She goes on. “I told him he was acting crazy. That I could do whatever I wanted. That maybe I’d stop by your truck again today—out of spite. He actually threatened to drive around it in circles all morning if he had to. Can you believe that? In his stupid new Lamborghini, too. Sounds like a jet taking off. And he said if he saw me…”
One mystery solved, I think, as she trails off.
But seeing her face tighten with emotion, I decide to keep that thought to myself. I offer her a sympathetic shrug, along with the only kernel of romantic wisdom I absolutely know to be true.
“Marriage ain’t easy,” I say. “Believe me. I’ve been there.”
We cross Gravier Street and reach an entrance to Duncan Plaza. It’s a nice little park, an island of pleasant shade and open green space in this sea of office buildings. Inside the park, a group of rowdy schoolchildren are on a field trip, and a thirty-something father is gently throwing a foam football to his adorable toddler, playing catch, even though the foam toy bounces off the toddler’s giggling face.
“Want to walk through?” I ask. “And maybe toss that pigskin around?”
She grins at the cute scene, but hesitates.
“I should be getting back to LBD. We have our all-hands Monday meeting in an hour. Then I’m interviewing some new hostess candidates, there’s our new spring cocktail menu to approve—”
“Hey, I get it. You co-run a sixty-seat fine dining restaurant. I can barely handle a two-person food truck.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Killer Chef,” she says. “I think that place is pretty special.”
She turns to face me. She tucks a strand of blond hair behind her ear.
Then she leans in and pecks me on the cheek.
As she bashfully pulls away, I ask, “What was that for?”
“It was just a kiss, Caleb. Nothing more, nothing less.”
She smiles, spins, and heads back the way we came.
I stand still as I watch her go, my feet planted firmly on the sidewalk.
But I swear it almost feels like I’m floating.
Then I check my watch.
My two minutes has slid into fifteen.
I’m no longer floating.
I’ve got to get to work.
Chapter 21
THINK COOKING in the back of a truck can feel cramped? Try whipping up some grub in the front seat of a car.
I’ve been sitting behind the wheel of my car all day. My legs are tingling, my back is aching, and my stomach is growling something fierce. I forgot how much a stakeout could suck, especially when you’re doing it alone.
But now, it’s finally time for a delicious dinner. Have I earned it? Hell, yes.
I open the small red cooler sitting on the passenger seat, which I packed earlier with everything I need to assemble a legendary Killer Chef sloppy roast beef po’boy—or at least a close approximation. When I was a cop, younger and dumber, plastic-wrapped sandwiches from a gas station would take care of my hunger, but times—and my life—have changed.
First things first, I fire up my “stove,” a portable mini hotplate that plugs into my dashboard’s power jack.
As it heats up, I dump a scoopful of cooked, cooled, shredded roast beef into a small camping skillet. I sauté the meat in its own fat until it gets warm and juicy. My car soon fills with the tantalizing scent of garlic, onion, and Cajun spices. Once the beef is heated through, I carefully stack it onto a baguette. Then I drown the meat with “debris gravy”—made from simmered beef scraps—kept warm in a Thermos. Lastly, the fixings: sliced tomatoes, chopped cabbage, diced pickles.
The first bite of my creation is…divine. So is the second, the third, the fourth. I swear the sandwich is as good as if I made it in the truck. Although maybe after ten hours of boring, fruitless waiting, my mind—and tongue—are starting to play tricks on me.
I take another bite, wondering how Marlene did today with the truck. I chickened out and texted her early this morning, telling her that my old aches and pains were still throbbing from my earlier baseball-bat-related energies, and that I was taking the day off.
Poor Marlene.
I glance back down the road at the modest red-brick bungalow I’ve been keeping my eye on all day. After my quick, sweet meeting with Vanessa, I spent most of the day working the phones, talking to old reliable sources and even some private investigators who owe me favors. Eventually my work paid off, and last night I managed to get a hold of the Farzats’ former landlord. After telling him I was from an insurance company, looking to pass on a settlement check to the family—making him eligible for a finder’s fee—he gave me their latest mailing address.
