Her head is tilted back, and I see the black scorch mark of a bullet wound in the middle of her forehead, just above her wide-open, stunned eyes.

CHAPTER 95

I take another step closer when a quiet voice behind me says, “Hell of a sight, eh?”

I whirl and bring up my pistol and Billy Needham casually makes an appearance, like he was coming in from the other side of the house, hoping to see a table set before him with his breakfast. He doesn’t even spare a glance at me, my pistol, or his dead sister as he walks past, carrying a small leather case and some folded maps and charts in his hands. He goes by me and sits at the table, spreads out the papers, and glances at them. He has on heavy khaki slacks, a blue button-down shirt, and a leather jacket. Aviator-style sunglasses dangle from a cord around his neck.

I step right up to him, pointing my pistol.

“Billy … ”

He looks up. “What? ‘Freeze’? ‘Don’t move’? ‘You’re under arrest’?” He grins. “Oh, yeah. Not a cop anymore, are you? And not much of a chef, either. Go away, Caleb, I’ve got work to do.”

“You … your sister … ”

He looks over to Emily. “Ah, poor dear. Among the mongrels, idiots, and thieves that make up the Needham clan, she, at least, treated me well. Listened to me. Gently argued with me. And protected me, even when you were up here, sniffing around. It only went sideways when she threatened to call you with the truth. Good Lord, Rooney, why the hell couldn’t you leave everything alone?”

I’m inches away from placing the muzzle of my pistol against his temple. “Because I won’t let you go on! I won’t let you kill thousands of innocents! You and your—”

Billy is as calm as the sociopath he is as he looks at the maps and charts and says, “Oh, blah blah blah. Who mourns for the dead of Berlin? Eh? Tens of thousands of innocents killed when Berlin fell to the Russians, and now, Berlin is a clean, free, and safe city. Those innocents had to die for the greater good. And when I’m done, New Orleans will go back to its roots, back to the real community, without the tacky tourists, the developers, the ones who steal our culture, our—”

I jam the gun in his chest and say, “Billy, get your hands up, and stand up. Now!”

He raises his head, gives me a look like he’s finally realizing I’m standing there aiming a pistol at him, and softly says, “Oh, Rooney, I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

His hand goes back into the small leather bag and before I can even react, he pulls out a revolver and shoots me square in the chest.

CHAPTER 96