The Chef

by James Patterson

  Before I even shut off my engine, I see the near two men, standing guard, tense up and exchange words. I assume they’re debating how to handle my unexpected arrival.

  I rummage through the junk in my center console—paper clips, napkins, sugar packets, a pen, a Bic lighter, loose change, old receipts—and take what I need.

  Then I casually exit and turn to the pump. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the men approaching.

  My palms are starting to get clammy, but I keep my cool. I remove my wallet and dip a credit card into the slot. I lift and squeeze the nozzle’s handle, starting the flow of fuel, then I flip the little latch that locks it in place.

  “Hey,” the man grunts. “Y’all can’t be here. We’re closed.”

  “What was that?” I ask with a friendly nonchalance.

  And without being too conspicuous, I give the guy a once-over: Caucasian, mid-thirties, shaved head, scraggly black beard, a few missing teeth, his neck a tapestry of tattoos. Not the kind of guy you hope takes your daughter to prom.

  “I said we’re closed,” he repeated. “Get outta here.”

  “I’m just getting some gas,” I say, keeping my back to him.

  “You’re not hearing me, pal,” he says. “Get back in your car and go. Now.”

  “Just a second. I’m almost done.”

  “I said now. If I gotta tell you again, there’s gonna be…what the hell?”

  The man looks down at his feet—and sees he’s just stepped in a stream of fast-moving amber liquid: gas.

  I haven’t been filling my tank at all.

  I’ve been letting the fuel flow onto the concrete.

  I’ve also been crumpling up all the stray paper I found in my car—napkins, receipts, sugar packets—into a tight, combustible wad.

  I drop the still-gushing nozzle to the ground and spin around.

  I’m holding the bundle of papers in one hand.

  And the Bic in the other.

  Chapter 60

  “OKAY, ALL of you get on your knees with your hands on your heads!” I shout. “Right now! Or this whole place goes up in flames!”

  The man freezes as he realizes what’s happening. His eyes dart around, watching the gasoline spreading around him and toward his accomplices.

  “Aw, shit,” he mutters, and gropes for his gun.

  “Bad idea,” I say. “The spark from one shot could blow it all up…that is, if I don’t light the liquid first myself.”

  A look of confusion and terror spreads across the man’s face.

  “Whoa, okay, take it easy,” he pleads, and holds up his empty hands. He stumbles backward toward his friends, calling to them: “Hey, uh, we got a problem!”

  The other three catch on fast—especially when they notice the river of fuel streaming their way.

  One of the men standing by the bathroom door, a wiry middle-aged fellow in a grimy trucker hat, draws out a dirty-looking revolver.

  I light my paper bundle and hold it out like a torch.

  “Angus, don’t shoot!” the first man screams, waving his arms in the air like a driver of a disabled vehicle, desperately seeking help.

  “You heard him!” I shout back. “Now I’m gonna count to three! One! Two!”

  The men share some words I can’t make out. They’re clearly starting to panic. They think I’m crazy. Which is exactly the point.

  It doesn’t take much longer for them to decide to run like hell.

  Cursing under their breath, none of them do what I ask. Two of them make a dash for their cars. The other two—including the trucker-hat man with the gun—take off on foot, in the opposite direction.

  Once they’re gone, I relax, and toss the fiery wad of paper to the ground. It lands right in the fuel…and sizzles out, completely harmlessly.

  Those idiots, I think, ecstatic my little ruse worked. They clearly grew up watching action movies. But in real life, it’s almost impossible to light gasoline like that, despite the Hollywood cliché. I picked diesel fuel, too. Even less combustible.

  But my celebration doesn’t last long. I sprint over to the bathroom door and drum my hands against it. “Vanessa? It’s Caleb! Are you okay?”

  Silence. I keep banging on the door. I keep calling her name. Still nothing.

  My stomach starts to feel heavy with dread. Is she even in there?

  Is she still alive?

  After what feels like a week, I hear the lock click.

  I slowly open the door.

  She’s there. Cowering like a scared animal. Her cheeks are lined with rivulets of tears and mascara. She’s terrified, but looks unharmed.

