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Synopsis
James Patterson's BookShots. Short, fast-paced, high-impact entertainment.
Eat, drink and be murdered.
Someone is poisoning diners in New Orleans' best restaurants. Now it's up to chef and homicide cop Caleb Rooney to catch a killer set on revenge - a dish best served cold.
Release date: November 1, 2016
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Print pages: 144
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Killer Chef
James Patterson
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.”
. . .
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.”
. . .
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