The Chef Read online

  If you’ve ever sat inside a car that’s on a boat, you know it’s a strange feeling. It makes me a little nauseated.

  It must be even worse inside a claustrophobic trunk.

  And I’m depending on that.

  After a short ride, I’m back on dry land in a community called Chalmette. Driving through, I pass gritty industrial sites and a massive oil refinery. When the roads start getting gravelly, when it feels like I’ve gone too far, that’s when I know I’m getting close.

  I turn onto Bartolo Street heading north, and take it as far as it goes. I finally stop—on a small concrete bridge spanning the Florida Canal, a man-made industrial waterway. All around me is vast, dark marsh.

  I kill the engine, which also kills that sweet jazz. I get out, draw my Smith & Wesson, walk around to the trunk, and pop it open.

  Angus is inside, curled up in the fetal position.

  He immediately starts twisting and writhing, but his wrists and ankles are bound with duct tape. He tries to scream, but his mouth is gagged with a red bandana.

  “Let’s go.”

  Keeping my pistol trained on him, I haul him out and drag him over to the edge of the bridge. I shove him forward onto the railing, so his hands and head dangle over the edge. Staring into the inky-black abyss of the canal, he gurgles out in terror from behind the gag.

  Back when I was cop, I interrogated hundreds of suspects. In all kinds of places, using all kinds of techniques. But never, ever anything like this.

  “Make all the noise you want,” I say. “Nobody around for miles. It’s just you and me out here, Angus. And the crickets. And…the gators.”

  Chapter 63

  I PLACE the cold steel barrel of my pistol against the back of his head.

  His muffled cries of terror turn frantic.

  “What happens next is up to you,” I say. “Who hired you to go after Vanessa? What’s happening on Mardi Gras? How’s it all connected? Tell me!”

  To my surprise, Angus vigorously shakes his head. He seems to grunt “no,” followed by what sounds like a string of profanities. Unbelievable!

  “If you’re willing to die to protect some terrorist scum, your life is even more worthless than I thought,” I say. “But okay. If that’s the way you want it…”

  I press my gun harder into his skull. I cock the hammer, stand to one side so I can see his miserable face.

  He scrunches his beady eyes shut. My index finger is twitching like a live wire. A few pounds of trigger pressure are all it would take to wipe this asshole from the face of the earth. It would be so easy. So satisfying. I could probably get away with it, too.

  But no. I’m better than that. And no one deserves to die in cold blood. Especially not someone who might still turn out to be helpful.

  I pull the pistol away, carefully lower the hammer back down, and then jam my gun back into the waist of my jeans. I yank him off the ledge, lower him into a seated position on the ground, and untie the bandana around his mouth. He looks up at me, stunned and speechless. Relieved to still be alive. But even more afraid of what I might do next…I hope.

  I pull something from my pocket. It makes him flinch—but it’s just the cigarette I took from Vanessa earlier, and the Bic lighter I used at the gas station.

  “Smoke?”

  Nervously, he accepts. I light it for him and he takes a few anxious drags, like he’s expecting the thing to explode in his face.

  But gradually, he starts to relax. And it looks like he’s lowering his guard.

  “Look, Angus—if that’s even your real name—you seem like a smart enough fellow,” I start. “Who just got caught up with some bad dudes. Tell me what happened. The more you share, the more I can help you.”

  He holds his cigarette awkwardly in his bound hands. He stares at it, sullen. The glow casts an eerie shadow over his ropey, tattooed arms.

  “Thing is,” he says, “I ain’t that smart. That’s why they kicked my ass out. Instead of bein’ part of the action, they got me chasin’ down some poor lady.”

  My body tenses with anticipation. This could be a huge breakthrough…could being the operative word.

  “Who kicked you out? What action?”

  “Few months ago, word started spreadin’,” he says. “Online, mostly. Message boards and the like, the ones you need a password to access. Somebody high up in the Brotherhood”—that would be the Aryan Brotherhood—“needed help. They were plannin’ something so big and so bad against that shithole of humanity known as Mardi Gras. It would scare away all the damn monkeys and mongrels invadin’ our city, once and for all. Make it ours again.”

