The Chef

by James Patterson

  Two NOPD cruisers and an NOFD ambulance are idling beside the Killer Chef truck, which is parked on a quiet side street off Esplanade Avenue in Marigny.

  And our beloved truck has been brutalized.

  The windshield and side windows have all been shattered. The outside metal siding has been battered and dented. The tires have been slashed. Even the shrimp-and-crossbones Killer Chef logo has been sprayed with ugly black graffiti. Not to mention the inside, which has been completely trashed, too.

  It’s a stunning, heartbreaking sight.

  I feel like I’ve been punched in my stomach.

  But the worst is yet to come.

  “Marlene?!” I yell out, as I hurry around to the ambulance’s rear.

  She’s sitting on the rear bumper, as two cops stand by, one with a clipboard in his hands, scribbling away, probably having just taken her statement. I don’t recognize either of them. There are two EMTs, one finishing bandaging her left forearm, the other stepping back after having used a penlight to inspect her pupils.

  My ex-wife appears rattled and more than a little roughed up—but also as strong and sassy as ever.

  “Marlene,” I say again, breathlessly rushing toward her. “Are you okay?”

  She gives me one look—then starts to crack up.

  “Our Father who art in Heaven, I never thought I’d see the day,” she starts on me. “The unflappable Caleb James Rooney actually shedding a tear?”

  I smile, flooded with relief—along with a few other feelings I haven’t felt for this woman in years. I wipe at my still-raw pepper-sprayed eyes.

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” I answer. “I had a little run-in right before you called. It doesn’t matter. Tell me what happened.”

  Marlene takes a deep breath and starts talking.

  It was dark and she was inside the truck, cleaning up after dinner service, when she heard the back door open. She thought it was me and didn’t bother turning around—when someone grabbed her from behind, shoved her to the floor, and gave her a few sharp kicks, before turning his attention to wrecking the kitchen.

  Marlene didn’t get a good look at the guy, but if she had to guess, he was in his thirties or forties, strong and fit, ethnicity unknown. As she was still being assaulted, she heard glass shattering outside and tires hissing. Which means there was at least a second attacker. Maybe more. After a minute or two, the men stopped and ran off. Since it was so late, the streets were fairly empty, and most people who were out probably assumed the noise was just some pre–Mardi Gras revelry—or were too drunk to notice anything.

  Pulling herself together, Marlene dialed 911, then called me—right as I was still recovering from a face full of pepper spray.

  Marlene tells her story stoically, but hearing it leaves me practically shaking with rage at the monsters who did this—and with shame that I might be partly responsible.

  “Do either of y’all have any enemies?” asks one of the police officers, a middle-aged fellow with a thick bayou accent.

  “Officer,” I answer, “don’t pretend you don’t know who I am. I’ve been on the job for years. Take a look through my case files. I’ve got plenty of enemies.”

  And that doesn’t include all the ones I’ve made recently.

  Like the Franklin Avenue gang, or Lucas Dodd, or David Needham, or those goons who whooped me outside the scrapyard the other night, coming by to finish what they started.

  Damn. That list is growing longer than the Mississippi. Where would I even start?

  After the paramedics finish their examination and treatment of Marlene’s minor scrapes and cuts, and the officers give us the earnest but empty promise—which I unfortunately know so very well—to “do everything they can to find the folks who did this,” the first responders get back in their respective vehicles and drive off.

  Now it’s just me, my ex-wife, our damaged truck…and our even more damaged relationship. It’s awkward. Tense. Silent. Finally, I break the silence, hesitantly.

  “Mar…I’m so sorry,” I begin. “This is my fault. And I really do promise to find the sons of bitches who did this to you. Whoever it was, they made a damn big mistake.”

  “Oh, Caleb,” she huffs, “just zip it, would you? I told you to be careful! Whatever you’ve been running around this past week doing…that’s the damn big mistake.”

  I bite my tongue. I’ve been running around working to keep terror from raining down on this city. But in the process, I brought it into my home.

