The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,36

know who you are. But you’re not getting by without a good reason.”

I consider backing away and just hanging around the lobby until Cunningham inevitably passes through. But that could take hours, precious time I can’t afford to waste. So instead, I decide to answer straight up. If my old chief gets pissed off that I’m here and turns me away, that’s on him. But before I do…

“Rooney?” says a deep voice behind me.

I turn around and see Sergeant Kevin Spearman waddling over. Years ago, when I first joined the force, he was a SWAT platoon leader, as cocky as he was fit—until a training injury landed him behind a desk for good. Since then, he’s put on at least seventy pounds, but hasn’t lost one ounce of arrogance.

“I didn’t think you’d have the balls to step foot in here again,” he says, giving me a locker room–style tap on the ass. “Unless it was to beg for your pension back. On your knees.”

“That reminds me, Kev,” I shoot back. “How’s your wife doing?”

Spearman briefly sets his jaw in anger, then forces a laugh. “Funny guy.”

“I’m trying to get upstairs to see my old CO,” I say. “Can you get me inside?”

Spearman hesitates for a moment, and then whatever good nature that still exists in that flabby mind rises to the occasion. He nods, first at me, then the desk officer, who lets me pass.

I take the elevator to the fourth floor, like I’ve done hundreds of times before. Trying to keep a low profile, I stalk through the major crimes bull pen, exchanging only the briefest of hellos with the handful of surprised former colleagues who notice me. I also take the long way to Cunningham’s office, bypassing my old desk. The only thing worse than seeing it bare would be seeing somebody else sitting at it.

Cunningham’s door is open, but he’s sipping coffee from a paper cup and has his head buried deep in a stack of papers. I give the frame a firm knock. My old chief looks up—and practically spits out his steaming beverage in furious disbelief.

I step inside and shut the door, just as he swallows, wipes his mouth, and stammers, “Are you kidding me, Rooney?”

“Nice to see you too, Chief,” I say, sitting down in front of him. “We need to talk, and there’s no kidding involved.”

Chapter 28

CUNNINGHAM RISES from his desk and starts pacing around his office like he wants to step out and leave me and my problems behind.

“Whatever this is about, it better be worth the risk you took,” he says. “If Morgan finds out that you barged in here, if he suspects you’re sniffing around his case—”

“He already knows,” I say, leaning back in the chair, my folded hands across my belly.

He places a hand to his forehead, sits down heavily in his chair.

“Christ, Caleb!” he says, practically moaning. “I told you to be…I thought you knew what you were doing!”

“I do know what I’m doing, Chief,” I say. “That’s why he knows. Yesterday I tracked down a guy that’s come up on our radar before.”

“Who’s that?”

“Ibrahim Farzat,” I say. “A Syrian refugee we arrested last year for disorderly conduct and resisting arrest.”

“Wait a sec,” he says. “The guy that worked as a dishwasher at Bea’s?”

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s the one. He posted some nasty jihad stuff online and we passed it on to Homeland Security, and they basically said, don’t worry, be happy. But I didn’t have anything else to work with so I tailed him last night.”

“Good,” he says. “What happened?”

“I followed him from his house to some kind of secret meet-up at a scrapyard near the Industrial Canal, along with a few other apparent fellow travelers. He even double-backed to avoid being tailed but I managed to keep up with him. Then things got interesting.”

“Interesting how?”

I brush away a lock of hair to reveal the welt on the side of my head from that crowbar strike, still red and swollen. He winces.

“An hour later, Morgan was at my door. Apparently, the feds were at the scrapyard, watching as well. Morgan practically threatened to beat my ass himself if I tried to get close to Farzat again.”

“So what’s Farzat up to?” he asks. “Is he the sleeper cell leader? The mastermind behind the attack?”

I shake my head.

“My gut says he’s low-level, Chief,” I say. “A pawn. During my tail last night, he stopped at a Mickey D’s to make a food run. That’s not what a mastermind does.