The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,19

I wanted.”

“I know the feeling,” I reply.

Vanessa smiles coyly. She’s about to take another bite, but instead she hesitates, then starts rewrapping the sandwich.

“I’m sorry to run,” she says softly. “But I told Lucas I was on my way home. I don’t want him to get worried…or, well, you know.”

Oh, right. For a minute there, I forgot Vanessa was married. To a total jerk. A wealthy jerk that could probably buy six of these food trucks with change found under his living room couch cushions.

“Hey, no problem,” I say. “I’m glad you stopped by to see me. Maybe we can—”

“I stopped by for a sandwich, Caleb,” she says briskly, her attitude turning chilly. “Nothing more, nothing less. Have a good night…and tell your partner I appreciate her working late.”

Vanessa turns and walks away, her slim shoulders slumped. I watch her for a moment, hoping she’ll glance back. Hoping she’ll give me a sign she’s interested in more than just my food.

But she doesn’t.

Chapter 16

I AM nothing if not a man of my word. I promised Marlene I’d clean our truck again, so that’s precisely what I do—and then some.

My grumpy ex-wife heads home a few minutes after Vanessa leaves, with one parting shot: “Poor big handsome Caleb. Thought his last-minute meal would save the princess. But the princess is going back to her troll, and you’re going to be stuck doing the dishes.”

I know she’s on the money—which I refuse to admit out loud—and I spend another hour wiping down the stove again, rewashing the pans and utensils, and re-sanitizing our prep station.

The next morning, I get up a whole hour early—still stiff and sore with my one-sided fight with a baseball bat—to give Killer Chef a good scrub on the outside, too. Since you can’t exactly drive a giant food truck through an automatic car wash, I park her on the curb in front of my colorful ranch house in Tremé—a funky, historic part of the city I just adore—to do it by hand. I fill an empty plastic trash can with soapy water, grab a long-handled mop, and get to it.

Soon the truck is dripping with suds, top to bottom. I’m dripping, too. This is harder work than it looks, but the predawn morning is cool and quiet, and I’m enjoying the solitude. A couple of the neighborhood kids who are also up early peer at me and give me big waves, and I wave back. When Killer Chef and his magical truck started parking here, I made a point of passing along leftovers to area families I knew were going through rough times.

But I did it right. I gave them my food with a slip of paper, saying I was doing test runs in my kitchen, and having their written reviews would help me out. It still works today, and you know what? They and their kids watch out for my truck, and not once has it ever been spray-painted, or broken into, or had the tires slashed.

I uncoil my garden hose and start spraying Killer Chef’s shrimp-and-crossbones logo with water, washing off the last of the soapy suds, when a couple of the kids across the street yell out, “Hey, mister, watch out! Watch out!”

I turn, and a man pops up from the other side of the truck, and I nearly turn the hose on his face full-force—thinking at least the cold blast of water would knock him back—but then I lower the hose and say, “Shit, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

It’s not Ty Grant, nor anyone from his posse, nor anybody wearing yellow, or even a reporter from the Times-Picayune or a TV crew looking for an ambush interview.

It’s my former boss, Chief of Detectives Brian Cunningham.

I lower the hose and he steps forward, saying, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Trying to save some face, I reply, “That’s not why I said ‘shit,’ Chief. Shit is what you look like.”

I hate to admit it, but it’s true. His eyes are red and droopy. His hair is all mussed up. His striped blue tie is stained and lying askew across his belly. And his dress shirt is so wrinkled it looks like a white raisin, and there are stains along his gray slacks legs. Even when we’ve worked some vicious and shocking murder cases in the past, going “balls to the wall” for days, I’ve never seen him like this.

“A week without sleep will do that,” he says. “Look, Caleb, I need to talk