The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,49

after how we left things at the cemetery. I gotta admit, I was worried I wouldn’t be seeing you for a while.”

She looks away from our ruined truck, gives me a wide smile that makes me forget the damaged truck, all my aches and pains, and my smelly and sweat-stained clothes.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you, Caleb,” she says. “You don’t need to be a star detective to figure out things with me and Lucas are…complicated. But lately…”

She trails off as she looks back at the truck, her face pale with concern.

I know exactly what she’s thinking, too. Because just a few hours earlier, I had the same thought myself.

“There’s no way your husband could have done this,” I assure her—even though I know full well it’s completely possible. Maybe even probable.

And on some level, she probably does, too. But she seems to appreciate my words anyway. So much so that she claps her hands, instantly brightening up.

“You guys are probably starving!” she says. “Let me order you and Marlene some breakfast. From anywhere in the city. My treat.”

“That’s really nice of you,” I say. “But we actually have more food right now than we know what to do with. Everything that was in our prep fridge—if we don’t eat it in the next day or two, it’ll go bad.”

She deflates and I feel like kicking myself. A wonderful, beautiful, and complicated woman wants to do me and my ex-wife a favor, to show her concern and appreciation, and I just answered like a cold-hearted accountant, measuring the worth of prepped food and how it shouldn’t be wasted.

Idiot.

She seems to shake off her disappointment and steps closer to me.

“Well, maybe another night,” she says. “And maybe…just the two of us?”

I’m about to respond with an unqualified affirmative—and even a dig or two at Lucas’s expense—when I hear the grumble of a diesel engine and the hiss of a set of air brakes. The flatbed tow truck Marlene called is turning onto our street.

Sometimes, after misfortune strikes, it’s hard to see the silver lining.

But other times, it’s literally standing right in front of you.

“Another night, just the two of us,” I repeat, warmly. “It’s a date.”

And I love the confirming smile she sends in my direction.

Chapter 39

ORDINARILY, I’D be out for blood.

After what happened to Marlene and our truck, I’d be turning over every stone. Leaning on old informants. Paying visits to old nemeses. Dropping everything else until I found the sons of bitches that dared lay a finger on the two things I hold dearest.

Then I’d make them pay.

But these aren’t ordinary times. Right now, my priorities are guided by simple arithmetic. The fact is, getting revenge against a few has to take a backseat to stopping an attack against many.

So here I am, one hundred miles northeast of New Orleans’ city limits, speeding along an empty rural highway in the middle of nowhere.

“In one hundred feet, you will arrive at your destination,” chirps my GPS.

But I have a hunch that’s premature. Sure enough, when I reach the address I’ve plugged in, I see nothing but a hidden country road marked PRIVATE. I turn onto it and keep going, down an endless gravel pathway lined with weeping willows.

Finally, my actual destination comes into view: a breathtaking plantation-style mansion, ringed by a spiked iron fence, surrounded by endless green fields and stables both near and far.

I drive up to the imposing metal gate. On the video callbox is a single button labeled BEAUDETTE in fancy cursive. I press it. I smile into the camera. I wait.

After a moment, the gate automatically opens inward.

As I pull up to the magnificent house, I see a handsome middle-aged woman with long brown hair standing by the front door, hands on her hips. Her fair skin has that glow that fabulously rich peoples’ skin tends to have. And she’s dressed in full equestrian getup: white blouse, navy riding jacket with tails, leather boots. The whole scene looks like something out of a high-end catalog spread.

Her name is Emily Beaudette. She’s Billy Needham’s half-sister. David Needham’s cousin. Fellow family investor.

And she may be my last hope for learning the truth about her messed-up family.

“You’re early, Detective,” she snaps as I get out of my car.

“How can I be early, Ms. Beaudette?” I cheerily answer. “You told me not to come at all.”

I give her a friendly grin. Not surprisingly, it doesn’t change the pinched expression on her face.

“Exactly,” she says, voice determined. “My lawyer said I