The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,69

have that photo of him and Farzat at the Crescent Care event.

The pictures I took of the bomb-making workshop in the garage.

And my Smith & Wesson, which is never leaving my side again.

I merge onto the I-10…and only get about a quarter of a mile before I realize that was a stupid idea. It’s still early, but the highway is crawling with traffic.

I sigh and lean my exhausted head against the back of my seat.

At least I’m not in a hurry. David’s probably working late at one of his restaurants tonight. I’ll have to stake his place out for a few hours until he comes home. Good thing I have a Killer Chef specialty—a blackened catfish sandwich with duck-fat fries—a fully loaded iPod, and my memories of last night with Vanessa to tide me over.

I’ve barely moved an inch in this bumper-to-bumper nightmare when my phone rings.

Speak of the devil. It’s Vanessa.

I wonder if she’s talked to Lucas. If she knows her husband is onto us, and came by my place of business to threaten me. If she knows how he knows—which, come to think of it, I’m curious about myself.

I answer the phone and put it on speaker.

“Hey, Vanessa,” I say happily. “What’s up?”

“Caleb,” she says in a frantic whisper, “oh, my God, help!”

I bolt upright in my seat. There’s fear in her voice. Real and visceral.

“Vanessa?” I ask, holding the phone close to my face. “Are you okay?”

“No—definitely—not!”

Her words are clipped and urgent, spit out between sharp breaths.

“Where are you? What’s going on?”

“I’m in—Central City, I think. They followed me. Rammed my car. Made me crash! I managed to run away. Now I’m hiding—in a gas station bathroom. They’re going to kill me!”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down,” I plead. “Followed you? Kill you? Where are you right now?”

She sniffles. On the verge of tears.

“I’m at Claiborne and Felicity. I think they’re really close, hurry!”

I take a quick, sweeping glance at the traffic jam I’m in.

“Vanessa, just stay calm. I’m calling the police—”

“No!” she shouts. “Don’t. No cops. Just you. Come fast, Caleb, please!”

No cops. Just me?

If your life was in danger, wouldn’t you want the police to come as quick as they could—not your retired-detective lover, all by himself?

Vanessa’s call is so weird, so scary, so out of character, I wonder if someone’s forcing her to make it against her will.

Maybe it’s Lucas…or David…or a Franklin Avenue gang leader…or somebody else. Holding her at gunpoint. Using this damsel-in-distress ploy to lure me into a trap.

God, what the hell have I gotten us into?

But what choice do I have?

Ruse or not, she’s in real danger.

“Okay, I’m on my way,” I say. “No cops. Just me, as fast as I can.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“Vanessa? You still there?”

But the line’s dead.

Chapter 58

ON THE other end is silence. Total, chilling silence.

Did Vanessa just hang up? Or did one of her attackers make her hang up?

A wave of panic crashes over me, forcing me to focus on staying calm, stable, not wildly reacting. Even though my pulse is racing, time seems to be slowing down.

I don’t care if this is some kind of trap. A woman I’m falling in love with is in danger. And she’s only a few miles away from here.

I’ve got to get to her. Find out what the hell is going on.

And if what she’s saying is true, save her life.

But my first goddamn problem is finding a way out of this slow-moving stream of traffic.

Instinctively I reach for the center of my dashboard to flip on my lights and sirens—when I realize, shit, of course, I don’t have those anymore.

Instead, I lay on the horn. Cut the wheel sharply. And start lurching my way across all three lanes. Gas, brake, gas, brake. Other drivers honk at me. Curse. Flash every rude gesture in the book. But I ignore every one of them and stay focused.

Once I make it onto the gravel shoulder, I floor it. I can eventually see that there’s a major accident—looks like every cop in Louisiana is on the scene. I take the first exit, Howard Avenue, then pull a screeching right turn onto Jefferson Davis Parkway. It’s named after the former head of the Confederacy—a stark reminder that as progressive and free-spirited as New Orleans tries to be today, it still has a ways to go.

Traffic is okay for a few blocks, so I zoom right along. Things get hairier when I hit Washington Avenue (named after, well, you know). But I refuse to slow