The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,8

nowhere in the world I’d rather be.

Especially after enduring the circus-like interrogation of the review board, telling my boss that I was through being an NOPD detective, and then being threatened by Ty Grant in public and on the streets.

Yeah, it was a day, all right.

“Can I get you anything else, chef?”

I’m just finishing a cup of chicory coffee and an extraordinary slice of doberge cake—a multilayered masterpiece of silky chocolate fudge and rich lemon pudding encased in a thick fondant shell—here on the open-air, second-floor balcony of Chez Mélanie, a superb French Quarter café. Despite its authentic décor and historic feel, the place has only been around for about a year. And its owner, Melanie Rosenbaum, is actually a thirty-something virtuoso pastry chef…from Toronto, Canada.

As she explained to me after-hours a few months ago on this very same balcony, over a congratulatory bottle I gifted her of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, her adorable brunette curls bouncing with every word, she’d been enchanted by creole food and culture her entire life. So one day, she decided to hop on a plane, accent her name, and open up a boulangerie of her own. She was nervous at first, but the place became a runaway success almost overnight. For good reason.

And here she is now, standing beside me, her springy brown curls—along with the rest of her—looking just as cute as I remember.

“As a matter of fact, Mel, you can,” I say, gesturing to my empty, icing-smeared plate. “How about the recipe for this little slice of heaven?”

Melanie smiles and swats the air.

“Keep dreaming, Caleb. A girl has to have some secrets.”

“Fair enough. I’ll just take the check then.”

“It’s on the house,” she replies. “I insist. Just promise me: if Killer Chef ever starts selling pastries, you’ll let me take first crack at creating them.”

“Are you serious?” I ask. “I’d be honored.”

I exit the café by trotting down an outside metal stairway and turn down narrow Dumaine Street. The French Quarter is always brimming with bodies, but today the place is packed more than usual. And the air is practically buzzing with excitement and anticipation. In just over an hour, the first official “krewe parade” of the season is going to be passing through. Organized by the Krewe of Cork, a parade group social club of revelers with a particular fondness for food and wine, it promises to be a boozy, boisterous event.

As I get closer to Bourbon Street, I can see spectators already lining up along the sidewalk, jostling for the best views. Lots of them are obviously tourists, their cheeks already rosy from guzzling all those awful, overpriced fluorescent-blue hurricanes, beads around their fleshy necks.

But I also see plenty of locals, especially parents with young children. Fathers in Saints jerseys hoisting toddlers onto their shoulders. Mothers setting up homemade wooden Mardi Gras ladders—painted crazy colors and decorated with streamers and glitter, a fun, popular craft—to give bigger kids a seated perch.

If you ask me, that’s what makes this celebration—and this city—so special. Mardi Gras is a whole lot more than just the debauchery you see in the movies. It’s a rich cultural tradition that’s fun for the whole family.

Then all thoughts of fun melt away—like an ice cube dropped on the sidewalk—when from the corner of my eye, I see a man dressed in black, carrying an automatic rifle, shoving his way among the happy and clueless civilians.

Chapter 8

I SPIN and take in a full view, and then relax my fists—where did they come from?

It’s just an NOPD cop, who’s joined by another emerging from the crowd.

I don’t know them personally, but they’re members of the department’s elite tactical unit, the NOPD SWAT team.

They’ve each got a military-grade M4 assault rifle slung over their shoulders. And they’re dressed in full tactical gear: fatigues, Kevlar vests, combat boots, even ballistic helmets.

Normally these guys work high-risk warrants. VIP protection. Riot control.

Seeing a pair of them strolling down the street is both concerning and confusing. I’ve never seen anything like it during Carnival time.

Are they just on routine patrol? Or is something else going on?

“Excuse me, officers,” I say as they approach. “Was there some kind of critical incident in the area we should be aware of? I’m wondering why you—”

“No, sir,” the near one says, eyes looking over the crowd. “Please move along now.”

Neither one even slows down as they stroll by. Normally I’d flash my badge and ID myself, but of course that’s not an option anymore. Right now I’m just an ordinary citizen,