“And not just brick-and-mortar restaurants,” I say. “The food blogs have been saying your family’s been getting into the vertical integration game lately. Investing in an organic beet farm in Paulina. A cruelty-free chicken hatchery in Hammond. A seafood processing plant in Pines Village. Do I have that right?”
I watch his reaction closely. But he doesn’t betray a thing.
He says, “Sure. The more you can control your supply chain, the more you can control quality. And your bottom line. At least that’s how they see it.”
“It sounds like you disagree.”
“Me?” he says. “Look around. I’m a foodie at heart. Not a corporate raider. So if that’s what you wanted to talk about, Caleb, sorry. Looks like you picked the wrong Needham.”
“So just to be clear,” I say, “that farm, that hatchery, that seafood plant—you’re telling me you don’t have a financial stake in any of them?”
He says, “I don’t think so. But I wish I could say for sure.”
I give him a quizzical look. What kind of successful business owner doesn’t know what’s in his own portfolio?
“What I’m telling you,” he says, talking like an elementary school teacher explaining an atom to a dull student, “it is possible I own some tiny piece of them. The Needham family’s finances are complicated. Eighty-five years in the food business in this city. Four generations. Dozens of children, cousins, spouses, ex-spouses—who haven’t always seen eye to eye. I’ve lost count of all the lawsuits and arbitrations and settlements we’ve been through. Our money’s tied up in more joint trusts and ‘portable fiduciary instruments’ than there are crawfish in the Gulf.”
I see what he’s getting at. “I bet that makes for some awkward conversations at Thanksgiving.”
“I wish,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s gotten so bad, a lot of us can’t even be in the same room together. Forget sitting down at the same table at the holidays.”
I touch his arm in sympathy. Another interrogation trick.
“I’ve heard rumors to that effect,” I say. “I’m sorry to learn they’re true.”
He lowers his voice and somberly shakes his head.
“If you knew the half of it, Caleb…you’d be more than sorry. You’d be worried. You might even be telling some of your police buddies.”
Oh? My ears prick up at that. I try not to show it, but I’ve subtly moved to the edge of my seat.
“What do you mean?”
“Over the years…I’ve heard some of my relatives accuse one another of theft. Embezzlement. Money laundering. Bribes. Some have even…tossed around threats of violence.”
“Violence?” I ask. “Okay, now I am getting a little worried, Billy.”
He’s about to say something, but stops himself. And backpedals, like he’s realized he’s admitted too much.
“Look, you used to be a cop,” he says, sounding distressed. “You know what people are like. David says stupid things in the heat of the moment. Things he doesn’t mean. If I thought for one second anybody in my family would ever actually act on their words…”
His tone suddenly changes from rueful to cheerful.
“But enough about our dirty laundry,” he says, sitting up. “I’m sure this is boring you to death.”
Quite the opposite, of course. But it’s clear he wants to drop the subject. So I don’t press it. I’ve already learned plenty.
“I know you need to get back to the kitchen,” I say, “so I won’t keep you. Just one more question. How well do you know Beatrice St. Ville?”
“Bea? I’ve met her a few times. Why?”
“The other day,” I reply, “I swung by her café on Freret Street.”
I didn’t bother telling him my real reason for stopping by.
“What’d you think?” he asks.
“She does a great black-bottom pecan pie with pistachio à la mode,” I answer. “Your pistachio cream pie with candied pecans made me think of it. It’s worth a try.”
His smile grows wider.
“Where do you think I got the idea?” he asks. “I’ve eaten there with Emily a bunch of times. Bea’s whole social justice mission—hiring ex-cons to be cooks, recovered drug addicts to be servers—my sister loved it. She was one of the café’s first investors. Even got David to open his wallet up, too.”
Interesting. I still only have a few dots. But slowly, it seems like they’re starting to connect. At least I sure as hell hope so.
“Thanks again for the great meal, Billy,” I say, standing and shaking his hand.
