The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,84

to lighten the mood:

Dear Vanessa, Eat me.

I don’t have much of an appetite this morning, but I force down a couple bites of a toasted baguette smeared with creole tomato-basil jam. I chase it with some coffee with chicory. Then, at a quarter to six, I hit the road.

The streets, as I expected, are practically deserted. Only a smattering of city sanitation workers are out, sweeping up the mounds of beads, empty cups, and other debris clogging the sidewalks and gutters. It’s the calm before the storm.

I park on Gravier Street, alongside the granite fortress that used to be my second home. I trudge up the stone steps. I enter the glass-walled lobby.

I look around, not sure who—or what—I’m expecting. I see a few third-shift officers ambling through. And a couple civilians in the waiting area, many in flamboyant costumes, all of them passed out drunk.

I check my watch. It’s a few minutes before six. Now what?

I wait. I fidget. I twiddle my thumbs. I rub my temples.

Just as I’m starting to wonder if this whole thing was a bust, I hear a hoarse voice call to me: “Rooney. Good. You made it.”

Chapter 72

CUNNINGHAM SLOWLY walks along the corridor before the empty sergeant’s desk. His clothes are stained, rumpled, and his weary eyes look like they’re about to shut from exhaustion in mid-step. A couple of cops I’ve met on the force have served in Afghanistan or Iraq prior to joining the NOPD, and they’ve mentioned the look a soldier gets after hours of threats and combat, with no relief in sight: the thousand-yard stare.

He has that haunted look.

“Come on back,” he says, voice weary. “We’re about to get started.”

My former boss turns and shuffles down the building’s central corridor. I follow and wait a few seconds for some kind of explanation. It doesn’t come.

So I ask: “Chief, what’s going on?”

Cunningham starts to reply and then a coughing fit chokes his voice for a moment. Then he clears his throat and says, “Don’t say ‘I told ya so,’ but I really wish I’d listened to you. Wish I’d given you more resources. Wish I hadn’t caved to all the politics. Wish I’d pushed back harder when the Federal Bureau of Ignorance shoved us locals aside.”

I take zero satisfaction in his words. I didn’t agree to help him because of pride—or out of spite. I wanted to serve my city. Do the right thing.

“You were under a lot of pressure, Chief. I get it.”

He shrugs.

“Well, now the feds are trying to play nice. Probably ’cause they don’t have shit. I think they’re as scared about this whole thing as we are.”

We reach the main bank of elevators. But we don’t stop. I assumed we were going up to his fourth-floor office. Guess not. So where are we going?

“You’ve been doing some first-rate work, Rooney—blindfolded and hog-tied as you were,” he says. “You’ve more than earned a spot at this table. The least I can do is offer you a seat.”

I don’t have a clue what “table” or “seat” Cunningham is talking about. I’m about to ask when we round a corner.

I see a uniformed officer standing outside the door of the first-floor briefing room.

The same room where the department’s Use of Force Review Board hung me out to dry on my last day as a cop.

Seeing us approaching, the officer nods at Cunningham and opens the door.

Inside, the mood is somber. Tense. Like a wake without a casket.

Dozens of law enforcement officials of every stripe are milling around the spacious auditorium, making worried small talk.

A number of them are NOPD bigwigs. Like Superintendent Robert Fontaine, the white-mustachioed head of the entire force. I also recognize a couple deputy superintendents, whose departments include the bomb squad, the K9 unit, and the NOPD’s tactical platoons—a.k.a., New Orleans SWAT.

I see plenty of folks I don’t recognize, too. Some are in suits. Some wear black blazers with “New Orleans Fire Department” patches on the shoulder. Others are dressed in Louisiana State Police and Orleans Parish Sheriff’s Office uniforms.

I slowly begin to realize what I’ve just walked into.

A high-level, inter-agency, emergency security briefing.

“Is this some kind of goddamn joke?” a familiar voice cries out.

Agent Morgan—jacket off, sleeves rolled up, tie loose—is standing on stage beside a giant map of the city. He’s glaring at me, his jaw halfway to his knees.

“Your pathetic investigation is the goddamn joke,” I fire back.

“Enough!” Cunningham yells. “Jesus Christ, let’s everybody cut the schoolyard shit and focus, all right?”

I take a