Marlene is looking as well. “Those belong to the police?”

I ease my way back into my car. A horn impatiently sounds behind me.

“No,” I say. “The NOPD doesn’t have helicopters, and the state police use Bells. Those are Black Hawk. National Guard or Army.”

I make a left-hand turn, thinking of what those SWAT cops said the other night.

Something’s spooked somebody.

“Must be a drill, huh?” Marlene asks.

“Must be,” I say, though I know deep down that no, something bad is out there in my Crescent City, scaring both the locals and the military.

And I can’t do a damn thing about it.

CHAPTER 14

The night after our gourmet meal and amateur WrestleMania hour back at LBD, Marlene and I park our truck on the corner of Orleans Avenue and Salcedo Street, right in the heart of Bayou St. John—a leafy, tranquil residential neighborhood, far removed from all the hubbub of the French Quarter. Since we didn’t have much time to prep ingredients that evening and will be doing most of it on the fly, I’m hoping for a relatively slow shift.

Fat chance.

Fifteen minutes after we open, there’s a line stretching down the block. After thirty minutes, it’s snaked around the corner. I deliberately didn’t post our location to any of our Killer Chef social media accounts, which have a combined following of more than two hundred thousand people, but I should have known word would spread. Not that I’m complaining. When you’re running a business, popularity is a great problem to have.

It’s also an exhausting one.

And sometimes, a potentially dangerous one.

As I’m finishing up two orders, Marlene comes next to me and says, “Looks like three of your friends are in line tonight.”

“Really?” I say, pleased at what she just said. Since I’ve left the force—hell, even after my beatdown four nights ago—I haven’t heard one word from any of my buds on the force, not a one. I realize it’s the tone of the time and politics, that nobody out there wants to be seen with someone accused of killing an “innocent” civilian, but it’s still a lonely feeling.

I wipe my hands on my apron, move over to the side, look out the serving window at the long line of customers, trying to see which detective or cop or if even my old boss, Cunningham, is waiting in line, but I don’t see a familiar face.

But I do see three guys, dressed in yellow sweats and yellow hoodies, staring right at me with hate.

I go back to my station, slide the food over. “Order up!”

The night goes on. With the three gangbangers getting closer and closer as happy customers slide away with their orders, Marlene says, “Whaddaya gonna do?”