And then, the best part of the note.

Love, always,

Vanessa

I pour myself a cup of coffee.

Love, indeed.

I go to my living room, plant myself on the couch, and switch on the TV. I spin through all of the news channels—like most everyone here in Crescent City, I’m sick of the 24/7 news coverage of the Mardi Gras attacks—and then I go to Turner Classic Movies, but at this moment, they’re between movies and are running old black-and-white serials, which I find boring.

Finally, I settle on a weather channel, and see a perky blonde outlining the day’s forecast, which is a relief from the past three days of wind and storms.

I half-listen to her little morning spiel, wondering if I should crawl back into bed, or should I do the grown-up thing and join Marlene and Vanessa, and that’s when it happens.

“ … and it’ll be what they call CAVU for the vice president when his official aircraft lands at Naval Air Station Joint Reserve Base New Orleans in less than two hours.”

I sit still.

CAVU.

Why has that phrase struck me so hard?

I feel my old cop senses tingling, like the moment you get a tiny bit of forensic evidence that will break everything open and cast a wide spotlight, illuminating what has happened, and what might yet happen.

CAVU.

In aircraft pilot terms, CAVU means “Ceiling And Visibility Unlimited” … in other words, a perfect flying day.

Billy Needham’s voice comes to me:

We’ve just begun. Honest.

And a few moments later:

The sky’s the limit.

It hits me like a sledgehammer blow to my stomach.

The attacks a few days ago … just the opening act.

To get attention. Publicity. Lots of attention.

Now, the news media, the politicians, and nearly sixty-five thousand innocents will be gathering in a wide, open, and vulnerable park …

With Billy Needham, private pilot with lots of resources, waiting to strike again. The sky’s the limit.

I jump off the couch so fast I drop my coffee to the tiled floor, shattering the mug.

CHAPTER 94

Nearly an hour of white-knuckled driving later, I’ve reached my destination.

The horse farm of Emily Needham Beaudette.

Billy’s half-sister.

And home to wide and flat acres of grassland.

God, how could I have been so stupid?

The FBI, NOPD, the state police, Homeland Security, and everybody else have been raiding and observing any properties belonging to Billy Needham and whatever shell companies he owns.

But would they go here, a hundred miles away from New Orleans, to a horse farm belonging to his sister?

Doubtful.

And if he is planning a spectacular attack from the air, he would need an airstrip and hangar.

But knowing what I know from my police experience, the airspace around New Orleans is going to be closed and tightly monitored.