“Anytime. Hopefully we’ll be seeing more of each other, Caleb.”
I firmly grip his palm.
“Something tells me we will,” I say.
Chapter 31
A COINCIDENCE in a police investigation is like an honest man in politics.
They’re pretty damn rare.
I’d heard the Needhams had invested in Neptune Premium Seafood a couple years ago. There’s not much inside worth stealing except pallets of dead fish, so the incident report Cunningham shared with me—a man in a black car outside, in the middle of the night—sounded less like a thief casing the place and more like a fed checking it out.
I had no idea, until Billy told me, that members of the Needham family had ever made threats of violence against anyone.
And I definitely didn’t know some were part-owners of the restaurant where Farzat used to work.
Could all this be a crazy coincidence leading me down a dead end?
Absolutely.
Or, maybe not. The only way to find out…is to find out.
And maybe—thankfully!—Special Agent Morgan and the rest of the feds are wrong. Maybe this isn’t an upcoming terrorist attack on Mardi Gras. Maybe it’s a familial civil war, one branch of the Needham family finally settling old grudges and scores with a shattering act of violence.
I’m up before dawn the next morning, with only a minor hangover from all the wine and champagne I had at Petite Amie. But I can’t leave Marlene entirely in the lurch. She’s probably still asleep, so I shoot her a text as I’m walking to my car. I’ll be “running errands” all day, I tell her, using our code phrase for “don’t ask.” But I explain I’m heading to the truck extra early to do food prep for the day’s brunch, lunch, and dinner shifts. Hopefully she’ll understand. If not, well…it’s not like she can divorce me twice.
The sun is just peeking above the horizon when I turn onto Canal Street, heading southeast. It’s usually a busy thoroughfare, but I’m practically the only car on the road. I keep following it toward the French Quarter, passing a few temporary, ominous police barricades as I get closer. In just a few hours, this whole area will be bumping with music and tourists and the day’s extravagant parades. But right now, it’s almost eerily quiet. Gutters are clogged with colorful beads and empty plastic cups. Streamers drift down sidewalks like tumbleweed. I guess even the craziest party animals on the planet have to sleep sometime.
I make a left onto Burgundy Street and start looking for a parking spot. The truck is parked just a few blocks away. Just as I find one, my phone rings. Great. Marlene’s about to ream me out for ditching her all day and for waking her up early. Putting my car in Reverse and backing into the space, I answer my phone on speaker.
“Mar, I’m sorry, but there’s a lot going on right now and I need you to—”
“Caleb?” comes a man’s voice. “It’s Gordon. Did I wake you?”
Oops. Gordon Andrews, the charming, skilled, and very intelligent private investigator I called yesterday, the one with two master’s degrees.
“Oh, hi,” I say. “No, you didn’t. What’s up?”
“I’m calling with a bit of news. Thought you’d want to hear it.”
I most certainly do. I glance at my dashboard clock. It’s 6:33 a.m.
“You sure don’t let the grass grow, Gordon. Thanks for getting back to me so quick. What have you learned?”
“I know you asked me to look into Lucas Dodd. I’m stil
l digging. But that other fellow you mentioned…”
He means Farzat. Whose name he’s smart enough not to mention over an open phone line.
“I heard over the scanner that the police just caught him.”
“That’s great!” I say. “Thanks, Andrews. That’s the best news I could have heard. What station are they booking him at?”
“No, Caleb,” he says. “You don’t understand. They caught his body. Homicide.”
Chapter 32
IT TAKES a few seconds for Gordon’s words to sink in.
The lead suspect in my investigation just turned up dead.
Normally I wouldn’t much mourn the passing of a would-be terrorist. But in this case, there’s nothing good about it at all. If Farzat had been killed, say, in a shootout with federal agents, that would be one thing. A positive sign that Morgan’s team was closing in, tightening the noose. If he accidentally blew himself up constructing a bomb, that would be even better news. An indication the guy was an amateur, not an expert.
