The Chef

by James Patterson

  She turns her back to me. I take a few steps farther away to give her extra privacy. Still, I can make out snippets of what is obviously an unpleasant conversation.

  “I swear I’m at the restaurant…you know I would never lie to you…can you please stop screaming at me? Of course I love you!”

  When the call finally ends, she gives me a sullen, embarrassed look.

  “I should probably get going,” she says. “But thanks for a great lunch, Caleb. And another lovely walk.”

  “Vanessa,” I say, taking her arm again. “Look. I realize I barely know you. And it’s none of my business. But if Lucas is treating you half as bad as it sounds like—”

  “You’re right,” she answers brusquely. “It’s none of your damn business.”

  I drop both her arm and the issue and lead her out of the cemetery in silence. Back on the sidewalk, she doesn’t kiss my cheek. She barely even says good-bye.

  I hope any FBI surveillance watching me is happy now, because I’m not.

  Time to get back to work, and I don’t head to the Killer Chef truck.

  Chapter 27

  I THOUGHT I’d pass through the gates of hell before I walked through these doors again. But here I am.

  The musty, glass-walled lobby of NOPD headquarters.

  It’s been ten days since I stormed out of this place in a blaze of glory. But it might as well be years because it kind of feels like I’m visiting my old junior high school. The place seems smaller than I remember. Claustrophobic, even. Everything looks familiar, but feels a little strange.

  Trying not to dwell on the memories crowding their way in, I make my way through the midday hustle and bustle. Past a plainclothes narcotics detective I vaguely recognize talking on his phone in heated Spanish. Past a two-bit defense lawyer in a rumpled gray suit conferring with his voluptuous female client, who I’d bet was caught turning tricks on Chartres Street. Past a pair of uniformed officers escorting a handcuffed drunk in a bloodied LSU hoodie, who’s thrashing about and rambling incoherently. What a zoo.

  I reach the desk officer on duty, a ruddy guy whose uniform is at least one size too small for his portly frame. He’s the station’s gatekeeper.

  “Help you?” he huffs, keeping an eye on the activity in the rest of the lobby.

  I act casual, barely slowing down. “Just heading up to major crimes,” I say.

  “Hang on. You got an appointment?”

  “They’re expecting me.”

  He holds up a hand and picks up his desk phone. “Who’s expecting you?”

  I hesitate. I’m here to see Cunningham, who decidedly isn’t expecting me. In fact, he made it quite clear I should lay low and keep my distance. If this kid tips him off I’m here, my ex-chief won’t just refuse to meet me. He’ll blow a fuse. And toss me out. And short-circuit whatever progress I’ve made.

  “Look, I used to be on the job,” I say. “Retired last week. I just want to—”

  The officer scowls at me. “I know who you are. But you’re not getting by without a good reason.”

  I consider backing away and just hanging around the lobby until Cunningham inevitably passes through. But that could take hours, precious time I can’t afford to waste. So instead, I decide to answer straight up. If my old chief gets pissed off that I’m here and turns me away, that’s on him. But before I do…

  “Rooney?” says a deep voice behind me.

  I turn around and see Sergeant Kevin Spearman waddling over. Years ago, when I first joined the force, he was a SWAT platoon leader, as cocky as he was fit—until a training injury landed him behind a desk for good. Since then, he’s put on at least seventy pounds, but hasn’t lost one ounce of arrogance.

  “I didn’t think you’d have the balls to step foot in here again,” he says, giving me a locker room–style tap on the ass. “Unless it was to beg for your pension back. On your knees.”

  “That reminds me, Kev,” I shoot back. “How’s your wife doing?”

  Spearman briefly sets his jaw in anger, then forces a laugh. “Funny guy.”

  “I’m trying to get upstairs to see my old CO,” I say. “Can you get me inside?”

  Spearman hesitates for a moment, and then whatever good nature that still exists in that flabby mind rises to the occasion. He nods, first at me, then the desk officer, who lets me pass.

