perfectly legal.
But other times, it’s a technique that can be used by white-collar criminals to hide questionable transactions or launder illicit funds.
So I dive in, painstakingly triple-checking the complex math. This takes me another solid two hours. But here, too, everything seems squeaky clean. Damnit.
Knowing there must be something here, I return to the top of this section and comb through the list of charities themselves, looking for any that might stand out in a suspicious manner.
According to the records, dozens of nonprofits have been the beneficiaries of the Needhams’ generosity over the past decade. And not just local soup kitchens and food banks, like you’d expect from a family of New Orleans restaurateurs. Also on the list is an organization that provides free computer programming classes to area veterans. One that promotes childhood literacy in the city’s public schools. And also one that, based on the name, “Crescent Care,” I assume offers subsidized medical or other assistance to low-income residents of the Crescent City.
Unless…
I look the group up online.
And my insides feel queasy with dread.
According to their homepage, the “crescent” in their title is a nod to New Orleans’ nickname and a reference to a symbol of Islam. And their stated mission is to “provide material help and spiritual guidance to the city’s underserved Muslim population, with a special focus on struggling immigrants and vulnerable refugees.”
Now, look. I don’t want to jump to conclusions here. Or rely on ugly stereotypes. But given everything else I know, this “charity” that’s been receiving generous annual gifts from David Needham through Emily’s primary corporate holding company for the past three years sounds at least a little suspect.
I have to find out more. Ideally from Needham himself, up close and personal.
But how the hell am I supposed to do that? Our last meeting ended with one of his Mossad-trained bodyguards aiming a pistol at me.
Feeling both encouraged and doubtful, I stand and stretch my legs. I pace around the kitchen table, then slam a hand on it in frustration. I slosh some more booze down my throat—not wine, but a slug of Kentucky bourbon, straight from the bottle.
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