The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,50

shouldn’t say one word to you people. That I have nothing to gain and everything to lose. Not that I have anything to hide, of course. It’s just that—”

“Hang on,” I say, stepping up onto her wraparound front porch. “Us people? You mean the cops already tried to talk to you?”

“It wasn’t the police,” she says. “It was the FBI. They drove their parade of black SUVs right up to my front gate yesterday, just like you did. I turned them away.”

“And yet,” I say with another wry smile, “you buzzed me through. Why?”

She seems to stand a bit taller and answers, “You asked for my help. They showed up unannounced and demanded it. Then started making threats. If I didn’t turn over my corporation’s complete financial records, I could expect a lifetime of audits. Or worse.”

Interesting. So the feds have been sniffing around the Needham family properties and finances, just like I thought. I’m dying to know what they were looking for. And what Emily—and her company ledgers—might reveal.

My hundred-mile road trip looks like it just might pay off.

“I’m really sorry they came after you like that,” I say.

Then I step closer to this woman and speak more firmly.

“But I’m not asking for your help anymore, Ms. Beaudette,” I say. “I’m begging for it. There are lives at stake here. More than you can imagine. I don’t give a damn about catching tax evaders. I’m trying to stop another kind of bad guy—one that starts with a ‘T.’”

Her eyes subtly widen, in either concern or defiance. I can’t tell.

“Oh, please,” she whispers. “But…I’m just a hospitality industry financier.”

She spreads her arms, gesturing to her sprawling property.

“And a horse sanctuary owner. I don’t see how I could possibly help. No, Detective Rooney. I—I’m sorry, but no.”

Shaken, she takes a step backward and starts to head inside.

I’m losing her; my window here is closing. How can I possibly get her to change her mind and open up?

Then I get an idea.

“Let me be the judge of that, Ms. Beaudette, on what kind of help you can provide.”

She stops. “You want to judge me and my family, then?”

“No,” I say. “I’m just looking for some kind of evidence. A trace. Hint of something untoward.”

She stares at me.

“You’re asking me for a lot.”

I answer her truthfully. “I know.”

“And what can you…give me for this exchange?”

Give to her? Good question. Money? Yeah, right. A lifetime free meal ticket for Killer Chef? While she might enjoy the food, she’s not the type to stand in line under the hot sun with tourists and scruffy locals.

Then, seeing her stables once again, it comes to me.

“How about an afternoon of amusing entertainment?”

That seems to intrigue her. A smile appears—and then disappears.

“Amusing entertainment?” she asks. “I certainly could use something to lighten up my spirits. What do you have in mind?”

“The two of us go on a horseback ride, and I ask a couple of questions. Deal?”

“What’s so amusing about that?”

“You’ll quickly find out.”

That appearing and disappearing smile returns.

“Tell me, then, Detective Rooney,” she asks. “Have you ever ridden a horse before?”

“Sure,” I say. “But only if a carousel counts.”

The smile comes back and stays.

“Perhaps it does,” she says. “Let’s find out.”

Yes, I want to shout.

This should be…interesting, because I’ve never ridden a real horse in my life.

But if I have to take my first ride on a horse to get more information, I’ll happily take the risk.

Chapter 40

THE STABLES on Emily’s property are as impressive as her home. Together, we enter a soaring U-shaped wooden structure containing dozens of horses and twice as many trainers and staff. I try to keep my nerves at bay as she leads me to a freshly hayed corner stall that holds a beautiful mocha-colored mare.

“This is Gladys,” she says. “One of our older residents. A little slow, but gentle as a lamb. Do you prefer English style or Western, Detective Rooney?”

Uh…there are styles? Who knew.

“Dealer’s choice,” I answer.

A few minutes later a Hispanic stableman is holding Gladys steady as I struggle to heave myself up into her saddle. With a grunt, I finally manage to do so, muscles and tendons I didn’t know I had straining from the effort. I’m still squirming and fidgeting, trying to get comfortable and balanced, when she clip-clops over on her horse of choice for the afternoon, a beautiful white stallion she tells me is named Cooper.

“Ready to ride?” she asks.

Without waiting for my response, she gives her animal a squeeze with her heels and starts