The Chef

by James Patterson

  “No worries,” he says. “A cruiser will come by and pick you up.”

  Chapter 87

  THE ALFRED J. LeMont Federal Building, home to the FBI’s New Orleans Field Office, is an ugly concrete tower tucked away on the outskirts of town near the shores of Lake Pontchartrain.

  Over the years, I’ve worked a few other joint cases with the Feds, but I’ve never stepped inside their facility. It’s not that I didn’t want to. I was never invited. Until now.

  It’s a monument to law and order, of peace and progress, but my mood sours the moment I step inside, when I see Special Agent Morgan standing outside of a conference room, talking to a woman wearing a Homeland Security windbreaker.

  “Morgan!” I yell. “You son of a bitch, this is all your fault! You idiot! Moron! I fucking gave you everything on a goddamn silver platter, and you let the attack happen!”

  Morgan, eyes blazing with anger and fury, says, “What silver platter, Rooney? Huh? What goddamn platter? You focused on a poor Syrian dishwasher. You gave us a nearly illiterate Aryan Brotherhood goon who knew nothing we didn’t already know…you were obsessed about David Needham…the wrong Needham! We had hundreds of tips! Hundreds! And DC kept on promising to help us with some back-channel nonsense…which never panned out.”

  “You could have done more!”

  “We all could have done more…all of us…and for Christ’s sake, what was I supposed to do? Drop everything and focus on you…a fry cook? A disgraced police detective?”

  He storms off into the conference room, and one by one, others follow him in—state police, Homeland Security, more FBI, NOPD, and Cunningham, who nods at me to join him.

  I feel like going back home to Vanessa and, yes, even Marlene.

  But I steel myself and go in.

  By the time I’m able to get into the crowded room, I stand in the corner, along with others who don’t have the juice to sit around the conference room table. I only recognize about a quarter of the attendees—local, state, parish—and Morgan goes through a detailed report of how they’re trying to track down Billy Needham. Photographs are all over the television and internet. Wiretaps have been placed on his business and home phones…as if, I think. His credit cards have been flagged to announce any activity. Every employee who either currently works or has worked for Billy is being interrogated. All of his properties have been raided, and are under surveillance.

  All good work, but still, too late.

  We were all too late.

  A brief pause and I call out, “Casualties. What’s the number on casualties?”

  The air grows still and Morgan looks down, and then a burly tactical NOPD officer—still in black jumpsuit and battle rattle—pushes forward to the conference room table and says, “Well, this is what I’ve got.” He unfolds a sheet of paper and says, “Hard to believe, but number of deaths is under twenty.”

  A murmur of voices, and the officer—his nametag says DUBUS—says, “And some of those are from being trampled. Wounded is about fifty or sixty, but shit, guys, it could have been worse, much, much worse.”

  Dubus folds up the paper. “Luckily we got intel about the red and green glasses. Once my shooters got prepped, we shot the bastards every time they appeared, like gophers popping up from their burrows. So thanks to whoever got that intel out.”

  I keep quiet.

  So does Morgan.

  The meeting breaks down with lots of arguing, more talking, and I try to slip out, and Cunningham grabs my arm.

  “Need your help.”

  I say, “You got it, Chief.”

  Chapter 88

  CUNNINGHAM AND I do a “walk and talk” as we go deeper into the concrete bowels of the LeMont Federal Building, and he gives me a debrief of the terrorists that were seized and arrested once the shooting stopped.

  “Damnit, Rooney, the only thing they’ve got in common, is that they’ve got nothin’ in common!” he says as we clatter down a concrete and metal stairway.

  He gives me the intel:

  Five in custody. Two tractor drivers, three gunmen.

  That’s five accomplices to terrorism.

  Five potential cooperating witnesses.

  Five possible leads on Billy.

  All of the suspects are men. All were arrested carrying illegal weapons and wearing costumes speckled with UV-reflective paint.

  “But that’s where it ends,” Cunningham complains. “There’s no connecting thread.”

