The Chef

by James Patterson

  I set down my club soda, take both of her hands, and look into her eyes.

  “I’ll tell you something I learned after all my years as a cop: You never know what life has in store for you. So when you see something you want…you should go for it.”

  She glances away. Then she looks back at me. We lock eyes.

  The tension between us is building. I lean toward her slightly. I tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. I stroke her soft, rosy cheek with my thumb.

  She leans in toward me now. Closer. And at last…

  We kiss.

  Tentatively at first. But things heat up fast. Our hands begin to wander and explore. Buttons are opened. Zippers are undone.

  Suddenly, she stops.

  “Wait. Let’s…let’s…”

  I pause, worried I’ve moved too fast. Concerned she’s having second thoughts.

  She continues: “Let’s move this into the bedroom.”

  Giggling and stealing kisses as we go, we stumble down the hall and into the master bedroom. As I guide her onto the bed, I glance down at her bare torso—and see a jagged L-shaped scar on her right side.

  Confirming what Gordon told me earlier is true.

  I try to be subtle about it. But I guess she notices me noticing. She covers the scar with her hand, self-conscious.

  “Looking at my ugly battle wound?”

  “Not at all,” I say.

  I lean into her and nuzzle her neck.

  “Everything I see is beautiful.”

  Chapter 47

  I WAKE up the next morning around dawn.

  Not that we did much sleeping.

  I slide out of bed and into my clothes as quietly as I can. Vanessa is snoring softly beside me. I don’t want to wake her, but I don’t want to sneak out without saying good-bye. I used to pull that move with women I didn’t want to see again.

  Not one I’m falling for, hard.

  I walk to her side of the bed and gaze down at this stunning woman. Her tousled hair. Her smattering of freckles. Her back, gently rising and falling.

  I hate to disturb her—and thankfully, I don’t have to. As if sensing I’m watching her, she opens her eyes and groggily smiles.

  “Morning,” she murmurs. “Leaving already?”

  “I don’t want to,” I reply. “Believe me. But I’ve got work to do.”

  “Oh, come on,” she teases. “You’d really choose food prep over me?”

  “The truck’s in the shop for a few more days,” I say. “In the meantime…I’m doing a favor for my old boss in the police department. Checking up on something sensitive that he can’t approach.”

  “It can’t be that urgent…”

  If only she knew.

  As she playfully reaches for my belt buckle, images from our walk last night in the French Quarter flash through my mind. Tens of thousands of innocent people. Completely unaware that they might soon be in unimaginable danger.

  Very reluctantly, I take her hand, stopping her, then kiss the top of it.

  “I had a wonderful time last night,” I say. “Let’s do it again soon.”

  She nods, a sleepy smile on her face. I kiss her forehead, then her lips.

  Then I leave, not wanting to look back, knowing that in my weakness, I just might do a U-turn and tumble back into bed with her.

  Driving back to my place at this early hour takes less than ten minutes. I’m one of the only cars on the road, and I’m yawning from the lack of sleep—no complaints there!—and an early-morning lack of caffeine.

  But as I turn left onto my block, I spot a vehicle that instantly wakes me up.

  A few hundred feet from my home is a black, government SUV.

  The goddamn feds again. Waiting for me to show up so they can no doubt give me another dressing down, with Agent Morgan tearing me a new one for “getting in his way”—when I’m doing his job better than he is!

  I found Farzat first. Got the Needhams’ financial records. Uncovered what I think is David’s money-laundering scheme and turned up the heat on him, all on my own.

  I’m this close to cracking this case wide open. The FBI has to know that. They’re fools to keep me at arm’s length when I can be so useful to them. I still don’t know why they’re doing it. But it doesn’t matter. The last thing I need right now is some G-man reaming me out and slowing me down. Or tailing me and getting in my way.

  I’d wanted to stop home for a shower and change of clothes. Instead, I blow right past my house and keep going.

  I have a new destination in mind. And some new people I want to talk to.

