The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,89

the first time I sat down with him. He was so friendly that night. Maybe too friendly. The lavish comped meal, the bottomless wine. He was so helpful, too. So honest.

Was it all a ploy?

He was quick to confirm rumors of discord within his family’s empire—then even quicker to direct my attention to David, who he said was dangerous and unhinged.

He was the first one to get me curious about the Needhams’ finances—by saying how juicy they were. If he’d misled David into giving money to an extremist group, he’d know I would eventually discover that—and his cousin would look even guiltier.

He even admitted to having a personal connection to Farzat—as an investor in the café where he worked!

Billy. Billy. It’s all starting to make sense.

I bark at Needham, “Don’t go anywhere!” as I let go of his shirt and slip my handgun back into my jeans.

Then I grope my pockets, looking for the business card Billy gave me. The one with his number scrawled on the back.

I find it, still in my pocket from last night. I take out my phone and frantically dial.

“Who are you calling?” David asks with dread. “What’s going on? Do you think my cousin could be—”

“Shut up!” I snap, and cup my free hand over my exposed ear.

Conditions are already bad for making a call, and they’re only getting worse. A marching band is rounding the corner a few blocks away. They’re blaring “When the Saints Go Marching In” and the crowd is starting to joyously sing along.

“Oh when the saints…”

“Come on, come on,” I whisper as the line rings and rings. “Answer, answer!”

“…go marching in…”

If Billy’s the one behind the attack, of course he’s not going to come out and admit it over the phone. I know that. But if I can get him talking, or figure out his location, or convince him to meet up, or trick him into spilling some clue…

“Hi, you’ve reached Billy Needham, please leave me a message.”

“Billy, it’s Caleb Rooney!” I shout, raising my voice over the cacophony around me. “Call me back as soon as you get this. It’s about…your cousin. It’s urgent!”

“Oh when the saints…”

I hang up and stare at his business card. Then I crumple it in my fist.

I look back over at David, who’s helping his injured bodyguard to his feet.

Then I look out at the street, at the parade reaching its grand finale.

“…go marching in…”

Here comes the dazzling marching band, wearing flamboyant pink and gold uniforms, high-stepping and twirling their instruments.

Behind them, a massive float, decorated as the Roman Coliseum, carrying a team of masked gladiators flinging beads and toys high into the air.

“Oh lord, I want…to be…in that number…”

Lastly, I scan the crowd. Men, women, children. So many children. Lining the metal police barricades along Canal Street, clapping and singing their hearts out.

“Oh when the saints go marching in!”

On this beautiful day, the city is pulsing with happiness. Life. Joy.

But my own pulse is creeping upward.

My stomach is cramping with fear.

My hands are damp, clammy.

I pray that I’m wrong…but I’m terrified that I’m right.

The attack is about to begin.

Chapter 77

SECONDS LATER, a series of explosions pounds through the heart of the French Quarter, just a block or so away from where I’m standing.

WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

Instinctively, I hunch over and shield my face against the shock waves that ripple outward in all directions.

The marching band abruptly stops playing, the tune whining down to silence, the members lowering their instruments, looking around in confusion.

The parade grinds to a halt, with one tractor colliding into the rear of one of the large floats, this one displaying a Superdome with giant Saints players holding their arms up in triumph.

And the crowd’s cheers of delight turn to screams of fear and terror, as they start charging away from the noise, and just beyond them, three billowing clouds of gray-black smoke float high into the clear blue sky. I can only darkly imagine the carnage that must be down there, just a block away.

This is the stuff of nightmares, come to life.

The dozens of uniformed cops posted up and down the sidewalks are bravely springing into action. Barking orders, shouting commands, gesturing manically, straining to keep some semblance of order, as people race, bump into one another, trip and fall down, trampling one another underfoot.

My pistol is still in my hand and I feel utterly useless.

Failure.

I failed, the NOPD failed, the FBI failed.

And Billy has succeeded.

I flatten myself against a brick wall as the crowds surge by. Pushing.