She blushes and looks down at her plate, and in a small voice, says, “I would like that, Caleb. Very, very much.”

We eat in silence for a few more moments, and she says, “What’s the news about Billy Needham?”

“There’s a new lead that the FBI and the NOPD are chasing down,” I say. “A hunting camp in Shreveport where he worked with others in plotting the attack. The FBI had missed that camp in their initial search, and right now … they’re probably swooping down in helicopters to grab him.”

“Mmm,” she says. “After all you’ve done, I’d think you would want to be there, when he gets captured.”

“I had more important things to do.”

She gives me a teasing, erotic look. “Like what?”

“Capturing you.”

She leans over, grasps my hand. “Caleb.”

“Yes?”

“Can this meal be reheated?”

My chef brain says absolutely not, that it won’t be the same.

But the smarter part of my brain wrestles control.

“Absolutely,” I say, standing up and leading her to my bedroom.

We start with a slow walk.

And end in a fast run, laughing and tumbling into my bed.

Correction.

Our bed.

Humming wakes me up.

Loud, insistent humming.

I roll over from the sleeping form of my Vanessa, check my nightstand. It’s been two hours since I got home, and it’s raining hard outside, with low grumbles of thunder and flashes of light piercing through the night.

I grab the source of the humming: my phone, set on vibrate.

I open the text, and this time, there’s no confusion or hidden secret about who’s contacting me.

It’s Cunningham.

It’s short and to the depressing point.

PROPERTY RAIDED. NO JOY. BILLY STILL AMONG THE MISSING.

I put the phone down, and try to fall asleep, but for long hours, I just stare up at the ceiling.

CHAPTER 93

The next two days pass in a tired, depressing, and wet grind. The rain that started just after I left the LeMont Federal Building kept on falling, and on the third day, it’s supposed to be sunny and cloud-free, just in time for a city-wide memorial service to commemorate our bloody Mardi Gras.

I think that’s a spectacularly bad idea, but since I’m no longer on the force, who cares what food truck chef thinks? But the police, the mayor, and—I’m sure—the Chamber of Commerce want to reassure everyone that New Orleans is still here, standing strong, and so a service has been set for 9 a.m. at the Fair Grounds Race Course, the largest open area in the Big Easy—and home to our annual Jazz and Heritage Festival—and along with the governor, two senators, several congressmen, and the vice president, the place is expected to be overflowing with locals and tourists, all wanting to celebrate New Orleans’ survival.