The Chef Read online

  Chapter 34

  QUINCY WAS right. I don’t have any appetite left. But that’s not going to stop me from going where I need to go next.

  One of the fanciest, most exclusive restaurants in all of New Orleans.

  Rosella sits on a leafy street in the Garden District, inside a meticulously renovated plantation-style mansion. It’s actually not far from LBD—Lucas Dodd’s eatery, where I first met Vanessa—but right now, that’s the last thing on my mind.

  Even a light meal at Rosella will set you back a few hundred bucks. It’s where celebrities, athletes, and politicians chow when they’re in town. A couple of paparazzi, cameras in hand, always seem to be hanging around outside, chain-smoking. The eccentric owner, David Needham, Billy Needham’s older cousin, once tried to push an ordinance through the city council forbidding that—then changed his mind and lobbied to have it fail. His critics said it was all a publicity stunt. A “humblebrag” to trumpet his restaurant’s popularity. An attempt to have it both ways.

  Which is very much in character. David Needham is a man known for his contradictions—even though few people seem to know him well. He’s staggeringly wealthy but notoriously cheap. He’s a hurricane of creativity in the kitchen but a fastidious and cutthroat investor. He serves ludicrously fattening meals and desserts but is a lifelong holistic health nut. He wears five-thousand-dollar Brioni suits with beat-up tennis shoes. He craves fame and adulation but shuns the spotlight like a hermit.

  It’s one thing to be a little odd, a bit kooky. But could David Needham really be connected somehow to a terrorist plot against Mardi Gras?

  A few days ago, I would have said that was preposterous.

  Until his cousin said he’d made threats of violence.

  Until an industrial site he recently purchased was surveilled by the FBI.

  Until a possible terrorist suspect turned out to work at a café he’d invested in, and said suspect ended up tortured and killed.

  Let’s just say, David Needham has a few questions to answer.

  And I’m hoping, praying, that what’s going on is not a possible terrorist action, but something simpler and more prosaic: a family feud escalating from threats to actual violence.

  I exit my car and after a few brisk steps, walk inside the ritz and glitz that is Rosella. It’s about midway into lunch service and the elegant dining room is packed. Walking through the gold-paneled entryway, scanning the crowd, I spot two city council members, the Louisiana state attorney general, the assistant head coach of the Saints, and a handsome Hollywood A-lister known to have deep affection for our fine city.

  I stride past the hostess stand into the dining room, bound for the kitchen—when a firm hand grabs my elbow. Like a ninja, the maître d’ slides in front of my path.

  “Are you lost, my friend?” he demands, in a vaguely Eastern European accent.

  Not to be cruel, but despite the fitted tuxedo he’s wearing, this is one unattractive fellow. He’s fifty-ish, short, bald with splotchy skin, with a patchy moustache nestled under a crooked nose. But I give the guy credit. He does know how to project authority.

  “Not at all,” I answer. Then I bluff: “I actually am a friend. Of David’s. He’s just getting settled in the back office. He’s expecting me.”

  Keeping his hand on my elbow, the maître d’ laughs in my face.

  “Really? If that were the case, sir, you would know that Mr. Needham won’t be arriving at the restaurant until later this evening.”

  I lock eyes with the maître d’, refusing to back down.

  “If that were the case, why did I see his Town Car show up ten minutes ago?”

  That’s another interesting fact about David Needham. Whether it’s a phobia of the road, a fear of another DUI like the one he got in his twenties, or just a rich man’s affectation, he doesn’t drive. Hasn’t in years. He has a black Town Car and chauffeur that takes him wherever he wants to go. David has also constructed a discreet, covered rear entrance for Rosella’s more famous diners to use—which I spied his vehicle pulling up to just minutes ago. I’d parked my own car down the block and had been eyeballing the place for the past few hours.

  The maître d’ frowns but keeps blocking me from going any farther.

  “I don’t know what you’re doing here, sir,” he says. “But I strongly suggest you leave.”

