The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,26

going on with you?”

“I tried to tell you twice…and you just grunted back at me. So what’s up? Still thinking about that married blonde?”

“No,” I say. “Just trying to get the prep work done. Sorry. What were you saying?”

She slaps me on my butt. “Fool. Just told you that don’t forget, we’re doing brunch…so don’t prep so many veggies, okay?”

I go back to work.

And at some point, I notice the obnoxious growl of a passing sports car. All morning it’s been vrooming up and down Loyola Avenue, the six-lane boulevard where we parked the truck today. This is the fourth time in the last hour. The first three times, I just ignored it. But I can’t any longer. It takes a special kind of asshole to rev his V10 engine like that again and again, to ruin an otherwise lovely day for no reason.

But then I start to wonder: Does it have something to do with me?

A Franklin Avenue gangbanger could never afford wheels like that—unless they were lifted. Maybe the driver is trying to send me a message. A warning. Just like the other night with those three gangbangers standing quietly and deadly in line.

I crane my head to look through the service window as the vehicle tears past. I get just a glimpse of it, a shiny blue Lamborghini Huracán—not the best name of a car to be driving through New Orleans, if you ask me. It’s a convertible with the top down, but I can’t make out the driver.

What can be done?

Nothing.

A line starts to form outside, and I go back to work.

Once my shift ends and our last customer is fed, I start wiping down the stove and scouring my pans and utensils as fast as I can. I’m anxious to get back out on the streets, and I’m thinking maybe I shouldn’t have come to work today. These hours of chopping, frying, and sautéing are hours I should have been out on the streets, helping out Cunningham and the NOPD as quietly as I can.

But how could I have done that without tipping off Marlene that something’s up?

“Hey,” I say to her as I take off my apron. “I’ve got a couple of errands to run, Mar, so the rest of the day is yours.”

“Really?” she shoots back. “Will your pants be coming off during any of these errands?”

I ignore her and get ready to leave when she says, “Wow, talk about coincidences, hot stuff. Looks like your quote, errand, unquote, is already here.”

I look out the window.

It’s Vanessa.

She’s dressed casually in dark jeans and a red blouse, and gives me a friendly wave. Once again, her presence is a total surprise. A pleasant one, but still…

I step out of the truck. “Hey,” I say. “You sure have a knack for timing.”

“Is now not good?”

“I just wish you’d shown up ten minutes earlier. We’re closed again. And I can’t really stick around right now.”

Her cheery expression fades a bit, like she’s used to being disappointed by the men in her life. “Oh. Sorry. I understand.”

“But what’s up?”

“I guess I should have called first, but, I was hoping…”

She trails off, hesitant and a little uneasy. She absently twirls the fringe of her crimson blouse. Despite what I need to do right now, I’m curious.

“You were hoping what?”

“I was hoping…we could take a little walk.”

Shit.

I check my watch. Two minutes. I’ll give her two minutes.

“Okay, let’s go for a walk.”

Soon we’re strolling down Loyola Avenue. It’s a busy commercial strip, and we pass throngs of people. Most are office workers dressed in suits and ties, but plenty are tourists and Carnival revelers wearing costumes and masquerade masks.

But how safe will they be in just a few days?

“You grew up here, right?” she asks. “So this is all…normal to you?”

“Born and raised, so yeah, somewhat normal,” I answer. “You a transplant?”

“I’ve lived here for a couple years so I’m still getting used to it,” she says. “I’m originally from a little town on Long Island, Glen Cove.”

“Really?” I ask. “Then how come you don’t have one of those funny ‘Lonk I-land’ accents?”

“A New Orleanian making fun of an accent?” She smiles and shakes her head. “But wear me out—when I get tired you’ll start to hear it.”

“Oh, sure. Your husband would love it if I did that.”

I meant it as a flirty joke, of course. But her smile fades fast.

“You didn’t see him today, did you?”

“Lucas? No. Why?”

Her eyes flicker down to her wedding ring. Its massive diamond