Killer Chef

  “I told you not to worry about that, Patz,” he says, gently rubbing the space in between her shoulder blades before he catches himself. “We’ll clean the whole place up real nice so you can open for lunch tomorrow. I promise.”

  “I appreciate that,” Patsy answers. “But this is my restaurant. I really need to—”

  Caleb moves his hand from her back to the chair and keeps it firmly by his side. “This is your restaurant. But right now, it’s my crime scene.”

  Patsy looks unhappy, but then lights up with an idea.

  “You boys must be starving! I was going to just close up for the night, but maybe I’ll pop into the kitchen, have JD whip up a little gumbo for y’all.”

  “That’s so kind of you,” Caleb says, steering her away from the kitchen. “But I’m afraid we’ll have to decline. I do want to pop into the kitchen for a minute myself, though.”

  Patsy takes the hint. “You’ve been trying to sneak a peek at some of my secret recipes for years. I guess tonight’s your chance.”

  Caleb returns her grim smile. As a chef, he hates to treat a kitchen like a crime scene, but it might contain clues. He also needs to speak with the people who handled the couple’s food.

  Right now, all of them are prime suspects.

  Chapter 4

  JD McMullan, Patsy’s longtime executive chef, has shared enough good cigars and cheap whiskey over the years with Caleb to consider him a friend. But the moment the detective pushes through the kitchen’s saloon-style doors, both men know that their past isn’t worth a damn tonight. Not with two people lying dead.

  “You think something in my food killed ’em?” JD exclaims. “Impossible! No way it could have come from my kitchen. I watch my staff like a hawk. Inspect every dish before it goes out.”

  “Any new hires lately?” Caleb asks, eyeing the dozen or so kitchen employees assembled in the corner, corralled by another cop, all staring back at him.

  “None. Every one of these guys has been with me since the start. We’re like family. I’d go to the mat for any of ’em.” JD pauses to wipe his dripping brow. “A thing like this can ruin a business, you know. Imagine if two folks dropped dead after scarfing down one of your po’ boys. My career’s on the line here, man!”

  Caleb tries to catch JD’s eye, unsure if the burly man in stained chef’s whites is about to start weeping or running. He thinks back to some of their late-night conversations, how JD spoke of his aspirations to star in his own Cajun cooking show one day. Would he really risk it all to commit murder?

  Caleb speaks briefly with the rest of the kitchen staff in small groups, everyone from the sous-chefs to the line cooks to the sommelier to the dishwashers. All are cooperative. All seem just as sad and shaken and confused as JD. Calm, concerned, genuine. No telltale signs of a killer.

  At least not yet.

  Caleb returns to the dining room just in time to spot a pair of size 14 snakeskin boots clomping across the marble floor. They belong to Dr. Quincy Johnson, a gentle giant in his late forties with the Orleans Parish medical examiner’s office. He sports an earnest smile, tiny tortoise-shell glasses, and a protruding belly full of gumbo and bathtub gin.

  “Pleasure to see you, Detective,” Quincy says.

  The two men finish the sentence simultaneously: “…given the circumstances.” It’s an old routine between these old acquaintances—they’ve encountered each other at crime scenes across the city for nearly a decade. They shake hands cordially and approach the victims.

  “Witnesses are saying the two began flailing their arms and gasping for air at almost exactly the same time,” Caleb says. “They both started to spasm, moaning in pain. Then they hit the ground.”

  Quincy dons a pair of latex gloves, removes his gold cuff links, rolls up his sleeves, and starts visually inspecting the bodies and surrounding area.

  “Sounds like acute homicidal poisoning to me,” he says, sucking at his teeth.

  “You read my mind,” Caleb replies. “I’ll let you do your thing here. I want to try to talk to as many other patrons as I can before letting them go.”

  Working his way clockwise around the dining room, Caleb takes statements from a jittery mother and her sulky teenage daughter there for a birthday dinner she’ll never forget. A slimy corporate lawyer who had come to Patsy’s to impress a potential new client. A middle-aged gay man, owner of a local art gallery. A retired couple visiting from Boca. And the entire waitstaff, some of whom served the victims personally.