  He tightens his grip on my elbow—with alarming strength for a man his size and age—applying painful pressure directly to the tendon. I try to keep my face composed from the increasing pain and I can’t do it.

  And then it dawns on me. His accent isn’t Eastern European. It’s Israeli. This man might indeed be the maître d’…but before memorizing menus and wine lists, I bet he used to be Mossad. Maybe now he doubles as the restaurant’s undercover security chief. Which makes sense, given Rosella’s exclusive clientele and David’s paranoid eccentricities. And that bulge in the maître d’s side pocket could be the master wine list. Or, a concealed Jericho 941 9mm semiautomatic, developed by the Israeli army.

  My arm is growing painfully tingly. And I’m not about to get into a brawl in the middle of a busy restaurant. That wouldn’t do anyone any good. Least of all me.

  “Good day then,” I simply reply, jerking my arm from the ex-soldier’s iron grip.

  I turn and stride out the way I came. Thwarted, but undeterred. That a former Israeli commando just stopped me from interviewing my newest person of interest worked for the moment.

  But it’s only made me more determined to confront David Needham about what he’s up to.

  Chapter 35

  SO IT’S back to the waiting game. Back to basics. More ass time in the car. More hours to maddeningly while away—as the start of Mardi Gras creeps closer.

  But I have to admit, I also know I’m very near LBD and its owner’s wife, Vanessa, and while the cool and professional part of me is looking out for David Needham, the base part of me—so attracted to Vanessa, her look, her shape, her scent—is also keeping an eye out for her familiar and enticing form.

  A contradiction, I know, but I can’t help it. Even with what’s going on with my investigation, the dead-end leads, the building suspicion of what violence might be planned out there for my city, I can’t keep her out of my mind.

  Thankfully, today’s stakeout is a short one.

  It’s a little after 3 p.m. when the black Town Car I glimpsed David riding in earlier pulls out from behind his restaurant.

  This is my chance.

  But I have to move quickly.

  I start my engine and reverse backward down Rosella’s quiet street. I pull a half “J-turn,” just like I learned in the defensive driving unit at the academy. I brake and jerk the wheel as I reach the first intersection, positioning my car in the middle of the road, blocking it completely. I flip on my hazards, then jump out and crouch behind a mailbox on the sidewalk, like a predator waiting for its prey.

  A few moments later, David’s car slows to a stop behind my vehicle. Through the tinted rear passenger window, I see him look up and say something to his driver, confused and irritated by the roadblock.

  With both men distracted, I make my move.

  I race over to the car, open the unlocked rear door, and slide inside.

  “What the—who do you—” David stammers, surprised and scared.

  If his chauffeur were also ex–Israeli Special Forces, he’d already have a silenced pistol trained right between my eyes. Instead, the guy sits there, frozen, his hands still on the wheel. Guess he’s just a driver. Phew.

  “Mr. Needham, relax,” I say. “I’m Caleb Rooney. I only want to talk for a moment.”

  His expression slides from concern to conceit.

  “Wait a minute, I know who you are,” he says sharply. “You’re that cop who thinks he’s a chef. You serve up second-rate slop from the back of a truck.”

  I smile flatly, not taking the bait.

  “But my customers say it’s very tasty second-rate slop.”


  He now looks furious. “How dare you jump into my car like this!”

  “Sorry,” I say. “Couldn’t be avoided. It’s vitally important.”

  “Concerning me?” he asks, nearly laughing. “Get out. I’m very, very busy.”

  I shake my head.

  “Your whole family seems pretty busy,” I say. “But I’ve heard you don’t always get along. You’ve accused some of them of lying to you over the years. Of stealing from you. Of bribery and blackmail, too. Am I right?”

  He swears at me. “Get out. Why should I answer you?”

  “Because a lot of questions are out there about you, David. Some circulating among law enforcement. Maybe I could make them go away if you tell me the truth, how you and your family don’t get along.”

