“You know he was not expecting you, Mr. Rooney,” he says, voice strong and in control. “But he does wish to see you.”

The two men lead me through the bustling kitchen and into a cramped, dim storage pantry. As they take their posts just outside the door, I see David Needham standing inside, next to a pyramid of bottled béarnaise sauce.

“You’re a real snake, Rooney,” he says darkly.

“Well, you’re a real hard person to get an audience with,” I say, struggling to catch my breath and not to hurl the lovely meal I just consumed onto the floor. “I assume you got the messages I left at your office last night, this morning, and this afternoon?”

“I did,” he said, folding his arms. “So you’re threatening to leak fake financial records to the Times-Picayune that link me to a murdered terrorist? Give me a goddamn break. That’s the most ridiculous and insulting thing I’ve ever—”

“And yet you came running over here to see me as soon as I popped up in one of your restaurants,” I say. “Listen, David. The records are real. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if they weren’t. And if you didn’t have something to hide.”

His pasty face tightens—with either nerves or rage. Or both.

“I do not. But a libelous news story like that—think of the damage it would do to my restaurants. You of all people should know how a trial-by-tabloid will sink a career.”

I take a step toward him and say, “I’m not interested in bringing down your business. I’m trying to bring down a terrorist cell before it’s too late. So tell me why a rich, conservative, paranoid foodie with a security team fit for a crown prince has been funneling money to an inner-city Islamic charity for Muslim refugees.”

He looks confused.

“An Islamic charity? What are you talking about?”

“Don’t bullshit me, David,” I say. “You’ve given twelve thousand dollars to Crescent Care through four different shell companies. That’s enough to buy hundreds of pounds of fertilizer. Cases of gunpowder. Dozens of pressure cookers. Or God knows what else. This is your one chance to come clean and stop this thing before it goes any further.”

I take another step forward. But he doesn’t flinch.

Instead, he starts to smile.

“I think the exhaust fumes from cooking inside that jalopy of yours are messing with your head,” he says softly. “Do you have any idea how many charities I’ve supported in my lifetime? This ‘Crescent’ one you mentioned—I’ve never heard of it. But if I’ve given them money, I’m sure the work they do is upstanding. And completely legal.”

He takes a breath. And smirks.