The Chef

by James Patterson

  With the sirens getting closer, I hop back into my Impala and speed off. Back on the road, I take stock. Despite the setbacks, I did stumble on what looked to be a secret terrorist meeting spot. Saw some additional suspects. And learned a whole lot.

  I’m just not sure what.

  Chapter 24

  ARRIVING HOME, I open my front door and practically collapse right there in the entryway. With the adrenaline surge from the fight long over, the full agony of its aftermath is starting to hit me, hard.

  I stumble into my bathroom and peel off my torn, bloody T-shirt. My chest and arms are a patchwork of cuts and bruises. That includes a long but shallow scrape across my shoulder. Must have been from the attacker’s knife. In the heat of battle, I guess I didn’t even notice it. I douse the wound with disinfectant, which feels like I’m bathing in acid, and it makes me groan.

  But the real doozy is the welt on my temple from that crowbar. I inspect the plump, crimson mound in the mirror, then head into the kitchen and wrap a few ice cubes in a dish towel. Sagging onto a creaky wooden stool by the counter, I hold the cold compress against my head, and let out a long, jagged sigh.

  I try to think back to the many men I encountered tonight. It was hard to see faces, fighting in the dark, but still, I’m trying to burn the images of their mugs into my brain. With my camera and its memory card destroyed, that’s the only record of them I have.

  But then, another face pops into my mind.

  Vanessa—which is a very welcome distraction. I honestly don’t know what it is about this woman that’s affected me so much. Sure, she’s smart and poised, driven and charming, with piercing eyes and a dazzling smile. But she’s also aloof. Enigmatic. Not to mention married, for God’s sake. To a less-than-stellar guy, sure. And I’ve been called a lady-killer once or twice in my day. But I’m no home-wrecker.

  Shaking Vanessa from my mind, I rise and pad into my bedroom. I’m sweaty and grimy and caked with dried blood, but I just don’t have the strength right now to shower. Instead, I strip to my boxers and flop down on my bed…

  When there’s a pounding at my front door.

  Shit. I’m instantly alert again. My entire body stiffens with the rush of adrenaline.

  Did somebody from the junkyard follow me home? Are they here to finish the job?

  I quietly creep out back into the kitchen, still in just my underwear. With my phone in one hand, ready to dial 911, and a long carving knife in the other, I approach my front door as the forceful knocking continues. Damnit, I have a pistol, but it’s in the car.

  “Caleb Rooney?” booms a voice on the other side. “FBI. Open the damn door.”

  The feds? Here? Now?

  Not taking any chances, I peer through the peephole. Sure enough, I spy a phalanx of men and women in dark suits standing like statues. Unbelievable.

  At least they don’t have a warrant. If they did, they wouldn’t be knocking on my door, they’d be knocking it down. I have the right to tell them to shove off. But that’s probably not the smartest move. Word to the wise: When a team of federal law enforcement agents shows up at your doorstep unannounced in the middle of the night, it’s probably best to at least hear what they have to say.

  I plaster on a polite smile, set the knife and phone on the counter, and open the door.

  “Evening, Agent,” I say. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  I’m standing face to face with a muscular, imposing African-American man of about forty-five. His head is as smooth as a cue ball, but a bristly black beard covers his sunken cheeks and chin. He flashes his FBI badge and glares at me. No, through me.

  “Special Agent Marcus Morgan, Counterterrorism,” he nearly barks at me. “Let’s talk inside.”

  I nod and step aside for the agent and his five-member team to enter.

  “Welcome to New Orleans, by the way,” I say as I lead them all into the living room. Though there’s plenty of seating, they all remain on their feet. “But I’m guessing you’re not here for my restaurant recommendations?”

  “Do you have any goddamn idea what you did tonight?” Morgan growls, hands on his hips.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Your hanging around the house, then your little stunt at the junkyard? You set our investigation back weeks, Rooney. That’s time we don’t have to waste.”

  Just as I thought. The FBI was out there tonight. Even worse, agents just stood by and watched as I got my ass handed to me. Unbelievable.