  “That’s nonsense,” he says. “I love and trust all of my relatives. We have our disagreements now and then, sure, but—”

  I break his chain of thought, trying to get him frazzled. “Tell me about Ibrahim Farzat. What did he know that was so damn important to you?”

  “Ibrahim who?” he asks. “I’ve never heard that name before in my—”

  “Look,” I say, interrupting him again. “I get it, David. We’re talking tens of millions of dollars here. Not to mention betrayal from those closest to you. Of course you’d want to get even. Publicly, too. Really stick it to them. Maybe by torching one of your cousin’s restaurants. Bombing a street fair where they’d set up a tasting booth. And with the kind of ex-military folks on your payroll, you certainly have the means. Am I getting warm?”

  My suspect’s expression now turns to outraged indignation.

  “What in the hell are you talking about? Are you honestly accusing me of—”

  I grab him by the scruff of his stained chef’s whites.

  “What are you planning, David?” I demand. “Why are all roads leading back to you? What the hell is going to happen on—”

  Ch-chink.

  The unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked.

  I turn to the driver, who’s holding a jet-black Jericho 941 inches from my face.

  “You will remove your hands from Mr. Needham and exit the vehicle at once,” he says calmly, speaking in a now-familiar Middle Eastern accent.

  I guess he was more than just a driver after all.

  With no other choice, I obey. I let go of David’s collar and keep my hands raised.

  But I’m not leaving without an earnest plea.

  “You’re a New Orleans native,” I say to him softly. “Just think about what you’re doing. What it will do to our city. Please.”

  If my words have any impact on this man, he certainly doesn’t show it. His eyes shoot daggers at me as I open the car door and step out.

  Without waiting for me to close it, the driver peels out in reverse, back down this quiet, tree-lined street. He pulls a full J-turn, much more smoothly than I did, then disappears around the next corner.

  I exhale and rub the back of my weary head.

  Because what I just saw in David Needham’s eyes was a glint of real fear. I’ve interrogated enough guilty bastards in my day to recognize it.

  So I know I’m getting closer.

  I just wish to God I knew closer to what.

  Chapter 36

  THE STORY of Islam in the Big Easy is a rich and complicated one. Thanks to the city’s great diversity and history of tolerance, its Muslim population is larger than many might think, especially for the South. There’s even a handful of gorgeous old mosques around the region, with ornate crescent archways and soaring minarets.

  But this isn’t one of them.

  I’m standing across the street from a much more modest Islamic house of worship in scruffy East New Orleans. It’s the closest one to Farzat’s last address, which I had checked out earlier and found empty. By now his wife, Rima, has surely heard the news of his death—and I’m desperate to have a few words with her. With her not home, I’m trying my luck here. Is it the most respectful thing in the world to corner a grieving widow just hours after she learned her husband died a horrible, violent death?

  Of course not. But hours might be all I have.

  Damnit, I just don’t know.

  The sun is slipping below the horizon and evening prayer service is just letting out. Muslim men and women are walking out of the white clapboard building from separate entrances, but I’m keeping my eye on the latter group. Just like our city, there’s a wide range of diversity here. Many female worshippers are wearing full-body abayas, long robe-like dresses, with flowing hijabs obscuring all but the front of their faces. Others are in street clothes, with nothing covering their heads or hair at all.

  At last I spot Rima. She’s wearing a conservative black blouse and a modest black veil, and is being comforted by a group of friends. Even in the twilight and from this far away, I can tell her eyes are raw from crying.

  This is going to be rough. But here goes. I go to her.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Farzat?” I say as tenderly as I can.

  “Are you police?” she snaps, suddenly suspicious. “The press? What do you want from me?”

  “I’m just a man looking for some answers. May I have a moment of your time?”

  My habit would be to introduce myself and extend my right hand to shake. Instead, I say nothing, and place my right hand over my heart, a sign of courtesy toward a practicing Muslim woman. This seems to surprise Rima in a positive way, and earn me the tiniest shred of her trust. So I go on.

