The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,46

Even in the twilight and from this far away, I can tell her eyes are raw from crying.

This is going to be rough. But here goes. I go to her.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Farzat?” I say as tenderly as I can.

“Are you police?” she snaps, suddenly suspicious. “The press? What do you want from me?”

“I’m just a man looking for some answers. May I have a moment of your time?”

My habit would be to introduce myself and extend my right hand to shake. Instead, I say nothing, and place my right hand over my heart, a sign of courtesy toward a practicing Muslim woman. This seems to surprise Rima in a positive way, and earn me the tiniest shred of her trust. So I go on.

“My sincerest condolences over the loss of your husband,” I say. “From everything I’ve heard, he seems to have loved you very much.”

Rima’s face turns hard as granite.

“You seem to be misinformed,” she says sharply. “Ibrahim was a good man. A hard worker. A devout believer. But he was not a loving husband.”

“Every marriage has its difficulties,” I reply. “Take it from someone who knows.”

Her eyes flicker down to my left hand.

“You speak the truth, I see. You no longer wear the ring. A woman such as myself does not have that luxury.”

“That sounds incredibly hard. I’m very sorry. If I may ask, what made your union so rocky? Were there things Ibrahim did, people he associated with, places he went that you didn’t approve? For example…two nights ago?”

Rima gives her group of friends a subtle look. They exchange some words in hushed Arabic, then take a few steps away so she and I can speak more privately.

“I already told the police everything I could.”

“Which was?”

“Nothing. My faith teaches total loyalty to one’s husband. Absolute obedience. In life as well as in death.”

“Mrs. Farzat, that’s a noble ideal,” I say. “But I have very good reason to believe your husband was involved in a matter of grave national security.”

She looks like she’s about to spit on the cracked sidewalk. “You Americans and your ‘national security.’ As if those two words are magic that allows you to do whatever you please! For three terrible years we were trapped in Aleppo. Then three more we lived in a camp in Jordan before we could come here. All because of your precious national security. What about our security?”

“Mrs. Farzat, please…”

“What about my husband’s security?” she says, her voice getting sharper. “He is dead. Dead! And for what?!”

Rima is getting pretty worked up. I try to stay calm and steer her back on track.

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to find out,” I say, keeping my voice soft and level. “I can help find the men who hurt him, if you’d just tell me—”

“What little I know of my husband’s affairs…I will go to my own grave with before I say one word to you pigs.”

Now she spits on the ground, angrily turns, and starts off. Without thinking, I reach for her shoulder to stop her.

“Mrs. Farzat—”

“Do not touch me!” she exclaims, jerking away from me as if my fingers were a hot iron. “Leave me alone!”

I’m really trying to keep my cool here. But she’s not making it easy.

“There are lives at stake,” I say. “Do you understand that? Hundreds, maybe thousands. What about their security? If they die, their blood is on your hands!”

Finally, Rima stops. And hangs her head. Keeping her back to me, she seems to unzip her purse and rummage through it.

“Fine,” she says at last. “I do have something that might help.”

Rima spins back around—and sprays a brownish mist at my face.

“Aargh!” I exclaim as I duck and jerk backward, avoiding a direct hit. But plenty of the pepper spray still reaches my eyes, scorching them like an open flame.

Rima hurries to rejoin her friends. I lean over, rest my hands on my knees, and rapidly blink and squint and sniffle, the searing pain intensifying.

After what seems like several agonizing minutes—but is probably just a few seconds—I manage to get back to my car, where I pour some bottled water over my eyes to try and stop the stinging. I even manage to forget about my throbbing head and busted arms and fractured rib. Eventually, the last few days catch up with me, and I fall asleep.

When I wake up, it’s pitch black, and I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I take it out, manage to tap the right spot on the touchscreen