Killer Chef

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  About the Authors

  Newsletters

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  It’s a whisper past 10:00 p.m. in New Orleans’ famous French Quarter, but it might as well be the middle of the day. The narrow streets are bustling with tipsy tourists and locals alike. Cars share their lanes with horse-drawn carriages. From every bar and club waft the sounds of clinking glasses and tinkling jazz, filling the hot night air.

  A stone’s throw from the banks of the Mississippi, near leafy Jackson Square, sits a food truck emblazoned with a skull and crossbones. More accurately, a shrimp and crossbones. Killer Chef, as it’s called, is one of the most popular chuck wagons in the entire city, and for very good reason. Its po’ boys are to die for.

  The line for Killer Chef is always around the block, and always a good time. Jugglers and fire-breathers pace up and down, entertaining the hungry masses for tips. Passing musicians often stop and play impromptu concerts, while Gypsy psychics set up tarot card tables on the sidewalk to tell fortunes. (“I see…an incredible meal in your future.”)

  Tonight, the line is twice its normal length, thanks to the small army of gaffers, makeup artists, and camera operators standing in it. A film crew is in the neighborhood shooting a new romantic thriller starring one of Hollywood’s biggest celebrity power couples. The crowd is desperate for a glimpse of them walking from the set to their trailer. When they smile and wave, everyone goes nuts.

  Everyone, that is, except for another perfect pair: the Killer Chef co-owners, working furiously inside the truck. They stay squarely focused on their food, cranking out their legendary sandwiches with gusto.

  Caleb Rooney is six two, slender and sinewy, flashing a megawatt smile. His chiseled good looks rival those of the leading man down the block. Next to him is Marlene DePietra, soft and petite, her frizzy mane of black hair held in place with a hot-pink scrunchie. Her plump cheeks are rosy, but she’s not wearing a stitch of makeup. (She almost never does.) The heat inside the truck is just that intense.

  “Order up!” Caleb shouts, sliding three Dark & Stormy sandwiches—a heavenly combo of garlic-ginger aioli drizzled atop Old New Orleans Rum-glazed pork belly—into a paper bag. He pauses for just a second to chomp down on a home-grown jalapeño from the bag in his pocket, then grabs two more loaves of French bread and slices them in half.

  Looking over at Marlene, Caleb sees she’s rummaging through her purse. She pulls out a fistful of colorful vitamins and downs them without water.

  “Come on, Mar,” Caleb chides her. “We’ve got a line from here to Tulane and you’re taking your pills now?”

  “Gotta stay healthy,” she replies. She passes the two sandwiches to a waiting customer with one hand, dumping a new batch of shrimp into the deep fryer with the other. “If I croak, no way in hell you could handle this truck on your own.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Caleb says, squirting a glob of horseradish mustard onto some peppered smoked ham. “But if Killer Chef got to cater your funeral? All of our friends and enemies would come. Woo boy, think of all that business!”

  Marlene chuckles. That’s just how their relationship is, how it’s always been. Good-natured teasing, full of love—more like siblings than business partners running one of New Orleans’ hottest culinary attractions.

  “What’s good here?” asks the next woman in line, a busty middle-aged tourist wearing a bright-yellow Mardi Gras T-shirt and crisp white capris. She reaches up to tap her turquoise acrylic nails on the counter. Even from a few feet away, the scent of booze on her breath is strong.

  “Caleb, can you help this fine young lady out?” Marlene says with a wink.

  They know the food is fabulous. But they also know that certain customers appreciate a little…“extra attention” from the hunky cook once in a while. That’s part of the truck’s appeal, after all. Caleb leans in close to the woman, stares deep into her eyes, and flexes his biceps so they pop against his tight shirt.

  “Ma’am, how’d you like a little…hot beef?”

  The woman flushes and bats her eyelashes. “I think I’d just love some,” she says, handing over a twenty-dollar bill with a giggle. “Keep the change, Killer Chef.”