  Now I’ll just have to work even harder, smarter, and be ready to give them back tenfold what they’ve done to Marlene.

  Chapter 38

  SWEEPING UP broken glass. Scrubbing off ugly spray paint. Sifting through mangled belongings. Struggling with a swirl of emotions.

  Marlene and I did all this once before. Twelve years ago. After Katrina, when floodwater ravaged the ground floor of our old Tremé town house, back when we were husband and wife, young, and full of laughs and dreams.

  Now we’re doing it again by the morning light. Separated, older, still with dreams and laughs. But this time, we’re cleaning up after a disaster that can’t be blamed on random nature, but on a specific evil.

  “A flatbed’s en route,” my ex-wife announces, limping back into the truck, phone in hand.

  I nod. “Good job, Mar. Let’s check out the stove.”

  I go back into our poor mangled truck, get on my hands and knees, and use a flashlight to inspect our mobile kitchen’s most important—and most expensive—piece of equipment.

  “Looks like those assholes didn’t rupture any gas lines,” I say, flicking the beam of light around the complex guts of pipes and wires. “But I want a second opinion from a pro before I fire it up.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Marlene says from behind me. “Not that I wouldn’t enjoy watching you go down in a literal blaze of glory…”

  I chuckle as I stand and dust off my hands. Then, under the glare of a hanging industrial flood lamp—since all the interior lights were smashed—I survey our poor kitchen. After only a few hours of work, it’s already showing signs of life. But it’s still a pitiable mess. And a long way from being functional again.

  “I need a little air,” I mutter, brushing past Marlene to head outside.

  It’s cooler out here in the morning breeze than inside the stuffy truck, but not by much. I grab a lemon-lime Big Shot bobbing in the pool of chilly water in our ice cooler. I crack it open and guzzle the soda so fast, I feel half of it dribble down my unshaven chin and trickle onto my sweat-soaked undershirt. I don’t even want to think about how unattractive I must look right about now.

  “Oh, my God, it’s really true!” I hear a woman behind me cry out.

  I turn around. Just my luck. It’s Vanessa. Of course it is.

  “Are you guys okay?” she says, hurrying up to me.

  I swallow my mouthful of fizzy sugar water and wipe my lips on my forearm.

  “Marlene’s the one to ask,” I say. “But she’s fine, thank God. They don’t make ’em any tougher than her. She can handle anything. Our truck on the other hand…”

  She cuts me off by slinging her arms over my shoulders and pulling me in for a long hug. I’m caught off guard by the tender gesture, and by how much I appreciate it…and enjoy it.

  “How did you hear?” I ask.

  She slowly lets me go and steps back, brushing back her hair. “I checked Twitter to see where Killer Chef was going to be for brunch. But every mention showed pictures of the trashed truck.”

  I turn and take another sorry look at the flat tires, the spray-painted exterior, and the hammered metal sides. “Look at that,” I say. “Sometimes, the things you read online are true.”

  She approaches the vehicle and gently strokes one of the dents in the metal sheeting as if it were a wounded animal.

  “How sick do you have to be to do something like this?” she says quietly, shaking her head.

  “Not sick,” I say. “Determined. Har
d. Here to send a message, hurt Mar and our business.”

  “Still…” She steps back. It looks like her eyes are getting watery.

  Emotion for seeing this vandalism, or emotion at seeing how distressed I am?

  I say, “Vanessa, having you come by…it means a lot. Especially after how we left things at the cemetery. I gotta admit, I was worried I wouldn’t be seeing you for a while.”

  She looks away from our ruined truck, gives me a wide smile that makes me forget the damaged truck, all my aches and pains, and my smelly and sweat-stained clothes.

  “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Caleb,” she says. “You don’t need to be a star detective to figure out things with me and Lucas are…complicated. But lately…”

  She trails off as she looks back at the truck, her face pale with concern.

  I know exactly what she’s thinking, too. Because just a few hours earlier, I had the same thought myself.