  “What was it?” I ask.

  “Never could figure out all the details,” he says. “But at one point, they were lookin’ for folks who knew explosives. That’s how I got involved. I served three tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. Saw plenty of roadside bombs blow up my buddies.”

  “You were in the Army?”

  He takes a sullen drag. “For a bit.”

  “What do you mean, a bit?”

  He lets out a cloud of smoke. “Made it through Basic, was gettin’ ready for additional infantry trainin’, and then I got kicked out. All ’cause I got in a couple of fights, and they didn’t like my…whaddaya call it. Psych profile. But that’s okay, I got work, soon enough.”

  “An overseas security company?”

  He nods. “That’s right. They didn’t care if I got into fights with some mud folks in the service, or if my psych profile wasn’t a hundred percent. They just needed someone who knew how to shoot…and who could learn ’bout settin’ explosives. Which took a while. And then I thought I could figure out how to make ’em myself.”

  He shows me the chemical burns on his hands that I noticed earlier.

  “Guess I wasn’t a fast learner.”

  “Who was in charge of the group?” I demand. “Who was calling the shots?”

  “That’s the thing. It was like everybody was gettin’ their orders separate. We only knew our little piece of the puzzle. And the couple times we’d meet up—at different abandoned houses all over the city—the team looked like the goddamn United Nations! There were always a few ragheads there. Couple wetbacks, too. I hated it. But like they say, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

  “The bomb-making supplies you mentioned—where did they come from?” I ask. “Who was paying for all this?”

  He shrugs. “Rumor is, some rich restaurant guy, sympathetic to the cause.”

  Holy shit. David Needham might be a paranoid asshole, all right. But is he really a closeted white nationalist?

  “Then what?”

  “They finally brought in some new dudes who knew bombs,” he says, bringing up his cigarette for another puff. “So I got kicked to the curb. Until, that is, they needed some people to go after that girl. I didn’t know who she was, or why they wanted her, but I figured it was all part of the plan.”

  He takes a long drag on his cigarette, then tosses it over the bridge into the murky canal below. I bite my lip in frustration. He’s clearly just a tiny cog in a terrible machine. He doesn’t know shit. He’s not just a dumb racist. He’s a pawn.

  “So what happens now?” he asks. “Do I get to go home?”

  I have to laugh at this man’s stupidity. I’m about to answer in the negative when I see something off in the distance that instantly shatters my laughing mood.

  Chapter 64

  IN THE distance, a flurry of red and blue lights churns up the starless sky.

  Shit. A caravan of cops. Speeding our way fast.

  So much for taking things slow with Angus.

  “You need to tell me more,” I insist. “Details about the attack. Specifics. And you need to tell me now.”

  “It’s like I said, man. I already told you everything I—”

  “Bullshit!” I yell. “How many floats and tractors are they using? What part of the city are they hitting? Which parade? When?”

  He chews on his lip. For a secon
d I get the feeling he’s having a change of heart and wants to help me out. Maybe I’m just asking the wrong questions.

  “Give me some names, then,” I say, nearly pleading. “Let’s start there. Who else was part of the team?”

  “The Aryan Brothers came from other chapters. From all different parts of the state. I only knew ’em by their war names.”

  “You said there were other people, too. What about them?”

  He hocks a wad of saliva over the railing into the inky canal below.

  “You mean the Mexicans and A-rabs? No idea. I don’t talk to animals. There was even a goddamn Russian if you can believe it. And they even got these smarty scientist types—smarter than you, cop, you can be sure.”

  Fury overtakes me. I reach down and grab this asshole by his sweaty, bloodstained tank top, tug at him hard.

  “Here’s the deal, shithead,” I growl. “At a minimum, you’re looking at aggravated assault and conspiracy to commit terrorism. That’s thirty-five to life, no parole. See those cops heading this way? They’re not coming to help you. But maybe I can—if you help me. I know some good lawyers in this city. And some flexible judges. Get what I’m saying? So unless you want to die inside a supermax, I’m the only hope you’ve got.”