  Although I have a dark feeling they won’t be all that chatty.

  No matter. With the stakes this high, I have ways of being…persuasive.

  Chapter 48

  AN HOUR later I pull up to a grim, red-brick commercial building. Its paint is peeling. Its windows are cracked. Its walls are marred with graffiti.

  But it’s still the nicest building on the block.

  I’m in Mid-City, a scruffy part of New Orleans most tourists never visit. It’s mostly working-class, very diverse, with low rents and a fast-growing immigrant population.

  The perfect place for an Islamic charity to set up shop to help the community.

  Or, to set up a front. For other purposes.

  Crescent Care doesn’t list their physical address on their website or Facebook page. To find this address, I had to go back to the financial records from Emily Beaudette. Scanning the building now, there’s no signage, either. This could all be for legitimate security reasons. They may not want the attention.

  Or, it could be part of a ruse. Because the group has a lot to hide.

  It’s still pretty early, not even eight thirty. And there are no lights on inside the building. So I decide to wait it out, see if anybody shows up, which—unfortunately—could be a while.

  Fortunately, I swung by a fantastic but lesser-known local eatery on the way over: Hoang Pham Café & Bakery, makers of the most mouthwatering Vietnamese pastries this side of Hanoi. I hungrily tuck into a flaky, savory meat pie known as bánh pa tê sô, and a few chè trôi nước, sugary jellied rice balls sprinkled with sesame seeds. I pair it with a Vietnamese-style iced coffee, sweet and creamy and packing a powerful caffeine punch.

  I’m dusting off my hands when I see an older, paunchy man limping up to the building’s front door. He looks Middle Eastern, has a bushy white beard, and wears an olive-green taqiyah—religious skullcap—white slacks, and a short black jacket. When he starts unlocking the door, I nod with satisfaction. He’s an employee. Probably a very solid source of intel.

  Before I get out and confront him, I unlock my glove box and grab my 9mm Smith & Wesson M&P. I stuff the black pistol into my jeans and cover it with my shirt.

  Yes, the man looks older, slow, and all alone.

  But I’m not taking any chances.

  And I’m not playing any more games.

  “As-salaam-alaikum,” I say, using a respectful Arabic greeting as I approach.

  “Wa-alaikum-salaam,” he replies with a wary look. “May I help you?”

  “This is the headquarters of Crescent Care, yes?” I ask. “I’m Greg Cole, a reporter with NOLA-News dot com. I’m writing a piece on your organization and had a few questions.”

  “Ah, I’m sorry, I’m just the office manager,” he says. “You need to speak to my boss.”

  “No problem,” I say, flashing him my best smile, trying to put him at ease. “How can I reach him?”

  “He is…out of the country,” he says. “But he is returning in a few weeks.”

  A few weeks, huh? How suspiciously convenient. So I go with my gut.

  “That would be Saleel el-Sharif, right?”

  That’s the name of the charity’s point person listed in the Needhams’ financial records.

  The man in front of me doesn’t say a word, but his nervous eyes tell me a lot.

  I step forward and say, “Why do I get the feeling…I’m staring right at him?
”

  He says, “Then your feeling would be wrong.”

  “Really? I doubt that, since I saw a photo of Saleel el-Sharif after doing a very extensive internet search. And the photo I saw matches you, right down to your bushy white beard. Which means you’re Saleel el-Sharif, or his twin. Which is it?”

  The man’s expression subtly changes into one I’ve seen a thousand times before in my career. A suspect who’s just been caught.

  Even though he doesn’t know I’m bullshitting him. As far as I know, there’s not a single photo of Saleel el-Sharif on the internet.

  But this fellow obviously doesn’t know that.

  “You have clearly done your research,” he says. “Very good. What would you like to know?”

  “Everything,” I say.

  And I subtly lift my shirt, exposing my concealed handgun.

  His eyes widen in shock. He glances up and down the block. A few cars are driving by, but we’re the only people out on the street.

  “Let’s go inside,” I say. “Nice and slow.”

