The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,102

out there…it could have been prevented. If I hadn’t focused on the wrong Needham. If Morgan had shown a stiffer spine. If my old bosses had flipped off the FBI and told them that they would handle it…

Lots of ifs.

Cunningham gently slaps me on my back. “By the way, Caleb. The review board found that your use of force was justified and cleared your name. With everything going on, I forgot to tell you. It’s not too late, if you want to come back to the force…”

His voice fades as I try to grasp what he’s saying, but I’m indifferent to the news. On top of everything else, it just doesn’t seem that important. But a tiny part of me is glad that I’ve been vindicated.

“Go home, Caleb,” he says. “Go home. I’ll let you know when the feds grab Needham’s ass. If we’re lucky, Billy will try to escape while they’re taking him in…from a Black Hawk helicopter at five thousand feet.”

I work my way through the crowds outside of the building, wondering how I’m going to get home, when a woman’s voice says, shyly, “Mr. Rooney, please, may I have a word? Mr. Rooney? Please?”

I turn and stand, shocked.

It’s Rima Farzat, the widow of Ibrahim Farzat, the Syrian refugee dishwasher I had been chasing and who had died a gruesome, tortured death.

She is dressed modestly as before—black slacks and blouse, veil covering her head—but she seems exhausted, shrunken.

“Yes, Mrs. Farzat,” I say, stepping away some from the crowd of watchers and reporters, remembering our last angry meeting that ended with her attacking me with pepper spray.

She looks around and says in a low voice, hard to hear, “I…I owe you an apology. I am sorry for what I did to you.”

I place my hand over my heart. “Please, Mrs. Farzat, you don’t need to apologize. I’m the one who is sorry. I’m sorry for acting so arrogant toward you, especially when you were grieving. I should not have done that.”

She nods, bites her lower lip. “I…I am not the only one who should apologize to you. My great-uncle, Saleel el-Sharif, from Crescent Care…he…”

I nod. The man who tried to tear me apart with shotgun shells when I was trying to get information about her husband.

“He was trying to protect you, am I right?” I ask.

She nods. I think of her, and of poor Ibrahim’s body, and the violent reaction of her great-uncle, and I can almost hear the thud as the pieces fall into place.

“Your husband…he was murdered by Billy Needham and his killers, am I right?”

She doesn’t say a word, but her sad eyes tell me everything I need to know. I go on. “And he was killed because Billy found out that your husband was an informant. For the FBI, am I right?”

She folds her arms, nods bitterly. “Ibrahim…he wasn’t a very good husband. But he was trying to become a better man, here, in America. He found out about this man Needham, and his plotting, and he went to the FBI. I told him no, over and over again. Why should he risk his life for this country after it spends such a long time holding us up with interviews and background checks…that welcomes us here with hate and suspicion? What did he owe America after how he was treated?”

Another piece of the puzzle now falls into place. When the Farzats were first noticed and investigated by the NOPD, we passed on information to Homeland Security, who told us the family had been thoroughly vetted and weren’t considered a terrorist threat.

Of course they weren’t a threat. Ibrahim was working for us—was one of the good guys. And Crescent Care, I’ve come to believe, really was an honest charity. It just found itself tangled up with some less-than-honest guys.

Rima sighs. “But my husband was stubborn. He said with all its faults, this country was a good place, and he would help to make it an even better place…and for his troubles…he was murdered. Brutally murdered.”

I say, “And when I came up to you…”

“I didn’t know what to think. Were you FBI, sniffing around? Were you part of that Needham man’s gang, looking to harm me? So I described you to my great-uncle, and when you showed up…”

“He thought he was protecting you,” I say.

“Yes, and now, he is in hiding. Afraid you will have him arrested.”

Out over the dark and flat waters of Lake Pontchartrain comes the flicker-flicker of lightning tearing through the thick gray shapes.

I