The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,87

nudge folks aside and start weaving my way through, toward the parade.

In the distance, I begin to make out some passing floats—most pulled by big-wheeled tractors like the kind in the St. Roch safe house garage.

Again, why in hell were Agent Morgan and Supervisor Fontaine being so stubborn in pooh-poohing the evidence I’ve uncovered? Is it because of the way I left the NOPD? Because I’m “just” a chef now?

Each of the slow-moving, grumbling floats is a giant, multi-leveled, elaborately decorated creation that could easily be packed with hundreds of pounds of explosives, stuffed with a deadly mix of screws, nails, and other scrap metal.

And each float is carrying a dozen or so crazy-costumed performers, hurling beads and trinkets at the exuberant crowds.

The performers are all wearing masks, too. It’s actually illegal in New Orleans to ride a float without one. That strange law is a holdover from a different time, meant to encourage people to let loose on Mardi Gras by covering their faces.

Today, it just makes it easier for terrorists to hide their identities.

I finally reach the sidewalk along Canal Street and get my best view of the parade yet. I take out the pair of collapsible field binoculars I brought with me and start inspecting every tractor, float, and character that passes by.

I scan the crowds, too. As many of them as I can.

I even give a once-over to the NOPD cops dotted along the street, just in case.

So far, nothing suspicious.

True, I don’t know what I’m looking for.

But I’ll know it when I see it.

Minutes go by. Nothing.

More minutes pass. Still nothing.

The binoculars are getting damp in my clammy hands.

I can feel my heart beating a little bit faster, my breath getting shallow.

My cop instincts are kicking in.

But why? What for?

I see something yellow up ahead, and then something else. And again.

Three guys, wearing the colors of the Franklin Avenue Soldiers, taking a break from dealing drugs and shooting their rivals to enjoy the day. Oh, great, I think. With everything that’s going on, do I need to hide now from these revenge-minded gangbangers?

I almost feel like going up to them and saying, “Take a number, fellas!” when the crowd surges, surrounds them, and then they disappear.

Good.

Suddenly, I feel a hard shove from behind. My binoculars slip from my grip and clatter to the sidewalk.

“Ohhhh, shit, sorry,” says a bottle-blonde in skintight jeans and a stained Saints T-shirt who just stumbled into me and spilled her beer on my jeans. “I’m a little trunk. I mean, drunk,” she giggles.

“It’s okay,” I answer, picking up my binoculars and giving my wet pants a pat. “Don’t worry about it. Happy Mardi…”

I jump as something starts vibrating in my pocket.

My phone, set on vibrate. With all the music, shouting, and tractor noise, there’s no way I would have heard it ringing.

I turn from the drunk woman and look at the screen.

My PI friend, Gordon Andrews.

I shove a finger into my left ear, bring the phone up to my right.

“Hello!” I shout.

“…him.”

“What? Gordon, I can’t hear you!”

I close my eyes, trying to focus on what he’s saying.

The message comes in clearer this time as he shouts at me. “I said, I found him! Corner of Canal and Iberville.”

Less than fifty feet away from where I’m standing among the happy chaos.

“How? Did you hack his phone?”

Even among the horns and music, I hear him laugh. “The narcissistic son of a bitch just posted a selfie on Facebook. Go, Caleb, go!”

I slide the phone back into my pocket, push and shove, and—

I don’t believe it. But there he is.

David Needham.

Standing in the crowd about thirty feet away, right where Gordon told me he’d be.

Flanked by two Israeli bodyguards.

Watching the parade with the icy smile of a shark about to attack.

Chapter 75

THE SIGHT of Needham makes my fists clench—and my mind race.

What the hell is he doing here?

Maybe he’s come to direct the attack from the ground, like a general.

Or maybe he wants to watch the carnage in person. Like a psychopath.

Doesn’t matter. If I can get to him, maybe I can still stop him.

Maybe it’s not too late after all.

I start elbowing my way through the rowdy horde of spectators standing between us. Despite all the commotion, I’m still careful not to draw too much attention to myself. Like a hummingbird flying through a hurricane, I get shoved and jostled with every step. But I keep going, gaze fixed on Needham like a spotlight.

I’m just a few yards away from him and