Marlene texted me while I was still in St. Roch that she’d picked up the truck ahead of schedule. Told me the unusual part of town she decided to park it in. And ordered me—not asked, ordered me—to make sure my butt was here as quick as possible to help her get Killer Chef up and running again. I decided not to argue with her.

Of course I have some bigger fish to fry. But I also have some alligator sausages to sauté and some cheese grits to simmer. If David Needham can find the time to run five gourmet restaurants across the city and plot a terrorist attack, I can squeeze in a couple hours in my food truck—and still stop that bastard before it goes down.

Still, I am concerned over what I found back at that garage, and I’m tempted to e-mail the photo of the tire tracks over to Cunningham at NOPD along with a detailed e-mail. But suppose the FBI is monitoring his e-mail? Not only would he be in instant trouble, the FBI would also know I was still poking around.

Which is another good reason to be at Killer Chef right now. If the FBI and its strained resources are following Killer Chef and its famous cook, seeing me at work for a couple of hours just might convince them to leave me alone, and leave me free to keep on working my other job.

Today Marlene has parked us a stone’s throw from the Tulane campus, on a leafy block lined with fraternity houses, which strikes me as strange.

“How come you picked Broadway Street for our grand reopening, Mar?” I ask. “The only people you hate more than drunk tourists are drunk college kids.”

She stops restocking the napkins and paper plates and says, “So we can iron out any kinks without anybody noticing. Let’s say our stove isn’t working right. Our new fridge conks out. Our food isn’t up to our usual standards. You think a bunch of wasted frat boys on the day before Mardi Gras are gonna care? We could feed ’em cat food and they’d love it.”

I nod and smile. As always, my ex-wife makes an excellent point.

I grab my trusty apron and loop it around my neck, pop a tingly-hot jalapeño into my mouth, and get to work.

My mind is churning. Going over all the evidence I’ve gathered. Trying—and failing—to decide my next move. But I soon lose myself in the familiar ritual of food prep: peeling shrimp, chopping onions, seasoning duck breast, mincing garlic.

I’m glad for the mental break. Damn, do I need it.