  “My sincerest condolences over the loss of your husband,” I say. “From everything I’ve heard, he seems to have loved you very much.”

  Rima’s face turns hard as granite.

  “You seem to be misinformed,” she says sharply. “Ibrahim was a good man. A hard worker. A devout believer. But he was not a loving husband.”

  “Every marriage has its difficulties,” I reply. “Take it from someone who knows.”

  Her eyes flicker down to my left hand.

  “You speak the truth, I see. You no longer wear the ring. A woman such as myself does not have that luxury.”

  “That sounds incredibly hard. I’m very sorry. If I may ask, what made your union so rocky? Were there things Ibrahim did, people he associated with, places he went that you didn’t approve? For example…two nights ago?”

  Rima gives her group of friends a subtle look. They exchange some words in hushed Arabic, then take a few steps away so she and I can speak more privately.

  “I already told the police everything I could.”

  “Which was?”

  “Nothing. My faith teaches total loyalty to one’s husband. Absolute obedience. In life as well as in death.”

  “Mrs. Farzat, that’s a noble ideal,” I say. “But I have very good reason to believe your husband was involved in a matter of grave national security.”

  She looks like she’s about to spit on the cracked sidewalk. “You Americans and your ‘national security.’ As if those two words are magic that allows you to do whatever you please! For three terrible years we were trapped in Aleppo. Then three more we lived in a camp in Jordan before we could come here. All because of your precious national security. What about our security?”

  “Mrs. Farzat, please…”

  “What about my husband’s security?” she says, her voice getting sharper. “He is dead. Dead! And for what?!”

  Rima is getting pretty worked up. I try to stay calm and steer her back on track.

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to find out,” I say, keeping my voice soft and level. “I can help find the men who hurt him, if you’d just tell me—”

  “What little I know of my husband’s affairs…I will go to my own grave with before I say one word to you pigs.”

  Now she spits on the ground, angrily turns, and starts off. Without thinking, I reach for her shoulder to stop her.

  “Mrs. Farzat—”

  “Do not touch me!” she exclaims, jerking away from me as if my fingers were a hot iron.
“Leave me alone!”

  I’m really trying to keep my cool here. But she’s not making it easy.

  “There are lives at stake,” I say. “Do you understand that? Hundreds, maybe thousands. What about their security? If they die, their blood is on your hands!”

  Finally, Rima stops. And hangs her head. Keeping her back to me, she seems to unzip her purse and rummage through it.

  “Fine,” she says at last. “I do have something that might help.”

  Rima spins back around—and sprays a brownish mist at my face.

  “Aargh!” I exclaim as I duck and jerk backward, avoiding a direct hit. But plenty of the pepper spray still reaches my eyes, scorching them like an open flame.

  Rima hurries to rejoin her friends. I lean over, rest my hands on my knees, and rapidly blink and squint and sniffle, the searing pain intensifying.

  After what seems like several agonizing minutes—but is probably just a few seconds—I manage to get back to my car, where I pour some bottled water over my eyes to try and stop the stinging. I even manage to forget about my throbbing head and busted arms and fractured rib. Eventually, the last few days catch up with me, and I fall asleep.

  When I wake up, it’s pitch black, and I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I take it out, manage to tap the right spot on the touchscreen to answer, and place it to my ear.

  It’s Marlene.

  Who sounds more scared than I’ve ever heard her before.

  “Caleb…” she says, voice shaking. “Oh, Caleb…get here…get here now!”

  Chapter 37

  I’M STILL too blinded from the pepper spray to safely drive, so I step into the street and frantically wave down the first orange city cab I see.

  The driver is a middle-aged woman with thick dreadlocks cascading down her back like a waterfall. It briefly crosses my mind that I can’t remember the last time, if ever, I had a female taxi driver—until my thoughts immediately shift back to Marlene.

  Christ, what have I dragged that poor woman into?

  Tossing a wad of bills at the driver as we arrive, I don’t even wait for her to completely stop the vehicle before I fling open the rear door and leap out.