The Chef Read online

  How strange. The house was practically empty. But the garage looks like it’s been used recently…as a workshop?

  I step inside for a closer look—when I’m hit by another smell, sharp and intense.

  Ammonia. Or maybe chlorine. Whatever it is, it’s much stronger than any household cleaning agent, that’s for sure. Industrial strength.

  Those kinds of chemicals aren’t used to make meth or cut coke.

  They’re used to build bombs.

  I really wish now I was still on the force. Or at least had access to some of my old resources. I’d have a forensics team dust this place for prints, fibers, DNA, top to bottom. Swab and analyze every chemical trace in here. Cross-reference everything with the ATF’s databases to search for any bomb-maker signatures.

  I pray the FBI is doing all that.

  But by the looks of the place, untouched, I have my doubts.

  I’m stewing with real frustration now. I’m getting so close! But I’m still one step behind. The bastards are building bombs. Great. Where are they going to—

  I notice something on the grimy garage floor, stop with the internal questions.

  Tire tracks.

  But weird ones.

  The back-wheel tracks look thick and wide-set. The front ones are narrower and set closer together. No car on the planet that I’ve ever seen is built like that.

  But tractors are.

  And tractors are what pull Mardi Gras floats.

  My knees feel weak. My scariest theory seems to be proving true.

  These bastards are going to strike one of the final day’s parades. By hiding a bomb inside a tractor pulling a float.

  But which parade? There are still a dozen left. And which float? There are hundreds! And who says it’s going to be just one?

  Jesus Christ!

  I snap a few pictures of the garage and tractor tracks with my phone. My hand is practically shaking.

  I suppose it was worthwhile for me to trek all the way out here and search this property. There’s still so much I don’t know. But at least now I know what I don’t know.

  And that shakes me to my very core.

  Chapter 56

  “BABY,” I say, beaming, “you sure are a sight for sore eyes.”

  No, I’m not talking to Vanessa.

  I’m looking at our food truck. Fully repaired. Back and better than ever.

  New tires, a new windshield, all the damage to the body fixed, a fresh paint job. Even a tune-up and oil change for good measure.

  Just in time for Mardi Gras, too.

  Although after what I found in that garage yesterday, I’m not so sure that’s a good thing.

  I can see Marlene through our new, crystal-clear plastic service window, bustling around inside like a busy little worker bee.

  I call out to her. “I thought it wasn’t going to be ready till next week.”

  “The shop told me a couple of their mechanics love our grub,” she answers. “They put in some extra hours to make it happen. I told ’em we’ve got free sandwiches with their names on ’em.”

  I climb into the back of the truck and check out the interior. Wow. Given the awful state I saw it in last time, I’m stunned by how good it looks.

  “Free sandwiches?” I say in disbelief. “We owe them a nine-course dinner!”

  Marlene texted me while I was still in St. Roch that she’d picked up the truck ahead of schedule. Told me the unusual part of town she decided to park it in. And ordered me—not asked, ordered me—to make sure my butt was here as quick as possible to help her get Killer Chef up and running again. I decided not to argue with her.

  Of course I have some bigger fish to fry. But I also have some alligator sausages to sauté and some cheese grits to simmer. If David Needham can find the time to run five gourmet restaurants across the city and plot a terrorist attack, I can squeeze in a couple hours in my food truck—and still stop that bastard before it goes down.

  Still, I am concerned over what I found back at that garage, and I’m tempted to e-mail the photo of the tire tracks over to Cunningham at NOPD along with a detailed e-mail. But suppose the FBI is monitoring his e-mail? Not only would he be in instant trouble, the FBI would also know I was still poking around.

  Which is another good reason to be at Killer Chef right now. If the FBI and its strained resources are following Killer Chef and its famous cook, seeing me at work for a couple of hours just might convince them to leave me alone, and leave me free to keep on working my other job.

  Today Marlene has parked us a stone’s throw from the Tulane campus, on a leafy block lined with fraternity houses, which strikes me as strange.