  “I warned you people,” he continues, “to stay away from this thing. And this is exactly why!”

  I shake my head in disgust.

  “First of all, I’m not ‘you people,’” I point out. “I’m just your average Joe Citizen trying to protect the place I love most. And in just one afternoon, I made more progress than you have in—”

  “We’d been casing that yard for months,” he interrupts. “Had it bugged top to bottom. If you hadn’t rolled up playing cops and robbers, spooked the whole lot of them, we’d…”

  He trails off. The frustration in his eyes is real. But so is the concern. The fear. So much so, it starts to rub off on me.

  “I had no idea you guys had gotten there before me,” I reply gently. “Who were those guys? What were they—”

  “Stop, Rooney,” he insists. “Just—stop. Go back to flipping burgers or whatever the hell you now do. There’s more at play here than you could ever imagine.”

  “So read me into it!” I demand. “I’m not interested in a pissing contest, Agent Morgan. Let me help you. I know this city and its players and—”

  “You really want to help us? Then stay the hell away.”

  He steps forward. His gaze bores into me. I return it in kind and don’t flinch. But neither does he.

  At last he asks, “Am I clear, Detective? Or should it be chef?”

  Swallowing my fury, I answer, “Perfectly, either way.”

  He signals to his team that it’s time to leave. They stream out as silently as they entered, heads bowed like monks. After locking and bolting the front door, I listen to their caravan of black SUVs roar away into the night.

  Gently, I touch the welt on the side of my head. It still hurts, but already the swelling and pain are starting to go away. I hope it heals quickly.

  I also hope he bought my performance just now.

  Because there’s no way in hell I am backing down. Knowing how close I came tonight, and what’s at stake, I’m just getting warmed up.

  Chapter 25

  THE NEXT morning, I arrive at Killer Chef to find Marlene outside, leaning over an ice-filled trough and filling it with plastic bottles of Big Shot.

  “Huh,” she says, as she shoves in another bottle. “Wouldja look at what the catfish dragged in.”

  If you’re not from the Big Easy, you’ve probably never heard of Big Shot. But if you are, you know it’s a locally made soda, beloved for its funky flavors like red crème and pineapple blue bayou. It’s fun and fizzy and the opposite of fancy. Which is why it’s the only beverage we sell.

  “I thought you’d be happier to see me,” I say, shambling toward my ex. I’m still feeling stiff and achy from last night’s brawl, on top of my wounds from the assault in the parking garage. Getting attacked with a baseball bat and a crowbar inside of a week will have you moving slower than usual. “An extra pair of hands and all.”

  “Extra? Caleb, we’re partners—not in matrimony anymore, thank God, but in this little endeavor we call Killer Chef. Or have you forgotten? Lately, that’s how it feels.”

  “Marlene, I—”

  Then she gives me a good look and is startled, gently touching the fresh welt on the side of my head that my hair doesn’t fully cover.

  “What the hell happened to you?” she asks. “Run into blondie’s angry husband?”

  “Nope,” I say, walking away from her and entering the rear of the truck, as she follows me.

  “You gonna tell me what happened to that
thick head of yours? You’ve already had one concussion this week. Are you okay? Was it the Franklin Avenue crew?”

  I wish, I think. That would be a nice change of pace.

  I shrug, grab a knife from the counter, get ready to start the morning’s food prep. “It wasn’t the Franklin Avenue boys.”

  “Caleb…”

  I say, “Look, Mar, I can talk or start working. I’d rather start working before the line starts heading down the street.”

  She mutters something in anger and joins me in getting ready for the day.

  Marlene is right to be angry, and to her point, I had been planning to bail on my brunch shift again this morning so I can continue my investigation. But after Morgan tore me a new one last night, I figured I should at least make it look like I was backing off. If he’s smart, he posted a plainclothes agent outside my house this morning to make sure I was keeping my word. At least that’s what I would do.

  After tossing a few jalapeños down my gullet, I set about chopping veggies for the busy morning ahead. But my mind is a million miles away. I turn over the events of last night for the umpteenth time, searching for any clue I might have missed, groping for any lead I can follow up next.