So here I am. But thus far, I haven’t seen a sign of either of them.
And I know it’s insane to focus all of my attention on him, but without any added info from Cunningham, for now, Farzat is all I got. And if I’m going to seriously surveil Farzat, tracking his comings and goings, mapping his network of associates, obviously I need to find the guy first.
Back when I was on the force, we used to hide motion-activated GPS sensors under the bumpers of suspects’ cars. That let us keep an eye on their movements from the comfort of, well, anywhere. Today, I don’t have that luxury. I can’t even pull up the state DMV records, so I have no way of knowing which of the beat-up cars parked on this quiet street are his.
So it’s back to basics. Putting in some quality “ass time,” as we used to call it. Waiting and watching. Twiddling my thumbs and crossing my fingers.
Hoping my silent phone eventually rings with something, anything, from Cunningham.
As I finish my sandwich, licking the sweet gravy off my fingers, I notice some movement. Not from the house. Behind me. A black SUV with tinted windows is cruising along, coming this way, headlights off. It slows ever so slightly as it passes Farzat’s home.
Holy shit.
I can’t see the plates, but I’d bet they’re government-issued. Could the FBI be out here tonight, too? Chasing Farzat just like I am?
I don’t have much time to think on that, because all of a sudden, I see more movement.
This time, from inside the house.
Then the outside light over the front door flicks on.
I snatch my Nikon D3400 camera from the console. I hurriedly focus its high-powered lens and hold my breath.
The bungalow’s front door slowly opens…and there they are, where they’ve been in that tiny home for as long as I’ve been sitting out here. Farzat and his wife, Rima. Both stepping out onto the porch. He’s carrying a large, lumpy black duffel bag. She’s berating him about something, dabbing her eyes, clearly upset.
I hold down the shutter button and take a flurry of digital pictures of the unhappy couple. I’d kill to have a long-range shotgun mic right about now—or the foresight to have hidden a tiny wireless bug somewhere on the Farzats’ porch.
Eventually, Rima gives up her pleading. She goes back into the house and slams the door. Farzat heads to one of the old rust buckets parked on the street. Bingo. He unlocks the trunk and places his duffel bag inside.
I pull out a tiny voice recorder—smaller than a pack of gum—that’s been resting in my shirt pocket. I press the little red button, slip it back inside my pocket, and speak: “White Ford Taurus, late nineties. License plate: Sierra Victor Hotel eight five two.”
If I had a partner with me, she’d be scribbling down these details while I kept watch. But tonight, I’ve got to do double duty. I’ve seen a lot of cops use the built-in voice memo function on their phones for stuff like this, but my trusty digital voice recorder has never let me down.
I keep snapping photos as Farzat gets behind the wheel. He looks different from the last time I saw him. His beard is longer. His curly hair is flecked with gray. He looks quite a bit older than his thirty years. And haggard. Haunted.
I can only imagine why.
When he starts his engine and drives off down the street, I start my own engine, but keep my headlights off.
As I put my car into gear and get ready to follow, I look up the road for that FBI vehicle that passed, but I don’t see it. Interesting. Maybe it wasn’t the feds after all, then.
Maybe—no, probably—it’s just me out here.
All alone.
Fine.
I’ll gladly take on the job.
Chapter 22
NORMALLY, “MOVING surveillance” like this is done in teams of at least five. The “point” detective sits on the suspect’s home, then alerts his colleagues, all parked nearby and already facing different directions on the bad guy’s route. The appropriate car starts to follow, while the others fall behind, providing extra cover and driving along parallel streets, all to keep the surveillance as secret as possible. For real high-value targets, the NOPD can sometimes call in air assets from the state police, like a helicopter, or even a drone.
Pursuing a suspected terrorist with just one car and driver would be insane. It would never be done.
But that’s what I’m doing tonight.
I wait a few seconds until Farzat cruises down the block. Then I pull onto the road behind him, keeping as much distance between us as I can, just like I was trained.
