Because what I just saw in David Needham’s eyes was a glint of real fear. I’ve interrogated enough guilty bastards in my day to recognize it.

So I know I’m getting closer.

I just wish to God I knew closer to what.

CHAPTER 36

The story of Islam in the Big Easy is a rich and complicated one. Thanks to the city’s great diversity and history of tolerance, its Muslim population is larger than many might think, especially for the South. There’s even a handful of gorgeous old mosques around the region, with ornate crescent archways and soaring minarets.

But this isn’t one of them.

I’m standing across the street from a much more modest Islamic house of worship in scruffy East New Orleans. It’s the closest one to Farzat’s last address, which I had checked out earlier and found empty. By now his wife, Rima, has surely heard the news of his death—and I’m desperate to have a few words with her. With her not home, I’m trying my luck here. Is it the most respectful thing in the world to corner a grieving widow just hours after she learned her husband died a horrible, violent death?

Of course not. But hours might be all I have.

Damnit, I just don’t know.

The sun is slipping below the horizon and evening prayer service is just letting out. Muslim men and women are walking out of the white clapboard building from separate entrances, but I’m keeping my eye on the latter group. Just like our city, there’s a wide range of diversity here. Many female worshippers are wearing full-body abayas, long robe-like dresses, with flowing hijabs obscuring all but the front of their faces. Others are in street clothes, with nothing covering their heads or hair at all.

At last I spot Rima. She’s wearing a conservative black blouse and a modest black veil, and is being comforted by a group of friends. Even in the twilight and from this far away, I can tell her eyes are raw from crying.

This is going to be rough. But here goes. I go to her.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Farzat?” I say as tenderly as I can.

“Are you police?” she snaps, suddenly suspicious. “The press? What do you want from me?”

“I’m just a man looking for some answers. May I have a moment of your time?”

My habit would be to introduce myself and extend my right hand to shake. Instead, I say nothing, and place my right hand over my heart, a sign of courtesy toward a practicing Muslim woman. This seems to surprise Rima in a positive way, and earn me the tiniest shred of her trust. So I go on.

“My sincerest condolences over the loss of your husband,” I say. “From everything I’ve heard, he seems to have loved you very much.”

Rima’s face turns hard as granite.