  Chapter 49

  EL-SHARIF nervously leads me into the reception area, limping more and bumping into a few piled cardboard boxes. At the wall, he flips up a few light switches and overhead fluorescent lights click-click-click into life. It’s a pretty depressing space. A few folding chairs arranged along the walls. Some old flyers and photographs on a bulletin board. The only other decoration, a large and faded poster of the Great Mosque of Mecca, tacked on a far wall.

  I was a detective long enough to know this is a phony operation.

  “We…we have no money here,” he stammers. “Please. We are a humble charity. We simply help our Muslim brothers and sisters who are new to this country—”

  “I think you launder money, Saleel,” I say. “You help terrorists.”

  His nervousness ebbs into quiet anger.

  “I should have known,” he says, his voice growing louder with anger. “Stupid American. How dare you accuse us of—”

  Thinking of the thousands of innocents I was with just hours ago, my own impatient rage gets the better of me. I push him against the thin plaster wall, knocking the bulletin board to the ground.

  “An unhinged multimillionaire is funneling thousands of dollars through you!” I demand. “Why? What the hell is going to happen on Mardi Gras?”

  “Nothing that I know of,” he shoots back. “As Allah is my witness.” Then he adds, spitting on the floor in disgust, “Except a full day of obscenity and blasphemy that is a complete disgrace to Islam.”

  “What about Ibrahim Farzat?” I demand. “He was a Muslim refugee who struggled to adjust to his new life. The exact kind of person your group ‘helps.’ Or should I say, ‘recruits’?”

  “I know of no man by that name,” he says with contempt. “And the only cause I have ever ‘recruited’ for is peace.”

  I’m getting to the end of my rope with this guy.

  “Who did Farzat associate with? What are you planning?”

  He hesitates—so I release my grip on him…and draw my weapon.

  “Please, I swear to you,” his voice softens. “I am not a violent man. I am not a terrorist. Whatever you are trying to find out, I do not know. Perhaps others here do but—”

  “Exactly,” I say, holding my weapon so he can easily see it. “Which is why I’m going to need documents. The name of everybody who’s ever walked through these doors. Their numbers, addresses, e-mails. Your group’s tax and financial records, too. Paper, digital, everything you’ve got. Now!”

  He swallows. Then nods, resigned.

  “All of that is stored in the back office. You may wait here, or come with me.”

  I scoff. “Let’s take a walk.”

  Without lowering my weapon, we walk along together down a narrow corridor with some open doors on either side, revealing their interiors. One is a dim, barren conference room with a few copies of the Koran scattered around the table. Another looks like a prayer room, with colorful woven rugs rolled up and stacked in the corner. A third is some sort of daycare room, with Legos, dolls, and other toys strewn about the grubby carpet.

  We arrive at the last door at the far end of the hall.

  He unlocks it and we step inside this dark, dusty office. He turns on the lights—revealing an absolute mess. Piles of papers everywhere. Metal cabinets that look decades old. A beige PC on the desk that can’t be much younger.

  “I should start with the computer,” he says. “It will take a minute to boot up.”

  “I don’t need it turned on,” I say. “Just give me the whole thing.”

  “Very well.”

  He moves behind the desk and starts pulling cords.

  “David Needham,” I say. “Tell me everything you know about him.”

  “I do not know that name, either,” he says. “Who is he?”

  I shake my head in frustration. Again my instinct says he’s bullshitting me. I really don’t want to have to hurt him to get the truth. But will I have a choice?

  As he finishes disconnecting the computer, I glance around at the mountains of paper, looking for any of value. But most are written in Arabic. Damn.

  “I need your phone, too,” I say, turning away for a moment. “And any other computers and tablets. Your texts, e-mails, phone records, anything else that could possibly—”

  CHOCK-CHICK!

  That’s a sound I’ve heard more times than I care to count.

  A shell being chambered in a pump-action shotgun.

  Chapter 50

  INSTINCTIVELY I hit the deck, just as—BLAM!—buckshot roars over my head.