  I take the elevator to the fourth floor, like I’ve done hundreds of times before. Trying to keep a low profile, I stalk through the major crimes bull pen, exchanging only the briefest of hellos with the handful of surprised former colleagues who notice me. I also take the long way to Cunningham’s office, bypassing my old desk. The only thing worse than seeing it bare would be seeing somebody else sitting at it.

  Cunningham’s door is open, but he’s sipping coffee from a paper cup and has his head buried deep in a stack of papers. I give the frame a firm knock. My old chief looks up—and practically spits out his steaming beverage in furious disbelief.

  I step inside and shut the door, just as he swallows, wipes his mouth, and stammers, “Are you kidding me, Rooney?”

  “Nice to see you too, Chief,” I say, sitting down in front of him. “We need to talk, and there’s no kidding involved.”

  Chapter 28

  CUNNINGHAM RISES from his desk and starts pacing around his office like he wants to step out and leave me and my problems behind.

  “Whatever this is about, it better be worth the risk you took,” he says. “If Morgan finds out that you barged in here, if he suspects you’re sniffing around his case—”

  “He already knows,” I say, leaning back in the chair, my folded hands across my belly.

  He places a hand to his forehead, sits down heavily in his chair.

  “Christ, Caleb!” he says, practically moaning. “I told you to be…I thought you knew what you were doing!”

  “I do know what I’m doing, Chief,” I say. “That’s why he knows. Yesterday I tracked down a guy that’s come up on our radar before.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Ibrahim Farzat,” I say. “A Syrian refugee we arrested last year for disorderly conduct and resisting arrest.”

  “Wait a sec,” he says. “The guy that worked as a dishwasher at Bea’s?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “That’s the one. He posted some nasty jihad stuff online and we passed it on to Homeland Security, and they basically said, don’t worry, be happy. But I didn’t have anything else to work with so I tailed him last night.”

  “Good,” he says. “What happened?”

  “I followed him from his house to some kind of secret meet-up at a scrapyard near the Industrial Canal, along with a few other apparent fellow travelers. He even double-backed to avoid being tailed but I managed to keep up with him. Then things got interesting.”

  “Interesting how?”

  I brush away a lock of hair to reveal the welt on the side of my head from that crowbar strike, still red and swollen. He winces.

  “An hour later, Morgan was at my door. Apparently, the feds were at the scrapyard, watching as well. Morgan practically threatened to beat my ass himself if I tried to get close to Farzat again.”

  “So what’s Farzat up to?” he asks. “Is he the sleeper cell leader? The mastermind behind the attack?”

  I shake my head.

  “My gut says he’s low-level, Chief,” I say. “A pawn. During my tail last night, he stopped at a Mickey D’s to make a food run. That’s not what a mastermind does. Farzat is low-level and if the FBI is tailing him, then I need something else, something new.”

  “Christ, Caleb, I wish I could help,” he says. “I already gave you everything I know.”

  I jerk my thumb behind me, toward the bull pen.

  “What about what they know?” I ask. “There’s gotta be some new intel off the streets in the past seventy-two hours in the I & A’s, even if it doesn’t stand out.”

  That would be “incident and arrest reports.” Detailed records of department call-ups, witne
ss statements, officer observations. A treasure trove of data, if you know what you’re looking for.

  “I went through them this morning,” he says. “Not much stood out, but I’ll take another look.”

  He starts flipping through a stack of papers—without a whole lot of enthusiasm.

  “A series of small explosions were reported in a parking lot in Versailles,” he says. “Officers found remnants of what appeared to be firecrackers, but forensics is running tests. An attempted break-in at a gun shop in Gentilly. A smashed window, but no firearms were stolen, referred to ATF. Early yesterday morning, an employee reported a man in a suspicious black vehicle casing a riverside industrial park in Pines Village, but the suspect had left the scene when officers arrived. And last night, a unit responded to reports of yelling in the courtyard of a mosque in the South Seventh Ward. But the imam refused the officers entry, saying the situation was being handled internally.”

