The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,33

in this little endeavor we call Killer Chef. Or have you forgotten? Lately, that’s how it feels.”

“Marlene, I—”

Then she gives me a good look and is startled, gently touching the fresh welt on the side of my head that my hair doesn’t fully cover.

“What the hell happened to you?” she asks. “Run into blondie’s angry husband?”

“Nope,” I say, walking away from her and entering the rear of the truck, as she follows me.

“You gonna tell me what happened to that thick head of yours? You’ve already had one concussion this week. Are you okay? Was it the Franklin Avenue crew?”

I wish, I think. That would be a nice change of pace.

I shrug, grab a knife from the counter, get ready to start the morning’s food prep. “It wasn’t the Franklin Avenue boys.”

“Caleb…”

I say, “Look, Mar, I can talk or start working. I’d rather start working before the line starts heading down the street.”

She mutters something in anger and joins me in getting ready for the day.

Marlene is right to be angry, and to her point, I had been planning to bail on my brunch shift again this morning so I can continue my investigation. But after Morgan tore me a new one last night, I figured I should at least make it look like I was backing off. If he’s smart, he posted a plainclothes agent outside my house this morning to make sure I was keeping my word. At least that’s what I would do.

After tossing a few jalapeños down my gullet, I set about chopping veggies for the busy morning ahead. But my mind is a million miles away. I turn over the events of last night for the umpteenth time, searching for any clue I might have missed, groping for any lead I can follow up next.

There’s no way I can ever get that close to Farzat again without the feds taking me down. And who were those three goons who attacked me last night? I don’t have a clue.

But maybe that’s the silver lining in all this. Farzat’s not some untraceable lone wolf after all. He’s working with a group. And one thing I learned from years of doing battle with gangs: The more people who know a secret, the higher the chance one of them will spill it.

I’m jolted out of my thoughts by the thunderous revving of a car engine, and the angry beep-beep-beep-beeeeeep of a horn.

I shake my head. Is Lucas Dodd seriously driving circles around my truck again? What a petty, pathetic little man—who definitely doesn’t deserve such a wonderful wife.

I try to ignore this automotive distraction and refocus on my food prep. But when it continues for a solid thirty seconds, I angrily set my knife down and step out of the rear of the truck. It’s time I gave this dude a piece of my mind. And maybe my fists, too.

But when I get outside, I don’t see a blue Lamborghini at all. Instead, the noise is coming from an older-model white Lexus with shiny chrome rims idling across the street. And inside are four guys in yellow T-shirts, hoodies, hats.

Well, well.

My old friends are back.

After lying low these past few days, they’ve returned. In broad daylight. And they’re here to send me a very clear warning: A gangbanger never forgets.

Great. As if I didn’t already have enough shit to deal with.

I stand there on the sidewalk glowering back at these knuckleheads. I want to send them a clear message, too. They don’t scare me. And never will.

Finally, my one-way staring contest ends. They start to whoop and holler, flash a mix of gang signs and one-finger salutes my way, then peel out.

“I see your fanboys have returned,” Marlene says as I reenter the truck. “Why didn’t you go over and drop off something for them? Like a cup of hot grease?”

I ignore her violent yet attractive suggestion and check my watch.

“Why don’t we open up a little early. I’ve got some more…errands to run this afternoon,” I say.

Marlene says, “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

I say, “Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course I can,” she says.

“Good for you,” I reply, and she tries to kick me like yesterday, and I jump back.

Sure enough, our first few hungry patrons soon appear—locals who share social media notes and texts when our truck is spotted—and are delighted to find us already open. The shift gets busy, fast—until about twenty minutes before closing time, when I notice Marlene has stopped calling out