  “How come you picked Broadway Street for our grand reopening, Mar?” I ask. “The only people you hate more than drunk tourists are drunk college kids.”

  She stops restocking the napkins and paper plates and says, “So we can iron out any kinks without anybody noticing. Let’s say our stove isn’t working right. Our new fridge conks out. Our food isn’t up to our usual standards. You think a bunch of wasted frat boys on the day before Mardi Gras are gonna care? We could feed ’em cat food and they’d love it.”

  I nod and smile. As always, my ex-wife makes an excellent point.

  I grab my trusty apron and loop it around my neck, pop a tingly-hot jalapeño into my mouth, and get to work.

  My mind is churning. Going over all the evidence I’ve gathered. Trying—and failing—to decide my next move. But I soon lose myself in the familiar ritual of food prep: peeling shrimp, chopping onions, seasoning duck breast, mincing garlic.

  I’m glad for the mental break. Damn, do I need it.

  About forty minutes later, a line starts to form along the sidewalk. We don’t open for another hour; we haven’t even tweeted our location yet. But, as always, word spread on social media. I guess after a few days without Killer Chef, our fans have worked up a real appetite.

  Then I hear something. The grumbling engine of a souped-up sports car.

  It sounds like the racket I heard just last week. When Lucas drove back and forth past my truck, paranoid that Vanessa might stop by for lunch.

  Unbelievable. He’s the kind of guy who gives assholes a bad name.

  I ignore the noise and focus on my food. But it keeps getting louder. And closer.

  Then I glimpse the blue Lamborghini screech to a stop right across the street.

  No. It can’t be. Didn’t Vanessa say he was in Miami all week? Oh, boy.

  “Rooney, you son of a bitch!” comes an arrogant shout.

  Lucas slams the door and marches up to the truck, wearing white pants and a bright-orange polo shirt. I turn down my burners and step outside to confront him. And hopefully keep him cool.

  Too late. His fists are balled. His jaw is clenched. A vein across his forehead looks like it’s about to burst. I’m half-expecting steam to start coming out of his ears.

  “You’re a real piece of shit, know that?” he shouts. “You want to go around banging every bimbo in the Big Easy? Fine. But stay the hell away from my wife!”

  “Vanessa?” I reply. “I haven’t seen her since that night at LBD.”

  “You’re a lousy cook, and an even lousier liar,” he keeps going. “I know about you two. I know everything. I’m only going to say this once. Tell me now—swear it, Rooney—that things are over with the two of you. Or I’ll make sure both of you regret it!”

  I stare Lucas dead in the eye. Torn, I consider fibbing, telling him what he wants to hear. To protect the wife he doesn’t deserve. But I also want to tell him the truth: that I’m falling hard for that incredible woman, and she won’t be his for long.

  But now isn’t the time to make trouble. So I play it right down the line.

  “Lucas, I have a policy,” I say. “I never make a promise I can’t keep.”

  Lucas’s nostrils flare. His face turns redder than a boiled crawfish. My customers in line are staring in awe at this man’s roadside show.

  “You just m
ade the biggest mistake of your life,” he snarls. “Her, too!”

  Then he marches back to his Lamborghini, climbs in, and peels out, its V10 engine roaring and echoing along the street.

  As I watch him go, I shake my head in amusement. What a ridiculous, clichéd, empty threat.

  Then again, I’ve heard rumors about what that man’s capable of.

  Maybe it’s not so empty after all.

  I look to my line of customers.

  “Hope you enjoyed the show,” I call out. “Ready to eat?”

  The happy shouts of encouragement lift my spirits as I go back to Killer Chef.

  Chapter 57

  ASIDE FROM the husband of the woman I’m falling in love with showing up and threatening to ruin my life, the first brunch shift in our new-and-improved truck goes off without a hitch. It’s the only one we’ll work today, as we’re still a day away from being fully stocked and up and running.

  But it’s a good shift: Our equipment holds up. Our food turns out great. Our customers all go home happy. What more could you ask?

  But about midway through, I start feeling antsy.

