The Chef

by James Patterson

  “Yah!” I urge Gladys and give her reins a gentle tug. She jerks and bucks, nearly tossing me off. But then, thank goodness, she seems to sense that she has a pure tenderfoot on her mature back, and she starts heading into the right direction.

  Soon I’ve caught up to Emily and Cooper, who start, quite literally, running circles around us on the smooth green pasture, moving with elegance and grace. As for me, Gladys is ambling along in a straight line and I’m still holding on for dear life with the reins, resisting the temptation to lean forward and wrap my arms around her long neck.

  “Your carousel riding has obviously served you well,” she observes with a smile.

  I feel like at any moment gravity is going to tug me to the ground. “Hey, I’d like to see you try to make a pot of sous vide ham hock jambalaya sometime.”

  “I hire and fire cooks, Detective Rooney,” she replies, with the confident tone of one always being in charge. “I never claimed to be one.”

  Fair enough. For a woman who grew up in one of New Orleans’ biggest foodie families, she is on record as saying she can barely boil water. She’s a money person. An “epicurean entrepreneur,” as she’s put it, with only a casual interest in fine dining. While her relatives studied at Cordon Bleu, she went to Columbia Business School. Today, she splits her time between managing the finances of the restaurants and food distributors she co-owns, and overseeing this nonprofit horse farm.

  By now we’re riding parallel, though I can sense that she wishes she could let Cooper run free to the horizon, instead of plodding along with a first-timer like myself. We’re away from the main stables by the house, though there are two other low-slung wooden buildings off to the right, several hundred feet away, even larger than the stables we exited, and one of them has a large antenna set to the rear. Near the buildings are two tall, empty flagpoles.

  “Tell me about David,” I say.

  Which makes her snicker.

  “My cousin?” she says. “He’s a character. At least from what I remember.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’ve probably heard the rumors,” she says, her voice regretful. “We Needhams don’t really speak much anymore. And when we do…let’s just say, it’s not exactly rainbows and sunshine. David especially. He’s a great chef, I’ll give him that. But if we were standing together on the rim of the Grand Canyon, I wouldn’t be surprised if he gave me a little push.”

  “You’re saying he’s dangerous?”

  “Of course not,” she sharply replies. “I’m saying I don’t really know the man. At least not anymore. Sure, I’ve heard him spew some crazy things over the years…”

  “Like what?”

  She gives Cooper another heel-squeeze, making him twirl and neigh, and she fixes her gaze on me.

  “When it’s been just the two of us, it’s mostly political ranting. Against taxes, regulation, the government. When we’re all together, as a family…”

  She reins Cooper in and takes a moment to collect her thoughts, like the memories are just too painful.

  “Greed is an ugly, ugly thing, Detective,” she says. “We have so much. I try to give back as often as I can. But the others are never satisfied. They always want more. Including Billy, who’s no Mother Teresa himself and who seems to have his head up in the air lately, ever since he took up flying. But David is the worst. I manage most of the family’s portfolio through my holding corporation—and even with my Columbia MBA, I can’t keep track of all the joint shell companies and offshore accounts he’s set up.”

  “For the feds, all that financial activity is like dangling raw meat in front of a lion,” I say. “No wonder they want to look at your books.”

  She nods.

  “My lawyer told me the only reason they asked was because they couldn’t get a warrant. Yet. But he thinks they’ll have one by Monday, maybe earlier.”

  “When it comes to getting an IRS refund or standing in line at the DMV, government can move as slow as a sloth taking cough syrup,” I say. “But when they scent something funny going on with money, watch out.”

  She shakes her head.

  “What does the government think we’re hiding? What do they think David’s up to?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. She seems generally upset, and concerned. I sense an opening and go on.

  “But if you give me a peek, I might be able to give you and your lawyer a tip-off, before the feds return in their black SUVs and a freshly printed search warrant.”

  She gives Cooper a gentle squeeze and starts moving, and my trustworthy Gladys keeps pace. I have to take a moment to admire the pasture we’re riding on—the land is firm and flat, and the grass has been closely cropped, like the place was getting ready to be turned into a golf course.

