The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,39

I play along.

“There he is!” I say, rising and pulling him into a bear hug. “Billy, you outdid yourself. Thank you. Your food is incredible. Fresh, complex, inventive…wow.”

“I’m very glad to hear that, Caleb. I hope my team took good care of you. It’s not every day a celebrity food truck owner walks through our door.”

I ignore that little dig and reply, “I have good reason. Got a few minutes to talk?”

He scrunches his face. “Maybe another time. I’ll have my assistant call you, we’ll set something up. Sometime after Mardi Gras, of course. You know how busy—”

“Enough, Billy,” I say, gripping his shoulder with menace. “No more games. Please. Sit. I insist.”

And he does just that.

Chapter 30

LOOKING INSULTED yet intrigued, Billy complies. Once we’re seated, I pull my chair a bit closer and lean in. It’s a classic interrogation technique. A way to build trust.

With a possible suspect.

“How do you and your family find the energy?” I ask. “Seems like every time I look, one of you is opening another eatery.”

“My one and only sister, Emily, maybe,” he says. “Our cousin David for sure. My main focus is Petite Amie and taking flying lessons when I can. Those two are the ones who keep pushing to expand the family empire.”

“And not just brick-and-mortar restaurants,” I say. “The food blogs have been saying your family’s been getting into the vertical integration game lately. Investing in an organic beet farm in Paulina. A cruelty-free chicken hatchery in Hammond. A seafood processing plant in Pines Village. Do I have that right?”

I watch his reaction closely. But he doesn’t betray a thing.

He says, “Sure. The more you can control your supply chain, the more you can control quality. And your bottom line. At least that’s how they see it.”

“It sounds like you disagree.”

“Me?” he says. “Look around. I’m a foodie at heart. Not a corporate raider. So if that’s what you wanted to talk about, Caleb, sorry. Looks like you picked the wrong Needham.”

“So just to be clear,” I say, “that farm, that hatchery, that seafood plant—you’re telling me you don’t have a financial stake in any of them?”

He says, “I don’t think so. But I wish I could say for sure.”

I give him a quizzical look. What kind of successful business owner doesn’t know what’s in his own portfolio?

“What I’m telling you,” he says, talking like an elementary school teacher explaining an atom to a dull student, “it is possible I own some tiny piece of them. The Needham family’s finances are complicated. Eighty-five years in the food business in this city. Four generations. Dozens of children, cousins, spouses, ex-spouses—who haven’t always seen eye to eye. I’ve lost count of all the lawsuits and arbitrations and settlements we’ve been through. Our money’s tied up in more joint trusts and ‘portable fiduciary instruments’ than there are crawfish in the Gulf.”

I see what he’s getting at. “I bet that makes for some awkward conversations at Thanksgiving.”

“I wish,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s gotten so bad, a lot of us can’t even be in the same room together. Forget sitting down at the same table at the holidays.”

I touch his arm in sympathy. Another interrogation trick.

“I’ve heard rumors to that effect,” I say. “I’m sorry to learn they’re true.”

He lowers his voice and somberly shakes his head.

“If you knew the half of it, Caleb…you’d be more than sorry. You’d be worried. You might even be telling some of your police buddies.”

Oh? My ears prick up at that. I try not to show it, but I’ve subtly moved to the edge of my seat.

“What do you mean?”

“Over the years…I’ve heard some of my relatives accuse one another of theft. Embezzlement. Money laundering. Bribes. Some have even…tossed around threats of violence.”

“Violence?” I ask. “Okay, now I am getting a little worried, Billy.”

He’s about to say something, but stops himself. And backpedals, like he’s realized he’s admitted too much.

“Look, you used to be a cop,” he says, sounding distressed. “You know what people are like. David says stupid things in the heat of the moment. Things he doesn’t mean. If I thought for one second anybody in my family would ever actually act on their words…”

His tone suddenly changes from rueful to cheerful.

“But enough about our dirty laundry,” he says, sitting up. “I’m sure this is boring you to death.”

Quite the opposite, of course. But it’s clear he wants to drop the subject. So I don’t press it. I’ve already learned plenty.

“I know you need to get