At least they don’t have a warrant. If they did, they wouldn’t be knocking on my door, they’d be knocking it down. I have the right to tell them to shove off. But that’s probably not the smartest move. Word to the wise: When a team of federal law enforcement agents shows up at your doorstep unannounced in the middle of the night, it’s probably best to at least hear what they have to say.

I plaster on a polite smile, set the knife and phone on the counter, and open the door.

“Evening, Agent,” I say. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I’m standing face to face with a muscular, imposing African-American man of about forty-five. His head is as smooth as a cue ball, but a bristly black beard covers his sunken cheeks and chin. He flashes his FBI badge and glares at me. No, through me.

“Special Agent Marcus Morgan, Counterterrorism,” he nearly barks at me. “Let’s talk inside.”

I nod and step aside for the agent and his five-member team to enter.

“Welcome to New Orleans, by the way,” I say as I lead them all into the living room. Though there’s plenty of seating, they all remain on their feet. “But I’m guessing you’re not here for my restaurant recommendations?”

“Do you have any goddamn idea what you did tonight?” Morgan growls, hands on his hips.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re—”

“Your hanging around the house, then your little stunt at the junkyard? You set our investigation back weeks, Rooney. That’s time we don’t have to waste.”

Just as I thought. The FBI was out there tonight. Even worse, agents just stood by and watched as I got my ass handed to me. Unbelievable.

“I warned you people,” he continues, “to stay away from this thing. And this is exactly why!”

I shake my head in disgust.

“First of all, I’m not ‘you people,’” I point out. “I’m just your average Joe Citizen trying to protect the place I love most. And in just one afternoon, I made more progress than you have in—”

“We’d been casing that yard for months,” he interrupts. “Had it bugged top to bottom. If you hadn’t rolled up playing cops and robbers, spooked the whole lot of them, we’d … ”

He trails off. The frustration in his eyes is real. But so is the concern. The fear. So much so, it starts to rub off on me.

“I had no idea you guys had gotten there before me,” I reply gently. “Who were those guys? What were they—”

“Stop, Rooney,” he insists. “Just—stop. Go back to flipping burgers or whatever the hell you now do. There’s more at play here than you could ever imagine.”