Killer Chef

by James Patterson

  Of a well-dressed man and woman splayed out on the ground.

  Both dead.

  Caleb steps closer. The two victims look to be around the same age and same professional “type” as Marty and Elizabeth. The man is a bit stocky, white, and the woman appears to be at least part Asian. Their bodies are twisted in similarly unnatural poses. And their faces are frozen in almost identical masks of pain.

  It takes Caleb all of six milliseconds to deduce that the two double murders are connected. Similar victims, similar MO, similar location. Could this be another crime of passion? A copycat attack? Or the beginning of a terrifying pattern?

  Sergeant Roy Jardell—dedicated, but plenty cynical after nineteen long years on the force—approaches Caleb.

  “Four bodies in four days. Unbelievable, ain’t it? Nice outfit by the way, Detective. You look like Emeril Lagasse on steroids.”

  Caleb ignores the little dig. “Thanks for the call, Roy,” he says. “When Janine gave me the briefing I hoped—prayed—it was just a coincidence. Another couple killed while they ate. But clearly this case just got more complicated.”

  “According to their IDs,” Jardell says, referring to his notepad, “their names are Brent Grassley and Joanna Fujimoto. Both local. An insurance adjuster and a dental hygienist. Friends? Lovers? We’re still trying to work that out.

  “My team are taking down witness statements and personal details from everyone who was at the coffee shop. They’re searching the scene for any additional clues. And they’re securing surveillance footage.”

  Caleb decides not to tell Jardell that that’s exactly what his team did after the killings at Patsy’s—and it was all a total wash.

  “We also got the press up our asses on this one,” Jardell says with a frown. “What a pack of vultures. Rumors are already flying that the four murders are related. Want to release any kind of statement?”

  Caleb feels a flicker of pleasure imagining how Tariq—that smug little pipsqueak from the mayor’s office—might literally have a heart attack if the New Orleans Police Department announced that a cold-blooded serial killer was stalking the French Quarter, murdering innocent couples. But he thinks better of it.

  “Not yet,” Caleb answers. “Not till we know more. No reason to get everybody all riled up for no reason.”

  Caleb reaches into his pocket for a jalapeño—and is dismayed to discover that his trusty plastic bag is empty.

  It’s a shockingly uncomfortable feeling, like a drinker discovering his bottle has only dregs, or a smoker reaching the end of his pack.

  Caleb hopes it’s not a bad omen. But in this city of voodoo and witchcraft, it just might be.

  Chapter 16

  “I think I need a little air,” says Caleb to Sergeant Jardell.

  Café Du Monde is open-air, but neither says so. It’s just that kind of evening.

  A whole lot of things go unspoken.

  Caleb steps out from under the giant green canopy and onto the café’s empty side patio. The noise and chaos of the street are still close by, but at least he has a bit of privacy here to clear his head, to gather his thoughts.

  Quincy and his team are on their way over to bag the two new bodies and run tests on their food and coffee. But Caleb already has a feeling what they’ll find: not much. Some similar traces of the same synthetic alkaloid that poisoned Marty and Elizabeth, sure. But nothing that will actually help them track down who’s responsible.

  Meanwhile, forensic specialists will dust for prints and fibers, and comb through every frame of the café’s security footage. Caleb is hopeful they’ll catch a break that way. But his gut is telling him they won’t.

  The fact is, they’re obviously dealing with someone smart. Someone cruel. Someone who knows how to hide their tracks. Someone with a specific agenda and vendetta…against couples on a date? Against diners enjoying a meal?

  Caleb mentally runs through all the facts again. They just don’t make any sense. The killer doesn’t fit any profile, doesn’t match any—

  “Hey, I know you!”

  The perky female voice comes from Caleb’s left. He looks over to see a pretty, thirty-something redhead in a professional blouse and pencil skirt leaning against the police barricade, clutching a microphone.

  “Nah, I don’t think so,” Caleb mumbles, turning back to face the café.