  He leans back in his chair, resigned. Any one of those incidents could be related to the Mardi Gras attack. Or none of them. Jesus, this is infuriating!

  “I suggest you get back out there, Rooney. Keep doing whatever it is you—”

  “Wait,” I interrupt.

  My mind has been turning over the litany of crimes, desperate to find even a shred of a possible new lead in one of them. And maybe I just did.

  “The third one you said. The Pines Village industrial park. What’s the address?”

  Skeptically, he flips back through the file.

  “6200 Lewis Road.”

  “Neptune Premium Seafood?”

  My former boss looks taken aback.

  “You know it?”

  “They’re a gourmet shrimp and crawfish processor,” I say. “I’m a gourmet chef who’s gotta be familiar with all my local supply options. Thanks for the tip, boss.”

  I get up out of the chair and open the door, start hauling ass out of his office.

  “What the hell does a seafood plant have to do with this?” he calls out as I’m nearly halfway across the bull pen.

  Honestly, I’m not sure yet.

  But I’m going to find out.

  Chapter 29

  THE DINNER shift has barely started and there’s already a line down the block.

  Thankfully, this isn’t the queue for Killer Chef. I’m back in the Garden District—the home of LBD, Lucas Dodd, and the hauntingly beautiful Vanessa McKeon. Gorgeous stately mansions line every street, hidden behind lush oak trees swaying gently in the evening breeze. When folks say New Orleans has a hint of old-world magic in the air, this is what they mean.

  I make my way to the front of the line and enter Petite Amie, an upscale but laid-back creole fine dining spot inside an old saloon—formerly of ill repute—painted the color of lemon meringue pie. The scene inside is elegant but lively. Servers haul food on silver platters to tables full of NOLA’s rich and fashionable. Antique crystal chandeliers dangle from the ceiling. In the corner, a brass jazz quartet plays a raucous and happy tune.

  And I catch a glimpse through the swinging doors of the restaurant’s wiry, forty-six-year-old owner, Billy Needham, moving around like a ballet dancer performing before an appreciative audience. He opened this place a few years ago and it’s already become an institution.

  Among the antique and contemporary prints in the foyer are photos of Billy with a number of celebrities, and a few aerial shots of New Orleans and the Garden District, and even a couple showing Billy in the cockpit of a small aircraft, wearing aviator sunglasses and radio earphones, grinning and giving a thumbs-up.

  I step up to the charming young hostess dressed in black slacks and a black sleeveless blouse and preempt everything she’s about to say.

  “I know,” I say. “I don’t have a reservation and you’re all booked up until Christmas. But I’m not here tonight to eat. I just want a few words with Billy.”

  The hostess’s smile doesn’t waver, but she’s clearly thrown by my request.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Needham is rather occupied at the moment. Can I pass along a message?”

  “No, that’s all right,” I say. “I’ll be hanging out right over here until he’s free. Thank you.”

  Before the hostess can stop me, I step into a nook near the entrance. And wait.

  One glance around his flagship establishment and it’s clear that Billy Needham is an exceptional chef and owner. But that isn’t surprising. It’s in his blood. For generations, the extended Needham family has had a hand in a staggering number of eateries all across the city. Exact stats are hard to come by, but something like one in five New Orleans restaurants is either owned or partially financed by someone with that surname. For years, rumors have swirled about discord and family drama behind the scenes, which has apparently been getting worse. But no one in the food world can figure out why. By all accounts, the Needham family business is booming.

  To kill some time before I speak to Billy, I take out my phone to see if one of my private investigator friends—Gordon Andrews—has gotten back to me yet. I called him when I left the police station this afternoon and asked him to do a little digging for me on a whole host of topics. Gordon is one of the best PIs in Crescent City and definitely the most educated, with two master’s degrees: criminal psychology from LSU and French literature from Tulane. I check my voicemail and refresh my e-mail, hoping I’ve gotten a response. But nothing.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Rooney? Your table is ready.”

  I look up at the hostess, who is somehow smiling even bigger than before. I’m not surprised someone on staff recognized me. But giving me a table?