  “You’re asking me to turn over thousands of pages of highly sensitive financial records to a total stranger, who isn’t even a cop anymore?”

  I tug firmly on my horse’s reins, making Gladys stop completely. She snorts and stomps as I give her a sharp, demanding look.

  “Ms. Beaudette,” I start, “are you aware that your cousin employs numerous armed ex–Israeli commandos as his personal bodyguards? And that your half-brother Billy has heard him make threats of violence?”

  She starts to speak and then stops, trying to absorb what I’ve just told her. By her troubled expression, it looks like the answer to both questions is “No.”

  “I think I have to speak with my lawyer again,” she mumbles.

  Then she makes a click-click sound with her tongue, and Cooper bursts into a brisk canter back toward the stables.

  “Ms. Beaudette, wait!” I call out.

  But her horse doesn’t slow. And its rider doesn’t look back.

  Gladys lets out a long whinny and takes a few shaky steps backward.

  “Easy, girl,” I say, patting her muscular shoulders. “I know. I’m scared, too.”

  Chapter 41

  THE DRIVE back to the city takes nearly twice as long as the ride out. Traffic along I-12 is crawling, and the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway might as well be a twenty-three-mile-long parking lot. Not that I’m surprised. Mardi Gras is just around the corner and hundreds of thousands of folks are streaming in from all around the country to take part in this wonderful event.

  If only they knew the hell that might be waiting for them.

  Stuck in gridlock just past the I-610 interchange, I shut my eyes and give them a good rub. I’m finally making some real headway in my investigation, but I’m still miles away from any solid answers—or actionable details. And it’s starting to drive me nuts. I feel like I’ve got the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle and I can feel them…but I can’t see them, because I’m in a pitch-black room. I can try to guess the shapes and forms, but I also have no idea what other puzzle pieces might be out there, waiting for me in the dark.

  My search for the bastards who messed up my truck and hurt Marlene is stuck in the mud, too. Just thinking about it now makes me burn with rage all over again.

  But hey, at least I got a date with Vanessa out of it.

  Which reminds me…

  I whip out my phone and dial. On the fourth ring, Gordon Andrews picks up.

  “Caleb, you’re a mind reader,” he says, with a hearty chuckle.

  “I wish,” I say. “It would make this whole private eye thing a hell of a lot easier. I don’t know how you can stand to do it, hour after hour, day after day.”

  He says, “Well, this particular PI leaves enough time each day for something fine to eat, and something even finer to drink. But to get back to the point…I was about to phone you in a bit.”

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “I finally had a chance to look into that Lucas Dodd fellow and his wife,” he says, with a smooth and cultured voice. “And, hoo boy, let me tell you, with friends like that…”

  My ears perk up. I sit a little taller in my seat, wincing from long-dormant muscles that are loudly complaining about my first horse ride and the two b
eatings I’ve taken. Around this part of the gridlocked exchange are lots of trees and small homes and businesses. The sky is overcast, nearly melding in with the far gray horizon.

  “Lucas,” I blurt, “is not my friend.”

  Quite the understatement. I’ve been sneaking around behind his back with his beautiful wife now for more than a week.

  “So what do you know, Gordon?” I add.

  “I just want to be clear,” he says. “At this point, it’s only a rumor. But like my granddaddy used to say, if it fights like a gator, if it bites like a gator…”

  “I get it. Rumor. Okay. Just spit it out.”

  I lean forward slightly in anticipation and grip my phone a bit tighter as he shares with me what he’s dug up on Mr. and Mrs. Dodd.

  The details are sketchy, but the broad strokes are shocking. And quite troubling.

  But if what he’s saying is true, it would explain a lot—not least why Vanessa seems trapped in a failing marriage that so clearly makes her miserable.

  He is in the middle of a sentence when I hear a faint beep-beep sound interrupting us on the line. Another call is coming in. Right now? Really?