  He does know her, as a cute local reporter for the WVUE-TV evening news. She’s also a spunky, flirty weekend regular at his food truck—usually a few sheets to the wind when she orders, yet always asks for light spicy mayo on her shrimp po’ boy and an extra pickle. On more than one occasion, she’s also asked for Caleb’s number.

  “Yeah,” she insists, “you’re Killer Chef! You catch bad guys and make the best sandwiches in town.”

  “Thanks,” Caleb says, trying to cut her off.

  “Got those eating jalapeños in your pocket? I’ve seen you. I bet you’re carrying some right now, aren’t you?”

  “Actually, I just ran out,” Caleb says. “Listen, I gotta head back inside.”

  “Wait, wait one second,” she says. A cameraman has appeared behind her and is starting to roll. “What can you tell us about what happened here, Detective? My sources say you’re running the investigation. Do you have any additional insight, since you’re part of the New Orleans food scene yourself?”

  “No comment,” Caleb says gruffly. He’s not in any mood to talk to the press or become part of the story himself.

  He starts heading back into the café. But that doesn’t stop the cute reporter from shouting more questions at him.

  “Are tonight’s murders connected to the double homicide earlier this week at Patsy’s?” she calls out. “Do you have a description of the suspect yet? What would you say to all the tourists and local residents who are too afraid to eat out?”

  Caleb smirks a bit at that last question—thinking about the line for the truck that night—until he sees Quincy and his assistants zipping up Brent and Joanna’s body bags. His smile disappears. He and Quincy exchange a grim nod.

  Caleb enters the men’s room. He knows there’s a chance the killer might have slipped inside to change clothes, don a disguise, or flush some evidence, so Caleb is careful not to touch anything. The entire place will soon be processed by crime scene techs, floor to ceiling.

  God, his head is throbbing. Caleb uses a latex glove to gently turn on a tap and splash a little cold water on his face. In the mirror in the bathroom’s harsh fluorescent light, he notices small bags under his eyes and crow’s-feet in the corners. His complexion looks pale, almost ghostly.

  Caleb exits the restroom and looks around the café at all the officers interviewing patrons, the forensic technicians getting to work.

  Realistically, there’s nothing more for him to do here tonight. After such a long day, he decides to head home and get some rest. He wants to be fresh and alert to tackle the case tomorrow.

  Ducking back under the crime scene tape into the hot, rainy night and walking up the sidewalk the way he came, Caleb feels his cell phone buzz. Next comes that damn Céline Dion ringtone again.

  He checks the caller ID: MARLENE.

  Against his better judgment—and hoping he can keep the early closing of the food truck a secret at least until tomorrow—he answers.

  “Hey, Mar. I can’t really talk right now. But how are you feeling? Better?”

  “Well, aren’t you just sweet as king cake,” she replies, her voice dripping with her usual sarcasm. “How are you feeling, Caleb? I know how exhausting it is making all those sandwiches by yourself. The line’s gotta be down the block tonight. How’s it going?”

  “Uh…pretty good,” he answers, stepping around a drunk college student puking a stream of Hurricane-blue vomit into a gutter. “Busy. But nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Oh, you’re so full of it!” Marlene snaps. “Here I am, sick in bed, when all of a sudden I see your big ol’ mug pop up on the evening news—at a crime scene! Some
redheaded reporter was giving your whole life story. You know what the bottom of the screen said? ‘Killer Chef Lead Detective on Foodie Murders.’ Congratulations, Caleb. You did it. You’re famous. For all the wrong reasons.”

  Caleb sighs in frustration. Great. For years he’d worked hard to keep his two very different professional lives separate. But now, they’ve come together. In the worst possible way.

  And with the whole city watching him, he knows things can get even worse.

  Chapter 17

  Less than twenty-four hours later, Caleb is right back where he started—inside the hot-as-hell Killer Chef truck.

  While he slathers a sliced roll with horseradish-infused mustard and pops a fresh jalapeño into his mouth from his refilled bag, Marlene is rummaging through the produce bins in their truck’s mini-refrigerator.

  “Is this really all the sweet onions we have left?” she asks, clearly irritated. “We’re almost out of tomatoes. Bell peppers, too. Nice going yesterday, man.”

