I pick up my phone from the counter and see it’s nearly midnight. But I also have a text. So focused on the Needhams’ financial records, I didn’t hear it chime.

I tap the screen and open it. It was sent about an hour ago. By Vanessa.

HOPE THE TRUCK IS ON THE MEND, it reads. SO WHEN AM I BUYING YOU DINNER? ;)

Despite these dark times, that little string of words is a big ray of light. And that coy winking face brings a childish grin to my own.

It gives me a risky idea, too, of a two-birds-one-stone kind.

I’m usually loath to mix unofficial business with potential pleasure. But this might be the only real chance I’ll get to see David Needham. It could also backfire spectacularly. It could ruin my chances of stopping the Mardi Gras attack and of getting with Vanessa. But isn’t it worth a shot?

My thumbs hover over the keypad for a moment, twitching.

Before I can change my mind, I tap back: THANKS! HOW ABOUT TOMORROW? I KNOW JUST THE SPOT.

CHAPTER 43

Vanessa is waiting for me in front of the restaurant. She’s wearing a vibrant red dress, and stands out from the dinnertime crowd like a lighthouse on a stormy night.

Her outfit is classy and flirty, serious and fun—just like her. And it definitely flatters her body.

When she spots me approaching, her sweet and attractive face breaks into laughter.

“Caleb, what in God’s name is on your face?”

“Mais non, mademoiselle,” I say in my most ridiculous Pepé Le Pew accent. “My name iz Maurice La Fondue. And to be your dining partner for zee evening will be un grand plaisir!”

She puts her hands on her hips. “I wish you’d told me to come in costume.”

“Nonsense, mademoiselle. You are always in costume: a beauty queen!”

I take her gently by the arm and lead her inside.

In most places, a grown man waltzing into an upscale eatery wearing a gold masquerade mask with a crown of rainbow feathers would raise eyebrows. But this is New Orleans during Carnival. A whole different set of rules applies.

And the restaurant is Soûlard, which serves high-class food in a funky, low-class setting. Located near the French Quarter, it’s also blocks from where the insanely lavish Mystic Krewe of Morpheus parade has just ended. The dining room is packed with costumed marchers and spectators, all stopping in for an extraordinary bite.

Amazingly, I’m one of the more conservatively dressed people here.

“Hello, we have a reservation for two at eight o’clock,” Vanessa says to the maître d’. “It’s under the name ‘Mrs. Lucas Dodd.’”

Before you judge her too harshly for that, know that using her restaurateur husband’s name to snag us this last-minute plum reservation was my idea.