The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,55

of the more conservatively dressed people here.

“Hello, we have a reservation for two at eight o’clock,” Vanessa says to the maître d’. “It’s under the name ‘Mrs. Lucas Dodd.’”

Before you judge her too harshly for that, know that using her restaurateur husband’s name to snag us this last-minute plum reservation was my idea.

We’re led through the dining room. It’s filled with kitschy décor, like vintage Louisiana license plates from the 1940s and a plastic skeleton wearing a Saints jersey.

As we settle into our cozy corner table, she asks, “Are you seriously going to keep that mask on all night?”

“Of course. It’s part of the fun of this place, isn’t it?”

“Okay,” she says, “I shouldn’t admit this. But part of the fun of having dinner with you, Caleb…is getting to look at you. The real you…”

Her compliment makes me blush. I’m even tempted to take my silly mask off right now.

But I can’t. Not yet.

Doing so now would be way too big a risk, and I can’t afford any more risks tonight.

A tall, redheaded waiter arrives at our table. “Good evening and welcome to Soûlard,” he says. “May I offer you two our wine and cocktail list?”

“No, thank you,” she replies. “Just club soda and lime for me.”

“Really?” I ask her, tilting my head in surprise. “Are you sure?”

This place is known for its fanciful concoctions. Hell, the word soûlard means “drunk.”

“I’m very sure,” she answers. “I’m not drinking.”

“As in…not drinking tonight? Or ever?”

There’s an edge to her tone as she says: “Can we just drop it?”

Now I feel like a dope. I’m pretty sure I know what’s going on, but don’t press the issue. At least not yet. I ask our waiter to make it two club sodas with lime.

After a brief discussion with my dining partner, we order our food. We decide to share two appetizers: fried tempura zucchini patties drizzled with velvety crab remoulade, and shrimp dumplings with tomato concassé (a snooty culinary way of saying “crushed”). Our mains will be a citrus-glazed swordfish amandine that promises to be tangy, flaky, and crunchy all at once, and a succulent lamb chop Clemenceau on a garlicky bed of mushrooms, peas, and diced potatoes.

The food, as I expected, is incredible.

But the company is even better.

There’s an easy playfulness to her tonight that I’ve never seen. Our conversation flows easily. She tells me about her master’s degree from NYU in Renaissance art history. Her thesis—big surprise—explored the use of food and drink imagery in the work of Michelangelo. We talk about our childhoods, hers in a wealthy suburb on Long Island, mine in a crumbling row house practically down the street. We share memories of our most memorable vacations. Our most delicious meals. Our favorite bad movies. And on and on.

Through it all, I keep her smiling and laughing, prodding her to open up more and more. As we pass a dinner plate back and forth, our hands briefly touch.

Later, no food involved, our hands touch a few more times. And linger for longer.

After our dessert course is cleared away—a roasted fig-infused sweet pudding called a blancmange, and a molten chocolate “blackout” cake so gooey it makes my teeth stick together—I say to her, “All right, now I’ll give you what you came for.”

With a dramatic flourish, I remove my masquerade mask.

“Oh, my God, you’re hideous!” she exclaims, cringing and shielding her eyes. “This dinner is ruined. I think I’m going to be sick!”

I pretend to be crushed. “Sorry,” I say. “That’s the way God made me. Can you forgive me?”

I reach over and stroke her forearm. I shamelessly make puppy-dog eyes at her, too.

She does not, however, have my undivided attention.

All night, I’ve also been keeping an eye on a muscular, suit-clad man with vaguely Middle Eastern features slowly pacing around the dining room.

And it looks like, now with the mask off he’s spotted me.

He’s speaking into his wrist mic now. Probably alerting the rest of his security team—likely made of fellow ex-Mossad agents—to my presence.

At least I hope he is.

Oh, I forgot to mention: Soûlard is one of the restaurants run by David Needham.

The man I’m desperate to talk to again in connection with the pending attack.

Right now, I just need to sit back, wait, and let him come to me.

While keeping my date none the wiser.

Chapter 44

OUR WAITER sets the check down on our table. I reach for it, but Vanessa whisks it away so fast, I feel a small breeze.

“Nuh-uh,” she teases. “A deal’s a deal, Caleb.