The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,35

sides of the street. Both are painted perfectly pristine white, with black wrought-iron gates facing each other. Lettering across the top reads, ST. VINCENT DEPAUL NO. 1 AND NO. 2.

“A graveyard?” she asks dubiously. “This is pure New Orleans?”

“Just trust me, okay?” I say. “Here, take my arm. And stay close.”

We toss our trash in a receptacle near one of the gates, then link elbows and enter this quiet, otherworldly place.

Hundreds of granite and marble mausoleums, many more than a century and a half old, branch out in every direction like a creepy, mind-bending maze. It’s a window back in time. Haunting, but also calming. And eerily beautiful.

“Oh, wow,” she whispers. She grasps my arm a little tighter as we amble through together, taking it all in.

“Some people feel sad when they visit a cemetery,” I say. “Like they’re surrounded by death. But to me, a place like this is a reminder. That each of us only gets one life. So we damn better live it to the fullest, every single day.”

She nods, contemplating that. “It’s a stretch, but seeing these tombs…it reminds me some of the medieval cathedrals. Exquisite pieces of architecture and art, celebrating our life here and our life afterward, when—”

Her phone rings, and instantly she grows frantic, rummaging for it through her purse.

“Shit, I’m sorry, that could be Lucas. I have to get it. If I don’t, he—”

“Hey, no problem,” I assure her as she finally finds her phone. I notice her hands are practically trembling as she puts it to her ear.

She turns her back to me. I take a few steps farther away to give her extra privacy. Still, I can make out snippets of what is obviously an unpleasant conversation.

“I swear I’m at the restaurant…you know I would never lie to you…can you please stop screaming at me? Of course I love you!”

When the call finally ends, she gives me a sullen, embarrassed look.

“I should probably get going,” she says. “But thanks for a great lunch, Caleb. And another lovely walk.”

“Vanessa,” I say, taking her arm again. “Look. I realize I barely know you. And it’s none of my business. But if Lucas is treating you half as bad as it sounds like—”

“You’re right,” she answers brusquely. “It’s none of your damn business.”

I drop both her arm and the issue and lead her out of the cemetery in silence. Back on the sidewalk, she doesn’t kiss my cheek. She barely even says good-bye.

I hope any FBI surveillance watching me is happy now, because I’m not.

Time to get back to work, and I don’t head to the Killer Chef truck.

Chapter 27

I THOUGHT I’d pass through the gates of hell before I walked through these doors again. But here I am.

The musty, glass-walled lobby of NOPD headquarters.

It’s been ten days since I stormed out of this place in a blaze of glory. But it might as well be years because it kind of feels like I’m visiting my old junior high school. The place seems smaller than I remember. Claustrophobic, even. Everything looks familiar, but feels a little strange.

Trying not to dwell on the memories crowding their way in, I make my way through the midday hustle and bustle. Past a plainclothes narcotics detective I vaguely recognize talking on his phone in heated Spanish. Past a two-bit defense lawyer in a rumpled gray suit conferring with his voluptuous female client, who I’d bet was caught turning tricks on Chartres Street. Past a pair of uniformed officers escorting a handcuffed drunk in a bloodied LSU hoodie, who’s thrashing about and rambling incoherently. What a zoo.

I reach the desk officer on duty, a ruddy guy whose uniform is at least one size too small for his portly frame. He’s the station’s gatekeeper.

“Help you?” he huffs, keeping an eye on the activity in the rest of the lobby.

I act casual, barely slowing down. “Just heading up to major crimes,” I say.

“Hang on. You got an appointment?”

“They’re expecting me.”

He holds up a hand and picks up his desk phone. “Who’s expecting you?”

I hesitate. I’m here to see Cunningham, who decidedly isn’t expecting me. In fact, he made it quite clear I should lay low and keep my distance. If this kid tips him off I’m here, my ex-chief won’t just refuse to meet me. He’ll blow a fuse. And toss me out. And short-circuit whatever progress I’ve made.

“Look, I used to be on the job,” I say. “Retired last week. I just want to—”

The officer scowls at me. “I