Instead, Farzat’s body has been found fully intact. And is currently in the custody of the New Orleans PD. Which means, somehow, the FBI lost his trail.
Then somebody else found him first.
And decided to shut him up.
But who? And why?
I throw my car back into Drive and speed to the address Gordon gave me, on Tricou Street in the Lower Ninth Ward. It’s only a twelve-minute ride from the French Quarter, but the place might as well be another planet. This is the neighborhood made famous—infamous—for bearing the brunt of that bitch Katrina. When the levees broke, water surged into this low-lying area, swallowing up whole blocks. Its recovery has been miraculous, but imperfect. Today, a dozen years later, the Lower Ninth is still pocked with crumbling homes and abandoned lots. Residents complain of stubborn blight and lingering crime. Murders aren’t common, but they’re not unheard of.
Let’s see what I can learn from this one.
As I near the scene, I see flashing red-and-blue bubble lights. Turning onto Tricou, there’s an NOPD cruiser parked diagonally in the middle of the road, blocking further access. Beyond it, yellow crime-scene tape hangs between trees and lampposts like limp clothesline. It rings a small, decrepit house with boarded-up windows and a rotting roof that looks like it could collapse at any second.
I park and step out—and start looking for my way in.
I see a few uniformed cops and plainclothes detectives milling around the perimeter. Thankfully, I don’t spot any black SUVs or suited federal agents on the scene. Which means the feds haven’t taken it over yet. But they will. Trust me. Morgan is probably on his way here at this very moment. If I have any chance whatsoever of getting a look inside that house, I’ve got to move fast.
Approaching the building from the side, I get as close as I can before the officer, her brown hair pinned in a tight bun, spots me and holds up her hand.
“Sir, I’m gonna need you to step back, please.”
“I’m a licensed private investigator,” I lie. “Who’s OIC this morning?”
That would be the scene’s “officer in charge.” Typically, the primary responding detective, he or she is the one with full discretion over who has access to the premises. There’s a decent chance I might know the guy, and could ask a favor.
Instead, the cop replies firmly, “Sir, I told you to step back.”
No dice. Swallowing my resentment, I walk around to a different part of the crime scene perimeter. As I near the home’s sagging front porch, I spot my opportunity.
Exiting the front door is a bespectacled African-American man who could pass for James Earl Jones’s fraternal twin. He’s wearing a navy jumpsuit, orange felt booties over snakeskin loafers, and an irritated expression. Behind him are two similarly dressed assistants wheeling a stretcher with a body bag on it. An empty body bag.
“Morning, Quincy,” I call out to him.
The man’s face registers pleasant surprise. Dr. Quincy Johnson, the Orleans Parish deputy coroner, is an old friend I’ve worked dozens of crime scenes with over the years. He pivots and heads my way.
“Rooney!” he calls out with a booming voice. “I thought you’d gotten out of the murder business,” he says, ducking under the yellow tape. He peels off his latex gloves and extends a hand.
“Old habits die hard,” I answer.
Quincy darkens and replies somberly: “Not as hard as the vic in there.”
His words fill me with dread. Here’s a man who’s handled hundreds of grisly homicides over multiple decades. He’s truly seen it all. That he’s even the slightest bit rattled by whatever is inside that house is a very, very bad sign.
“Too early to move the body?” I ask, gesturing to his assistants loading the empty stretcher into a white van parked on the curb. “Forensics hasn’t released the scene?”
Quincy shakes his head. “Not their call anymore. Word just came down. This one’s gone federal. I can’t move a hair on his head until they say so. A real mess, too.”
I lean in a bit and say quietly, “Between us, Quincy, I’m working an angle on this one. I’m trying to clean that mess up, too. Any chance I could get a peek?”
Quincy raises a skeptical eyebrow above the frames of his tortoiseshell glasses. I continue pleading my case.
“Just for a minute,” I say. “You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. Very important.”
Quincy purses his lips. “What did you have for breakfast, Killer Chef?”
