glitters in the midday sun like a disco ball. For some reason—unlike the night we first met—she’s wearing it.
“We…had a stupid fight this morning,” she says. “I told him how I’d stopped by your truck the other night. How you made me that amazing sandwich. Well, Lucas blew a gasket. He started yelling, calling me names. Told me I could never eat at Killer Chef again.”
“Gosh,” I say, with fake innocence. “I guess that means I don’t need to call him back and officially say no to his offer.”
That makes her laugh, but just for a moment. I want to say more but I bite my tongue. I’d love to see her leave that son of a bitch, but their marriage isn’t any of my business.
She goes on. “I told him he was acting crazy. That I could do whatever I wanted. That maybe I’d stop by your truck again today—out of spite. He actually threatened to drive around it in circles all morning if he had to. Can you believe that? In his stupid new Lamborghini, too. Sounds like a jet taking off. And he said if he saw me…”
One mystery solved, I think, as she trails off.
But seeing her face tighten with emotion, I decide to keep that thought to myself. I offer her a sympathetic shrug, along with the only kernel of romantic wisdom I absolutely know to be true.
“Marriage ain’t easy,” I say. “Believe me. I’ve been there.”
We cross Gravier Street and reach an entrance to Duncan Plaza. It’s a nice little park, an island of pleasant shade and open green space in this sea of office buildings. Inside the park, a group of rowdy schoolchildren are on a field trip, and a thirty-something father is gently throwing a foam football to his adorable toddler, playing catch, even though the foam toy bounces off the toddler’s giggling face.
“Want to walk through?” I ask. “And maybe toss that pigskin around?”
She grins at the cute scene, but hesitates.
“I should be getting back to LBD. We have our all-hands Monday meeting in an hour. Then I’m interviewing some new hostess candidates, there’s our new spring cocktail menu to approve—”
“Hey, I get it. You co-run a sixty-seat fine dining restaurant. I can barely handle a two-person food truck.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Killer Chef,” she says. “I think that place is pretty special.”
She turns to face me. She tucks a strand of blond hair behind her ear.
Then she leans in and pecks me on the cheek.
As she bashfully pulls away, I ask, “What was that for?”
“It was just a kiss, Caleb. Nothing more, nothing less.”
She smiles, spins, and heads back the way we came.
I stand still as I watch her go, my feet planted firmly on the sidewalk.
But I swear it almost feels like I’m floating.
Then I check my watch.
My two minutes has slid into fifteen.
I’m no longer floating.
I’ve got to get to work.
Chapter 21
THINK COOKING in the back of a truck can feel cramped? Try whipping up some grub in the front seat of a car.
I’ve been sitting behind the wheel of my car all day. My legs are tingling, my back is aching, and my stomach is growling something fierce. I forgot how much a stakeout could suck, especially when you’re doing it alone.
But now, it’s finally time for a delicious dinner. Have I earned it? Hell, yes.
I open the small red cooler sitting on the passenger seat, which I packed earlier with everything I need to assemble a legendary Killer Chef sloppy roast beef po’boy—or at least a close approximation. When I was a cop, younger and dumber, plastic-wrapped sandwiches from a gas station would take care of my hunger, but times—and my life—have changed.
First things first, I fire up my “stove,” a portable mini hotplate that plugs into my dashboard’s power jack.
As it heats up, I dump a scoopful of cooked, cooled, shredded roast beef into a small camping skillet. I sauté the meat in its own fat until it gets warm and juicy. My car soon fills with the tantalizing scent of garlic, onion, and Cajun spices. Once the beef is heated through, I carefully stack it onto a baguette. Then I drown the meat with “debris gravy”—made from simmered beef scraps—kept warm in a Thermos. Lastly, the fixings: sliced tomatoes, chopped cabbage, diced pickles.
The first bite of my creation is…divine. So is the second, the third, the fourth. I swear the sandwich is as good as if I made it in the truck. Although maybe