  I don’t say another word. Choked up, I’m not sure if I could.

  I crouch down and wrap her in my arms. It’s the tightest, most protective embrace I’ve ever given anyone. I’m flooded with relief…and then with anger.

  I need to catch one of those sons of bitches and make them pay—especially if they’re connected in any way whatsoever to the Mardi Gras attack!

  “Get in my car, lock the doors, and call 911,” I tell her, thrusting my keys and phone at her. When she seems to hesitate, I bark, “Just do it! It’s okay to call the cops now. You’re safe now. I’ll be back, I promise.”

  Before she can say anything that might change my mind, I leap to my feet again and start running, splashing through the diesel fuel and back onto the sidewalk. I look left, right. The vehicles are long gone. That skinhead has disappeared, too.

  But I do get a glimpse of the trucker-hat man, the one called Angus. He’s only a couple blocks away. He’s moving pretty fast—but it looks like he has an injury: a limp.

  Poor baby.

  Like a lion picking out the slowest gazelle in the herd, I spring into pursuit. I race across the street, just narrowly avoiding being hit by a delivery van. Then I really start to pick up speed. I shove some pedestrians out of my way. I dodge not one, not two, but three teenagers zooming past on Razor scooters.

  I’m gaining on him—who glances backward and only then realizes I’m chasing him. Suddenly afraid, he tries to run faster. His hat flies off in the process, revealing a tangled mane of blond hair, but his leg is still holding him back.

  He starts to pull out his revolver again…but I’m practically on his heels.

  I pounce. Lunging at him, I throw both my arms around his waist. I tackle him, flinging him down onto the rock-hard sidewalk. His gun skitters out of his hand as we land with a bone-crunching thud.

  If I were still a cop, I’d already be pulling his arms behind his back, slapping on a pair of cuffs, and reminding him of his rights.

  Instead, I twist one of his arms—and shove his face hard into the cement.

  “Who the hell are you?” I demand. “And who told you to hurt Vanessa?”

  He doesn’t answer. Maybe it’s because he’s panting like a dog.

  Or maybe he needs a little more…encouragement.

  I twist his arm harder until he groans in pain. I notice that his hand is mottled with fresh burns of some kind. And his forearms are a tapestry of faded prison tattoos—among them, a black cross inside a black circle.

  Oh, my God. That woman I met, the one barbecuing shrimp near the safe house in St. Roch—she told me she saw a blond man hanging around there with this exact white nationalist symbol on his arm. There’s a pretty good chance that this is the same guy.

  “If I were you, Angus,” I snarl, “I’d start talking.”

  And at last, he does: “Screw you!”

  I take a deep breath. Gotta stay calm. Especially since a small crowd of onlookers is starting to gather on the sidewalk. I’m sure one of them is going to start filming this with their phone at any second. So I have to be fast.

  “What happened to your nose, Angus?” I ask. “Is it broken?”

  “Huh?” he says, and turns his head slightly to face me.

  I slam the heel of my palm into his nostrils. Cartilage crunches. Blood spews.

  “How about now?”


  Chapter 61

  “LE PETIT filet for the mademoiselle. And le grand rib eye for the monsieur.”

  The waiter sets down two thick, juicy slabs of prime beef in front of Marlene and me. I straighten the cloth napkin in my lap in anticipation.

  “And for the other mademoiselle, a Caesar salad.”

  He places a pile of romaine lettuce, croutons, and Parmesan cheese—a perfectly fine dish, but let’s be honest, not nearly as mouthwatering—in front of Vanessa.

  “Bon appetit.”

  The three of us are sitting in the wood-paneled dining room of Mr. John’s Steakhouse. Tucked away in the Lower Garden District, this classy spot serves some of the best steaks this side of the Mississippi in a relaxing, elegant setting. Nothing trendy, nothing flashy. Just quiet perfection.

  After a day like today, that’s exactly what all of us need.

  I feel like I’m a thousand miles away from the violent men, decaying gas station, and blighted neighborhood of Central City, and I’m hoping—praying—that Vanessa feels the same way.

  “I feel a little silly ordering a salad at a steak house,” says Vanessa, picking at her food while Marlene and I dig in. “I guess I don’t have much of an appetite tonight.”

