The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,62

the place is empty.

I spot a back door. Hidden behind one of the filing cabinets he’s been using to hide from me. It’s slightly ajar.

He must have slipped out.

I kick it open and carefully step through, holding out my pistol, using two trash bins as cover. The open door leads to an empty parking lot and alleyway behind the office building.

Both are empty. No sign of him.

I kick the nearest trash bin and loudly swear, and then I shut up and listen again, trying to determine which direction he ran.

But all I can hear are distant police sirens.

Could those be…for me? This fast?

I turn back into the office to try to gather up whatever evidence I can, and immediately go to the computer on the desk. Shit! It’s been shot through with buckshot.

Then I see a landline phone, lying off the hook on the floor, and hear the operator, “Are you safe? Can you talk? What is your emergency?”

He dialed 911 on his way out.

So those sirens are for me. Great.

I really gotta go…but refuse to have come all this way to leave empty-handed. I give some of the filing cabinet drawers a tug, but every one of them is locked. I don’t have the tools—or time—to crack them open.

I slam my pistol against a cabinet in rage. Then I scurry back down the hallway the direction I came, back into the drab reception area.

Those police sirens are getting louder. I can’t let the cops find me here. I know my time is running out. I’m almost out the door…

When I glimpse something on the ground that makes me stop short.

The bulletin board I knocked off the wall has a number of photographs pinned to it. They seem to be highlights of some of Crescent Care’s recent community outreach programs. In one, a group of bearded Muslim men are cleaning up a local park. In another, Muslim women are mugging for the camera in headscarves and 10K race bibs.

And in another picture, a group of people—some Muslim, some not—are posing with their arms around one another at a cookout along the shore of Lake Pontchartrain.

One of the men is Ibrahim Farzat.

Another is David Needham.

For a moment I stand frozen, not believing what I’m seeing.

But the police sirens around the corner snap me back to life.

I kneel down and rip that picture off the board. I stuff it into my pocket and bolt outside, running and then jumping into my Impala, starting up the engine before closing the door. Slam my foot down on the accelerator. Take off down Orleans Avenue.

I can feel the adrenaline leaving my body as my heart rate slows and I start calming down. But my shock at my discovery is only growing.

I might have screwed up and let el-Sharif get away.

But I got something else of even more value. Finally.

Proof.

Chapter 51

I’M SPEEDING down Bienville Street, heading back toward the heart of the city.

But my mind is racing even faster than my car.

The crinkled photo in my pocket isn’t enough to get a warrant for David Needham’s arrest. Or even a search warrant for his home or restaurants.

But my God. It’s incriminating. Overwhelmingly so.

The photo shows him linking arms with a man suspected by the FBI of terrorism. A man who, just days ago, was found brutally tortured and killed.

It also proves my hunch that David was lying to me. He was secretly funneling money to a shady Islamist extremist front after all. And no wonder I ended up dodging shotgun blasts when I tried to learn more.

But damnit, I’m still short on details though I’m more sure than ever that David, Farzat, and el-Sharif’s group are all involved in the Mardi Gras attack in a major way.

At least that’s what I think. Until…I start to have some doubts.

And with thickening traffic up ahead, I slow the car, and my rapid thoughts ease as well.

All right, then.

If David really is bankrolling the group’s attack, why the hell would he let himself be seen at one of their charity events? He used multiple shell companies to hide his tracks. He lied to my face when I confronted him. But after all that, he posed for a group photo?

That doesn’t make sense.

The back of my head starts throbbing. All the stress from the past week—including the lack of sleep from last night’s stimulating activities—is finally getting to me.

Coming to a stop at a traffic light, I shut my eyes and rub my temples. All I want to do is