  They range in age from twenty-four to fifty-seven. Two are young and white. One is middle-aged and black. One is Pakistani American. One was born in Indonesia.

  They have different income levels. Different education levels.

  Different marital statuses. Different immigration statuses.

  Some have criminal records a mile long. Others have never had a parking ticket.

  One posts on white supremacist message boards. Another has ties to radical Islam. A third is a lapsed Buddhist.

  “What are they saying?” I ask.

  “Not a damn thing,” he says. “They just spar, laugh, and keep on wastin’ our time. Like they’ve been trained to string us along. But none of them have lawyered up. Can you figure that? Nobody.”

  “So why do you need me?”

  He opens a heavy metal door marked with black numbers and nothing else.

  “One of them is a local,” he says. “Some guy who’s worked off and on in some kitchens in the city. I’m hoping that…”

  “I can get him to talk.”

  Cunningham nods as we enter a room looking into a small interrogation cell, via a two-way mirror. Inside the room is a table, and a middle-aged, beefy African-American male, who smiles and says, “How many times I gotta say it? I’m not talkin’ to y’all. No, sir.”

  His FBI interrogator, a linebacker of a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a gruff New Jersey accent, looks like he’s about to jump over the table and wring his neck.

  “How many times do I have to ask, Mr. Broussard: What can I do to change your mind?”

  The suspect shrugs. “Nothing. Y’all are outsiders. Simple as that.”

  Outsiders.

  “Who’s the guy?”

  The room is filled with NOPD brass and FBI agents, and Cunningham manages to wrestle a sheaf of papers from a desk, and he says, “Reginald Broussard, age forty-nine, currently unemployed, worked in a number of restaurants including—”

  I hold up a hand. Look through the two-way mirror.

  Outsiders.

  Reginald is smiling like he has all the time in the world.

  I ask, “Was he a gunman or tractor driver?”

  “Driver,” Cunningham says.

  “He kill anybody?”

  Cunningham shakes his head. “Nope, lucky us, lucky city. For some reason, his tractor stalled out right after the concussion grenades went off. When he got it started, he started after the crowd but the krewe behind him didn’t like what they saw. So a bunch of macho guys dressed like mermaids swarmed over him and took him down before he could do any real damage.”

  “Tell me about his marital status.”

  “Single.”

  “Family?” I ask.

  He flips through a few more sheets of paper. “A sister who lives in the city, works as a nurse at Tulane. A niece he dotes on, Melissa. Whatever money he’s earned has gone into a college fund for the little girl. She’s ten.”

  Cunningham looks up. “Is that helpful?”

  “More than you think,” I say.

  Chapter 89

  THIRTY MINUTES later and after some heated discussion from the observation room, Cunningham opens the interrogation door, and the frustrated FBI agent storms out. I slide in, holding a slim folder in my hands.

  “Hey there, Reggie,” I say. “Can I call you Reggie? I’m Caleb.”

  I take a seat opposite Broussard and flash a friendly grin. That’s not an easy task when you’re staring down a domestic terrorist, even if he isn’t directly responsible for killing
anyone. But it’s what I’ve got to do. I’ve interrogated lots of suspects over the years in holding cells like this one. Angry men who shot and killed their girlfriends. Overwhelmed women who beat their children. Twisted fellows who took depraved pleasure in stalking and assaulting women.

  But none were part of a terrorist team or plot, which still might not be finished.

  He just glares at me. Wary.

  “First things first,” I say. “Why don’t we get you out of those cuffs?”

  Now he’s really thrown.

  Knowing I’m being watched, I turn and look at the two-way mirror, wordlessly imploring Cunningham to send someone in here with a key.

  “I can see exactly what you’re trying to do,” he says, grinning. “Classic good cop, bad cop shit. Next you’re gonna offer me some water and a snack. You’re trying to buddy up to me to get me to talk. Well, it ain’t gonna work.”

  I shrug. “That’s pretty smart of you, Reggie. But I’ve got a surprise for you. I’m not a cop.”

  “You a lawyer, then?” he asks. “A public defender?”