  I’m champing at the bit to get out there again. To dive back into my investigation. To keep putting together the pieces before it’s too late.

  So after I swear to Marlene I’ll make it up to her, she agrees to do the cleanup alone. The minute our last po’boy is served, I jump into my car and hit the road.

  My destination is Lake Terrace. An exclusive neighborhood nestled along Lake Pontchartrain.

  More specifically, I’m heading to the tacky McMansion on Oriole Street that David Needham calls home.

  There’s not a shred of doubt in my mind that man knows a hell of a lot more than he let on. He wouldn’t talk to me in his restaurant, surrounded by bodyguards. But tonight, I’m going to give him one more chance. To confess.

  Am I counting on it? Of course not. But this time, I’m bringing a lot more to the party than just a hunch.

  I have that photo of him and Farzat at the Crescent Care event.

  The pictures I took of the bomb-making workshop in the garage.

  And my Smith & Wesson, which is never leaving my side again.

  I merge onto the I-10…and only get about a quarter of a mile before I realize that was a stupid idea. It’s still early, but the highway is crawling with traffic.

  I sigh and lean my exhausted head against the back of my seat.

  At least I’m not in a hurry. David’s probably working late at one of his restaurants tonight. I’ll have to stake his place out for a few hours until he comes home. Good thing I have a Killer Chef specialty—a blackened catfish sandwich with duck-fat fries—a fully loaded iPod, and my memories of last night with Vanessa to tide me over.

  I’ve barely moved an inch in this bumper-to-bumper nightmare when my phone rings.

  Speak of the devil. It’s Vanessa.

  I wonder if she’s talked to Lucas. If she knows her husband is onto us, and came by my place of business to threaten me. If she knows how he knows—which, come to think of it, I’m curious about myself.

  I answer the phone and put it on speaker.

  “Hey, Vanessa,” I say happily. “What’s up?”

  “Caleb,” she says in a frantic whisper, “oh, my God, help!”

  I bolt upright in my seat. There’s fear in her voice. Real and visceral.

  “Vanessa?” I ask, holding the phone close to my face. “Are you okay?”

  “No—definitely—not!”

  Her words are clipped and urgent, spit out between sharp breaths.

  “Where are you? What’s going on?”

  “I’m in—Central City, I think. They followed me. Rammed my car. Made me crash! I managed to run away. Now I’m hiding—in a gas station bathroom. They’re going to kill me!”

  “Whoa, whoa, slow down,” I plead. “Followed you? Kill you? Where are you right now?”

  She sniffles. On the verge of tears.

  “I’m at Claiborne and Felicity. I think they’re really close, hurry!”

  I take a quick, sweeping glance at the traffic jam I’m in.

  “Vanessa, just stay calm. I’m calling the police—”

  “No!” she shouts. “Don’t. No cops. Just you. Come fast, Caleb, please!”

  No cops. Just me?

  If your life was in danger, wouldn’t you want the police to come as quick as they could—not your retired-detective lover, all by himself?

  Vanessa’s call is so weird, so scary, so out of character, I wonder if someone’s forcing her to make it against her will.

  Maybe it’s Lucas…or David…or a Franklin Avenue gang leader…or somebody else. Holding her at gunpoint. Using this damsel-in-distress ploy to lure me into a trap.

  God, what the hell have I gotten us into?

  But what choice do I have?

  Ruse or not, she’s in real danger.

  “Okay, I’m on my way,” I say. “No cops. Just me, as fast as I can.”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  “Vanessa? You still there?”

  But the line’s dead.

  Chapter 58

  ON THE other end is silence. Total, chilling silence.

  Did Vanessa just hang up? Or did one of her attackers make her hang up?

  A wave of panic crashes over me, forcing me to focus on staying calm, stable, not wildly reacting. Even though my pulse is racing, time seems to be slowing down.

  I don’t care if this is some kind of trap. A woman I’m falling in love with is in danger. And she’s only a few miles away from here.

  I’ve got to get to her. Find out what the hell is going on.

  And if what she’s saying is true, save her life.

