Джеймс Паттерсон - The Red Book

And there on the sidewalk is Carla, phone against her ear.

Chapter 49

WHAT NOW, smart guy?

“Hey.” I nod to her, nonchalant, as if she didn’t just bust me in a lie. “What are you doing here?”

“Me? I’m just looking for my partner. What are you doing here?”

I walk down the stairs. “Trying to ID the Jane Doe,” I say. “We never really checked out the interior of the house. Thought I’d get a head start on it.”

She stares at me, wanting more, expecting more.

“Figured I’d do it off time,” I add. “Save regular time for the new stuff. The Wiz gave us a new assignment?”

She smirks. Nice try, she’s saying without saying it. But I’m not chasing that shiny object . “What’s in the evidence bag?” she asks, nodding at my hand.

She’s batting me around like a kitten bats a ball of yarn. I got nothing here. But I take a swing anyway.

“Lip gloss,” I say. “Figure it must be hers. It wouldn’t be Shiv’s.”

“We already have her DNA,” Carla observes. “You need a second sample?”

“Yeah, good point.”

Fuck. This is getting ridiculous.

“So you’re checking up on me,” I say.

“So you’re lying to me .” The smirk gone now. “Why didn’t you want me to know you were here?”

I shrug. “What’s the big deal? I was doing a little extra work to identify this girl. I feel sorry for her. Is that a crime?”

“No crime,” she agrees. “No big deal. I feel bad for her, too. So why lie about it?”

“Shit, Carla—lay off, okay?” I walk past her, head to the car.

“You’re keeping something from me, Harney. I don’t like it.”

“Yeah, it really sucks when a cop hides something from her partner. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

I spin on her, raise a finger, but think better of it. “Nothing,” I say. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

She steps toward me. “I want to know what you meant.”

“No, you don’t. Y’know something?” I pat my chest, filling with rage, the easygoing, good-natured partner receding far into the shadows. “Say what you want about me, but I’m an open book. My history with the department? Everyone knows it. My corrupt bastard of a father, my former partner, everything was well covered in the press. And you made it more than clear that I was on thin ice with you from the start, that you’d rather be tarred and feathered than partner up with me. Like your record is spotless.”

“My record? What about my record?”

“Just get off your high fucking horse, Carla, okay? Don’t act like your shit don’t stink, too.”

I leave her again, heading for my car, hearing her rush up behind me. “Harney, I swear to God, you walk away from me, I’m drawing my weapon.”

“As long as you don’t accuse me of sexual harassment.”

The footsteps behind me halt abruptly. I can’t believe I just said that, but I’m too amped up right now on adrenaline and anger and frustration, and my brain is telling me to stop, to turn around and apologize, to let her know that rumors are rumors, I don’t believe everything I hear, but all I want to do right now is take her down a notch, which it seems I have done in spades.

I get in my car and drive to the station, feeling like an asshole.

Chapter 50

THE NEIGHBORHOOD is about as south and east as Chicago gets, near the Skyway, mostly industrial—most of it formerly industrial, slowly abandoned during the various economic downturns over the last century. The small pocket that’s residential runs about two-thirds black, one-third Latino. The white population is almost entirely gone these days.

I turn off 95th and drive south a couple of blocks. The street is lined with trees and filled with single-story homes on small lots. I squint through the oppressive afternoon sunlight to find the right house. It’s a mix of yellow brick and aluminum siding, a tiny front lawn divided by a walkway up to a porch.

“You Mr. Harney?”

A boy in the front yard, skinny, maybe ten or eleven, dark-complected, wearing a purple T-shirt that hangs on him and shorts that pass his knees, a baseball in his right hand and a mitt on his left. The same purple color on a baseball cap that is too big for his head.

“That’s me,” I say. “What’s your name?”

“Samuel,” he says, throwing the baseball up in the air and catching it. “Wanna play catch?”

“Why not?” I put out my hands and keep my distance. His arm reels back, and he tosses it, hitting pretty close to the target I put out for him, stinging my hands. “Nice arm,” I say. “The Sox are looking for middle-relief help.” I flip it back to him.

“I’m in the minors,” he says.

“What position?”

“We play all the positions.” He throws it to me again.

“You wanna keep that elbow up,” I say.

He raises his elbow up high, a one-arm chicken dance. “Like this?”

“You want the ball up about ear level,” I say, showing him. “Then you bring it over and down, snapping your wrist.” I do it, making sure not to throw it too hard. “The power of your throw’s mostly in the wrist action.”

He catches the ball. His tongue peeking out of his mouth, he holds the ball up high, elbow up, and flings it overhand, snapping his wrist. He doubles the velocity on this throw, though it flies far past my reach.

“I’ll get it,” he says, racing off.

“No, I can—”

“It’s okay. I know to look both ways.” He scoots past me, chasing the ball into the street. “Mom, can we go to the park and play catch?”

Mom? I turn and see Carla, standing on the front porch. I didn’t even hear the door open. She changed out of her work clothes, going with a tank top and shorts, after deciding to miss work today—a sick day, she called it.

“Hey,” I say, ever the brilliant conversationalist.

She nods back. I took a personal half day and called ahead, told her I was coming. She didn’t say yes. She didn’t say anything at all. I half expected her not to be here.

“I had no right to say what I said. I’m sorry.” I want to get that in before Samuel returns with the ball.

“Can we, Mom? Can we go to the park?”

“You go. Mr. Harney and I will catch up.” She looks at me. “Let’s take a walk,” she says.

Chapter 51

CARLA’S BOY, Samuel, starts jogging down the street. There’s a square block of a park just ahead, complete with a baseball diamond where kids are playing. Carla and I walk in lockstep down the sidewalk.

“I should’ve fronted it,” Carla says, her arms crossed in front of her. “You should’ve heard it from me. I should’ve figured it would get to you. It probably got to everyone. So much for confidentiality.”

“Welcome to the CPD,” I say.

She grunts a laugh. “So what did you hear? His side, probably.”

“Probably.”

“Let me take a guess,” she says. “Ron and I were doing the nasty for a long time, just having a grand old time, his place, my place, hotels, the back seat of a squad car, wherever we could. Couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Then he breaks it off. I’m crushed, just absolutely crushed not to have the honor and privilege of screwing that lumpy piece of shit. But he won’t take me back. So I’m hurt, and I retaliate. I’m a ‘woman scorned.’ I make up some BS story about him sexually harassing me. And the department? Well, these days, they can’t have that kind of pub. Doesn’t matter if it’s true. Doesn’t matter if I’m some ‘irrational woman.’ So they give me whatever I want, as long as I’ll keep quiet. They early-retire Franco, and I get a big promotion.” She looks at me. “How’m I doing so far?”