  I glance at my screen. “Gordon, sorry, I’ll call you back.” It’s a number I don’t recognize, with a 318 area code. That’s central Louisiana. Where Emily Beaudette’s horse farm is. I wonder…

  Before I’ve finished saying “hello,” she cuts me off.

  “Detective?” she says strongly. “I want you to know that, against my lawyer’s very insistent advice…I instructed my accountant to send you something you might find helpful. At least I hope you do. Check your e-mail.”

  I follow her command. In my inbox is a new message with a tantalizing little paper clip icon beside it. I tap the screen to open the e-mail. The attachment appears to be a spreadsheet, a whopping half-gigabyte in size, titled KB CORP—MASTER FIN REPS, FY 2007-17.

  “Is this what I think it is?” I ask, struggling to control my joy at having convinced her to share this with me.

  “My holding company’s comprehensive financial reports,” she says. “Going back ten fiscal years. Don’t you dare tell the feds you have them. And definitely don’t tell my crazy family. But do tell me if you need anything else.”

  “I…yes, I will,” I say. “Thank you, Ms. Beaudette.”

  “But remember what you offered earlier,” she points out. “If you find anything…out of the ordinary that you believe the federal authorities might be interested in, you will notify my attorney and myself. Am I clear?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, and then I realize I’m talking into thin air.

  She’s disconnected the call. No matter.

  I’ve just made a major step forward, documents that might help me get a handle on what’s going on with the Needhams, records that just might shed some light on—

  A rising chorus of sirens snap me out of my rapid thoughts, and I glance up at the rearview mirror, seeing the flashing blue lights. With the other drivers, I pull over as far as I can, no mean feat in this gridlock.

  But a narrow path does open.

  I glance up again, expecting to see an NOPD cruiser or two, perhaps an ambulance, or maybe a state police cruiser.

  But not what’s coming our way.

  A convoy of National Guard Humvees and trucks with trailers behind them, being led by three Humvees with a flashing red-blue light bar just above the windshield.

  I count twenty of the vehicles as they pass me and head into the heart of New Orleans.

  I’m not happy anymore.

  I’m terrified of what’s going to happen in the few days before Mardi Gras, and terrified that even with this welcome gift of information, I’ll be too late.

  With a honk of my horn, I get back into the gridlock, stuck again.

  Chapter 42

  WHO KNEW hundreds of pages of accounting records could be so riveting?

  As soon as I walk through the door, I pop open a ninety-dollar bottle of Côtes du Rhône I’ve been saving for a special occasion. I pour myself a glass. Then I plop down at my kitchen table, fire up my laptop, and set about poring over the numbers.

  Let me be clear: I am not a forensic accountant. Not even close.

  Still, I know what a professional restaurant ledger is supposed to look like. I have a decent sense of wholesale food prices, reasonable service wages, average industry profit margins.

  Which is why, three hours and as many glasses of wine later, I’m feeling pretty damn discouraged. I’ve scrutinized every line. Recalculated every column. And everything is adding up perfectly. Nothing is jumping out at me at all.

  If David—or Billy or Emily or anyone else in the extended Needham family, for that matter—is padding their business expenses, siphoning even a few bucks a month to some terrorist organization, I can’t see it in their books.

  With disgust and a fresh glass of vino, I click on the tab in the Excel file detailing the Needhams’ extensive IRS-reported charitable giving.

  As I expected, the payout structure of many of the donations is highly complicated. A few years ago, I assisted the Louisiana State Police with a major embezzlement case, so I know this type of payout is simply done for tax purposes, and is perfectly legal.

  But other times, it’s a technique that can be used by white-collar criminals to hide questionable transactions or launder illicit funds.

  So I dive in, painstakingly triple-checking the complex math. This takes me another solid two hours. But here, too, everything seems squeaky clean. Damnit.

  Knowing there must be something here, I return to the top of this section and comb through the list of charities themselves, looking for any that might stand out in a suspicious manner.