  There’s no way I can ever get that close to Farzat again without the feds taking me down. And who were those three goons who attacked me last night? I don’t have a clue.

  But maybe that’s the silver lining in all this. Farzat’s not some untraceable lone wolf after all. He’s working with a group. And one thing I learned from years of doing battle with gangs: The more people who know a secret, the higher the chance one of them will spill it.

  I’m jolted out of my thoughts by the thunderous revving of a car engine, and the angry beep-beep-beep-beeeeeep of a horn.

  I shake my head. Is Lucas Dodd seriously driving circles around my truck again? What a petty, pathetic little man—who definitely doesn’t deserve such a wonderful wife.

  I try to ignore this automotive distraction and refocus on my food prep. But when it continues for a solid thirty seconds, I angrily set my knife down and step out of the rear of the truck. It’s time I gave this dude a piece of my mind. And maybe my fists, too.

  But when I get outside, I don’t see a blue Lamborghini at all. Instead, the noise is coming from an older-model white Lexus with shiny chrome rims idling across the street. And inside are four guys in yellow T-shirts, hoodies, hats.

  Well, well.

  My old friends are back.

  After lying low these past few days, they’ve returned. In broad daylight. And they’re here to send me a very clear warning: A gangbanger never forgets.

  Great. As if I didn’t already have enough shit to deal with.

  I stand there on the sidewalk glowering back at these knuckleheads. I want to send them a clear message, too. They don’t scare me. And never will.

  Finally, my one-way staring contest ends. They start to whoop and holler, flash a mix of gang signs and one-finger salutes my way, then peel out.

  “I see your fanboys have returned,” Marlene says as I reenter the truck. “Why didn’t you go over and drop off something for them? Like a cup of hot grease?”

  I ignore her violent yet attractive suggestion and check my watch.

  “Why don’t we open up a little early. I’ve got some more…errands to run this afternoon,” I say.

  Marlene says, “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

  I say, “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Of course I can,” she says.

  “Good for you,” I reply, and she tries to kick me like yesterday, and I jump back.

  Sure enough, our first few hungry patrons soon appear—locals who share social media notes and texts when our truck is spotted—and are delighted to find us already open. The shift gets busy, fast—until about twenty minutes before closing time, when I notice Marlene has stopped calling out orders and buttering corn bread. Instead, she’s having a little chitchat with someone outside, who I can’t see.

  “Hey, Mar,” I call out teasingly, “more slathering, less blathering!”

  “Oh, excuse me,” she sasses back. “You’re allowed to flirt with Miss McKeon, but I’m not?”

  Hang on. Is Marlene really talking to Vanessa? My ex-wife chatting with a woman who’s grabbed my attention, and more?

  I step back from the stove to get a better look.

  Yep, there she is. Wearing an aquamarine dress, chunky tortoiseshell sunglasses, and her trademark luminous smile.

  For one very brief moment, all is right again in the world.

  Chapter 26

  WIPING MY hands on a dishrag, I join Marlene at the service window and flash our visitor a tired but happy grin.

  “Vanessa, what’s wrong?” I ask. “You’re here while we’re actually still open.”

  “Ha ha ha,” she says, looking up at me. “Everyone’s just fine, thank you. Now let’s see…I think I’ll have the crab gumbo with grits…and the crawfish boudin with dirty rice.”

  She plucks two Big Shots from the cooler: one cola, one watermelon.

  “And these, too, please.”

  “Two entrees, two drinks,” I say curiously. “Who’s your lucky dining companion?”

  Marlene jabs her elbow into my ribs.

  “You don’t interrogate customers, Caleb,” she reminds me. “You cook for them. Now chop, chop!”

  With a smirk, I obey—and put a little extra love into the order, too. I ladle the gumbo from the very bottom of the pot so it’s chock-full of crab meat. And I keep a close eye on grilling the crawfish sausage, making sure its char marks are perfect.

  “On the house,” I say to Marlene as I pass her Vanessa’s food.

