“So read me into it!” I demand. “I’m not interested in a pissing contest, Agent Morgan. Let me help you. I know this city and its players and—”

“You really want to help us? Then stay the hell away.”

He steps forward. His gaze bores into me. I return it in kind and don’t flinch. But neither does he.

At last he asks, “Am I clear, Detective? Or should it be chef?”

Swallowing my fury, I answer, “Perfectly, either way.”

He signals to his team that it’s time to leave. They stream out as silently as they entered, heads bowed like monks. After locking and bolting the front door, I listen to their caravan of black SUVs roar away into the night.

Gently, I touch the welt on the side of my head. It still hurts, but already the swelling and pain are starting to go away. I hope it heals quickly.

I also hope he bought my performance just now.

Because there’s no way in hell I am backing down. Knowing how close I came tonight, and what’s at stake, I’m just getting warmed up.

CHAPTER 25

The next morning, I arrive at Killer Chef to find Marlene outside, leaning over an ice-filled trough and filling it with plastic bottles of Big Shot.

“Huh,” she says, as she shoves in another bottle. “Wouldja look at what the catfish dragged in.”

If you’re not from the Big Easy, you’ve probably never heard of Big Shot. But if you are, you know it’s a locally made soda, beloved for its funky flavors like red crème and pineapple blue bayou. It’s fun and fizzy and the opposite of fancy. Which is why it’s the only beverage we sell.

“I thought you’d be happier to see me,” I say, shambling toward my ex. I’m still feeling stiff and achy from last night’s brawl, on top of my wounds from the assault in the parking garage. Getting attacked with a baseball bat and a crowbar inside of a week will have you moving slower than usual. “An extra pair of hands and all.”

“Extra? Caleb, we’re partners—not in matrimony anymore, thank God, but in this little endeavor we call Killer Chef. Or have you forgotten? Lately, that’s how it feels.”

“Marlene, I—”

Then she gives me a good look and is startled, gently touching the fresh welt on the side of my head that my hair doesn’t fully cover.

“What the hell happened to you?” she asks. “Run into blondie’s angry husband?”

“Nope,” I say, walking away from her and entering the rear of the truck, as she follows me.

“You gonna tell me what happened to that thick head of yours? You’ve already had one concussion this week. Are you okay? Was it the Franklin Avenue crew?”

I wish, I think. That would be a nice change of pace.