  Caleb knows how to use his talents to his advantage.

  Marlene rolls her eyes, immune to his antics after all their years together.

  Caleb starts making the woman’s beef sandwich but suddenly stops and looks up, alert. A flashing blue police light illuminates the night sky, its siren barely audible over all the street noise. Then another police car speeds by. Then a third.

  Caleb strains to look and listen, trying to work out where the cruisers are heading. He pulls another jalapeño from his pocket, rubs it between his fingers, then sinks his teeth into it. It’s a familiar ritual of his that Marlene immediately recognizes. And dreads.

  “Pass me the chicken,” she says with a bit of an edge. “Yo. Caleb. Wake up.”

  Caleb snaps out of his haze and obeys. He tries to refocus on the sandwich in front of him, dressing the juicy slab of beef with Creole spices and tangy mayonnaise, when he feels a vibration in his pocket and hears Nicki Minaj’s “Anaconda” blare.

  He gives Marlene a sour look. “Did you seriously change my ringtone? Again? When did you get your little paws on my phone, woman?”

  His partner cackles and shrugs. She’s the big sister he never knew he wanted, but he adores her.

  “Duck po’ boy with a side of duck-fat fries,” comes the order from a cocky production assistant who has just elbowed his way up to the truck. The crowd groans and boos at him for cutting the line, but they quiet down when he adds: “This one’s for Angelina, so make it good.”

  “Caleb,” Marlene sniffs, dropping some fresh fries into the sizzling fryer, “do you want to explain to this clueless young man that we make all of ’em good? Or should I?”

  But she sees her partner isn’t paying attention. His iPhone is wedged between his shoulder and his ear. He’s wiping his hands on a dishrag and listening intently to the voice mail he’s just received.

  The grin is gone from his face.

  “I know that look,” says Marlene, her anger rising. “Don’t you dare, Caleb. Not now. Not when half the city’s standing in our line. You can’t leave me alone!”

  “I’m sorry, darlin’,” Caleb says sheepishly, already heading for the door. “Really, really sorry. But it’s bad. I gotta boogie. You know the drill.”

  And with that, he’s gone.

  “Damn it, Caleb!” Marlene shouts inside the empty truck.

  She does know the drill. But that doesn’t mean she likes it.

  In a rage, she slams down her knife, and looks down at the unfinished beef sandwich on Caleb’s board. She hurls it across the truck. It sticks momentarily to the wall with a dull squelch, then slides slowly all the way
down.

  Marlene takes a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. Then she picks up a fresh roll and begins remaking the sandwich herself.

  It’s going to be a long night. Her partner won’t be coming back anytime soon.

  Chapter 2

  Caleb has dashed all the way down the hustle and bustle of Decatur Street before he realizes he’s still wearing his stained apron. He rips it off and decides to take a shortcut he knows: a small path lined with street artists that runs behind the block’s shops and eateries, including the famous Café Du Monde.

  But as Caleb nears the pathway, he spots a roving zydeco band performing for a gaggle of beignet-lovers, clogging the pathway’s entrance. Shit. He should’ve stuck to his typical route, but it’s too late now.

  Cursing under his breath, Caleb discreetly hurries through the band and spectators, pretending to shake a maraca to get to the other side. Once clear, his jog turns into a run.

  He finally reaches a small parking lot near the French Market, races up to his sleek black Dodge Charger, and pops the trunk.

  Stripping off his grimy T-shirt and jeans right there in the open, he reaches for the garment bag inside. It contains a pair of brown slacks, a white button-down, and a dark striped tie. Caleb shimmies into the rumpled clothes, hops behind the wheel, and revs the engine.

  Before pulling out, he removes a blue police beacon from the glove box and slaps it on his car’s roof. He takes out a crescent-shaped gold NEW ORLEANS POLICE badge and clips it to his belt.

  Caleb Rooney isn’t just one of the city’s top chefs. He’s also one of its very best detectives.