  Caleb will have his team back at the station run each witness’s name through the system. But the stories seem to check out, with no immediate red flags raised. Caleb prides himself on his knack for spotting bad guys after fifteen years on the force. Tonight he doesn’t think he’s met one.

  Finishing up with the last witness, he notices Patsy sitting alone at the bar, halfway through what appears to be a tumbler of bourbon. An empty glass is already sitting in front of her. Caleb knows that feeling. He heads over and rubs her arm.

  “You doing okay, Patz?”

  Patsy turns to look at him, seeing Quincy and an assistant ME beginning to place the two victims into body bags. She shudders and tosses back the remainder of her liquor.

  “Hell, Caleb. I don’t know if I’ll ever be.”

  Chapter 5

  Before he can reply, Caleb spots a small alcove off the main dining room, one he’s never noticed in all his times eating here. Behind the frosted-glass door are silhouettes—a group he hasn’t seen yet or spoken with.

  “What’s in there?” he asks Patsy, who’s just flagged down her bartender to pour her drink number three.

  “That is what we call our Chef’s Table,” she explains. “A semiprivate dining room with its own side entrance, reserved for some of my most ‘exclusive’ clientele.” Patsy hangs her head. “Who probably won’t ever be coming back.”

  Leaving Patsy at the bar, Caleb opens the door to enter the little room. Inside he finds a gaggle of New Orleans minor celebrities standing around a few mahogany tables, chatting and sipping cocktails. Among them is the lead actress of a popular medical show set and shot in the city. A Pulitzer Prize–winning columnist from the Times-Picayune. A starting lineman for the Saints, about the size of a refrigerator, and his petite wife, who’s a model.

  In the corner, a clump of publicists and managers are pecking away at their smartphones, sweating like hookers in church. No doubt they’re trying to figure out how to salvage the evening, which has quickly become a living nightmare for them and the VIPs they handle.

  Caleb has barely stepped foot in the room when one of the handlers—a pushy, heavyset woman with spiky platinum-blond hair—marches over and accosts him.

  “Finally, someone in charge!” she hisses. “Do you have any idea how long we’ve been kept waiting in here? A mob of paparazzi is setting up outside. If they snap even one single picture of any our clients leaving the scene of a murder—”

  “I understand your concern, miss,” Caleb says, staying cool and charming as always. He addresses the entire room: “On behalf of the New Orleans Police Department, I apologize to all of you for the inconvenience. And thank you for your cooperation. If I could just ask y’all a few questions, you can soon be on your—”

  “Not a chance in hell, Rooney,” says a nasal male voice.

  Caleb recognizes it without turning around. It’s more grating than nails on a chalkboard.

  Tariq “the Tarantula” Bishar, a nebbish middle-management twerp from the mayor’s office, has burst into the private dining room like he owns the place. His official title is Director of City Outreach and Cultural Development. The fancy title means he’s in charge of wining and dining actors, directors, artists, musicians, athletes, models, and other “luminaries” to entice them to work, live, and play in the Crescent City—and keeping them happy once they’re here. Tariq is a perpetual thorn in the NOPD’s side, known to throw a wrench into any police investigation that might ruffle the feathers of the cit
y’s elite.

  Tariq pushes past him and air-kisses the spiky-haired publicist with the attitude.

  “By personal order of the Deputy Superintendent of the New Orleans Police Department,” Tariq announces, puffing out his chest like a modern-day town crier, “all patrons of Patsy’s eatery are requested to please vacate the premises as swiftly and discreetly as possible.”

  The crowd of celebs and their handlers murmur in relief and quickly start filing out of the private side entrance.

  Caleb isn’t a violent person, but his desire to wring Tariq’s scrawny little neck is strong.

  “Two people are in the next room dead, Tariq,” he says, struggling to keep his cool. “But God forbid we inconvenience a couple of D-listers.”

  Tariq shrugs as he follows the last of the VIPs out. “Take it up with your superiors, Rooney. Not me. I’m just the messenger.”