  Apparently, my words finally get through to him.

  “Holy Cross,” Angus mutters.

  “What does that mean?” I demand. “Some kind of code? Religious thing?”

  “Holy Cross the place,” he says, almost whining. “It’s where all of us were supposed to meet up tonight. Some shack on the corner of Dauphine and Flood.”

  A late-night gathering. In a rough part of town. Inside a vacant home.

  Sure sounds like a sleeper cell’s latest safe house.

  And there’s a damn good chance they’re meeting there right now!

  I push Angus to the ground and race back to my car.

  Holy Cross is a neighborhood in the Lower Ninth Ward. Only six or seven miles from here. If I’m lucky—yeah, I know, not likely—I can get there in fifteen minutes, tops.

  I yank on the handle and fling open the door—when I’m instantly blinded by the two-thousand-lumen blaze of a police spotlight.

  I hear tires screeching to a stop, doors popping open, feet hitting the ground.

  “FBI!” comes a shout. “Freeze! Show me your goddamn hands!”

  Chapter 65

  I CAN be a cocky son of a bitch. But I’m no fool.

  I stop and thrust my “goddamn hands” high into the air.

  Then I yell back at the feds, “You’re ten minutes early!”

  No response from the assembled lawmen. But my eyes are starting to get used to the harsh spotlight. This must be what it’s like to be a rock star on stage. There are five black SUVs parked in a rough semicircle at the foot of the narrow bridge. And a ridiculous number of federal agents surrounding me.

  One of them is Special Agent Marcus Morgan. He’s hunched over, his shoulders stooped. His face can be described with three simple words: tired as shit.

  When he sees Angus bound with duct tape and slumped on the ground, his droopy eyes widen into saucers.

  “Jesus Christ, Rooney,” he says. “You texted my office saying you were questioning a suspect. Not beating one to a bloody—”

  “Get an assault team over to Holy Cross!” I interrupt. “Now! SWAT, air support, bomb squad, hazmat. Angus here just gave up tonight’s safe house. It’s at the corner of Dauphine and Flood.”

  I don’t expect Morgan to start jumping for joy. But I thought he’d do more than just stand there, rubbing his temples and scratching the stubble on his cheeks.

  “Did he now?” he asks. “No kidding.” Then he calls out to the others, “Hey, everybody, did you hear that? Inspector Wolfgang Puck just saved the day.”

  His insult rolls right off me. But his sarcasm makes me livid.

  “You think this is funny?” I yell at him. “This is the key to stopping the Mardi Gras attack!”

  He sighs and twists his head back and forth, like he’s trying to loosen muscles and tendons twisted tight from staying up night after night.

  “Rooney, listen to yourself,” he says, his voice eerily calm. “You tortured a goddamn Nazi into coughing up some half-baked lie. I’m not sending in the cavalry for that. Not when it contradicts my own intelligence. And not when my resources are already stretched so goddamn thin.”

  I can’t believe what he’s saying. I look over at Angus. At least six agents are surrounding him, restraining him, frisking him, slicing off the duct tape around his wrists and snapping on cuffs. Another six are standing sentry beside Morgan.

  “But you’d bring a small army,” I ask, “to make one little arrest?”

  Morgan replies, “Two arrests.”

  I’m flooded with the warmth of relief. “Thank God!” I exclaim.

  When I texted the FBI about my one-on-one with Angus tonight, I also told them everything I’d learned about David Needham. I’m ecstatic Morgan actually paid attention.

  “Has that rich bastard said anything yet?” I ask. “Can I get a shot at him? I’m going to guess he lawyered up pretty fast, but—”

  “No, you don’t get it,” he says. “Caleb James Rooney…you’re under arrest. For obstructing a federal criminal investigation.”

  Wait. Hang on. Did he just say…

  The six other agents on either side of him start to approach me.

  Instinctively, I step backward. “I…I’m what?!”

  He says simply, “You have the right to remain silent.”

  “Is this a joke? I haven’t obstructed your investigation. Shit, I did it all for you!”

