The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,104

she’s finally free from Lucas’s clutches, their prenup legally dissolved, after she threatened to go to the press about his abusive behavior and ruin his reputation, his businesses, and his life.

I even spend a rainy afternoon going through my damaged food truck. There are furrows and buckshot holes in the top and in the door, from when Marlene almost blasted my head off with that shotgun. We stare at it for a few minutes, while Vanessa is up front, wiping down an already clean counter.

Rain batters the roof and I shake my head. “Mar, just a foot or so lower, you’d have a hell of a cleaning job to take care of. My blood and brains all over the place.”

Marlene just grins. “Maybe blood, but not too much brains.” She traces the scarred metal with her fingers. “Shouldn’t take too long to repair this time, don’t you think?”

It comes to me.

“No,” I say. “We’re not going to repair it.”

“What?”

I touch the damaged metal as well. “No, we’re going to leave it. As a permanent reminder of what you and Vanessa went through—what all of us went through—and how we’ll never forget.”

Marlene nods. “Aren’t you full of all these philosophical surprises.”

Vanessa calls out, “Hey, who do you think’s been teaching him about philosophy?”

Marlene just shakes her head in amazement. “You two…get a room, okay? Or at least let me get out of here and leave you two be.”

The night before the memorial service Vanessa and I eat at the famed Dooky Chase’s Restaurant, and then go home and tumble into bed. Before falling asleep, she asks, “Do you plan on going to tomorrow’s service?”

“No,” I say, my head sinking into the pillow and my spirit sinking into sleep. “Too many people, too crowded, I’ll be just as happy watching it on TV.”

“But watching it on TV won’t be the same,” she gently protests, stroking my hair.

“I don’t care.”

She says something in reply but by then, I’m asleep.

I wake up and realize I’m alone.

The house is empty.

But I smell something delightful.

Fresh-brewed coffee.

I roll out of bed, yawning, check the time.

It’s just past 7 a.m., and in the kitchen, there’s a fresh pot of coffee.

And a handwritten note.

Hey, sleepyhead…

Since you want to slack off, Marlene and I are taking the truck to the Fair Grounds to join the morning celebration and sell some breakfast.

Watch things on TV if you want, but you’re welcome to join us.

And then, the best part of the note.

Love, always,

Vanessa

I pour myself a cup of coffee.

Love, indeed.

I go to my living room, plant myself on the couch, and switch on the TV. I spin through all of the news channels—like most everyone here in Crescent City, I’m sick of the 24/7 news coverage of the Mardi Gras attacks—and then I go to Turner Classic Movies, but at this moment, they’re between movies and are running old black-and-white serials, which I find boring.

Finally, I settle on a weather channel, and see a perky blonde outlining the day’s forecast, which is a relief from the past three days of wind and storms.

I half-listen to her little morning spiel, wondering if I should crawl back into bed, or should I do the grown-up thing and join Marlene and Vanessa, and that’s when it happens.

“…and it’ll be what they call CAVU for the vice president when his official aircraft lands at Naval Air Station Joint Reserve Base New Orleans in less than two hours.”

I sit still.

CAVU.

Why has that phrase struck me so hard?

I feel my old cop senses tingling, like the moment you get a tiny bit of forensic evidence that will break everything open and cast a wide spotlight, illuminating what has happened, and what might yet happen.

CAVU.

In aircraft pilot terms, CAVU means “Ceiling And Visibility Unlimited”…in other words, a perfect flying day.

Billy Needham’s voice comes to me:

We’ve just begun. Honest.

And a few moments later:

The sky’s the limit.

It hits me like a sledgehammer blow to my stomach.

The attacks a few days ago…just the opening act.

To get attention. Publicity. Lots of attention.

Now, the news media, the politicians, and nearly sixty-five thousand innocents will be gathering in a wide, open, and vulnerable park…

With Billy Needham, private pilot with lots of resources, waiting to strike again. The sky’s the limit.

I jump off the couch so fast I drop my coffee to the tiled floor, shattering the mug.

Chapter 94

NEARLY AN hour of white-knuckled driving later, I’ve reached my destination.

The horse farm of Emily Needham Beaudette.

Billy’s half-sister.

And home to wide and flat acres of grassland.

God, how could