He first turns onto Downman Road, a main artery through this quiet neighborhood, heading north. That’s a strange move, since there’s not much that way except Lakefront Airport, a regional public airfield with mostly short-range private charter flights and notoriously lax security. Not much more than a couple rent-a-cops and some ancient chain-link fencing.
I grip the steering wheel a little tighter and keep following.
Thankfully, Farzat makes a turn a few blocks before the airport—then, even more strangely, pulls up to the drive-thru window of a twenty-four-hour McDonald’s.
I idle on the curb a half-block away and watch through a small pair of binoculars as he pays cash for three greasy bags of food and six cups of coffee in two cardboard holders. It’s possible Farzat is just going to a nightshift job and is picking up a meal for his buddies—not feeding a group of fundamentalists. I pray that’s the case. We’ll see.
Back on the road, Farzat heads south on Mayo Boulevard. He passes the I-10—then suddenly makes a squealing U-turn and starts speeding back the way he came.
Damnit, did he spot me?
No way I can pull that same move without blowing my cover. So instead, I cut onto the closest side street and quickly turn around. I’m about to turn back onto Mayo again when Farzat’s car zooms past—going south again.
Huh?
Whatever. I pull out and keep following.
I continue tailing Farzat for a few more minutes onto Almonaster Avenue. Running parallel to a wide shipping channel, this two-lane road is badly potholed and eerily desolate. I pass some abandoned industrial sites on my left that are obscured by overgrown thickets of shrubs and trees. On my right is nothing but acres and acres of dark, eerie swamp.
Finally, Farzat’s car slows and pulls into a hidden driveway, which is blocked off by a rusty iron gate. I brake a ways before and ease onto the gravelly shoulder, take out my binoculars again.
I watch as Farzat gets out of his Ford, unlocks the metal gate, then gets back in and drives inside. As he does, his headlights briefly illuminate a faded metal sign that reads: GUILLORY & SONS AUTO SALVAGE.
Like I said, Farzat could have a completely legitimate reason for being here at this hour. Maybe he’s the junkyard’s graveyard shift security guard. Maybe he’s friends with the owner. Or maybe…maybe…
Bullshit. Who am I kidding?
This looks pretty damn bad.
And yeah, there’s another advantage to doing a multi-unit surveillance.
Backup is just one radio message away.
You’re never out alone with the bad guys.
Like I am now.
Chapter 23
BUT WHAT’S my next move?
Normally I’d have a whole team with me. Detectives on my flank, officers securing a perimeter, a chopper overhead, a SWAT team standing by.
But tonight, it’s just me.
I’m dying to know what’s happening on the other side of that gate. Who else is part of the meeting. Who’s in charge. What they’re saying. I consider getting the 9mm Smith & Wesson M&P out of my locked glove box, hopping the fence, and taking a look for myself. But realistically, without backup and support, that might be a one-way kamikaze mission.
Instead, I decide to sit tight. Even though Farzat stopped for a couple of Big Macs or whatever, I’m hoping he’s not the last one to arrive, and that more late-night attendees show up any minute. If I can grab their license plate numbers, that would go a long way in helping me map out Farzat’s contacts and associates.
Sure enough, barely five minutes later, a pair of headlights appear in my side-view mirror. I slink down in my seat as a beat-up, mud-splattered, maroon Jeep Cherokee passes by…and turns into the junkyard driveway.
I raise my binoculars again as I speak the license plate letters and numbers into my voice recorder.
Moments later, a third car appears and I repeat my action. This one is a shiny silver Audi, driven by a man in a jacket and tie. And as it disappears into the scrapyard, I spot the silhouette of a man in the backseat.
I feel my hands getting clammy with anticipation. Who could these people be? And what kind of terrorist gets driven by a chauffeur to a sleeper cell meeting?
With all these thoughts bouncing around my head, I pick up my camera and think about sneaking over the fence to see if I can grab some photos of the participants and—
Smash!
