“Is this what I think it is?” I ask, struggling to control my joy at having convinced her to share this with me.

“My holding company’s comprehensive financial reports,” she says. “Going back ten fiscal years. Don’t you dare tell the feds you have them. And definitely don’t tell my crazy family. But do tell me if you need anything else.”

“I … yes, I will,” I say. “Thank you, Ms. Beaudette.”

“But remember what you offered earlier,” she points out. “If you find anything … out of the ordinary that you believe the federal authorities might be interested in, you will notify my attorney and myself. Am I clear?”

“Absolutely,” I say, and then I realize I’m talking into thin air.

She’s disconnected the call. No matter.

I’ve just made a major step forward, documents that might help me get a handle on what’s going on with the Needhams, records that just might shed some light on—

A rising chorus of sirens snap me out of my rapid thoughts, and I glance up at the rearview mirror, seeing the flashing blue lights. With the other drivers, I pull over as far as I can, no mean feat in this gridlock.

But a narrow path does open.

I glance up again, expecting to see an NOPD cruiser or two, perhaps an ambulance, or maybe a state police cruiser.

But not what’s coming our way.

A convoy of National Guard Humvees and trucks with trailers behind them, being led by three Humvees with a flashing red-blue light bar just above the windshield.

I count twenty of the vehicles as they pass me and head into the heart of New Orleans.

I’m not happy anymore.

I’m terrified of what’s going to happen in the few days before Mardi Gras, and terrified that even with this welcome gift of information, I’ll be too late.

With a honk of my horn, I get back into the gridlock, stuck again.

CHAPTER 42

Who knew hundreds of pages of accounting records could be so riveting?

As soon as I walk through the door, I pop open a ninety-dollar bottle of Côtes du Rhône I’ve been saving for a special occasion. I pour myself a glass. Then I plop down at my kitchen table, fire up my laptop, and set about poring over the numbers.

Let me be clear: I am not a forensic accountant. Not even close.

Still, I know what a professional restaurant ledger is supposed to look like. I have a decent sense of wholesale food prices, reasonable service wages, average industry profit margins.

Which is why, three hours and as many glasses of wine later, I’m feeling pretty damn discouraged. I’ve scrutinized every line. Recalculated every column. And everything is adding up perfectly. Nothing is jumping out at me at all.