  Soon he’s speeding back the way he came, along Decatur Street. Then he hooks a right and heads up St. Louis Street.

  Weaving through the heavy traffic, his siren blaring, Caleb toots his horn and gives a quick wave as he passes Johnny’s Po-Boy Restaurant. Johnny Jr. himself is out front smoking and returns the greeting with a knowing nod. Killer Chef has developed camaraderie with the owners of the city’s sit-down po’ boy places, especially once the word got out that he’s a cop. Caleb used to fantasize about opening a real restaurant of his own someday, but he’s gotten used to the speed and street cred that come only from running a hoppin’ food truck.

  Not that keeping it running is easy. Hell, no. Especially on such a crazy night. Starting to feel guilty about leaving Marlene on her own, Caleb asks Siri to call her cell.

  “You better be calling to say you’re on your way back!” Marlene yells into the phone without even saying hello. Her fury makes Caleb regret calling altogether.

  “You know I would if I could,” he says. “And I will. If I can.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Give it to me straight, doc.”

  Caleb hesitates. He hates to add to Marlene’s stress. But he can’t lie to her, either. She knows him too well for that.

  “It’s murder, honeypot. A double.”

  Marlene groans on the other end. They both know what that means. There’s no way in hell he’ll be back to finish the rush and help her clean up and close.

  “Someone got killed in the Quarter, huh? Do we know ’em?”

  Caleb doesn’t respond.

  “Come on. The least you can do is tell me where you’re going.”

  Now Caleb really hesitates. In the background on the other end, he hears the sound of fries in duck oil sizzling and popping. “I’m on my way to Patsy’s,” he says.

  “You gotta be kidding me!” Marlene exclaims.

  “Take the fries out, Mar,” Caleb says, hearing the crackling noises getting even louder. “Sounds like they’re burning.”

  He’s right. They are. Marlene angrily yanks out the fryer basket, dumps the burnt mess in the trash, and starts again. But first she steals a quick glance outside. She sees that, since her partner left, the line has grown even longer.

  “Damnit, Caleb, you need to hurry up and get your big ass back here! I have things to do tonight. I have a life, too, you know.”

  Caleb screeches a right onto Burgundy Street, nearing his destination. Unsure how else to get Marlene off the phone, he uses one of his trademark tricks: making a whooshing static sound with his tongue. Juvenile, sure, but it gets the job done.

  “Are you making the noise on me again? Caleb? You are, aren’t you? Caleb?”

  Caleb hangs up. Siri asks if he wants to call Marlene back. He doesn’t.

  Soon he arrives at Patsy’s, a high-end restaurant in a beautiful historic building. Magnificent white Doric columns frame a tangerine-orange facade. With its elegant dining room and glorious kitchen, the place has been luring local and visiting celebrities for years. During any given dinner service, guests might encounter politicians, diplomats, athletes, and whichever movie stars are currently in town filming.

  But tonight, this exceptional eatery is the scene of a horrific murder.

  Two, to be exact.

  And it’s up to Detective Caleb “Killer Chef” Rooney to solve them.

  A small crowd of onlookers has gathered outside. The trio of police cruisers Caleb saw earlier are parked in the street at sharp angles. He pulls up beside them, hops out of his Charger, and flashes his badge as he marches through the pack of gawkers toward the entrance.

  Observing the chaos of diners and staff, he braces himself for what he’s about to find inside.

  Chapter 3

  The door to Patsy’s swings open. Caleb strides in, calm and commanding, leaving no doubt about who’s now in charge of the scene.

  He has eaten here plenty of times before, but he’s never seen the ornate dining room so brightly lit. Or in such disarray. Cops stand at every doorway, interviewing clusters of anxious, well-dressed patrons, preventing them from leaving. On the far side of the dining room, a crime scene photographer is snapping pictures.