My driver’s-side window shatters.
I flinch and squeeze my eyes shut as glass shards pelt me like hail.
I hear someone reach in and unlock my door.
When I open my eyes, I see a pair of knobby hands coming straight for me.
Instantly, my years of defensive training kick in: “ArCon,” short for “arrest and control,” a mishmash of jujitsu and wrestling holds that all law enforcement officers are taught and drilled in.
But it’s a system designed for subduing and handcuffing suspects while on your feet, not defending against an ambush inside your own car. I barely get my hands around my attacker’s wrist and start to twist—when his other hand encircles my neck.
I gag and gurgle, struggle and writhe. But it’s no use. My throat is beginning to burn. My lungs are starting to tighten. I’m feeling light-headed. My vision is tunneling.
Finally, relief—as I’m yanked out of my car and hurled onto the pavement, my bulky camera tumbling onto the road along with me.
Still coughing like mad, I turn onto my side to protect myself from further assault. As every cop knows, the most dangerous position to be in is on your back.
“What the hell are you doin’ here?” the man demands, his voice low and husky.
I turn my head slightly to try to get a glimpse of him. But in the faint glow from my car’s dome light, all I can see are his dirty leather work boots. I brace for a kick…that doesn’t come.
But I do get hit with something even worse: the sight of a pair of grubby old Converse sneakers next to him, as well as a pair of green rubber Wellington boots.
Shit. I’m alone. Effectively unarmed. And outnumbered, three to one.
The man snarls again, louder, “I said, what the hell are—”
“What are you?” I demand. “And how stupid can you all be?”
Then I bluff, hoping they’ll back off.
“The cops are onto your little plot, believe me,” I say. “They know everything. Do you all really want to spend the rest of your lives in a six-by-ten cell in a federal supermax? Just walk away. While you still can.”
The three men briefly tense. All share a nervous glance. But just as quickly, their expressions harden. And each takes a step closer to me.
“You’re full of shit,” the second one says—accompanied by the faint metallic flick of a butterfly knife being opened. Which complements the crowbar the third man has.
I feel my pulse rising and my adrenaline starting to kick in. I just know they’re going to attack any second. No way do I have the time to scramble and unlock my glove box and get my gun. So instead, I decide to strike first. And hard.
I twist onto my hands and knees, grab the only weapon I’ve got—my Nikon—then spring to my feet and start swinging.
Using it like a cudgel, I bash the first man square in the nose with it, then sweep his legs out with a kick.
The man with the crowbar lunges at me and swings. I slip and avoid the brunt of the blow, but the side of my head still gets dinged. He winds up and swings again—which, this time, I block with the camera. Its casing shatters but the lens is still intact, so I drop into a crouch and strike him right in the groin with it. A cheap shot, but an effective one.
Now it’s just me versus the man with the knife. He starts swiping at me wildly, frantically, but I keep moving and parrying and dodging. At last I manage to pummel the underside of his chin like an uppercut. I feel a few of his teeth crack as his legs buckle.
All three assailants—scruffy swamp men, two white, one black—are writhing and moaning on the street. I take a step back and try to catch my breath. I feel like total shit, but also pretty damn exhilarated, too. There’s nothing like escaping death to make a man feel alive.
But I’m practically drowning in confusion. Who are these goons? Are they just hired muscle to keep guard, or are they part of the terrorist cell themselves?
My head is spinning—and not just from the mystery. The spot that crowbar clocked me is throbbing. My ears are ringing, too. It almost sounds like police sirens.
Wait…shit. Those are sirens. Who the hell called the cops?
I have a thousand and one questions for these assholes. But I can’t be here when the fuzz arrives. It would ruin everything. At least I have the…
No, my camera’s destroyed, I don’t have the photos I took of Farzat and the others! And a peek inside my breast pocket reveals my voice recorder was smashed in the melee as well. Goddamnit! I can definitely try to reconstruct what I’ve seen and observed, but it’ll be a damn challenge.
The Chef Page 8
