The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,94

I still don’t see anyone in the area that has a radio I can use.

Never a cop around when you need one, I murmur.

I keep on trotting, the MP5 bouncing around on my shoulder, and I try my phone again. From the Contacts list I dial the emergency inter-agency hotline Special Agent Morgan gave out at the security briefing. I hold the phone to my ear and listen.

The line beeps. Once. Twice.

A recorded announcement tells me that my call cannot be completed at this time.

No shit, I think.

I hang up and try again. Then again. Again.

On the fourth try, the call goes through. The hotline starts to ring.

I brake to a halt.

Success!

And ring. And ring.

I count ten rings and still no answer. No voicemail, either. Nothing.

I curse Morgan’s name and incompetence and stuff my phone back into my pocket.

Now what?

I think back to the briefing Morgan gave us. To all the security measures he said the feds were putting in place. The aerial drones. The nuclear particle detectors. The infrared cameras monitored by a dedicated team of specialists.

Cameras.

I look up and down the sidewalk for something that—in this part of town—shouldn’t be hard to find: a folding chalkboard sign sitting in front of a restaurant or bar.

I spot one. A few doors away. Outside a quaint French Quarter watering hole called Dupré’s, advertising their three-for-one Mardi Gras drink specials all week long.

I rush over. Hurriedly wipe the board clean with my sleeve. I don’t have any chalk—so a stray white pebble off the sidewalk will have to do.

In big capital letters, I scratch out:

AGENT MORGAN!!!

USE RED-GREEN LENSED EYEGLASSES

TO I.D. HIDDEN SHOOTERS!!!

Then I look up, searching the awnings, rafters, and lampposts for one of those just-installed special cameras. Bourbon and Conti is an important intersection. There has to be one somewhere!

Over there. On the underside of a second-story terrace. A small, sleek, black lens with a wireless antenna, bolted to the building with new, shiny silver screws.

I pick up the chalkboard sign and rush over. I hold it up, wave it around, pointing and gesturing like a meth addict needing a fix. I feel a little crazy, but that’s the point. There probably aren’t a lot of other folks dancing a jig in the middle of a terrorist attack. If the FBI really has a team of agents watching these cameras, they should notice me straight away.

I just hope they take me seriously. Read my message. Take it seriously. Then pass it along to the folks in charge.

After thirty seconds or so, I start to hear more gunfire nearby. So I drop the sign, take cover, pull out my cell again, and dial Cunningham to try to warn him and the NOPD about the sunglasses and secret shooters, too.

Damnit! The call won’t go through. I try twice more. Still no luck.

Then, my phone starts ringing. Weirdly, I’m getting an incoming call.

A local 504 area code, but I don’t recognize the number.

Maybe it’s the FBI. Maybe an analyst saw my sign. Maybe it worked!

Breathlessly, I answer.

A man’s voice, cool as ice, says: “Hello, Detective. It’s Billy. You rang?”

Chapter 84

THE SOUND of that monster’s voice snatches my breath away.

I’m on the line with the mastermind of the deadliest terror attack in New Orleans history, which is still raging all around me.

But does he know I know that?

He has to. Why else would he be calling? Just to toy with me?

“Hey, Billy,” I answer, as calmly as I can. “Where are you? Somewhere safe, I hope. I’m sure you’ve seen the news. The French Quarter is an absolute—”

He snickers.

“That was some pretty convincing acting,” he says, voice calm and steady. “Really. Of course I’ve seen the news. I’ve also seen things…live.”

That last word nearly causes me to jump. I glance around with sudden paranoia. Does he have cameras of his own installed in the French Quarter? Is he watching me right now?

“And I have to say, I’m impressed with you, Caleb,” he says. “You came awfully close to figuring it all out. To stopping me. You didn’t, as you can see. But you did screw up a lot of my plans for today.”

Furious, I grip the phone tighter and say, “Really? That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. Let’s get together and you can tell me personally how I screwed up your plans, and I’ll screw my Smith & Wesson into your worthless mouth and pull the goddamn trigger!”

He laughs. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll meet, but not right now. You screwed up some