  “That’s very kind of you, but like I said, I’m not here to—”

  “Please. Mr. Needham insists. This way, sir.”

  They’re really rolling out the red carpet for me. All right then, I think. Let’s play along, see where this goes.

  I follow the hostess as she leads me to a spacious four-top in the most desirable corner of the restaurant with the best view of all the action. I’ve barely pulled my chair in when a French-born sommelier appears beside me, brandishing some bubbly.

  “Welcome to Petite Amie, Monsieur Rooney. May I offer you a glass of 2004 Veuve Clicquot Grande Dame Rosé to start?”

  That’s a full pour from a three-hundred-dollar bottle of champagne. Knowing resistance is futile, I shrug and accept it.

  “What about an amuse-bouche?” asks a server. “Gulf oyster–enriched grass-fed veal cheek, topped with organic rhubarb aioli.”

  Again, I acquiesce. So he places a large plate in front of me containing a small oyster shell. Inside is what looks like the world’s tiniest grilled steak, drizzled with pink mayonnaise and flecked with diced green onion.

  “This really isn’t necessary, guys,” I say. “But thank you both.”

  “Enjoy,” they say in unison, then depart.

  I really did just come here to ask Billy a few questions related to the investigation, not get a comped drink and app while I waited.

  But as it turns out, this is only the beginning. Over the next ninety minutes, despite my constant protests and insistence that I simply want to see the owner, dish after scrumptious dish is set in front of me.

  Entrees like sugarcane rum–braised Kobe beef, which tastes sweeter than candy, atop a bed of curried collards and mashed yams. Truffle-braised scallops with an orange-saffron vinaigrette, a delightful blend of savory and tangy. And a cast-iron-seared duck breast finished with an absinthe glaze, a unique blend of fowl and licorice flavors I’ve never tasted. And of course, each dish is paired with an exceptional glass of red or white wine, with a palette-cleansing sorbet in between.

  Try as I might to stop them, the servers and sommelier just won’t listen.

  When the desserts finally arrive—a heavenly creole-style bread pudding drowning in praline sauce, and a slice of pistachio cream pie topped with candied pecans—my belly is full and my mind is a little hazy. I hate to admit it, but if Billy was trying to show off and impress me, i
t’s certainly worked.

  I’m sipping a demitasse of hickory-infused espresso when I notice the evening’s last seating of patrons has started to trickle out. The restaurant is growing quieter. Dinner service is nearly complete. I get the attention of a passing waiter and say firmly, “Excuse me. I’d like to order one final thing for the table, please. The owner.”

  The server nods and disappears into the kitchen. But Billy keeps me waiting a solid ten minutes more before finally emerging, arms spread and smiling wide, like we’re old friends. In fact, we’ve only met a few times over the years. But I play along.

  “There he is!” I say, rising and pulling him into a bear hug. “Billy, you outdid yourself. Thank you. Your food is incredible. Fresh, complex, inventive…wow.”

  “I’m very glad to hear that, Caleb. I hope my team took good care of you. It’s not every day a celebrity food truck owner walks through our door.”

  I ignore that little dig and reply, “I have good reason. Got a few minutes to talk?”

  He scrunches his face. “Maybe another time. I’ll have my assistant call you, we’ll set something up. Sometime after Mardi Gras, of course. You know how busy—”

  “Enough, Billy,” I say, gripping his shoulder with menace. “No more games. Please. Sit. I insist.”

  And he does just that.

  Chapter 30

  LOOKING INSULTED yet intrigued, Billy complies. Once we’re seated, I pull my chair a bit closer and lean in. It’s a classic interrogation technique. A way to build trust.

  With a possible suspect.

  “How do you and your family find the energy?” I ask. “Seems like every time I look, one of you is opening another eatery.”

  “My one and only sister, Emily, maybe,” he says. “Our cousin David for sure. My main focus is Petite Amie and taking flying lessons when I can. Those two are the ones who keep pushing to expand the family empire.”