  Caleb resists the impulse to strangle him—by popping a jalapeño into his mouth and taking comfort in the tingly, familiar heat.

  Realizing he’s lost control of his crime scene, he heads back into the main dining room and notifies the officers that the rest of the diners can leave.

  As the restaurant begins emptying out, Caleb looks back over at table 24. The two bodies have been removed. Crime scene techs are now placing the couple’s likely poisoned, unfinished food and beverages into plastic containers for laboratory analysis. Even the tablecloth and cutlery are being tagged as evidence.

  Caleb loosens the tie around his neck.

  Now his work really begins.

  Chapter 6

  Empty restaurants have a strange energy, a lingering imprint of the diners who laughed, cried, maybe even died at their tables. Tonight, Patsy’s is no exception. Caleb walks slowly through the spacious rooms alone, waiting for the remaining officers to finish processing the crime scene. Not twenty minutes after the last of its shaken patrons have left, the tables abandoned mid-meal give the place a spooky air.

  Caleb stops and looks closely at some black-and-white photos lining one of the rear hallways. Classy snapshots of New Orleans from almost a century ago: streetcars, flappers, jazz musicians. Images from the Pythian Temple roof garden. The old riverboat clubs. Raucous Mardi Gras celebrations of yore.

  His eyes narrow in on one of his favorites, a photograph of a legendary performance by King Oliver and his Creole Jazz Band, probably taken around 1923. Caleb can practically hear their brassy, dazzling melodies just from looking at it.

  “I’m gonna leave you that picture in my will,” Patsy says. She’s standing at the other end of the hall. “Which means you might be getting it soon.”

  She starts walking toward him—stumbling toward him. Clearly those bracing drinks earlier have started to kick in.

  “You’ll get through this, Patz. Not that I couldn’t stare at these photos of yours for hours.”

  Patsy shoots him a boozy smile and gives him an exaggerated once-over.

  “I could stare at something else for hours.”

  Caleb stands a little straighter. His own eyes wander from Patsy’s sultry lips to her luscious curves.

  “I hate to ask you for anything else, but…could you give me a lift home?” she asks. “I could take the streetcar, but this whole mess tonight has thrown me into such a state. I’d probably fall asleep and wake up in a less than pleasant neighborhood.”

  Caleb was planning on offering one anyway.

  “Of course. But you gotta do something for me. Don’t seat table 24 for the next couple of days. It’s bad luck.”

  “‘Bad luck?’ I didn’t know you were superstitious.”

  “I’m not. I just guess you could say…kitchens, dining rooms, food trucks—those are my spiritual places. If anybody understands that, it’s you.”

  Patsy takes his arm and slides her hand down to meet his.

  Caleb wants to tell her he misses her. That he often still thinks of her, their walks, their breakfasts in bed. Instead, he lifts her soft hand up to his lips and kisses it.

  Patsy closes her eyes and moans softly. But Caleb breaks off their display of affection before it goes any further.

  “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s get you out of here before a busboy catches us.”

  “There aren’t any busboys at my place,” Patsy whispers.

  Caleb informs Officer Ames that he’ll be stepping away from the crime scene for the night, then leads Patsy out of her restaurant and into his Charger—unsure whether to take her bait or let the heat between them fizzle out. There was always something about Patsy that made him keep his guard up.

  They ride along together in silence for a few minutes until his cell phone rings—Nicki Minaj. Patsy giggles.

  “Hi, Marlene.”

  “Get everything sorted out at that overrated madhouse yet?”

  The volume is high and Marlene’s voice carries. Patsy looks over at Caleb, offended. Caleb tries to defuse the situation by changing the subject.

  “Did you make it through the dinner rush okay?”

  As he’d hoped, this launches Marlene into a wild rant about how crazy the last ninety minutes have been, and all the cleaning and scrubbing she now has to do, alone.

  “Yeah, but I knew you could handle it, see?” Caleb says, buttering her up. “Look, I can’t really talk right now, Mar, but I’ll see you in the morning. Love you.”

  “I hate you. But I love you, too.”