  “Sorry,” Caleb says with an eye roll. “I didn’t get a chance to do inventory last night. I was a little busy. Trying to solve four murders and all.”

  Marlene stifles a cough in the crook of her elbow. Because Caleb shut the truck down early yesterday—which cost them a few hundred dollars in lost sales—she insisted they pull a double shift today: lunch and dinner. With her partner tied up most of the morning and afternoon with the case, Marlene guzzled about a gallon of DayQuil and dragged her sick self to work.

  “Well, you better solve ’em fast, bud,” she says, dabbing her sweaty brow. “Our business is in the gutter thanks to you. It’s down all across the French Quarter.”

  She’s right. After his handsome face was plastered all over the news last night, Caleb and Marlene both hoped the newfound notoriety might boost their food truck’s sales. Instead, their line of customers is only a fraction of the usual—which is why, instead of slaving nonstop over the stove and fryer, Marlene has time to go through the fridge. And bust Caleb’s balls.

  “Don’t you dare put this on me,” Caleb says. “After what’s been happening this week, can you really blame people for deciding to eat at home?”

  Marlene shuts the refrigerator, opens the truck’s rear door, and sits down on the bumper. “I even wore my running shoes today and everything,” she says, gesturing to her pair of hot-pink kicks. She lights up a Virginia Slim and sucks in a long drag. “If things don’t pick up, I might take a real break and go in for a tarot reading, see if my future looks any brighter than my present.”

  Caleb smiles at this idea and recalls a fond memory.

  “Remember the first time you got your cards read?” he asks.

  “Of course I do. It was our first day of school. And we went together.”

  Years ago, when she had just moved to New Orleans and Caleb was still a rookie beat cop, they found themselves at side-by-side stovetops in the same Introduction to French Sauces course. During the initial get-to-know-each-other portion of the class, Marlene confessed a desire to have her cards read. That very night, Caleb offered to take her.

  “Remember what that kooky old broad said?” Marlene asks.

  Caleb most definitely does.

  As he and Marlene sat together in the psychic’s dark, cramped parlor watching her flip over card after colorful card, the woman told them that they would someday get hitched.

  “I thought she probably said that to every young girl who came in there with a hunky guy,” Marlene says, “just so she’d get a bigger tip.”

  “Same here,” answers Caleb, “until she flipped over the next batch of cards and told us, ‘You will remain life partners, yet will suffer great hardship.’”

  Sure enough, the old Gypsy was right.

  Just a few months after they met, Marlene became pregnant. She and Caleb held a classic shotgun wedding, a small picnic for family and their closest friends under the moss-draped oak trees of City Park.

  At first, their marriage was strong and loving. Marlene suffered a miscarriage—yet it only brought them closer. But then it happened again. Then again.

  When it became clear that children weren’t in their future, the two decided to have a different kind of “baby.” They opened up their first joint eatery, a crêpe stand, not far from where they tied the knot.

  But the place didn’t last. And neither did their marriage. They still loved each other, but more like siblings than husband and wife.

  On their seventh wedding anniversary, they held a spectacular rabbit and sausage jambalaya dinner for all their friends. During dessert—homemade pralines and coffee with cream and chicory—they announced they’d amicably filed for divorce that very morning, and offered a toast to their continued friendship.

  “At least we got one hell of a party out of it,” Marlene muses.

  “Yeah, I’d say we made out all right,” Caleb responds, putting the final touches on the smoked ham sandwich he’s been making and wrapping it in wax paper. “Hey, hand me a pickle, would you?”

  But Marlene doesn’t answer. Caleb glances over at her. She’s holding her cigarette near her lips, mid-drag. Something’s caught her attention off in the distance.

  And she looks concerned.

  “What’s up, Mar? What are you looking at?”

  Marlene tosses her cigarette butt to the ground.

  “Hurry up and finish that sandwich, Caleb. I think we might have a little trouble.”

  Chapter 18

  Caleb hastily hands the sandwich to the waiting customer and then follows Marlene’s nod. Across the street, a dark figure wearing a blue hooded sweatshirt is leaning against a lamppost, staring right at them—then nervously glances away.