  “There’s no way your husband could have done this,” I assure her—even though I know full well it’s completely possible. Maybe even probable.

  And on some level, she probably does, too. But she seems to appreciate my words anyway. So much so that she claps her hands, instantly brightening up.

  “You guys are probably starving!” she says. “Let me order you and Marlene some breakfast. From anywhere in the city. My treat.”

  “That’s really nice of you,” I say. “But we actually have more food right now than we know what to do with. Everything that was in our prep fridge—if we don’t eat it in the next day or two, it’ll go bad.”

  She deflates and I feel like kicking myself. A wonderful, beautiful, and complicated woman wants to do me and my ex-wife a favor, to show her concern and appreciation, and I just answered like a cold-hearted accountant, measuring the worth of prepped food and how it shouldn’t be wasted.

  Idiot.

  She seems to shake off her disappointment and steps closer to me.

  “Well, maybe another night,” she says. “And maybe…just the two of us?”

  I’m about to respond with an unqualified affirmative—and even a dig or two at Lucas’s expense—when I hear the grumble of a diesel engine and the hiss of a set of air brakes. The flatbed tow truck Marlene called is turning onto our street.

  Sometimes, after misfortune strikes, it’s hard to see the silver lining.

  But other times, it’s literally standing right in front of you.

  “Another night, just the two of us,” I repeat, warmly. “It’s a date.”

  And I love the confirming smile she sends in my direction.

  Chapter 39

  ORDINARILY, I’D be out for blood.

  After what happened to Marlene and our truck, I’d be turning over every stone. Leaning on old informants. Paying visits to old nemeses. Dropping everything else until I found the sons of bitches that dared lay a finger on the two things I hold dearest.

  Then I’d make them pay.

  But these aren’t ordinary times. Right now, my priorities are guided by simple arithmetic. The fact is, getting revenge against a few has to take a backseat to stopping an attack against many.

  So here I am, one hundred miles northeast of New Orleans’ city limits, speeding along an empty rural highway in the middle of nowhere.

  “In one hundred feet, you will arrive at your destination,” chirps my GPS.

  But I have a hunch that’s premature. Sure enough, when I reach the address I’ve plugged in, I see nothing but a hidden country road marked PRIVATE. I turn onto it and keep going, down an endless gravel pathway lined with weeping willows.

  Finally, my actual destination comes into view: a breathtaking plantation-style mansion, ringed by a spiked iron fence, surrounded by endless green fields and stables both near and far.

  I drive up to the imposing metal gate. On the video callbox is a single button labeled BEAUDETTE in fancy cursive. I press it. I smile into the camera. I wait.

  After a moment, the gate automatically opens inward.

  As I pull up to the magnificent house, I see a handsome middle-aged woman with long brown hair standing by the front door, hands on her hips. Her fair skin has that glow that fabulously rich peoples’ skin tends to have. And she’s dressed in full equestrian getup: white blouse, navy riding jacket with tails, leather boots. The whole scene looks like something out of a high-end catalog spread.

  Her name is Emily Beaudette. She’s Billy Needham’s half-sister. David Needham’s cousin. Fellow family investor.

  And she may be my last hope for learning the truth about her messed-up family.

  “You’re early, Detective,” she snaps as I get out of my car.

  “How can I be early, Ms. Beaudette?” I cheerily answer. “You told me not to come at all.”

  I give her a friendly grin. Not surprisingly, it doesn’t change the pinched expression on her face.

  “Exactly,” she says, voice determined. “My lawyer said I shouldn’t say one word to you people. That I have nothing to gain and everything to lose. Not that I have anything to hide, of course. It’s just that—”

  “Hang on,” I say, stepping up onto her wraparound front porch. “Us people? You mean the cops already tried to talk to you?”

  “It wasn’t the police,” she says. “It was the FBI. They drove their parade of black SUVs right up to my front gate yesterday, just like you did. I turned them away.”