  “No on both counts,” I say. “I’m just doing a favor for a friend of mine on the force. A local, like you…like me. Nowadays I work as a chef.”

  He looks skeptical. “For real?”

  “Oh, yeah, for real,” I say. “I spent some time at Brennan’s, Commander’s Palace, Gautreau’s…you learn from the best, right?”

  He says, “Where you working now?”

  “Got my own food truck,” I say. “Move it around, place to place, it’s called Killer—”

  “Chef!” he exclaims. “You’re the dude that runs that food truck, yeah, I know about you.” He then looks over at the two-way mirror. “Then why are you here, talkin’ to me, man?”

  “Like I said, doing a favor for an old friend,” I say.

  The door opens and a slim, angry-looking FBI agent comes in, and without a word, unlocks Broussard’s cuffs and walks out, slamming the door behind him. Broussard rubs his wrists and sighs.

  “That feels good, thanks,” he says. “So what’s the favor you’re doing?”

  “Just trying to help him and the FBI figure out what went on this morning, but let me tell you, just between you and me, those outsiders don’t know shit.”

  There’s a slight smile on his face, but he doesn’t let his guard down.

  “Hey, settle a bet for me,” I say. “Who makes the best gumbo in Plaquemines Parish? I have a buddy who says Talbot’s. But I swear by Mama Gerry’s.”

  His eyes light up at the question, as I thought they might.

  “That’s like picking a favorite child. Can’t be done. How’d you know I—”

  “I could tell you’re from around there by your accent,” I say, still trying to keep my voice relaxed, casual. “I always know a fellow Louisiana son when I see one. Gotta stick together. We’re a special breed down here.”

  “You got that right.”

  “That’s what all these suits don’t understand,” I say, wanting to focus on this kind-looking man before me, not wanting to think of his part in what I witnessed this morning. The blood. The screams. The crumpled bodies.

  I go on. “They show up, thinking they know everything. But all they do is make a mess. If you ask me, that’s what’s really going to destroy our city. Not hurricanes. But people. From the outside. Who don’t belong here.”

  He bobs his head. “Amen to that, brother. Amen to that.”

  “Now, I can see why that makes you angry, Reggie,” I say. “Truth is, it pisses me off, too. When outsiders come in, try to charm us, try to steal away what’s special about the Big Easy. I can understand this. But…”

  I pause, take a moment to scratch at the back of my head, like I’m trying to figure out the crossword puzzle in that day’s New York Times. “But what I can’t understand is, how you could fall under the spell of a man like Billy Needham.”

  I watch his reaction closely. He doesn’t admit to anything. But he doesn’t deny it, either.

  Progress.

  Oh, so slight, but I know I’m making progress.

  “You used to work at a seafood plant out in Buras,” I say. “Isn’t that right? Until a new investor stepped in two years ago, laid off a bunch of folks. Especially the old-timers. That must have hurt real bad, Reggie. But do you know who that investor was?”

  He smiles wider, but it’s an uneasy smile. “Oh, c’mon, man, Mr. Needham had nothing to do with that. He loves this city, and he cares about us folks. You’re bullshitting me!”

  “Reggie, please, you of all people…Billy Needham says he loves this city, and loves folks like you, but when it comes to business, the bucks come first. He was behind that buyout. Wait a bit longer, I’ll get you copies of the purchase and sales agreements. His signature is right at the bottom of them. He betrayed you, your friends, and your coworkers. And when it came time to use you and others, he didn’t hesitate, not for a moment.”

  The smile has faded. I press on.

  “You were one of the tractor drivers,” I say. “But something happened. The tractor stalled out, maybe you got blocked, maybe…maybe you had a change of heart. You saw all those scared tourists, the folks running away, and you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do what Billy asked you to do, to drive into a crowd and kill a lot of innocents.”

  He says again, “You’re bullshitting me. I…I was going to do it, and then I got jumped by that krewe behind me. That was the plan. I just didn’t get it done.”

