The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,32
not the smartest move. Word to the wise: When a team of federal law enforcement agents shows up at your doorstep unannounced in the middle of the night, it’s probably best to at least hear what they have to say.
I plaster on a polite smile, set the knife and phone on the counter, and open the door.
“Evening, Agent,” I say. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I’m standing face to face with a muscular, imposing African-American man of about forty-five. His head is as smooth as a cue ball, but a bristly black beard covers his sunken cheeks and chin. He flashes his FBI badge and glares at me. No, through me.
“Special Agent Marcus Morgan, Counterterrorism,” he nearly barks at me. “Let’s talk inside.”
I nod and step aside for the agent and his five-member team to enter.
“Welcome to New Orleans, by the way,” I say as I lead them all into the living room. Though there’s plenty of seating, they all remain on their feet. “But I’m guessing you’re not here for my restaurant recommendations?”
“Do you have any goddamn idea what you did tonight?” Morgan growls, hands on his hips.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re—”
“Your hanging around the house, then your little stunt at the junkyard? You set our investigation back weeks, Rooney. That’s time we don’t have to waste.”
Just as I thought. The FBI was out there tonight. Even worse, agents just stood by and watched as I got my ass handed to me. Unbelievable.
“I warned you people,” he continues, “to stay away from this thing. And this is exactly why!”
I shake my head in disgust.
“First of all, I’m not ‘you people,’” I point out. “I’m just your average Joe Citizen trying to protect the place I love most. And in just one afternoon, I made more progress than you have in—”
“We’d been casing that yard for months,” he interrupts. “Had it bugged top to bottom. If you hadn’t rolled up playing cops and robbers, spooked the whole lot of them, we’d…”
He trails off. The frustration in his eyes is real. But so is the concern. The fear. So much so, it starts to rub off on me.
“I had no idea you guys had gotten there before me,” I reply gently. “Who were those guys? What were they—”
“Stop, Rooney,” he insists. “Just—stop. Go back to flipping burgers or whatever the hell you now do. There’s more at play here than you could ever imagine.”
“So read me into it!” I demand. “I’m not interested in a pissing contest, Agent Morgan. Let me help you. I know this city and its players and—”
“You really want to help us? Then stay the hell away.”
He steps forward. His gaze bores into me. I return it in kind and don’t flinch. But neither does he.
At last he asks, “Am I clear, Detective? Or should it be chef?”
Swallowing my fury, I answer, “Perfectly, either way.”
He signals to his team that it’s time to leave. They stream out as silently as they entered, heads bowed like monks. After locking and bolting the front door, I listen to their caravan of black SUVs roar away into the night.
Gently, I touch the welt on the side of my head. It still hurts, but already the swelling and pain are starting to go away. I hope it heals quickly.
I also hope he bought my performance just now.
Because there’s no way in hell I am backing down. Knowing how close I came tonight, and what’s at stake, I’m just getting warmed up.
Chapter 25
THE NEXT morning, I arrive at Killer Chef to find Marlene outside, leaning over an ice-filled trough and filling it with plastic bottles of Big Shot.
“Huh,” she says, as she shoves in another bottle. “Wouldja look at what the catfish dragged in.”
If you’re not from the Big Easy, you’ve probably never heard of Big Shot. But if you are, you know it’s a locally made soda, beloved for its funky flavors like red crème and pineapple blue bayou. It’s fun and fizzy and the opposite of fancy. Which is why it’s the only beverage we sell.
“I thought you’d be happier to see me,” I say, shambling toward my ex. I’m still feeling stiff and achy from last night’s brawl, on top of my wounds from the assault in the parking garage. Getting attacked with a baseball bat and a crowbar inside of a week will have you moving slower than usual. “An extra pair of hands and all.”
“Extra? Caleb, we’re partners—not in matrimony anymore, thank God, but