  According to the records, dozens of nonprofits have been the beneficiaries of the Needhams’ generosity over the past decade. And not just local soup kitchens and food banks, like you’d expect from a family of New Orleans restaurateurs. Also on the list is an organization that provides free computer programming classes to area veterans. One that promotes childhood literacy in the city’s public schools. And also one that, based on the name, “Crescent Care,” I assume offers subsidized medical or other assistance to low-income residents of the Crescent City.

  Unless…

  I look the group up online.

  And my insides feel queasy with dread.

  According to their homepage, the “crescent” in their title is a nod to New Orleans’ nickname and a reference to a symbol of Islam. And their stated mission is to “provide material help and spiritual guidance to the city’s underserved Muslim population, with a special focus on struggling immigrants and vulnerable refugees.”

  Now, look. I don’t want to jump to conclusions here. Or rely on ugly stereotypes. But given everything else I know, this “charity” that’s been receiving generous annual gifts from David Needham through Emily’s primary corporate holding company for the past three years sounds at least a little suspect.

  I have to find out more. Ideally from Needham himself, up close and personal.

  But how the hell am I supposed to do that? Our last meeting ended with one of his Mossad-trained bodyguards aiming a pistol at me.

  Feeling both encouraged and doubtful, I stand and stretch my legs. I pace around the kitchen table, then slam a hand on it in frustration. I slosh some more booze down my throat—not wine, but a slug of Kentucky bourbon, straight from the bottle.

  I pick up my phone from the counter and see it’s nearly midnight. But I also have a text. So focused on the Needhams’ financial records, I didn’t hear it chime.

  I tap the screen and open it. It was sent about an hour ago.

  By Vanessa.

  HOPE THE TRUCK IS ON THE MEND, it reads. SO WHEN AM I BUYING YOU DINNER? ;)

  Despite these dark times, that little string of words is a big ray of light. And that coy winking face brings a childish grin to my own.

  It gives me a risky idea, too, of a two-birds-one-stone kind.

  I’
m usually loath to mix unofficial business with potential pleasure. But this might be the only real chance I’ll get to see David Needham. It could also backfire spectacularly. It could ruin my chances of stopping the Mardi Gras attack and of getting with Vanessa. But isn’t it worth a shot?

  My thumbs hover over the keypad for a moment, twitching.

  Before I can change my mind, I tap back: THANKS! HOW ABOUT TOMORROW? I KNOW JUST THE SPOT.

  Chapter 43

  VANESSA IS waiting for me in front of the restaurant. She’s wearing a vibrant red dress, and stands out from the dinnertime crowd like a lighthouse on a stormy night.

  Her outfit is classy and flirty, serious and fun—just like her. And it definitely flatters her body.

  When she spots me approaching, her sweet and attractive face breaks into laughter.

  “Caleb, what in God’s name is on your face?”

  “Mais non, mademoiselle,” I say in my most ridiculous Pepé Le Pew accent. “My name iz Maurice La Fondue. And to be your dining partner for zee evening will be un grand plaisir!”

  She puts her hands on her hips. “I wish you’d told me to come in costume.”

  “Nonsense, mademoiselle. You are always in costume: a beauty queen!”

  I take her gently by the arm and lead her inside.

  In most places, a grown man waltzing into an upscale eatery wearing a gold masquerade mask with a crown of rainbow feathers would raise eyebrows. But this is New Orleans during Carnival. A whole different set of rules applies.

  And the restaurant is Soûlard, which serves high-class food in a funky, low-class setting. Located near the French Quarter, it’s also blocks from where the insanely lavish Mystic Krewe of Morpheus parade has just ended. The dining room is packed with costumed marchers and spectators, all stopping in for an extraordinary bite.

  Amazingly, I’m one of the more conservatively dressed people here.

  “Hello, we have a reservation for two at eight o’clock,” Vanessa says to the maître d’. “It’s under the name ‘Mrs. Lucas Dodd.’”

  Before you judge her too harshly for that, know that using her restaurateur husband’s name to snag us this last-minute plum reservation was my idea.