The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,11

backtracks and hooks a left down Exchange Place, a narrow alleyway between two buildings painted salmon-pink and canary-yellow.

I stay on his tail the whole time. This little passageway finally spits us out onto Iberville Street, a more bustling thoroughfare jammed with noisy revelers, zooming bicyclists, and not one, but two, roving jazz brass bands.

He steals a quick glance back at me as we keep weaving through the crowds toward Royal Street. Which is when my lungs start burning and my legs start going wobbly. No, I can’t lose him, I won’t…

But the next thing I know, he’s gone!

Damnit!

I frantically survey the busy intersection, looking for any sign of him.

Nothing.

I need a better view.

With no hesitation, I step up onto a fire hydrant, take a second to get my balance, then leap up and grab the bottom bar of a metal fence lining the second-floor balcony of a private apartment building. Grunting and straining, using every ounce of upper-body strength I’ve got, I slowly pull my way up and over.

Using these few seconds to catch my breath as well, I look out from this elevated position on the masses below, scanning all of them like a hawk hunting for his prey.

There he is!

Running down Royal Street. I scurry along the balcony as far as it goes…then jump across to the next metal balcony nearly abutting it…and then another.

When I run out of balconies, I have no choice but to take a leap of faith. Literally. I spot a green plastic awning and jump down onto it, hoping to use it like a giant slide to ease my fall.

No luck.

I crash right through the tarp and tumble onto the pavement, hard.

It hurts like hell, but I pick myself right back up and keep going, as the crowd backs away, camera flashes nearly blinding me as my long chase is recorded.

Ahead of me the suspect finally begins to slow down as he starts running out of steam. So I push myself a little bit more, with my chance to tackle the perp coming up.

I’m only a few yards away from him when he makes a sharp left into the covered driveway of a parking garage. I follow him, thinking maybe he has a car or truck parked inside.

He heads up the darkened ramp then comes to a stop up against a gated partition. There’s nowhere left for him to run.

“Put your hands where I can see them!” I shout, slowly stepping toward him.

I sure do wish I had my old gun and badge on me right about now—instead of just an apron with a meat thermometer tucked in the pocket. Or even a radio so I could call for backup. “Put down the purse, get on your knees, and—”

I feel a sharp whack against the back of my skull, which sends me tumbling forward.

I grunt as I hit the garage floor, and grunt again as another impact strikes me on my right ribs. I hear a crunch, and the pain comes sharp and hot and steals the breath right out of me.

Moaning in agony, I roll to my side and look up. My vision is a little blurry, but I can make out three figures standing over me.

Franklin Avenue Soldiers. Each one, even inside the poorly lit parking garage, is clearly wearing a yellow article of clothing. One is holding a metal baseball bat: Ty Grant.

“‘Put your hands where I can see ’em,’” he parrots. “Shit, Rooney…is that what you say to every gangbanger before you shoot ’em? Including my brother?”

He takes another swing at me, straight for my head. I flinch and reflexively block it with my left hand—which almost goes numb from the impact.

“Jesus Christ, Ty!” I yell. “Are you crazy? You’re gonna kill a cop in the middle of the French Quarter during Carnival?”

Ty laughs, snorts, then hocks a wad of spit and mucus right at my face.

“I ain’t gonna kill you,” he says, smiling. “But you ain’t a cop no more, neither.”

He gives my unprotected gut one final, brutal blow. Then he nods to his goons, and the four of them—including the alleged purse-snatcher—scram.

As I watch them scuttle down the ramp and back outside on the street, my pain peaks and then throbs away as I black out.

Chapter 11

“AND ARE we celebrating anything this evening, monsieur et madame?” the voice says.

I’m sitting at a table with a crisp white tablecloth and clusters of plates, silverware, and glassware. Marlene is sitting next to me, and turns to the stuffy maître