  I reach for the folder, slowly slide it in front of me. “Billy, you know what they say about plans. That’s how you make God laugh. You say you’re making plans. So what did you plan for your sister, Grace, and her daughter, Melissa?”

  He freezes, staring at the folder. “Don’t you dare,” he says, his voice a near whisper. “Don’t you dare.”

  I slowly shake my head. “You warned them, didn’t you? Stay away from the French Quarter today. Don’t go to the parades. Stay home. But you know how kids are…they don’t listen. They promise one thing, and they sneak away, and they hope they don’t get caught. But sometimes they do…”

  I open the folder and rotate it so Reggie can see what’s inside: a color NOPD crime-scene photo, showing a narrow street, strewn with debris from beads to flowers to empty bottles, and in the foreground, a small, yellow-blanket-covered figure with plastic numbered evidence triangles scattered around it.

  He doesn’t say a word, but breathes out a low, keening moan. I close the folder.

  “Billy used you,” I say. “Used you and the others, and we’re trying to find him, Reggie. Before he can use others. Before he can kill others…like your niece.”

  More low moaning.

  “Reggie, where is he?”

  Moaning.

  “Reggie…please…help us. Where is he?”

  Tears are running down his cheeks, he’s shaking his head, and he says, “I don’t know, I don’t know, honest…”

  “Reggie, the police”—I make sure to leave the FBI out of it—“they’ve looked at his restaurants, his warehouse, his home…there must be someplace else. Am I right? Someplace they don’t know about?”

  He nods his head. “Melissa…Melissa…”

  I reach over, gently touch the back of his hand. “It’s too late for Melissa. I’m sorry, Reggie. But you can help save others. You didn’t hurt anyone, you were just caught up in something…now’s your chance to make it right.”

  The sobs start but he says, “There’s a place…near Shreveport…some old hunting camp…that’s where we practiced…that’s where we planned it…”

  “In Bossier Parish, right?” I ask, remembering what Billy had told me about shooting there with his cousin David a year ago.

  Slippery bastard, I think, pointing to his cousin as a possible suspect…

  He nods. “Billy stayed there, in a little bunkhouse…lectured to us at night about what we had to do to save New Orleans…”

  He lowers his head. “Oh, sweet Je
sus, please forgive me.”

  I get up and walk out, taking the folder with me.

  Chapter 90

  THE OBSERVATION room is much more crowded than it was when I first left, but Cunningham is the first person I recognize, and I shove the folder back to him.

  I say, “That little Jane Doe still not identified?”

  His face is struggling with lots of emotions. “Not yet, but we’ll find out who her family is…God, Caleb.”

  “God wasn’t in that room,” I say. “Just a lot of guilt. I just hope her family forgives us for what we did to her, using her body like that. Did you hear what he said, about that hunting camp?”

  A different voice says, “Got it, ID’d it, and we’re preparing an assault team right now to drop in.”

  I burn again with resentment and anger as Special Agent Morgan shoves his way forward.

  “Wait a sec,” I say. “You should have known about Billy’s hunting camp in Bossier Parish. I thought you clowns had already searched all of his properties?”

  Morgan looks pissed. Big deal. He says, “We were fooled. That place wasn’t in his most recent listings…he donated the land and property to the Nature Conservancy three years back. It was a mistake.”

  Cunningham is right next to me, like he wants to make sure I don’t take a swing at the arrogant FBI man. “Yeah, you guys are experts at this,” I say. “Making mistakes, getting people killed…when do we leave?”

  “‘We’?” Morgan asks, still looking pissed. “What do you mean, ‘we’?”

  “Don’t screw with me,” I say, raising my voice so that others in this crowded room look at me. “You guys are hitting that cabin, I’m coming along.”

  Morgan squeezes his lips together and says, “Chief Cunningham?”

  “Right here.”

  “Is this man a law enforcement official in your city?”

  “No.”

  In a sharp, sneering tone, Morgan says, “Sorry, Rooney. This raid’s going off within fifteen minutes, and we don’t plan to have it catered. Get the hell out of my way.”

  I try to hit him, but Cunningham and others hold me back.