copies of the purchase and sales agreements. His signature is right at the bottom of them. He betrayed you, your friends, and your coworkers. And when it came time to use you and others, he didn’t hesitate, not for a moment.”

The smile has faded. I press on.

“You were one of the tractor drivers,” I say. “But something happened. The tractor stalled out, maybe you got blocked, maybe … maybe you had a change of heart. You saw all those scared tourists, the folks running away, and you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do what Billy asked you to do, to drive into a crowd and kill a lot of innocents.”

He says again, “You’re bullshitting me. I … I was going to do it, and then I got jumped by that krewe behind me. That was the plan. I just didn’t get it done.”

I reach for the folder, slowly slide it in front of me. “Billy, you know what they say about plans. That’s how you make God laugh. You say you’re making plans. So what did you plan for your sister, Grace, and her daughter, Melissa?”

He freezes, staring at the folder. “Don’t you dare,” he says, his voice a near whisper. “Don’t you dare.”

I slowly shake my head. “You warned them, didn’t you? Stay away from the French Quarter today. Don’t go to the parades. Stay home. But you know how kids are … they don’t listen. They promise one thing, and they sneak away, and they hope they don’t get caught. But sometimes they do … ”

I open the folder and rotate it so Reggie can see what’s inside: a color NOPD crime-scene photo, showing a narrow street, strewn with debris from beads to flowers to empty bottles, and in the foreground, a small, yellow-blanket-covered figure with plastic numbered evidence triangles scattered around it.

He doesn’t say a word, but breathes out a low, keening moan. I close the folder.

“Billy used you,” I say. “Used you and the others, and we’re trying to find him, Reggie. Before he can use others. Before he can kill others … like your niece.”

More low moaning.

“Reggie, where is he?”

Moaning.

“Reggie … please … help us. Where is he?”

Tears are running down his cheeks, he’s shaking his head, and he says, “I don’t know, I don’t know, honest … ”

“Reggie, the police”—I make sure to leave the FBI out of it—“they’ve looked at his restaurants, his warehouse, his home … there must be someplace else. Am I right? Someplace they don’t know about?”

He nods his head. “Melissa … Melissa … ”