  “Guy’s been there a while,” Marlene says, mashing her cigarette with the toe of her running shoe. “Noticed him about half an hour ago. I thought he looked a little odd, but I didn’t think much of it. New Orleans has its fair share of weirdos, after all. But then when I realized he was still there…”

  “Maybe he’s just waiting for somebody,” says Caleb, watching the man futzing with his iPhone. “Maybe he’s playing a game.”

  “Look closer,” Marlene says. The mystery man holds up his phone as if taking a picture. “He’s filming us or something. And he sure doesn’t look like a food blogger.”

  Caleb furrows his brow. Marlene’s right. Something feels a little off about this fellow, a little unsettling. So Caleb unties his apron and goes to the truck’s exit.

  He’s barely stepped into the street when the man suddenly turns and dashes off.

  “Hey, wait!” Caleb shouts, but the stranger doesn’t slow. He hooks a left onto Dumaine Street and disappears into a crowd.

  And the chase is on.

  Caleb picks up speed and tries to keep up. He watches the man turn onto Bourbon Street, which—despite the recent murders in the area—seems as packed and chaotic as ever.

  “Police, out of the way!” Caleb yells, pushing tourists aside as he barrels along.

  But the mystery man still stays a few steps ahead.

  After passing St. Ann Street, the man ducks into Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo, a squat wood-paneled museum and souvenir shop dedicated to one of New Orleans’ most notorious spiritual practices.

  Caleb bursts inside after him.

  The tiny shop is packed to the gills with voodoo masks, colorful gems, and tiny felt astrology bags. Caleb pauses briefly, looks around…and sees the man shove a screaming patron out of his way and rush through the rear door.

  Caleb chases after him—bumping into a giant crystal ball that falls to the floor and shatters into a million pieces, prompting furious screams and a string of curses from the woman behind the register.

  Next Caleb passes through a dim, disheveled hallway, nearly tripping on a toppled wooden statue and an overturned crate of tarot cards the mystery man had tossed in his path.

  Caleb soon reaches the shop’s rear exit, which leads to a small, enclosed backyard garden. He now spots the man
again—scaling the wall. Caleb jumps up and lunges for the man’s ankle, but he misses. He falls to the concrete ground. Hard.

  Then looks up to see the man slip over the top of the wall and disappear again.

  Damnit!

  Caleb is in pain. His ankle is throbbing and he’s getting some real bad heartburn from all those jalapeños he’s been munching.

  But he picks himself up with a grunt. And keeps going.

  He exits the garden via a wooden door that leads to the street, just in time to see the man rounding the corner. Caleb pursues, limping now, but not giving up.

  “Police!” he calls out again, waving his badge in the air. This time he also adds: “Somebody stop that guy!”

  Most of the tourists Caleb passes look bewildered by the request, like deer in headlights. Or maybe it’s just from all the booze. Either way, they’re of no help—and the mystery man is starting to put more and more distance between Caleb and himself.

  But just when he despairs, Caleb encounters some guardian angels. Literally.

  Two hulking men in white T-shirts and red berets—members of the New Orleans chapter of the Guardian Angels, a nonprofit citizen patrol group—stop and intervene. They try to grab the man as he races by them. But the runner twists and resists and manages to shake off their grip and keep running.

  Still, that brief delay helps.

  Caleb finally manages to catch up to the man—and tackles him to the pavement, right in the middle of the street.

  “Who…the hell…are you!” Caleb demands, desperately out of breath.

  The man is too winded to answer, so as soon as Caleb slaps some cuffs on him, he starts feeling around his pockets for his wallet—or for a weapon.

  “I didn’t do nothing wrong!” the man pleads, coughing and gasping for air. “What are you arresting me for? This is police brutality, man!”

  Caleb locates his wallet and flips it open with one hand, keeping the squirming man pinned down with the other. His driver’s license shows a local address and what Caleb considers a rather unusual name: Mitchell Albatross-Gomez, thirty-two years old.