  I reach across the table and place my hand on hers. I’m careful to avoid her bandaged thumb, one of her few minor injuries from her car crash and foot chase earlier today. It’s a damn miracle she walked away with only cuts and bruises. Her face has been scrubbed clean as well of the tear marks and smeared mascara, and she looks younger, even more vulnerable.

  “You could order off the kids’ menu tonight for all I care,” I say. “I’m just glad you’re safe. And if your appetite happens to come back, you’re welcome to some of mine.”

  “She is?” Marlene exclaims. “I think I might faint. Did Caleb Rooney just offer to share his precious steak? Back when we were married, I used to have to beg him just to get a bite. This woman must be pretty special.”

  I smile broadly.

  “You both are special,” I say. “You know that. That’s why I wanted us to have dinner together. I figured we could all use a night out.”

  “Thanks again for the invitation,” Vanessa says. She turns to Marlene. “I’m glad you’re here, Marlene. It means a lot. If Lucas asked me to join him for a meal with one of his girlfriends, I think I’d jump in front of a streetcar before I said yes.”

  “Hmm,” Marlene says. “About that. Can I be honest here for a minute?”

  Uh-oh. Believe me, that is never the way you want your ex-wife to start a sentence. I open my mouth to try to stop her, but Vanessa answers first.

  “Of course you can,” she says. “Always.”

  “When I first realized that Caleb was seeing a married woman, it didn’t sit right with me,” Marlene says, choosing her words well. “Not for any moral reasons. I just don’t want to see my business partner get hurt—unless I’m the one doing it. Sure, he’s tough. Especially when it comes to the fairer sex. But you can dent a cast-iron skillet if you hit it hard enough. Get me?”

  Marlene spears a piece of steak on her fork and jabs it in the air for emphasis.

  “You’ve proven me wrong, Vanessa,” my ex-wife says. “Whatever happens between you two is none of my business…but y’all have something really nice. I’m happy for you.”

  For a moment, I’m speechless. And a little touched.

  “That was lovely, Mar,” I say. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you be so…nice.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t get used it.”

  We all share a little laugh, our first of many this evening.

  As dinner continues, I’m pleasantly surprised by how well the three of us are getting along. How charming Vanessa is, given her harrowing ordeal today. How gracious Marlene is, given that…well, she’s Marlene. The two most important women in my life discover a ton of shared interests to bond over, everything from country music out of Nashville, to the New York Yankees, to trashy reality TV like The Real Housewives of Atlanta. By the end of the meal, any tension there might have been between them has vanished.

  Once I’ve settled the check, we head outside to the valet stand to wait for our cars. Mine and Marlene’s, that is. Vanessa’s Lexus is in the shop, thanks to today’s violent activities.

  “What’s that building over there?” Vanessa asks. “I’ve never noticed it before.”

  She’s pointing across the street to an unusual steel and glass structure with a long, plank-like entryway and a triangular trellised metal roof. The architectural style sticks out like Vanessa’s sore thumb from the genteel buildings all around it.

  “Oh, that?” I answer with a smile. “It’s the Eiffel Tower.”

  “Very funny,” she says. “Look, I know I’m not local, but don’t tease me. Really, what is it?”

  Marlene sighs. “Actually, honey, he’s telling the truth.”

  Vanessa corkscrews her pretty face, mystified.

  “Straight from Paris, France,” I explain. “It used to be a restaurant at the top of the tower. Picasso, Charlie Chaplin, even Hitler—everyone ate there. When it closed in the 1980s, they took it apart, piece by piece. Shipped it over here. Rebuilt it. Now it’s a museum and event space called the Eiffel Society. We should check it out sometime.”

  Vanessa shakes her head in awe as she sticks a cigarette between her lips.

  “This city never ceases to amaze me.”

  “It just goes to show,” I say, plucking the unlit smoke with my thumb and index finger, “that no matter where you come from, or what your past is, you can come to New Orleans and have a second chance. You can be accepted. For who you are.”

  I lock eyes with her and hold her gaze.

