The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,60

help the community.

Or, to set up a front. For other purposes.

Crescent Care doesn’t list their physical address on their website or Facebook page. To find this address, I had to go back to the financial records from Emily Beaudette. Scanning the building now, there’s no signage, either. This could all be for legitimate security reasons. They may not want the attention.

Or, it could be part of a ruse. Because the group has a lot to hide.

It’s still pretty early, not even eight thirty. And there are no lights on inside the building. So I decide to wait it out, see if anybody shows up, which—unfortunately—could be a while.

Fortunately, I swung by a fantastic but lesser-known local eatery on the way over: Hoang Pham Café & Bakery, makers of the most mouthwatering Vietnamese pastries this side of Hanoi. I hungrily tuck into a flaky, savory meat pie known as bánh pa tê sô, and a few chè trôi nước, sugary jellied rice balls sprinkled with sesame seeds. I pair it with a Vietnamese-style iced coffee, sweet and creamy and packing a powerful caffeine punch.

I’m dusting off my hands when I see an older, paunchy man limping up to the building’s front door. He looks Middle Eastern, has a bushy white beard, and wears an olive-green taqiyah—religious skullcap—white slacks, and a short black jacket. When he starts unlocking the door, I nod with satisfaction. He’s an employee. Probably a very solid source of intel.

Before I get out and confront him, I unlock my glove box and grab my 9mm Smith & Wesson M&P. I stuff the black pistol into my jeans and cover it with my shirt.

Yes, the man looks older, slow, and all alone.

But I’m not taking any chances.

And I’m not playing any more games.

“As-salaam-alaikum,” I say, using a respectful Arabic greeting as I approach.

“Wa-alaikum-salaam,” he replies with a wary look. “May I help you?”

“This is the headquarters of Crescent Care, yes?” I ask. “I’m Greg Cole, a reporter with NOLA-News dot com. I’m writing a piece on your organization and had a few questions.”

“Ah, I’m sorry, I’m just the office manager,” he says. “You need to speak to my boss.”

“No problem,” I say, flashing him my best smile, trying to put him at ease. “How can I reach him?”

“He is…out of the country,” he says. “But he is returning in a few weeks.”

A few weeks, huh? How suspiciously convenient. So I go with my gut.

“That would be Saleel el-Sharif, right?”

That’s the name of the charity’s point person listed in the Needhams’ financial records.

The man in front of me doesn’t say a word, but his nervous eyes tell me a lot.

I step forward and say, “Why do I get the feeling…I’m staring right at him?”

He says, “Then your feeling would be wrong.”

“Really? I doubt that, since I saw a photo of Saleel el-Sharif after doing a very extensive internet search. And the photo I saw matches you, right down to your bushy white beard. Which means you’re Saleel el-Sharif, or his twin. Which is it?”

The man’s expression subtly changes into one I’ve seen a thousand times before in my career. A suspect who’s just been caught.

Even though he doesn’t know I’m bullshitting him. As far as I know, there’s not a single photo of Saleel el-Sharif on the internet.

But this fellow obviously doesn’t know that.

“You have clearly done your research,” he says. “Very good. What would you like to know?”

“Everything,” I say.

And I subtly lift my shirt, exposing my concealed handgun.

His eyes widen in shock. He glances up and down the block. A few cars are driving by, but we’re the only people out on the street.

“Let’s go inside,” I say. “Nice and slow.”

Chapter 49

EL-SHARIF nervously leads me into the reception area, limping more and bumping into a few piled cardboard boxes. At the wall, he flips up a few light switches and overhead fluorescent lights click-click-click into life. It’s a pretty depressing space. A few folding chairs arranged along the walls. Some old flyers and photographs on a bulletin board. The only other decoration, a large and faded poster of the Great Mosque of Mecca, tacked on a far wall.

I was a detective long enough to know this is a phony operation.

“We…we have no money here,” he stammers. “Please. We are a humble charity. We simply help our Muslim brothers and sisters who are new to this country—”

“I think you launder money, Saleel,” I say. “You help terrorists.”

His nervousness ebbs into quiet anger.

“I should have known,” he says, his voice