Chapter 91
SOME MINUTES later Cunningham is escorting me back out of the LeMont Federal Building and I say bitterly, “Why are you here? Aren’t you going out with the feds?”
With a weary sigh he says, “I hate helicopters. Let the feds have the glory. And I’m dead tired, Caleb. I mean, you try riding in secret in a Mardi Gras float, all bent over, not able to move, breathing in diesel fumes…”
We get to the doors and there are flashes of lightning in the darkness. Camera crews, reporters, and others are clustered outside.
Cunningham says, “Don’t scream at me when I say this, but Morgan isn’t totally to blame.”
“The hell he isn’t!”
My former boss taps my elbow. “Remember when I first briefed you on this, back when you were outside, washing your truck? I said that a lot of high-level meetings were going on, both here and in DC? That there were international security implications? Well, yeah, I found out from one of the local FBI agents…DC screwed Morgan over, and good.”
“How?”
He rubs his face for a second. “Yeah, there were international implications, all right. The boys at the Hoover building got contacted by the FSB.”
“Who?”
“The FSB,” he says. “The Russian spy agency that replaced the KGB. Somehow they got wind of the investigation going on down here, and they told the FBI that they had some good intel they were going to pass on. Just be patient, the Russians said, we’ll help you out.”
I say, “The Russians didn’t have anything.”
“Not a goddamn thing,” he says. “Morgan’s superiors didn’t want him to go full-out in his investigation…they wanted to wait for the Russians to step in, help us break up the plot, get great headlines about a reset in the American-Russian relationship, all that good shit. So Morgan was held back, and yesterday, Ivan called the feds and said, oops, our bad, we can’t help.”
I feel worn, tired, and betrayed. All of the dead and wounded out there…it could have been prevented. If I hadn’t focused on the wrong Needham. If Morgan had shown a stiffer spine. If my old bosses had flipped off the FBI and told them that they would handle it…
Lots of ifs.
Cunningham gently slaps me on my back. “By the way, Caleb. The review board found that your use of force was justified and cleared your name. With everything going on, I forgot to tell you. It’s not too late, if you want to come back to the force…”
His voice fades as I try to grasp what he’s saying, but I’m indifferent to the news. On top of everything else, it just doesn’t seem that important. But a tiny part of me is glad that I’ve been vindicated.
“Go home, Caleb,” he says. “Go home. I’ll let you know when the feds grab Needham’s ass. If we’re lucky, Billy will try to escape while they’re taking him in…from a Black Hawk helicopter at five thousand feet.”
I work my way through the crowds outside of the building, wondering how I’m going to get home, when a woman’s voice says, shyly, “Mr. Rooney, please, may I have a word? Mr. Rooney? Please?”
I turn and stand, shocked.
It’s Rima Farzat, the widow of Ibrahim Farzat, the Syrian refugee dishwasher I had been chasing and who had died a gruesome, tortured death.
She is dressed modestly as before—black slacks and blouse, veil covering her head—but she seems exhausted, shrunken.
“Yes, Mrs. Farzat,” I say, stepping away some from the crowd of watchers and reporters, remembering our last angry meeting that ended with her attacking me with pepper spray.
She looks around and says in a low voice, hard to hear, “I…I owe you an apology. I am sorry for what I did to you.”
I place my hand over my heart. “Please, Mrs. Farzat, you don’t need to apologize. I’m the one who is sorry. I’m sorry for acting so arrogant toward you, especially when you were grieving. I should not have done that.”
She nods, bites her lower lip. “I…I am not the only one who should apologize to you. My great-uncle, Saleel el-Sharif, from Crescent Care…he…”
I nod. The man who tried to tear me apart with shotgun shells when I was trying to get information about her husband.
“He was trying to protect you, am I right?” I ask.
She nods. I think of her, and of poor Ibrahim’s body, and the violent reaction of her great-uncle, and I can almost hear the thud as the pieces fall into place.
“Your husband…he was murdered by Billy Needham and his killers, am I right?”
She doesn’t say a word, but her sad eyes tell me everything I need to know. I go on. “And he was killed because Billy found out that your husband was an informant. For the FBI, am I right?”
She folds her arms, nods bitterly. “Ibrahim…he wasn’t a very good husband. But he was trying to become a better man, here, in America. He found out about this man Needham, and his plotting, and he went to the FBI. I told him no, over and over again. Why should he risk his life for this country after it spends such a long time holding us up with interviews and background checks…that welcomes us here with hate and suspicion? What did he owe America after how he was treated?”
Another piece of the puzzle now falls into place. When the Farzats were first noticed and investigated by the NOPD, we passed on information to Homeland Security, who told us the family had been thoroughly vetted and weren’t considered a terrorist threat.
Of course they weren’t a threat. Ibrahim was working for us—was one of the good guys. And Crescent Care, I’ve come to believe, really was an honest charity. It just found itself tangled up with some less-than-honest guys.
Rima sighs. “But my husband was stubborn. He said with all its faults, this country was a good place, and he would help to make it an even better place…and for his troubles…he was murdered. Brutally murdered.”