  “Hey, lovebirds, our cars are here,” Marlene calls out, breaking the connection.

  “I’d offer you a ride home,” I say, “but I have some work stuff to take care of tonight. And it’s probably best if Lucas and I don’t cross paths.”

  Vanessa nods. “I understand. I can get an Uber.”

  “No way!” Marlene interrupts. “Vanessa, you’re riding with me. Hop in.”

  I watch as these two women, an unlikely friendship now taking shape between them, get into Marlene’s stick-shift Passat and putter off into the night.

  Then I go over to my car and hand the valet a twenty-dollar tip. But before I get behind the wheel, I walk behind the trunk and give the top a firm slap.

  From the inside come frantic, muffled cries for help.

  Angus, the white supremacist piece of human garbage I tackled earlier today, has been tied up in there this whole time.

  I can barely suppress a smile as I quietly say, “Let’s go for a little ride.”

  Chapter 62

  I PULL onto St. Charles Avenue, a wide thoroughfare with two sets of streetcar tracks running down the middle. My destination is northeast, but I’m heading southwest.

  Oops. Guess I’ll have to make a U-turn.

  I give the wheel a sharp twist. My car jumps the median, rumbles across the metal tracks, then back onto the street in the opposite direction.

  With each bump, the trunk’s contents rattle and thud.

  “Sorry, Angus,” I call, knowing full well he can’t hear me. “My bad.”

  Once I pick up speed, I start tapping the brakes every now and then to make my car jerk and lurch—and make Angus toss and turn. My goal isn’t to hurt the bastard. I just want him to feel afraid. Confused. Helpless. All the awful emotions he made Vanessa experience just a few hours ago.

  Except in his case, there’s nobody coming to save him.

  After a few blocks, I roll down the windows. It’s stuffy in the car. I can only imagine how uncomfortable it is in the trunk.

  I flip on the radio and tune it to my favorite station: 90.7 WWOZ, all jazz, all the time. A scratchy, virtuoso trumpet solo blares. I recognize the song right away as the famous “Dippermouth Blues,” recorded by the man himself: Satchmo, Pops—the Big Easy’s own Louis Armstrong. I
can’t help but nod my head and drum my fingers along to the lively beat. They say one reason jazz was born in New Orleans is because it was the only place in the world where slaves were allowed to own drums. It’s testament to their creativity and spirit that out of such an awful institution came something so infectiously good.

  I merge eastbound onto the Pontchartrain Expressway. I’m heading out of the city, so traffic is pretty light. This gives me ample ability to jerk the wheel and swerve sharply between all four lanes.

  “How ya doing back there, Angus?”

  Soon I’m cruising over the Crescent City Connection, the massive steel bridge that spans this bend of the Mississippi. To my left, the downtown New Orleans skyline twinkles beautifully against the hazy night sky.

  I exit the expressway in a part of the city known as Algiers. The area has high rates of gang and gun violence, but it looks quaint and feels suburban, almost like a small town. It’s also where many Carnival krewes have their “dens,” the giant warehouses where members build and store their outlandish floats.

  If my theory about the upcoming attack is right, some of those floats could be carrying bombs as well as beads. That makes me shiver, that somewhere in one of those warehouses, at this very minute, the components of a bomb are being carefully assembled to be placed in a tractor or a float.

  But there’s still that nagging question: Is it a terrorist attack to cause random death, fear, and destruction…or could it still be a family affair among the Needhams?

  I just don’t know.

  But I’m hoping my frightened cargo back there might just help me find out.

  I turn onto Winston Street and get in line with a few other idling cars. We’re about to cross the Mississippi River again—but there isn’t a bridge in sight.

  “How many passengers ya got?” asks the ticket-taker with a snap of her gum.

  “Just me, thanks,” I answer, handing her three dollars for the toll.

  She waves me forward, and I drive onto a massive, red-and-white, open-air ferry. I ease into a parking spot behind a silver Ford Explorer with a bumper sticker that reads KEEP N’AWLINS FUNKY. Within a few minutes, we’re moving. I check my phone, see no voicemails, no texts, not much of anything. But I spare a few moments to send a text before stepping out of my car.