  But he continues intoning the Miranda as solemnly as a monk.

  “Anything you say can and will be used against you.”

  His agents keep advancing on me. I see one of them take out a pair of handcuffs, its silver metal glinting in the glare of the spotlight.

  “Sir, please turn around,” the agent says, “and put your hands behind your back.”

  No…no! This is bullshit of the highest order. Mardi Gras starts tomorrow. I’m closer than ever to bringing Needham to his knees and his sick conspiracy to a close. Like hell am I going to let these suits stop me now.

  Which gives me an idea.

  Maybe I can bring them with me.

  “Sir,” the agent repeats, louder, “I said turn around and place your hands—”

  “All right, fine,” I say. And slowly, I obey.

  As I do, I look back at my car. I’m only a few feet from it. The door is ajar. The dome light is on. Since the keys are still dangling from the ignition, a chime is sounding.

  I lunge for the vehicle. I dive inside, slam the door behind me, and lock it, all in a single swift move.

  Outside I hear muffled, chaotic yelling—drowned out when I start the engine.

  Immediately I shift into Drive and stomp on the pedal. The agents scurry out of the way like a flock of startled birds as gravel spews beneath my tires.

  Then I shift into Reverse, cut the wheel sharply, and jam the gas even harder.

  I roar backward—up and over the arched, narrow bridge. I swerve and scrape against the railing—once, twice—until I get control and straighten out.

  As soon as I’ve crossed the canal, I make a sloppy J-turn. Then I shift back into Drive and tear out of there. Soon I’m speeding along the potholed service road parallel to the waterway, back in the direction I came.

  I’m almost giddy with excitement. But after a couple blocks, that feeling starts to fade. Something’s wrong.

  I slow down a bit and listen. I don’t hear any sirens.

  I glance in my rearview. I don’t see any SUVs.

  Seriously?

  I was banking on the agents coming after me! My plan was to lead them on a high-speed chase—right to the safe house’s doorstep. What the hell just happened?

  Maybe Morgan was bluffing about my arrest. Or maybe he didn’t think it was worth the effort
to go after me, with his resources stretched so thin. I don’t know whether to be relieved that he called off the pursuit…or terrified to be on my own.

  Screw it. I’ve made it this far by myself. If Angus was telling the truth—and I sincerely believe that he was—I’m hitting that safe house.

  Apparently, with no support. No backup.

  Which means no mistakes.

  And no second chances.

  Chapter 66

  FLOOD STREET. Not the smartest name for a road in New Orleans. Like having an “Earthquake Avenue” in San Francisco. Or a “Tornado Boulevard” in Kansas.

  But based on Angus’s tip, that’s where I am. And I’ve made it here in just thirteen minutes.

  I’m still a little unsettled that the feds aren’t on my tail. And I’m really starting to wish somebody had my back as I drive through this eerily quiet neighborhood. Earlier I tried calling my old boss Cunningham, but my calls go straight to voicemail, and I briefly considered dialing 911 for an NOPD response, but I can’t stand the thought of wasted minutes explaining to a dispatcher what I had learned and what was going on.

  Like most of the Lower Ninth Ward, Katrina beat Holy Cross to shit. Its namesake—the old Holy Cross School building, built in 1879—was so damaged by the flooding it had to be razed. All these years later, the site is still an empty lot. However, the neighborhood’s other architectural landmark, its famous Doullut “steamboat houses,” a pair of homes that look like old ships, are still standing proudly near the river.

  Many of the other homes I drive past, though, aren’t doing that well at all. Some are freshly painted and well maintained, with manicured lawns and glowing porch lights. Others look like crumbling mausoleums, ramshackle and dark.

  When I cross Burgundy Street, I tap the brakes. Dauphine Street is just up ahead. The safe house should be around that intersection.

  I’m not sure I’ll know it when I spot it. I’m not sure what to expect might be inside, either. Maybe a couple of guys just sitting around, talking strategy. Or maybe a couple dozen of them, loading cartridges into magazines. Strapping on body armor. Building bombs.