The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,56

Think of all the delicious food you’ve been treating me to lately.”

“Not fair,” I say. “That was a couple sandwiches and a few scoops of grits. This is an expensive three-course extravaganza.”

But she insists. She puts down a credit card and says, “Anyway, I’m expensing this. I’m going to make my husband pay.”

As the waiter returns with her receipt, I notice the security guard is now standing by the swinging kitchen doors. He’s watching me carefully, like a sniper lining up a shot.

I recognize the stone-faced man next to him, too, whispering into his ear. It’s David Needham’s chauffeur. The same Israeli asshole that stuck a pistol in my face in the backseat of his Town Car two days ago.

This means David has recently arrived.

Excellent. Just as I’d hoped.

“I have to run to the little boys’ for a minute,” I tell her. “Meet you out front?”

We stand and part ways. I head toward the restrooms, until I see her exit the restaurant. Then I change course for David’s bodyguards.

“Hello, gentlemen,” I say. “I believe your boss is expecting…”

Oooohhfff! With one swift move, the chauffeur sucker-punches me in the gut.

I hunch over. Gasping for breath. Anticipating another strike.

“You know he was not expecting you, Mr. Rooney,” he says, voice strong and in control. “But he does wish to see you.”

The two men lead me through the bustling kitchen and into a cramped, dim storage pantry. As they take their posts just outside the door, I see David Needham standing inside, next to a pyramid of bottled béarnaise sauce.

“You’re a real snake, Rooney,” he says darkly.

“Well, you’re a real hard person to get an audience with,” I say, struggling to catch my breath and not to hurl the lovely meal I just consumed onto the floor. “I assume you got the messages I left at your office last night, this morning, and this afternoon?”

“I did,” he said, folding his arms. “So you’re threatening to leak fake financial records to the Times-Picayune that link me to a murdered terrorist? Give me a goddamn break. That’s the most ridiculous and insulting thing I’ve ever—”

“And yet you came running over here to see me as soon as I popped up in one of your restaurants,” I say. “Listen, David. The records are real. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if they weren’t. And if you didn’t have something to hide.”

His pasty face tightens—with either nerves or rage. Or both.

“I do not. But a libelous news story like that—think of the damage it would do to my restaurants. You of all people should know how a trial-by-tabloid will sink a career.”

I take a step toward him and say, “I’m not interested in bringing down your business. I’m trying to bring down a terrorist cell before it’s too late. So tell me why a rich, conservative, paranoid foodie with a security team fit for a crown prince has been funneling money to an inner-city Islamic charity for Muslim refugees.”

He looks confused.

“An Islamic charity? What are you talking about?”

“Don’t bullshit me, David,” I say. “You’ve given twelve thousand dollars to Crescent Care through four different shell companies. That’s enough to buy hundreds of pounds of fertilizer. Cases of gunpowder. Dozens of pressure cookers. Or God knows what else. This is your one chance to come clean and stop this thing before it goes any further.”

I take another step forward. But he doesn’t flinch.

Instead, he starts to smile.

“I think the exhaust fumes from cooking inside that jalopy of yours are messing with your head,” he says softly. “Do you have any idea how many charities I’ve supported in my lifetime? This ‘Crescent’ one you mentioned—I’ve never heard of it. But if I’ve given them money, I’m sure the work they do is upstanding. And completely legal.”

He takes a breath. And smirks.

“You made it sound like you had a smoking gun,” he says. “You don’t even have a water pistol. Now take your mask and your lies and get the hell out of my restaurant.”

My instincts tell me this bastard is lying. He’s such a goddamn control freak, I bet he knows the thread count of the napkins on every one of his tables. The brand of urinal cakes in every men’s room. He definitely knows where his money goes.

I feel an urge to wring his neck until I get the truth…if there weren’t two armed ex-commandos standing five feet away from me.

“Don’t worry,” I answer. “I won’t be coming back here.”

I can’t help but add: “The zucchini was too