Breakfast? His bizarre question throws me.
“Nothing,” I say. “Why? I came straight here as soon as I got word. But now that you mention it, I’m starving.”
Quincy glances around, then lifts up a section of crime-scene tape and beckons me underneath.
“You won’t be for long.”
Chapter 33
TOGETHER WE walk up the porch’s rickety wooden steps. Before crossing the threshold, Quincy hands me a paper face mask, disposable gloves, and a pair of felt booties. He doesn’t have to say a word; I remember the drill well. I slip them on, nod, and we enter.
I’m hit right away with the stench of stale urine. Padding through the dim entryway, I see soiled clothes and moldy fast-food containers strewn all around. Plenty of drug paraphernalia, too. Blackened spoons, charred crack pipes, dirty needles. This house might have been abandoned, but clearly, certain people still called it home.
When we step into the living room, I detect a different aroma. One I encountered plenty of times in my career, but hoped I’d never smell again.
The putrid tang of a rotting human corpse.
The small living room feels even more cramped since it’s packed with people, forensic equipment, and activity. Set up in each corner are portable three-legged fluorescent lamps that cast harsh light across the room’s stained walls and filthy carpet. Yellow plastic evidence markers have been placed all around the floor. One forensic tech is snapping pictures. A second is dusting a grimy glass coffee table for prints.
Two other techs are examining and taking swabs of Farzat’s body. Their own bodies are blocking my view, but his corpse appears to be lying in an old recliner. His bare feet are dangling over the footrest at a stiff, unnatural angle.
Quincy calls to the pair, “Bryant, De Soto, give us a look?”
The two techs step away from the body—to reveal a stomach-churning sight.
Farzat isn’t just lying in the recliner. He’s lashed to it, naked, his bare arms and legs wrapped multiple times with thick strips of silver duct tape, resembling an unfinished mummy. The chair’s upholstery is stained black-brown, soaked through with his blood. Strange circular wounds the size of quarters—and deep enough to expose muscle and bone—pockmark his torso and extremities. His head hangs limply to one side. His face is frozen in a visage of sheer terror. And his lips and bearded chin are covered with dried blood, like the snout of a wild animal that’s just fed on fresh meat.
This was no ordinary murder.
Farzat was abducted. Held against his will, for God knows how long.
And tortured. Horrifically. Until his dying breath.
Whatever information his captors were trying to get out of him, it had to be pretty damn important. And they had to be pretty damn cruel.
“Told you it was a mess,” Quincy says softly.
I swallow hard, and slowly step closer to Farzat’s body to get a better look. It takes everything I’ve got to fight the temptation to turn away, lift my mask, and retch.
“Where did these round wounds come from?” I ask, puzzled.
Quincy answers dryly, “You’ve heard of a contract killer? Try a killer contractor.”
I follow his gaze to a blood-dappled electric drill lying nearby, with a circular, serrated metal bit about an inch long. It’s a tool normally used to bore holes in drywall.
Or in this case, human flesh. I step back. My breathing quickens, my eyes water.
“Have an approximate time of death yet?” I ask.
“Based on his body temp and state of decomp, our current estimate is between six and nine hours ago.”
“Any idea how long he was tortured?”
Quincy slowly shrugs, like the weight of the whole parish is on his shoulders. “What I want to know is,” he asks, “how did they expect to get any information out of him if…he couldn’t speak?”
Confused, I step in again and peer closer at Farzat’s bloody mouth. One of the forensic techs shines a flashlight inside—illuminating a shredded stump where the victim’s tongue once was. The bastards must have stuck the drill bit in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
“Bet you wish you had more customers like that,” Quincy says. “Sure, they can’t taste your food. But they can’t complain about it, either.”
Gallows humor. That’s Quincy for you.
But I don’t shoot a joke back. At a time like this, I don’t feel like laughing.
And unless I find out who killed Farzat, and fast, in a few days there won’t be much laughter in New Orleans at all.
The Chef Page 11
