The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,2

and T-shirts. The palm trees lining Canal Street are gently swaying from the slight breeze. Anytime is a perfect time to visit New Orleans, if you ask me, but February can’t be beat, especially if you’re from some frozen place like Maine or Minnesota.

I start walking north away from my truck and ex-wife. After a few steps, I hear a metallic screeching and clattering coming up behind me. Turning back, I see a distinctive red and yellow vintage streetcar slowing down as it nears its next stop. If I broke into a jog, I could probably catch it. I’m going in that direction anyway. But I decide not to. I’m in no rush. Besides, I want to use the mile-and-a-half walk to do some thinking.

And ponder that visit from the Franklin Avenue Soldiers.

So I keep strolling, taking in all the sights and sounds. Preparations are well under way for Carnival, the two wild weeks leading up to Mardi Gras, the single greatest party on the entire planet—at least in my totally biased opinion.

It kicks off tonight and you can feel it in the air, see it everywhere you look. Shopkeepers have started hanging up purple, green, and gold streamers, flags, and other decorations in their windows. Eager, excited tourists have already begun trickling in. And at various key intersections around the city, the NOPD has started placing Delta barriers—big, white, mechanical traffic barricades that keep cars off designated parade routes and pedestrian paths. Things can get pretty crazy when the festivities are in full swing, but law, order, and safety are always top priorities.

Right now, I’m thinking about my own safety.

In more ways than one.

As I keep moving, scanning the streets for any lurking Franklin Avenue boys, I mentally rehearse how this whole thing is going to play out in just a short while.

I know what I saw. I know I did the right thing. And I know what I want to say.

So why do I still feel like I’m walking the plank?

Soon I’m hooking a left onto South Broad Avenue. I keep going until I cross Tulane—the thoroughfare, not the university. Up ahead is the Orleans Parish criminal court, one of the ugliest buildings in this otherwise beautiful city, a hideous concrete fortress surrounded by barbed-wire fences.

After I cross Gravier Street, my destination comes into view. Set back from the road by a wide courtyard, it’s a place I’ve spent hundreds of hours of my life and been a part of some extraordinary investigations. But today, the New Orleans Police Department headquarters feels different. Strange. Foreboding. Uninviting.

I consider whether to enter through one of its side doors, or maybe via the staff parking garage. Both would avoid a possible scene.

But that would also make it look like I had something to hide.

Screw that.

I take a final moment to compose myself. Then I march straight through the courtyard and up to the main entrance. As I expected, a flock of reporters is there waiting. They spot me, and the feeding frenzy begins. They’d all showed up at Killer Chef earlier, but Marlene screamed that she’d ban them from the truck forever if they didn’t leave us alone. That took care of them.

“Detective Rooney, Detective Rooney!” they yell. “Any last words before you—”

“Last words?” I ask wryly. “This isn’t an execution. Just a firing squad.”

A shout comes from the rear of the journalist scrum. “Is it true you’ve waived your right to have a police union official or other counsel represent you?”

“You’re looking at an innocent man,” I firmly say.

I’ve nearly reached the glass front doors. I’m almost inside. So the questions come even faster, in a frantic jumble, like they’re desperately trying to trip me up.

“What outcome are you expecting this afternoon, Detective?”

“How do you respond to critics who claim this whole proceeding is a sham?”

“Do you regret any of your actions?”

“Do you have anything to say to the victim’s family?”

Grasping the metal door handle, I turn back and face the thick throng of reporters, some I know intimately from investigations past. You’d think they’d show me some courtesy, some consideration, not be part of a baying pack eager to bring me down.

But you’d be wrong.

To them, I’m a story now. Strictly business. Nothing personal.

The reporters finally quiet down, waiting, their cameras and phones ready and rolling.

I want to say plenty. To everyone involved.

But not here. Not now.

I give the crowd a nod and head inside, knowing that when I eventually leave this huge building with so many memories, I