  Caleb hangs up—and squirms, uncomfortable that Patsy overheard their conversation, especially that last part. She raises an eyebrow and asks with disdain and maybe a touch of jealousy, “You really still love your ex-wife?”

  Caleb is actually proud of the fact that he and his ex aren’t just cordial to each other but are quite close—close enough to run a successful business together.

  He doesn’t have to think twice. “I do.”

  Probably not the answer Patsy was hoping for, but she knows how important Marlene is to him, though they never got along. She flips the question around to herself. “Do you love me?”

  Caleb finds this endearing. He considers the different ways the evening might go, depending on his answer, but decides to be honest.

  “Marlene and I were married for years, so it’s a different dynamic. But I care about you, Patsy. A whole lot.”

  Patsy seems to accept that response as Caleb pulls up in front of her apartment, the top floor of a quaint two-story town house in Faubourg Lafayette, where the two shared many pleasant days and steamy nights.

  “Thanks again for driving me home, Detective,” Patsy says with more than a hint of flirtatiousness. She gently strokes his muscled forearm. “Now what?”

  Caleb looks over at this beautiful woman. He thinks about all the things he wants, needs, but probably shouldn’t act on. He’s left Marlene in the lurch back at the truck. Not to mention he’s got a fresh double homicide to investigate.

  But Caleb decides all of that can wait.

  He switches off the ignition and unbuckles his seat belt.

  “I could go for a nightcap. How about you?”

  Chapter 7

  Patsy’s neighborhood, the Tenth Ward, is a patchwork of multifamily homes, colorful town houses, and funky shops and cafés. Her apartment sits directly above a small funeral parlor that’s been in business since the 1940s. From the look of the faded, gold-stenciled lettering on its glass storefront and the peeling, lime-green wallpaper inside, it probably hasn’t been renovated since then, either.

  Caleb places a hand on Patsy’s lower back as she leads them up the creaky wooden staircase to her front door.

  As soon as she pushes it open, he breathes in the familiar scent of pinewood and incense he remembers so well. But plenty has changed about the apartment, too, since the last time he was inside. Some of the furniture’s been rearranged. The walls have been freshly painted, a soothing beige with white trim.

  “Place looks good, Patz,” Caleb says as he crosses the threshold.

  Patsy releases a pained exhale and s
lumps her shoulders, bone-tired. It’s as if all the stress and chaos of the night have finally caught up with her.

  After a moment, she moves to a small credenza and pours two glasses of port.

  “That’s right,” Caleb says, remembering. “You were in Portugal last month.” He takes a glass of the maroon liquid from Patsy and gently swishes it. “How was your trip?”

  “Wonderful. Truly. I brought back a few bottles of this amazing Garrafeira. Cheers.” With a raise of her glass, she and Caleb clink. “I stayed at a château in the Douro Valley. It was beautiful. But my room was…a little lonely. You should have come.”

  Caleb takes a sip of the rich, fruity wine. Then he sets the glass down and moves to embrace her.

  Patsy turns away from him and silently leads him into the bedroom, where they partially disrobe and slip under the covers.

  But Caleb doesn’t have any lusty expectations. He’s intuitive enough to know that Patsy just wants him there, needs him there, for comfort and support, nothing more.

  Patsy shuts off the light, then reaches for the remote and flips on the small TV mounted on the wall across from the bed. She navigates to the Cooking Channel and turns the volume low. Caleb remembers that she likes a bit of ambient noise when she sleeps. He pulls her tenderly into his arms. Patsy sighs deeply and within seconds dozes off.

  Caleb listens to her soft, rhythmic breathing, and the sounds of a TV chef explaining the final-round challenge of a reality cooking show. But his thoughts begin to drift back to the two people murdered in Patsy’s restaurant’s dining room just hours earlier.

  He tries to catch some winks himself, but instead his mind starts to race. There are so many questions he wants to ask his bedmate.

  For starters: “Who do you think did it?”

  The investigation has barely begun, but already Caleb’s feeling frustrated. He envisions the grisly crime scene again in his head. He just can’t help it. He mentally replays the dozens of brief interviews he conducted.