The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,41

But that other fellow you mentioned…”

He means Farzat. Whose name he’s smart enough not to mention over an open phone line.

“I heard over the scanner that the police just caught him.”

“That’s great!” I say. “Thanks, Andrews. That’s the best news I could have heard. What station are they booking him at?”

“No, Caleb,” he says. “You don’t understand. They caught his body. Homicide.”

Chapter 32

IT TAKES a few seconds for Gordon’s words to sink in.

The lead suspect in my investigation just turned up dead.

Normally I wouldn’t much mourn the passing of a would-be terrorist. But in this case, there’s nothing good about it at all. If Farzat had been killed, say, in a shootout with federal agents, that would be one thing. A positive sign that Morgan’s team was closing in, tightening the noose. If he accidentally blew himself up constructing a bomb, that would be even better news. An indication the guy was an amateur, not an expert.

Instead, Farzat’s body has been found fully intact. And is currently in the custody of the New Orleans PD. Which means, somehow, the FBI lost his trail.

Then somebody else found him first.

And decided to shut him up.

But who? And why?

I throw my car back into Drive and speed to the address Gordon gave me, on Tricou Street in the Lower Ninth Ward. It’s only a twelve-minute ride from the French Quarter, but the place might as well be another planet. This is the neighborhood made famous—infamous—for bearing the brunt of that bitch Katrina. When the levees broke, water surged into this low-lying area, swallowing up whole blocks. Its recovery has been miraculous, but imperfect. Today, a dozen years later, the Lower Ninth is still pocked with crumbling homes and abandoned lots. Residents complain of stubborn blight and lingering crime. Murders aren’t common, but they’re not unheard of.

Let’s see what I can learn from this one.

As I near the scene, I see flashing red-and-blue bubble lights. Turning onto Tricou, there’s an NOPD cruiser parked diagonally in the middle of the road, blocking further access. Beyond it, yellow crime-scene tape hangs between trees and lampposts like limp clothesline. It rings a small, decrepit house with boarded-up windows and a rotting roof that looks like it could collapse at any second.

I park and step out—and start looking for my way in.

I see a few uniformed cops and plainclothes detectives milling around the perimeter. Thankfully, I don’t spot any black SUVs or suited federal agents on the scene. Which means the feds haven’t taken it over yet. But they will. Trust me. Morgan is probably on his way here at this very moment. If I have any chance whatsoever of getting a look inside that house, I’ve got to move fast.

Approaching the building from the side, I get as close as I can before the officer, her brown hair pinned in a tight bun, spots me and holds up her hand.

“Sir, I’m gonna need you to step back, please.”

“I’m a licensed private investigator,” I lie. “Who’s OIC this morning?”

That would be the scene’s “officer in charge.” Typically, the primary responding detective, he or she is the one with full discretion over who has access to the premises. There’s a decent chance I might know the guy, and could ask a favor.

Instead, the cop replies firmly, “Sir, I told you to step back.”

No dice. Swallowing my resentment, I walk around to a different part of the crime scene perimeter. As I near the home’s sagging front porch, I spot my opportunity.

Exiting the front door is a bespectacled African-American man who could pass for James Earl Jones’s fraternal twin. He’s wearing a navy jumpsuit, orange felt booties over snakeskin loafers, and an irritated expression. Behind him are two similarly dressed assistants wheeling a stretcher with a body bag on it. An empty body bag.

“Morning, Quincy,” I call out to him.

The man’s face registers pleasant surprise. Dr. Quincy Johnson, the Orleans Parish deputy coroner, is an old friend I’ve worked dozens of crime scenes with over the years. He pivots and heads my way.

“Rooney!” he calls out with a booming voice. “I thought you’d gotten out of the murder business,” he says, ducking under the yellow tape. He peels off his latex gloves and extends a hand.

“Old habits die hard,” I answer.

Quincy darkens and replies somberly: “Not as hard as the vic in there.”

His words fill me with dread. Here’s a man who’s handled hundreds of grisly homicides over multiple decades. He’s truly seen it all. That he’s even the slightest