The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,83

of shit,” I shoot back. “That says if she leaves you, she gets nothing. Except bills she can’t pay, treatment she can’t afford. She doesn’t love you, Lucas. She’s shackled to you. A divorce would cost her her life.”

His eyes start to well up with distress and humiliation. For once, he doesn’t have a bitter comeback. He simply hangs his head. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbles, sniffling and wiping away a tear. “I’ll set things right. I…I’m so ashamed.”

I turn back to Vanessa, who is blotting her own eyes.

“So?” I say softly. “Yes or no? Are you going to leave?”

“Leave the city? Or leave…?”

“Both,” I reply.

I hold out my hand.

Praying she reaches out and takes it.

Chapter 71

I’M WOKEN up by a faint buzz from my phone. In the pitch black of this strange bedroom, I grope for it, groggy and still half-asleep.

I find my phone and check the screen. A text.

10-19. ONE HOUR.

It was sent from a blocked number.

I sit up in bed. Rubbing my eyes. I read it again, trying to make sense of it.

“10-19” is police radio code for “return to station.” One hour from now would be about 6 a.m.

But what the hell does it mean?

Is it a joke? A mistake? A trap? Who sent it to me? Why now?

It could be an old friend inside the NOPD who wants to share a tip on his turf. Maybe even Cunningham.

Or maybe it’s Morgan, trying to lure me out of hiding so he can arrest me for real.

Whatever it is, I have to give the sender credit. My curiosity is piqued.

Trap or not, I have to learn more. Today is Mardi Gras, and I can’t risk not responding.

I slip out of bed and into the pair of jeans and wrinkled black T-shirt lying nearby on the floor. I try to be as quiet as I can. But apparently, not quiet enough.

“Where are you going?”

Vanessa stirs awake under the covers. Even in the bedroom’s darkness, I can see her worried face.

“Nowhere. Won’t be gone long. Go back to sleep.”

But she grasps my hand, pulls me down beside her.

“Not fair,” she says. “No more secrets between us. No more lies. I thought that’s what we promised each other, didn’t we?”

I nod. We made that vow only hours ago, on the drive from her house to this place.

“I’m following up a possible new lead,” I say. “At police headquarters. That’s where I’m going and that’s all I know. I swear.”

She stares at me for a moment. Then gently touches my cheek.

“Just be careful, okay? If something happened to you, Caleb…”

She trails off. Swallows hard.

“I will,” I answer. “Tonight. Tomorrow. Always.”

We share a brief kiss. Then I rise from the bed. I take my Smith & Wesson from the top of the nightstand. Tuck it into my jeans.

“Vanessa, I can’t stand thinking of something happening to you,” I say. “Please reconsider…please leave the city. It’s not safe here.”

“Are you staying?” she asks.

“You know I am.”

She burrows herself back into the sheets. “Then I know I’ll be safe, Caleb. Always.”

And so I leave.

The drive at this hour from this little house to the police station should only take around ten minutes. Since I’ve got about fifty more to kill, I make a pit stop into this stranger’s kitchen, and spend a few minutes doing a food-related recon. Not bad.

This home doesn’t belong to me. It’s owned by my PI friend, Gordon Andrews. He uses it as a secret spot to meet with clients who don’t want to be seen in public or his office with him, or who need a safe place to hide out during a crisis. A call to him once I left with Vanessa led him to offering this home to me, as long as I wanted, which was probably going to be as long as the FBI was pissed at me.

He’s as much of a foodie as I am, and though he leans to the, er, alcoholic side of “food and beverage,” he’s outdone himself with what he has in the larder.

I fire up the stove and boil a fresh pot of savory grits. Once they’re simmering, I drown them in heavy cream, garlic butter, and aged Parmesan cheese.

Meanwhile, I whisk a few eggs with chunks of smoked andouille sausage and diced green pepper, and make a tasty Cajun-style scramble.

When both dishes are done, I plate them, add a parsley sprig garnish, and stick them in the warming drawer of the oven along with a scribbled Post-it to try