I say, “And when I came up to you…”
“I didn’t know what to think. Were you FBI, sniffing around? Were you part of that Needham man’s gang, looking to harm me? So I described you to my great-uncle, and when you showed up…”
“He thought he was protecting you,” I say.
“Yes, and now, he is in hiding. Afraid you will have him arrested.”
Out over the dark and flat waters of Lake Pontchartrain comes the flicker-flicker of lightning tearing through the thick gray shapes.
I say, “Tell him I am sorry, as well, and tell him he is safe from me.”
The grumble of thunder reaches us. Rima laughs bitterly.
“Safe? Will we ever be safe?”
I wish I knew the answer.
I really do.
Chapter 92
I CATCH a cab back to my home in Tremé, and find Vanessa sleeping on the couch, and no Marlene. The television is set to Turner Classic Movies, an old black-and-white film featuring Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn, and I look down at her sweet sleeping face.
Most times I’ve seen her in these past several days, that perfect face with the blond hair has been scared, angry, or frustrated. But now, even after surviving leaving her abusive husband and a terrorist attack, she is sleeping with the bliss of happiness and love.
I want to stand and just watch her, but instead, I go into the kitchen and get to work.
She wakes up just as I’m plating our meal for the evening: omelets made with diced mushrooms, smoked bacon pieces, Gruyere, and sharp cheddar, complemented by split baguettes heated on a griddle and dripping with butter, and French-press coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice.
She sits across from me and takes a bite, rolls her eyes in pleasure. “My dear Caleb…if you keep on cooking like this for me, you’ll need to roll me out the door.”
Maybe it’s the look of pleasure on her face, or the raw delight in being alive and with this beautiful woman on this cloudy and ill-fated day, but without hesitation I say, “I’ll cook for you as long as you wish…forever, if you’d let me.”
She blushes and looks down at her plate, and in a small voice, says, “I would like that, Cale
b. Very, very much.”
We eat in silence for a few more moments, and she says, “What’s the news about Billy Needham?”
“There’s a new lead that the FBI and the NOPD are chasing down,” I say. “A hunting camp in Shreveport where he worked with others in plotting the attack. The FBI had missed that camp in their initial search, and right now…they’re probably swooping down in helicopters to grab him.”
“Mmm,” she says. “After all you’ve done, I’d think you would want to be there, when he gets captured.”
“I had more important things to do.”
She gives me a teasing, erotic look. “Like what?”
“Capturing you.”
She leans over, grasps my hand. “Caleb.”
“Yes?”
“Can this meal be reheated?”
My chef brain says absolutely not, that it won’t be the same.
But the smarter part of my brain wrestles control.
“Absolutely,” I say, standing up and leading her to my bedroom.
We start with a slow walk.
And end in a fast run, laughing and tumbling into my bed.
Correction.
Our bed.
Humming wakes me up.
Loud, insistent humming.
I roll over from the sleeping form of my Vanessa, check my nightstand. It’s been two hours since I got home, and it’s raining hard outside, with low grumbles of thunder and flashes of light piercing through the night.
I grab the source of the humming: my phone, set on vibrate.
I open the text, and this time, there’s no confusion or hidden secret about who’s contacting me.
It’s Cunningham.
It’s short and to the depressing point.
PROPERTY RAIDED. NO JOY. BILLY STILL AMONG THE MISSING.
I put the phone down, and try to fall asleep, but for long hours, I just stare up at the ceiling.
Chapter 93
THE NEXT two days pass in a tired, depressing, and wet grind. The rain that started just after I left the LeMont Federal Building kept on falling, and on the third day, it’s supposed to be sunny and cloud-free, just in time for a city-wide memorial service to commemorate our bloody Mardi Gras.
I think that’s a spectacularly bad idea, but since I’m no longer on the force, who cares what food truck chef thinks? But the police, the mayor, and—I’m sure—the Chamber of Commerce want to reassure everyone that New Orleans is still here, standing strong, and so a service has been set for 9 a.m. at the Fair Grounds Race Course, the largest open area in the Big Easy—and home to our annual Jazz and Heritage Festival—and along with the governor, two senators, several congressmen, and the vice president, the place is expected to be overflowing with locals and tourists, all wanting to celebrate New Orleans’ survival.
But in the rain-filled two days before the scheduled celebration, I sleep the sleep of the bone-tired exhausted. I spend lots of hours just talking to Vanessa, learning more about her and her health, discussing her treatment options and helping her strategize a financial plan now that she’s finally free from Lucas’s clutches, their prenup legally dissolved, after she threatened to go to the press about his abusive behavior and ruin his reputation, his businesses, and his life.
I even spend a rainy afternoon going through my damaged food truck. There are furrows and buckshot holes in the top and in the door, from when Marlene almost blasted my head off with that shotgun. We stare at it for a few minutes, while Vanessa is up front, wiping down an already clean counter.
Rain batters the roof and I shake my head. “Mar, just a foot or so lower, you’d have a hell of a cleaning job to take care of. My blood and brains all over the place.”
Marlene just grins. “Maybe blood, but not too much brains.” She traces the scarred metal with her fingers. “Shouldn’t take too long to repair this time, don’t you think?”