  “On your dime,” she corrects me.

  I’d love to watch Vanessa’s expression when she takes her first bite, but taking care of a few more orders won’t give me that chance.

  When our last customer has been served, I duck out of the truck and scan the crowd. I expect to see her and a friend polishing off the last of their lunch, but instead I see Vanessa sitting patiently on a bench. Alone, her food untouched, her two Big Shots unopened.

  “Oh, no,” I say, walking up to her. “Did your lunch date stand you up?”

  “Quite the opposite,” she answers cheerily. “So, I’ll admit I had a taste of both dishes. The crawfish is amazing. But that gumbo, Caleb? Heavenly.”

  She picks up the two bottles of soda and holds them out to me.

  “But I’ll be nice and let you pick your drink.”

  Which is when I realize her lunch date is…me. I can’t suppress the smile that blooms across my face, even though part of me is a bit uneasy.

  “What about Lucas?”

  She says, “My husband is in Metairie all day, scouting locations for a new bistro he wants to open. I’m supposed to be running LBD. But I guess you could say I got a little cabin fever—kitchen fever—and wanted to stretch my legs. But if you’re busy again…”

  I am. Terribly.

  “Wait—what happened to your head?” she asks.

  “Kitchen accident. Occupational hazard!” I say. I don’t want to lie—but I can’t tell her the truth.

  But something comes to me that I’m ashamed to admit. Being with Vanessa for the next few minutes might help convince whatever FBI surveillance is out there that I’m being a good little chef after last night’s visit from Special Agent Morgan.

  Plus I get to spend some time with this gorgeous and intriguing woman.

  A win-win all around.

  “Let’s walk and talk,” I say. “I know another spot not too far from here that’s pure New Orleans. Just as long as you’re not afraid of ghosts.”

  She seems to perk up at the idea.

  “Lead the way, Killer Chef,” she says. “I’m not scared of nothin’.”

  Digging into our food and sipping our sodas, we stroll together down St. Claude Avenue, the main drag of this cozy neighborhood of the same name. It’s lined with an eclectic mix of s
hops, cafés, and detached houses painted vibrant colors like lime, blueberry, and tangerine. Our conversation is mostly small talk: how busy work’s been, how mild the weather’s been, how much fun Carnival’s been.

  I wish I could share with her and anyone else what I’m working on, the burden of knowing that right now, scores of federal agents are scouring this city, looking for terrorists who want to strike during our high holy day, Mardi Gras.

  But I can’t.

  We hook a right on Desire Street. The irony of the name isn’t lost on me and I wonder if she picks up on it as well. Soon we arrive at two long brick walls on opposite sides of the street. Both are painted perfectly pristine white, with black wrought-iron gates facing each other. Lettering across the top reads, ST. VINCENT DEPAUL NO. 1 AND NO. 2.

  “A graveyard?” she asks dubiously. “This is pure New Orleans?”

  “Just trust me, okay?” I say. “Here, take my arm. And stay close.”

  We toss our trash in a receptacle near one of the gates, then link elbows and enter this quiet, otherworldly place.

  Hundreds of granite and marble mausoleums, many more than a century and a half old, branch out in every direction like a creepy, mind-bending maze. It’s a window back in time. Haunting, but also calming. And eerily beautiful.

  “Oh, wow,” she whispers. She grasps my arm a little tighter as we amble through together, taking it all in.

  “Some people feel sad when they visit a cemetery,” I say. “Like they’re surrounded by death. But to me, a place like this is a reminder. That each of us only gets one life. So we damn better live it to the fullest, every single day.”

  She nods, contemplating that. “It’s a stretch, but seeing these tombs…it reminds me some of the medieval cathedrals. Exquisite pieces of architecture and art, celebrating our life here and our life afterward, when—”

  Her phone rings, and instantly she grows frantic, rummaging for it through her purse.

  “Shit, I’m sorry, that could be Lucas. I have to get it. If I don’t, he—”

  “Hey, no problem,” I assure her as she finally finds her phone. I notice her hands are practically trembling as she puts it to her ear.