The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,97

the shooting’s died down. Look, you gotta get walking.”

Vanessa says, “Can we drive our truck?”

The sergeant—an older Hispanic woman—says, “I’ll be, the famous ‘Killer Chef’…no can do, sorry. No civilian traffic allowed.”

I say, “Sergeant, I’m former NOPD. I’ve got vital information about the attack…can I borrow your radio equipment?”

The private laughs. “Yeah, if any of it was working. Seems like we got the wrong frequency crystals for our radio gear. Your government at work.”

The three of us walk gingerly along the nearly deserted streets, passing through two checkpoints manned by the state police—luckily, we weren’t searched, because I would have had a hard time explaining my hidden pistol—and we get to my home in Tremé. At this point, it’s as safe a place to be as anywhere else.

In other words, not that safe at all.

The streets are alive with moving traffic, none of it civilian. Fire trucks and EMS ambulances. Cruisers and unmarked vehicles. Additional National Guard Humvees and trucks. There’s a haze of smoke and a feeling of fear as the three of us keep up a steady pace.

I’ve lived in New Orleans my whole life. I’ve lived through riots. Through Hurricane Katrina.

I’ve never seen anything like this.

And if Billy was telling the truth, there’s more to come.

As calm as it now looks, that thought nearly freezes me with fear.

“You brought your keys, right?” Vanessa asks as we finally shuffle up the path to my town house. “Or are you going to have to bash this doorknob off, too?”

She smiles and touches my shoulder. It’s the tiniest gesture, but it means the world, after the day we’ve all had.

“If y’all are going to be this lovey-dovey,” Marlene says, “I’m gonna sleep in the hammock in the backyard. I’ve been through enough hell today.”

After I get the door open we head straight for the living room and all collapse on the sofa.

“Should we put on the news?” Vanessa asks, arching her back in exhaustion. “See what they’re saying?”

Marlene springs to her feet. But she strides over to my bar cart, not the TV.

“I’ve got a more important question,” she says. “What’s everybody drinking?”

As she fixes us some well-deserved old-fashioneds using my finest bottle of twenty-year Lagavulin Scotch, I flip on the television.

Coverage of the attack is on every channel. Reporters describing the action, dramatically waving their arms, pointing to crumpled floats and tractors behind police barricades. Blurry phone footage showing the screaming crowds, and one showing somebody in a harlequin costume, calmly walking along, shooting, until he in turn falls back when shot. Various witnesses—tourists, cops, residents—saying what they saw, with tears in their eyes and shaking voices. Talking heads drawing comparisons to the Boston Marathon bombing, the Las Vegas shooting, September 11th.

I can’t stomach this. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“Anyone care if I turn this shit off?” I ask.

I reach for the remote without waiting for an answer—just as my phone rings.

I check the screen. It’s another 504 number I don’t recognize.

Holy shit. Is it Billy again?

I answer nervously—then exhale.

“Rooney, it’s Cunningham,” comes his tired voice. “Where are you? You okay?”

“Hey, Chief. I’m hanging in there. I just got home. Did you get my—”

“That’s why I’m calling,” he says. “How soon can you get to Pontchartrain Park? I’m with Morgan and his team of all-star rejects. We want you down here. Now.”

“It might take some time, with all the roadblocks,” I say.

“No worries,” he says. “A cruiser will come by and pick you up.”

Chapter 87

THE ALFRED J. LeMont Federal Building, home to the FBI’s New Orleans Field Office, is an ugly concrete tower tucked away on the outskirts of town near the shores of Lake Pontchartrain.

Over the years, I’ve worked a few other joint cases with the Feds, but I’ve never stepped inside their facility. It’s not that I didn’t want to. I was never invited. Until now.

It’s a monument to law and order, of peace and progress, but my mood sours the moment I step inside, when I see Special Agent Morgan standing outside of a conference room, talking to a woman wearing a Homeland Security windbreaker.

“Morgan!” I yell. “You son of a bitch, this is all your fault! You idiot! Moron! I fucking gave you everything on a goddamn silver platter, and you let the attack happen!”

Morgan, eyes blazing with anger and fury, says, “What silver platter, Rooney? Huh? What goddamn platter? You focused on a poor Syrian dishwasher. You gave us a nearly illiterate Aryan Brotherhood goon who knew nothing we didn’t already know…you