The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,28

after ten hours of boring, fruitless waiting, my mind—and tongue—are starting to play tricks on me.

I take another bite, wondering how Marlene did today with the truck. I chickened out and texted her early this morning, telling her that my old aches and pains were still throbbing from my earlier baseball-bat-related energies, and that I was taking the day off.

Poor Marlene.

I glance back down the road at the modest red-brick bungalow I’ve been keeping my eye on all day. After my quick, sweet meeting with Vanessa, I spent most of the day working the phones, talking to old reliable sources and even some private investigators who owe me favors. Eventually my work paid off, and last night I managed to get a hold of the Farzats’ former landlord. After telling him I was from an insurance company, looking to pass on a settlement check to the family—making him eligible for a finder’s fee—he gave me their latest mailing address.

So here I am. But thus far, I haven’t seen a sign of either of them.

And I know it’s insane to focus all of my attention on him, but without any added info from Cunningham, for now, Farzat is all I got. And if I’m going to seriously surveil Farzat, tracking his comings and goings, mapping his network of associates, obviously I need to find the guy first.

Back when I was on the force, we used to hide motion-activated GPS sensors under the bumpers of suspects’ cars. That let us keep an eye on their movements from the comfort of, well, anywhere. Today, I don’t have that luxury. I can’t even pull up the state DMV records, so I have no way of knowing which of the beat-up cars parked on this quiet street are his.

So it’s back to basics. Putting in some quality “ass time,” as we used to call it. Waiting and watching. Twiddling my thumbs and crossing my fingers.

Hoping my silent phone eventually rings with something, anything, from Cunningham.

As I finish my sandwich, licking the sweet gravy off my fingers, I notice some movement. Not from the house. Behind me. A black SUV with tinted windows is cruising along, coming this way, headlights off. It slows ever so slightly as it passes Farzat’s home.

Holy shit.

I can’t see the plates, but I’d bet they’re government-issued. Could the FBI be out here tonight, too? Chasing Farzat just like I am?

I don’t have much time to think on that, because all of a sudden, I see more movement.

This time, from inside the house.

Then the outside light over the front door flicks on.

I snatch my Nikon D3400 camera from the console. I hurriedly focus its high-powered lens and hold my breath.

The bungalow’s front door slowly opens…and there they are, where they’ve been in that tiny home for as long as I’ve been sitting out here. Farzat and his wife, Rima. Both stepping out onto the porch. He’s carrying a large, lumpy black duffel bag. She’s berating him about something, dabbing her eyes, clearly upset.

I hold down the shutter button and take a flurry of digital pictures of the unhappy couple. I’d kill to have a long-range shotgun mic right about now—or the foresight to have hidden a tiny wireless bug somewhere on the Farzats’ porch.

Eventually, Rima gives up her pleading. She goes back into the house and slams the door. Farzat heads to one of the old rust buckets parked on the street. Bingo. He unlocks the trunk and places his duffel bag inside.

I pull out a tiny voice recorder—smaller than a pack of gum—that’s been resting in my shirt pocket. I press the little red button, slip it back inside my pocket, and speak: “White Ford Taurus, late nineties. License plate: Sierra Victor Hotel eight five two.”

If I had a partner with me, she’d be scribbling down these details while I kept watch. But tonight, I’ve got to do double duty. I’ve seen a lot of cops use the built-in voice memo function on their phones for stuff like this, but my trusty digital voice recorder has never let me down.

I keep snapping photos as Farzat gets behind the wheel. He looks different from the last time I saw him. His beard is longer. His curly hair is flecked with gray. He looks quite a bit older than his thirty years. And haggard. Haunted.

I can only imagine why.

When he starts his engine and drives off down the street, I start my own engine, but keep my headlights off.

As I put my car