But it’s only made me more determined to confront David Needham about what he’s up to.

CHAPTER 35

So it’s back to the waiting game. Back to basics. More ass time in the car. More hours to maddeningly while away—as the start of Mardi Gras creeps closer.

But I have to admit, I also know I’m very near LBD and its owner’s wife, Vanessa, and while the cool and professional part of me is looking out for David Needham, the base part of me—so attracted to Vanessa, her look, her shape, her scent—is also keeping an eye out for her familiar and enticing form.

A contradiction, I know, but I can’t help it. Even with what’s going on with my investigation, the dead-end leads, the building suspicion of what violence might be planned out there for my city, I can’t keep her out of my mind.

Thankfully, today’s stakeout is a short one.

It’s a little after 3 p.m. when the black Town Car I glimpsed David riding in earlier pulls out from behind his restaurant.

This is my chance.

But I have to move quickly.

I start my engine and reverse backward down Rosella’s quiet street. I pull a half “J-turn,” just like I learned in the defensive driving unit at the academy. I brake and jerk the wheel as I reach the first intersection, positioning my car in the middle of the road, blocking it completely. I flip on my hazards, then jump out and crouch behind a mailbox on the sidewalk, like a predator waiting for its prey.

A few moments later, David’s car slows to a stop behind my vehicle. Through the tinted rear passenger window, I see him look up and say something to his driver, confused and irritated by the roadblock.

With both men distracted, I make my move.

I race over to the car, open the unlocked rear door, and slide inside.

“What the—who do you—” David stammers, surprised and scared.

If his chauffeur were also ex–Israeli Special Forces, he’d already have a silenced pistol trained right between my eyes. Instead, the guy sits there, frozen, his hands still on the wheel. Guess he’s just a driver. Phew.

“Mr. Needham, relax,” I say. “I’m Caleb Rooney. I only want to talk for a moment.”

His expression slides from concern to conceit.

“Wait a minute, I know who you are,” he says sharply. “You’re that cop who thinks he’s a chef. You serve up second-rate slop from the back of a truck.”

I smile flatly, not taking the bait.

“But my customers say it’s very tasty second-rate slop.”

He now looks furious. “How dare you jump into my car like this!”

“Sorry,” I say. “Couldn’t be avoided. It’s vitally important.”

“Concerning me?” he asks, nearly laughing. “Get out. I’m very, very busy.”

I shake my head.