  But my first goddamn problem is finding a way out of this slow-moving stream of traffic.

  Instinctively I reach for the center of my dashboard to flip on my lights and sirens—when I realize, shit, of course, I don’t have those anymore.

  Instead, I lay on the horn. Cut the wheel sharply. And start lurching my way across all three lanes. Gas, brake, gas, brake. Other drivers honk at me. Curse. Flash every rude gesture in the book. But I ignore every one of them and stay focused.

  Once I make it onto the gravel shoulder, I floor it. I can eventually see that there’s a major accident—looks like every cop in Louisiana is on the scene. I take the first exit, Howard Avenue, then pull a screeching right turn onto Jefferson Davis Parkway. It’s named after the former head of the Confederacy—a stark reminder that as progressive and free-spirited as New Orleans tries to be today, it still has a ways to go.

  Traffic is okay for a few blocks, so I zoom right along. Things get hairier when I hit Washington Avenue (named after, well, you know). But I refuse to slow down. I honk and swerve, weaving in and out of cars and trucks, driving as if I were pursuing a suspect. Like they taught me in the Academy, I keep my hands gripped low on the steering wheel for better control, and my eyes straight ahead.

  At the major intersection of Washington and Broad, the light turns yellow. I accelerate—but there’s no way I’m going to make it. I slam the pedal even harder. I pound my horn like a maniac and blast through the red. “Thank you,” I whisper, that I make it past without an accident—lucky for me, all the cops are otherwise occupied and I don’t have to lead them on a high-speed chase to get to Vanessa, because I’m not slowing down for anybody.

  Traffic is starting to get heavy again, so I decide to turn off this main road and zip along some side streets as I near the heart of Central City. Not far from here is the Southern Food and Beverage Museum, a kitschy collection of exhibits about a topic dear to my heart. Close by, too, is the famous Leidenheimer Baking Company, makers of bread so addictive, the stuff ought to be a controlled substance.

  But Central City is also a neighborhood known for homelessness, blight, and heavy drug use among its residents and transients looking to hook up for a quick score. Not to mention murders and other crimes. Forget locking herself in a gas
station bathroom. What was Vanessa doing here in the first place?

  I continue zooming along potholed residential roads. Past tumbledown houses and abandoned lots, a blur of poverty and neglect. Finally, I turn onto Claiborne Avenue and keep my eyes open for that rundown gas station. I’m almost there.

  I see one, a Shell, but it looks pretty clean and fairly busy.

  A block later, I spot another one, a Valero, but it’s also doing brisk business.

  Once I cross Felicity, I think I’ve found the place: An old, shabby Gasco.

  It looks closed, but whether for the day or for good, I can’t tell. Two cars are parked sloppily in front of it. One is a maroon Jeep Cherokee that has a badly dented bumper. Maybe the vehicle that rammed Vanessa, forcing her off the road?

  Then I remember: a maroon Jeep Cherokee drove into that scrapyard last week, to that sleeper cell meeting, when I was tailing Farzat.

  I hate coincidences.

  And then I see it: Vanessa’s Lexus, turned sideways half a block from the Gasco—that must be where they rammed her, and she escaped on foot.

  Jesus Christ.

  As I drive closer, four shady-looking guys are at the shabby-looking gas station. Two of them are keeping lookout by the Jeep. Two others are at the restroom door, angrily pounding on it.

  None seem dumb enough to have drawn a weapon in broad daylight…but I do see some telltale bulges on their hips.

  My own 9mm is still at my side—but this is not the time or place to use it. If I get into a four-on-one, close-range shootout with these guys, I’ll be pumped full of lead in seconds.

  I scan the gas station, wracking my brain for possible options, desperate to come up with something to scare these assholes off and free Vanessa.

  What can I do?

  Then, I get an idea. A risky one.

  No, a crazy one.

  But it could work. If it doesn’t burn me alive first.

  Chapter 59

  SWALLOWING MY fear before I choke on it, I turn into the gas station and pull up to a pump. I choose one close to the action.