It comes to me.
“No,” I say. “We’re not going to repair it.”
“What?”
I touch the damaged metal as well. “No, we’re going to leave it. As a permanent reminder of what you and Vanessa went through—what all of us went through—and how we’ll never forget.”
Marlene nods. “Aren’t you full of all these philosophical surprises.”
Vanessa calls out, “Hey, who do you think’s been teaching him about philosophy?”
Marlene just shakes her head in amazement. “You two…get a room, okay? Or at least let me get out of here and leave you two be.”
The night before the memorial service Vanessa and I eat at the famed Dooky Chase’s Restaurant, and then go home and tumble into bed. Before falling asleep, she asks, “Do you plan on going to tomorrow’s service?”
“No,” I say, my head sinking into the pillow and my spirit sinking into sleep. “Too many people, too crowded, I’ll be just as happy watching it on TV.”
“But watching it on TV won’t be the same,” she gently protests, stroking my hair.
“I don’t care.”
She says something in reply but by then, I’m asleep.
I wake up and realize I’m alone.
The house is empty.
But I smell something delightful.
Fresh-brewed coffee.
I roll out of bed, yawning, check the time.
It’s just past 7 a.m., and in the kitchen, there’s a fresh pot of coffee.
And a handwritten note.
Hey, sleepyhead…
Since you want to slack off, Marlene and I are taking the truck to the Fair Grounds to join the morning celebration and sell some breakfast.
Watch things on TV if you want, but you’re welcome to join us.
And then, the best part of the note.
Love, always,
Vanessa
I pour myself a cup of coffee.
Love, indeed.
I go to my living room, plant myself on the couch, and switch on the TV. I spin through all of the news channels—like most everyone here in Crescent City, I’m sick of the 24/7 news coverage of the Mardi Gras attacks—and then I go to Turner Classic Movies, but at this moment, they’re between movies and are running old black-and-white serials, which I find boring.
Finally, I settle on a weather channel, and see a perky blonde outlining the day’s forecast, which is a relief from the past three days of wind and storms.
I half-listen to her little morning spiel, wondering if I should crawl back into bed, or should I do the grown-up thing and join Marlene and Vanessa, and that’s when it happens.
“…and it’ll be what they call CAVU for the vice president when his official aircraft lands at Naval Air Station Joint Reserve Base New Orleans in less than two hours.”
I sit still.
CAVU.
Why has that phrase struck me so hard?
I feel my old cop senses tingling, like the moment you get a tiny bit of forensic evidence that will break everything open and cast a wide spotlight, illuminating what has happened, and what might yet happen.
CAVU.
In aircraft pilot terms, CAVU means “Ceiling And Visibility Unlimited”…in other words, a perfect flying day.
Billy Needham’s voice comes to me:
We’ve just begun. Honest.
And a few moments later:
The sky’s the limit.
It hits me like a sledgehammer blow to my stomach.
The attacks a few days ago…just the opening act.
To get attention. Publicity. Lots of attention.
Now, the news media, the politicians, and nearly sixty-five thousand innocents will be gathering in a wide, open, and vulnerable park…
With Billy Needham, private pilot with lots of resources, waiting to strike again. The sky’s the limit.
I jump off the couch so fast I drop my coffee to the tiled floor, shattering the mug.
Chapter 94
NEARLY AN hour of white-knuckled driving later, I’ve reached my destination.
The horse farm of Emi
ly Needham Beaudette.
Billy’s half-sister.
And home to wide and flat acres of grassland.
God, how could I have been so stupid?
The FBI, NOPD, the state police, Homeland Security, and everybody else have been raiding and observing any properties belonging to Billy Needham and whatever shell companies he owns.
But would they go here, a hundred miles away from New Orleans, to a horse farm belonging to his sister?
Doubtful.
And if he is planning a spectacular attack from the air, he would need an airstrip and hangar.
But knowing what I know from my police experience, the airspace around New Orleans is going to be closed and tightly monitored.
In the minutes of speeding up here, I’ve called and texted Cunningham, Vanessa, and Marlene, telling them what I feared, telling them to contact the police and for God’s sake, stay away from the Fair Grounds Race Course today.
Hell, I even tried to contact Special Agent Morgan, but nothing seemed to go through.
I have no confidence that any of my warnings have gone through. Marlene and Vanessa will be so busy with breakfast that they might not check their phones, and Cunningham and Morgan take turns ignoring me.
But I’m confident of one thing for sure.
That I’m absolutely, 100 percent right that an attack is coming, and it’s coming from a horse farm owned by Billy Needham’s sister.
There.
Up ahead.
The narrow country road marked PRIVATE. I brake, the car’s end nearly fishtailing, and I swerve onto the gravel path, slamming on the accelerator again. The gravel road is in fine shape but I still bounce up and down as I roar down it, glancing anxiously up into the clear and inviting blue sky.
There.
The mansion and its stables and perfect flat green fields—perfect for an aircraft to use!—are up ahead, as is the large metal gate. The impressive metal barrier grows into view as I get closer, and I think, Pure Hollywood, but I’ll drive through there if I have to—
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