  I lift my pistol and—

  POP-POP-POP!

  I fire three rounds at el-Sharif—hidden behind two filing cabinets—and desperately look around for cover.

  CHOCK-CHICK!

  My only real option is the office doorway behind me.

  I scramble backward toward the doorframe and slip behind it just in time.

  BLAM!

  I get hit—but only by plaster dust that’s been shot loose from the wall.

  POP-POP! POP-POP!

  I return fire again, and then from my knees sneak a peek into the office.

  The room was already dark. Now it’s filled with hazy smoke. Zero visibility.

  I hear rustling inside. I see his shadow darting around. But I can’t get a clear shot. Not that I’m sure I want to take it. Damnit! Am I really going to have to shoot my only living suspect?!

  “Saleel, just talk to me!” I yell. “Help me. And I can help you.”

  CHOCK-CHICK…BLAM!

  CHOCK-CHICK…BLAM!

  Two more shotgun blasts keep me pinned down. I stay perfectly still and listen…until I don’t hear any more motion coming from inside the office.

  So I make my move.

  I burst inside, gun trained…and see the place is empty.

  I spot a back door. Hidden behind one of the filing cabinets he’s been using to hide from me. It’s slightly ajar.

  He must have slipped out.

  I kick it open and carefully step through, holding out my pistol, using two trash bins as cover. The open door leads to an empty parking lot and alleyway behind the office building.

  Both are empty. No sign of him.

  I kick the nearest trash bin and loudly swear, and then I shut up and listen again, trying to determine which direction he ran.

  But all I can hear are distant police sirens.

  Could those be…for me? This fast?

  I turn back into the office to try to gather up whatever evidence I can, and immediately go to the computer on the desk. Shit! It’s been shot through with buckshot.

  Then I see a landline phone, lying off the hook on the floor, and hear the operator, “Are you safe? Can you talk? What is your emergency?”

  He dialed 911 on his way out.

  So those sirens are for me. Great.

  I really gotta go…but refuse to have come all this way to leave empty-handed. I give s
ome of the filing cabinet drawers a tug, but every one of them is locked. I don’t have the tools—or time—to crack them open.

  I slam my pistol against a cabinet in rage. Then I scurry back down the hallway the direction I came, back into the drab reception area.

  Those police sirens are getting louder. I can’t let the cops find me here. I know my time is running out. I’m almost out the door…

  When I glimpse something on the ground that makes me stop short.

  The bulletin board I knocked off the wall has a number of photographs pinned to it. They seem to be highlights of some of Crescent Care’s recent community outreach programs. In one, a group of bearded Muslim men are cleaning up a local park. In another, Muslim women are mugging for the camera in headscarves and 10K race bibs.

  And in another picture, a group of people—some Muslim, some not—are posing with their arms around one another at a cookout along the shore of Lake Pontchartrain.

  One of the men is Ibrahim Farzat.

  Another is David Needham.

  For a moment I stand frozen, not believing what I’m seeing.

  But the police sirens around the corner snap me back to life.

  I kneel down and rip that picture off the board. I stuff it into my pocket and bolt outside, running and then jumping into my Impala, starting up the engine before closing the door. Slam my foot down on the accelerator. Take off down Orleans Avenue.

  I can feel the adrenaline leaving my body as my heart rate slows and I start calming down. But my shock at my discovery is only growing.

  I might have screwed up and let el-Sharif get away.

  But I got something else of even more value. Finally.

  Proof.

  Chapter 51

  I’M SPEEDING down Bienville Street, heading back toward the heart of the city.

  But my mind is racing even faster than my car.

  The crinkled photo in my pocket isn’t enough to get a warrant for David Needham’s arrest. Or even a search warrant for his home or restaurants.

  But my God. It’s incriminating. Overwhelmingly so.

  The photo shows him linking arms with a man suspected by the FBI of terrorism. A man who, just days ago, was found brutally tortured and killed.