The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,64

Life is good. Really good.

Here, not so much.

The streets are quiet. Eerie. Grim. Colorful but ramshackle shotgun houses line every block. Some lawns are trimmed. Most are choked by weeds and cast-off children’s toys, rusting bicycles, and car tires.

In front of one overgrown yard, I see two men lounging on a filthy leather sofa. They’re passing around a glass pipe in broad daylight.

I turn onto North Derbigny Street and see a bold, purple mural painted on a wooden fence proclaiming BAPTIZED WHEN THE LEVEES BROKE. In front of it, two homeless men are screaming at each other over a shopping cart full of soda cans.

Driving deeper into the neighborhood, I see clusters of people loitering on street corners. Playing dice. Staking territory. Dealing dope. More than a few are wearing yellow T-shirts, yellow shorts, yellow bandanas.

Franklin Avenue gang colors.

I tilt the brim of the Pelicans cap I’ve got on a little lower over my sunglasses, and sink down into my seat. I grip the steering wheel tighter with my left hand, resting my right on the Smith & Wesson tucked in the waist of my jeans.

I’m not looking for trouble. But I’m ready if trouble finds me.

I make a left onto Spain Street—and feel my chest tighten. This is where Larry Grant used to live. He shared a little gray bungalow down the road with his wife. His mom and grandmother still live in the light-blue house on the corner.

If one of them phoned Cunningham to complain about a disruptive late-night “police” raid nearby, the abandoned building the FBI hit must be close.

I slow down as I cruise along their block. I keep my eyes peeled for a home or garage roped off by yellow crime-scene tape.

Nothing.

I make a turn. Then another. I drive up and down a few other streets.

Still nothing.

Damn. Maybe coming here was both dangerous and a waste of time.

Then it dawns on me. If the FBI has been hitting a bunch of suspected addresses all over the city, they’ve been acting on tips and hunches, like a manhunt team going door to door to find an escaped fugitive. With their resources already stretched so thin, I bet they don’t have search warrants and aren’t processing every building they raid, sealing the scenes with tape.

Which means I won’t be able to spot their target here in St. Roch from the comfort and safety of a moving car. I’m going to have to look a little closer.

On foot.

Great. I’m about to take a stroll through a warzone.

What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter 53

CIRCLING BACK around, I see plenty of open spots on Spain Street.

But no way am I going to park on the block of the man I killed.

That’s not just disrespectful. It’s suicidal.

So I hook a right onto Prieur Street and pull over at the edge of St. Roch Park, a small oasis of green space in this concrete desert. I notice a group of guys playing a rough game of pickup basketball. Many are dressed in yellow. Wonderful.

Before I exit my car, I check to make sure my pistol is fully loaded, even though I know it is. Just one of those last-minute reassuring good luck charms, and I’m going to need all of the good luck I can scrape together.

Carefully sliding it into the back of my jeans, I take a deep breath and step out. Keeping my back to the basketball players, I turn and casually walk toward Spain Street.

So far, so good.

I scan each abandoned building I pass, looking for recent signs of police entry. Like a doorframe splintered by a battering ram. A discarded pin from a stun grenade on a walkway. A tactical glove dropped on the lawn or something similar.

But it’s tough to tell which homes even are abandoned, and which are occupied. One house might look run-down, but will have lights on inside, or a child’s tricycle in the driveway. Another might be in okay shape, but its windows are covered by rotting two-by-fours, or its front door is spray-painted with a big red X.

Soon I reach Spain Street—and feel my skin tingle.

This isn’t where Grant and I exchanged gunfire. But it’s where I staked him out and started chasing him on the night that changed my life—and ended his.

Pushing my unease aside, I continue walking down the sidewalk, inspecting every structure I pass for telltale signs.

Nothing.

I’m almost at the end of the block when I do finally notice something.

With my nose.

The sweet, musky aroma of creole-style barbecued shrimp. Mmmm.

Someone