  “And yet,” I say with another wry smile, “you buzzed me through. Why?”

  She seems to stand a bit taller and answers, “You asked for my help. They showed up unannounced and demanded it. Then started making threats. If I didn’t turn over my corporation’s complete financial records, I could expect a lifetime of audits. Or worse.”

  Interesting. So the feds have been sniffing around the Needham family properties and finances, just like I thought. I’m dying to know what they were looking for. And what Emily—and her company ledgers—might reveal.

  My hundred-mile road trip looks like it just might pay off.

  “I’m really sorry they came after you like that,” I say.

  Then I step closer to this woman and speak more firmly.

  “But I’m not asking for your help anymore, Ms. Beaudette,” I say. “I’m begging for it. There are lives at stake here. More than you can imagine. I don’t give a damn about catching tax evaders. I’m trying to stop another kind of bad guy—one that starts with a ‘T.’”

  Her eyes subtly widen, in either concern or defiance. I can’t tell.

  “Oh, please,” she whispers. “But…I’m just a hospitality industry financier.”

  She spreads her arms, gesturing to her sprawling property.

  “And a horse sanctuary owner. I don’t see how I could possibly help. No, Detective Rooney. I—I’m sorry, but no.”

  Shaken, she takes a step backward and starts to head inside.

  I’m losing her; my window here is closing. How can I possibly get her to change her mind and open up?

  Then I get an idea.

  “Let me be the judge of that, Ms. Beaudette, on what kind of help you can provide.”

  She stops. “You want to judge me and my family, then?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m just looking for some kind of evidence. A trace. Hint of something untoward.”

  She stares at me.

  “You’re asking me for a lot.”

  I answer her truthfully. “I know.”

  “And what can you…give me for this exchange?”

  Give to her? Good question. Money? Yeah, right. A lifetime free meal ticket for Killer Chef? While she might enjoy the food, she’s not the type to stand in line under the hot sun with tourists and scruffy locals.

  Then, seeing her stables once again, it comes to me.

  “How about an afternoon of amusing entertainment?”

  That seems to intrigue her. A smile appears—and then disappears.

  “Amusing entertainment?” she asks. “I certainly could use something to lighten up m
y spirits. What do you have in mind?”

  “The two of us go on a horseback ride, and I ask a couple of questions. Deal?”

  “What’s so amusing about that?”

  “You’ll quickly find out.”

  That appearing and disappearing smile returns.

  “Tell me, then, Detective Rooney,” she asks. “Have you ever ridden a horse before?”

  “Sure,” I say. “But only if a carousel counts.”

  The smile comes back and stays.

  “Perhaps it does,” she says. “Let’s find out.”

  Yes, I want to shout.

  This should be…interesting, because I’ve never ridden a real horse in my life.

  But if I have to take my first ride on a horse to get more information, I’ll happily take the risk.

  Chapter 40

  THE STABLES on Emily’s property are as impressive as her home. Together, we enter a soaring U-shaped wooden structure containing dozens of horses and twice as many trainers and staff. I try to keep my nerves at bay as she leads me to a freshly hayed corner stall that holds a beautiful mocha-colored mare.

  “This is Gladys,” she says. “One of our older residents. A little slow, but gentle as a lamb. Do you prefer English style or Western, Detective Rooney?”

  Uh…there are styles? Who knew.

  “Dealer’s choice,” I answer.

  A few minutes later a Hispanic stableman is holding Gladys steady as I struggle to heave myself up into her saddle. With a grunt, I finally manage to do so, muscles and tendons I didn’t know I had straining from the effort. I’m still squirming and fidgeting, trying to get comfortable and balanced, when she clip-clops over on her horse of choice for the afternoon, a beautiful white stallion she tells me is named Cooper.

  “Ready to ride?” she asks.

  Without waiting for my response, she gives her animal a squeeze with her heels and starts trotting out toward the fields. I hear a low roar of engines and off to the right, see two workers each riding a four-wheeled ATV, heading to a fence line.