He turns back and speaks plainly. “Because if the feds are any good … and I pray to God that they are … they’re listening. To both the good guys and the bad guys.”

CHAPTER 18

Cunningham’s words leave me in a dark place that morning, thinking and re-thinking, pondering and trying to come up with avenues of approach to grab an investigative thread—any thread—and start pulling. During the entire busy brunch shift, as the customers line up, I get a sick feeling to my stomach looking at this line of innocents, knowing at this moment, there are probably a group of men in this city who would love to see them dead, shattered, bleeding, wounded, and screaming in pain and horror.

My old chief is right. This city’s been to hell and back once before. I can’t leave its fate in the hands of a bunch of outsiders. I have to step up and help.

But how?

My head is swirling so much, I botch not one, but two, food orders that morning. I even nick the tip of my index finger with my chef’s knife, an amateur accident I’ve not had in years.

My ex-wife easily notices that something’s on my mind. But in typical Marlene fashion, her “support” comes in the form of sarcastic scolding.

“Hey, quit fantasizing about that married broad and focus on our food!”

Of course I can’t tell her the truth. That I’m not daydreaming about Vanessa.

I’m trying to figure out how to prevent a nightmare.

It does leave a bad taste in my mouth, not being able to tell Marlene what’s really bothering me, but I need to keep focused, and I can’t bring her into what I’m doing.

I’ve done it before when I was active-duty in major crimes, but it still doesn’t make it feel any better.

When the morning shift finally ends, I hang up my apron and bid Marlene adieu. Then I hop the Rampart Street streetcar and ride it to the end of the line. From there it’s a short walk to my destination: the central business district. A lot of folks think New Orleans is all old, narrow roads and balconied town houses. But this “downtown” part of the city has wide, traffic-snarled avenues running between tall, glistening office towers.

It’s also packed with people. Especially lots of children, everywhere I look. Which isn’t typical, but today is the first Sunday of Carnival season—“Family Sunday,” as it’s known—and the procession passing through here this afternoon promises to be a lot tamer and more kid-friendly than most others. At least by New Orleans standards.