Oops. Gordon Andrews, the charming, skilled, and very intelligent private investigator I called yesterday, the one with two master’s degrees.

“Oh, hi,” I say. “No, you didn’t. What’s up?”

“I’m calling with a bit of news. Thought you’d want to hear it.”

I most certainly do. I glance at my dashboard clock. It’s 6:33 a.m.

“You sure don’t let the grass grow, Gordon. Thanks for getting back to me so quick. What have you learned?”

“I know you asked me to look into Lucas Dodd. I’m still digging. But that other fellow you mentioned … ”

He means Farzat. Whose name he’s smart enough not to mention over an open phone line.

“I heard over the scanner that the police just caught him.”

“That’s great!” I say. “Thanks, Andrews. That’s the best news I could have heard. What station are they booking him at?”

“No, Caleb,” he says. “You don’t understand. They caught his body. Homicide.”

CHAPTER 32

It takes a few seconds for Gordon’s words to sink in.

The lead suspect in my investigation just turned up dead.

Normally I wouldn’t much mourn the passing of a would-be terrorist. But in this case, there’s nothing good about it at all. If Farzat had been killed, say, in a shootout with federal agents, that would be one thing. A positive sign that Morgan’s team was closing in, tightening the noose. If he accidentally blew himself up constructing a bomb, that would be even better news. An indication the guy was an amateur, not an expert.

Instead, Farzat’s body has been found fully intact. And is currently in the custody of the New Orleans PD. Which means, somehow, the FBI lost his trail.

Then somebody else found him first.

And decided to shut him up.

But who? And why?

I throw my car back into Drive and speed to the address Gordon gave me, on Tricou Street in the Lower Ninth Ward. It’s only a twelve-minute ride from the French Quarter, but the place might as well be another planet. This is the neighborhood made famous—infamous—for bearing the brunt of that bitch Katrina. When the levees broke, water surged into this low-lying area, swallowing up whole blocks. Its recovery has been miraculous, but imperfect. Today, a dozen years later, the Lower Ninth is still pocked with crumbling homes and abandoned lots. Residents complain of stubborn blight and lingering crime. Murders aren’t common, but they’re not unheard of.

Let’s see what I can learn from this one.

As I near the scene, I see flashing red-and-blue bubble lights. Turning onto Tricou, there’s an NOPD cruiser parked diagonally in the middle of the road, blocking further access. Beyond it, yellow crime-scene tape hangs between trees and lampposts like limp clothesline. It rings a small, decrepit house with boarded-up windows and a rotting roof that looks like it could collapse at any second.