The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,63

head home, take a hot shower, change my clothes. But with so many lives hanging in the balance, I feel guilty for even thinking about myself at all.

And furious when I remember that black SUV waiting for me.

What arrogance by the FBI to box out local law enforcement like this! Especially on a case this serious. It’s reckless. It’s foolish. It’s downright disgusting.

I know Cunningham ordered me to lay low and steer clear of the NOPD while I was consulting on this one. Plausible deniability and all that. But screw it. There’s way too much on the line now. I’m done playing politics. I’m done playing nice.

I take out my phone, intending to give my old chief a ring. I see I have a new text from Vanessa. Sent about twenty minutes ago. Which means that while el-Sharif was firing a gun at me, Cupid was shooting an arrow.

LAST NIGHT WAS DELICIOUS, it says. DINNER WASN’T BAD EITHER ;) HAVE TIME 4 A PICNIC LUNCH IN JACKSON SQUARE? U BRING THE SANDWICHES, I’LL BRING…DESSERT.

Reading her words makes my face flush. Her offer is wildly tempting. But as always, our timing is terrible. I hate to put off a second date after our first went so well. But after this is all over, she’ll understand. At least, I hope she will.

I fire off a reply—pleading for a rain check—then dial Cunningham’s cell.

He picks up on the third ring. “Rooney?” he growls.

Great. I haven’t spoken a word and already he’s pissed at me.

“I know what you’re going to say, Chief,” I cut in. “But just listen. I’m getting close. Really close. I followed the money. Found the source and the means. But I’ve hit another dead end. And time really isn’t on our side here. Is there anything more you can give me? Got any new leads at all?”

Silence. Then, I hear rustling on the other end. Followed by a long sigh. I can picture him perfectly right now. Shaking his head. Drumming his stubby fingers on his round belly. Wiping away the spit bubble forming in the corner of his mouth. It used to happen every time he got irritated by my past “antics,” as he called them.

But he’d always come around, because he knew my antics worked.

Lowering his voice, he says, “They’re getting really close, too. Word is, the sleeper cell is squatting in abandoned buildings all around town. But the bastards keep moving before the feds can get there. Changing addresses all the time.”

“Wait, Agent Morgan actually told you this?” I ask. “The FBI’s sharing intel now?”

“Please,” he says. “They wouldn’t tell me the time if I asked. But the rumor checks out. In the last seventy-two hours, there’s been a surge in 311 complaints about middle-of-the-night ‘police raids’ all over the city. Except, we’re not the ones doing them. I even got an angry call the other day from the Grant family.”

“That Grant family?”

As in…the relatives of Larry Grant.

The gang member I shot in the line of duty and quit my job over.

“The one and only,” Cunningham says. “So there you have it. Everything new I know. It’s all the help I can give you, Rooney. Wish I had more, but—”

“Chief? Thanks. You just gave me plenty.”

Immediately I pull a screeching U-turn and head to my new destination: St. Roch. It’s the rough neighborhood where the Grants live. From all the surveillance I did there, I know it like the back of my food truck.

It’s also teeming with Franklin Avenue gangbangers, who want me dead.

I swore I’d never step foot there again. But if that’s where a secret FBI raid recently went down, I might be able to find the spot they hit. Learn more about the cell they’re looking for. Who’s in it. Where the bad guys went next. How to catch them.

I know it’s a long shot. But right now, it’s the only one I’ve got.

I take a deep breath and say a little prayer.

“Dear God, please let me make it the hell out of there alive.”

And then, remembering a documentary I saw last year about America’s first flight into space, I remember the astronaut’s prayer, supposedly uttered by Alan Shepard:

“And, dear God, please don’t let me screw up.”

Chapter 52

I EXIT the I-10 onto the western border of St. Roch: Elysian Fields Avenue.

Elysian. A synonym for “heaven.” Yeah, right. This place is far from heavenly.

Other parts of the city, just a few miles away, are packed with tourists and partygoers. Booze is bubbling. Business is booming.