The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,37

Farzat is low-level and if the FBI is tailing him, then I need something else, something new.”

“Christ, Caleb, I wish I could help,” he says. “I already gave you everything I know.”

I jerk my thumb behind me, toward the bull pen.

“What about what they know?” I ask. “There’s gotta be some new intel off the streets in the past seventy-two hours in the I & A’s, even if it doesn’t stand out.”

That would be “incident and arrest reports.” Detailed records of department call-ups, witness statements, officer observations. A treasure trove of data, if you know what you’re looking for.

“I went through them this morning,” he says. “Not much stood out, but I’ll take another look.”

He starts flipping through a stack of papers—without a whole lot of enthusiasm.

“A series of small explosions were reported in a parking lot in Versailles,” he says. “Officers found remnants of what appeared to be firecrackers, but forensics is running tests. An attempted break-in at a gun shop in Gentilly. A smashed window, but no firearms were stolen, referred to ATF. Early yesterday morning, an employee reported a man in a suspicious black vehicle casing a riverside industrial park in Pines Village, but the suspect had left the scene when officers arrived. And last night, a unit responded to reports of yelling in the courtyard of a mosque in the South Seventh Ward. But the imam refused the officers entry, saying the situation was being handled internally.”

He leans back in his chair, resigned. Any one of those incidents could be related to the Mardi Gras attack. Or none of them. Jesus, this is infuriating!

“I suggest you get back out there, Rooney. Keep doing whatever it is you—”

“Wait,” I interrupt.

My mind has been turning over the litany of crimes, desperate to find even a shred of a possible new lead in one of them. And maybe I just did.

“The third one you said. The Pines Village industrial park. What’s the address?”

Skeptically, he flips back through the file.

“6200 Lewis Road.”

“Neptune Premium Seafood?”

My former boss looks taken aback.

“You know it?”

“They’re a gourmet shrimp and crawfish processor,” I say. “I’m a gourmet chef who’s gotta be familiar with all my local supply options. Thanks for the tip, boss.”

I get up out of the chair and open the door, start hauling ass out of his office.

“What the hell does a seafood plant have to do with this?” he calls out as I’m nearly halfway across the bull pen.

Honestly, I’m not sure yet.

But I’m going to find out.

Chapter 29

THE DINNER shift has barely started and there’s already a line down the block.

Thankfully, this isn’t the queue for Killer Chef. I’m back in the Garden District—the home of LBD, Lucas Dodd, and the hauntingly beautiful Vanessa McKeon. Gorgeous stately mansions line every street, hidden behind lush oak trees swaying gently in the evening breeze. When folks say New Orleans has a hint of old-world magic in the air, this is what they mean.

I make my way to the front of the line and enter Petite Amie, an upscale but laid-back creole fine dining spot inside an old saloon—formerly of ill repute—painted the color of lemon meringue pie. The scene inside is elegant but lively. Servers haul food on silver platters to tables full of NOLA’s rich and fashionable. Antique crystal chandeliers dangle from the ceiling. In the corner, a brass jazz quartet plays a raucous and happy tune.

And I catch a glimpse through the swinging doors of the restaurant’s wiry, forty-six-year-old owner, Billy Needham, moving around like a ballet dancer performing before an appreciative audience. He opened this place a few years ago and it’s already become an institution.

Among the antique and contemporary prints in the foyer are photos of Billy with a number of celebrities, and a few aerial shots of New Orleans and the Garden District, and even a couple showing Billy in the cockpit of a small aircraft, wearing aviator sunglasses and radio earphones, grinning and giving a thumbs-up.

I step up to the charming young hostess dressed in black slacks and a black sleeveless blouse and preempt everything she’s about to say.

“I know,” I say. “I don’t have a reservation and you’re all booked up until Christmas. But I’m not here tonight to eat. I just want a few words with Billy.”

The hostess’s smile doesn’t waver, but she’s clearly thrown by my request.

“I’m afraid Mr. Needham is rather occupied at the moment. Can I pass along a message?”

“No, that’s all right,” I say. “I’ll be hanging out right over here