“I’m really glad to hear that, Caleb. And I hope you take my husband’s offer seriously. He knows what he likes, and he’s very good at spotting special talent.”

Ugh. Hang on. That asshole Lucas Dodd is this angel Vanessa McKeon’s husband? I’m so disappointed I can practically taste it.

“Well, with you as his wife, I congratulate him on his talent-spotting skills,” I say. “Good night, now.”

I hand the young valet a few dollars, then slide into my car with its engine running and slump behind the wheel. Marlene gets in beside me, chuckling and singing out loud: “Caleb and Vanessa, sittin’ in a tree … ”

“Very funny, Marlene. Very mature, too.”

“Oh, lighten up. So you can’t sleep with every hot piece of ass in New Orleans—just most of them. It’s still early. Plenty of time to go to a bar and pick somebody up.”

I check my watch. She’s right. It’s not even nine o’clock. I could go out. Or, if we opened up Killer Chef right now, we could still serve a ton of customers.

“Nah, there’s something else I feel like doing instead. Let’s go cook.”

“Caleb?” she says, lowering the window on her side to bring in some fresh air.

“Yes?” I say, following her lead on my side, feeling the warm night air slide in.

I slowly drive out and stop at the intersection with St. Charles Avenue. Long lines of tourists stream across the crosswalk in front of us.

Marlene says, “Please take this in the spirit in which it’s offered, dear ex-husband of mine, but you’re being an idiot.”

“Marlene … ”

“I know you think you’re indestructible, but you’ve got bumps, bruises, aches and pains, and a bandaged hand. You just got out of the hospital. You nearly had what little brains you have smashed out on the ground by those gangbangers.”

“Marlene … ”

“And I don’t mind that you’re not at a hundred percent, but if you go start cooking tonight, you’ll be sloppy, you’ll make mistakes, and you’ll drop stuff. And that means you, and you alone, will be disappointing our customers. And hurting our business. And I’m not going to let that happen. So, big handsome fella, the only thing you’re doing is dropping me at home, and getting your sorry and aching ass to bed for another good night’s sleep. I’ll see you in the truck tomorrow.”

The way is clear ahead of me, and I just have to shake my head. Hate to admit it, but my ex is right.

I start to ease out onto St. Charles Avenue, and then a low roaring noise catches my attention.

I suddenly brake and lean my head outside, looking up.

There.

One, and then two, Black Hawk military helicopters are flying overhead, slowly passing over the Garden District, at a low altitude.