  Caleb heads over, ignoring the eyes that follow him. He’s barely gotten a few feet when he hears high heels clicking along the marble floor, heading his way, and a familiar woman’s voice. “Thank God you came.”

  Caleb turns to see the restaurant’s owner, Patsy De La Fontaine, coming toward him through the crowd. She’s a pretty, sprightly redhead who wears a bit too much Elizabeth Taylor perfume, but it suits her. There’s something both youthful and timeless about Patsy. Casual and elegant. And undeniably attractive.

  “Detective Rooney at your service, ma’am,” he says with a professional smile.

  Ignoring his formality, Patsy flings her arms around Caleb’s neck and melts into his muscular frame, an instinct born of their history. He returns the gesture, pulling her close in a familiar embrace.

  “You got here just in time, Caleb,” Patsy says, pulling away. “These clowns don’t know what the hell they’re doing.”

  “How are you doing?” he asks.

  “Fine, I suppose. Given what’s happened. I was on the other side of the dining room, saying hello to a few regulars. Then, all of a sudden, I heard screaming. Quite a commotion. I looked over and right there, at table 24…” Patsy blinks rapidly, growing emotional at the memory. “Those poor, poor people. I feel so awful for them.”

  Caleb has always admired Patsy’s compassion in the cutthroat world of New Orleans fine dining. Most restaurateurs in her position would be furious if a double homicide had occurred in their establishment, terrified that it might shut them down for weeks, if not for good. But not Patsy—he notes that her only concern right now is for the victims.

  “Don’t worry,” Caleb says, giving her slender shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll take care of everything. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

  He heads off again, navigating overturned chairs and abandoned tables. He spots a few half-eaten sirloin steaks. Patsy’s perfectly seasoned andouille sausages. Her acclaimed tapioca pudding. Breadbaskets holding untouched rolls.

  Finally Caleb reaches table 24, and a chill dances up his spine.

  As the police photographer deferentially steps aside, Caleb sees four legs sticking out with crooked feet, contorted at unnatur
al angles. A man and a woman, midforties, nicely attired, are both sprawled out on the marble floor on either side of their table. There’s no blood. There are no visible wounds. No signs of struggle.

  But the looks on their rigid faces are ghastly.

  Whatever happened, Caleb thinks, however they died…it was agonizing.

  He silently takes in the entire scene, scanning for anything out of the ordinary, any clues at all. The couple’s partially eaten meal is still laid out in front of them: jambalaya, chargrilled oysters, a half-drained bottle of Chardonnay.

  “Whatcha thinkin’, Detective Rooney?” asks Officer Richard Ames, the first cop on the scene, waddling toward him. The buttons of his light-blue uniform strain against his beer belly. “None of the eyewits are giving us much to work with. Nobody saw nothin’ suspicious. Initial search turned up no murder weapon, neither.”

  “That’s because,” Caleb says, “I think we’re looking at it right now.” With nothing else to go on except the apparent suddenness of their deaths, Caleb has begun formulating a theory. Ames furrows his brow in confusion, so Caleb explains: “I believe these two were poisoned.”

  “Poison, huh?” Ames replies. Then he says with a smirk, “Maybe I’ll take the missus here for our next anniversary, if you know what I mean. If this place is even still open.”

  Caleb scowls, but he knows Ames has a point with the tasteless joke. He wants Patsy’s restaurant to stay afloat—almost as much as he wants to bring whoever murdered these two people to justice.

  “How soon till the ME arrives?” he asks.

  “The medical examiner’s en route,” Ames says. “Thirty minutes. Meantime, we’re taking down all the bystanders’ info. Getting statements. Might take a while.”

  “Tell the officers to take all the time they need. Before we cut ’em loose, I’d like to speak to as many witnesses as I can. Personally.”

  It’s not that Caleb doesn’t trust his colleagues; he just knows he has to be thorough. Given the facts, it’s quite likely the killer had direct access to the victims’ food. Which means it’s also quite likely he or she is still on the premises.