Джеймс Паттерсон - The Red Book

“It’s K-Town, boyo. Not like that shit doesn’t happen all the time. And Latham told his mom he was at work that day and didn’t see nothin’, right?”

Joe nods, finding some relief.

“Right, so there’s no connection to the shooting. Just a B and E that went to shit. The Eleventh’s looking for a young black kid in the neighborhood. They’re not gonna talk to SOS about it.”

Porter reaches into the pocket of his jacket, a jacket he didn’t want to wear with these temps today, and produces a fat envelope. “This is for your troubles, Joey. It’s twenty grand.”

“Jesus.” He takes the envelope and looks at it.

“Yeah, Jesus.” Porter cups a hand behind the kid’s head. “Because you did good. Because you did something I normally would never, ever ask you to do. You gotta understand that, boyo. This isn’t something that happens every day. Hardly ever, in fact. But you rose to the occasion. So go take that girlfriend of yours, Joann—”

“Jody.”

“Take Jody out to a nice place with a white tablecloth. But listen to me now, kid. I want you to understand a couple things. You’re listening to me now.”

“Yeah, D, I’m listening.” God, this kid is young.

“First off, you gotta know, this Latham kid was scum. He was a dealer.”

“He didn’t look like a dealer.”

“Well, he was.” He wasn’t, of course, but some employee management is in order here. “There are things about this kid Latham you don’t need to know. But trust me, you did the world a favor. Really.”

Bostwick blows out air. “Yeah?”

“For real, Joey.”

“Okay.”

“Second thing,” says Porter. “You know you can’t deposit this cash in a bank account, right?”

“Yeah, I know, D.”

“Use a safe-deposit box if you have to, or hide it somewhere, somewhere good. And no extravagant spending. No big purchases. Use it for everyday stuff.”

“I got it; I know.” Bostwick’s heard the speech before. It’s not the first envelope he’s received, and it won’t be the last. Bostwick seems to be warming up now, probably mentally spending that fat wad of cash. “I really appreciate this, D.”

Porter smacks him gently on the cheek. “You can be a good cop and be loyal to me. You can do both. You’re gonna put a lot of skells away. You’re gonna keep the streets safe, and we’re gonna help each other out from time to time on stuff that doesn’t hurt nobody. The best of both worlds, right, Joey? I’m looking at a future captain right here, sure as I’m breathing.”

That stuff always works on Bostwick.

Porter leaves first, already late for his next appointment. That’s the one thing that sucks about this gig: the hours. Most of his operatives are inside the various police districts, and he can’t meet with them during regular work shifts. So his nights fill up. He tries to fit everything into a few evenings a week to keep Amy happy, to see Jay and Laura once in a while before they grow up and leave.

He takes Lake Shore Drive. Traffic is brutal. He’d use the cherry and drive on the shoulder, but calling attention to himself is one thing Dennis Porter never does.

By the time he’s hit the Stevenson, then popped over to I-90, it’s running close to eight o’clock. It’s half past the hour before he pulls into the alley behind the old bakery.

The other car is there, headlights on, idling. He gets out of his car, squints into the beams, and gets into the other car, passenger side.

“You’re late,” Carla Griffin says.

Chapter 53

CARLA GRIFFIN, one arm slung over the steering wheel, peering straight ahead, looking drawn and haggard. Not one of her better days. She called in sick today, Porter knows—he makes it a point of tracking her and all the others—but he decides not to tell her he knows that. Don’t tell ’em anything they don’t need to know. That old line: Treat all of ’em like mushrooms; keep them in the dark and feed them shit.

That’s how he thinks of them, his mushrooms—the cops, dealers, crooks, gangbangers, politicians in his circle. His empire.

“Harney went back to K-Town this morning,” she says. “Back to the crime scene.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Not sure.”

“You weren’t with him? He flew solo?”

“Right. He says he’s trying to find the identity of the Jane Doe, the dead junkie. Basic follow-up. But yeah, he didn’t seem interested in sharing with me.”

Something sinks inside Porter. That’s not good. No, that’s not good at all. Why would Billy Harney be trying to ID the prostitute? And not tell his partner?

“Victim Services can handle basic follow-up,” he says, hearing the edge to his voice, adjusting, not wanting to tell Carla anything more than she needs to know. “That’s not the job of an SOS detective. Did you tell him that?”

She lets out air, impatient. “It wasn’t exactly a linear conversation, Porter, okay? The hell do you care about the identity of some Jane Doe?”

Porter doesn’t answer right away, drawing Carla’s notice. The longer the silence hangs, the greater the import of her question.

“What’s going on?” Carla asks, her eyes widening. “You have skin in this game? The K-Town shooting?”

“No, of course not,” he says, feeling the seeds of panic rising in him. Shit. He overplayed his hand. “What the hell do I care about gangbangers shooting each other over turf?”

“Exactly my question,” Carla says, angling her body toward him, confronting him.

“Listen,” he says. “You know Harney pissed off a lotta people on the force. You know a lotta heads rolled on account of him. Including people I worked with in IAB.”

“Yeah, I know. So what? You’re looking to burn him? I mean, isn’t that why you got me assigned to him?”

“To keep tabs on him, yeah.”

That’s what he told her, at least. The truth? Porter couldn’t give any more of a flaming shit about Harney than he does about any other cop. He only cares about cops if they’re helping him, like Carla here, or if they’re hurting him. And right now, Harney looking into this prostitute, one of Disco’s girls, qualifies big-time as hurting him.

Disco goes down, Porter goes down.

“So that’s what I’m doing,” she says. “I told you what he was up to. I don’t see a crime in trying to identify a homicide victim.”

“But he’s being secretive, sounds like. Like he has a different agenda.”

Carla allows for that. “Maybe.”

“I want a full report in two days. I want you stuck to him like glue.”

“Okay, fine.” Carla looks over at him. “You got something for me?”

“Not today,” says Porter.

“C’mon, Porter, don’t—”

“In two days I will,” he says. “After you give me that full report.”

Porter leaves Carla, returns to his car, uses his burner phone to call Disco’s burner.

Not the way Porter normally does business, using cell phones, even untraceable ones. Whispered conversations are preferred. But Disco needs to hear this fast.

Disco answers quickly, grunting.

“It’s me,” says Porter. “We have a problem.”

Chapter 54

“WHERE ARE we going?” Charlotte asks from the back seat. Or at least that’s the name they gave her. Disco can’t remember her real name anymore. He remembers when she arrived in Chicago, six years ago, from Romania. They had to drag her out of the van, shivering and scared, and shoot her up with tranquilizers just to shut her the fuck up.

She was, what, eighteen then? She’s getting old now anyway.

Nicolas, driving, turns off 122nd Street into the old abandoned industrial park.

“This is a personal visit to a special client,” Disco tells her. “There are apartments here.” He tries to sound calm. He doesn’t feel calm, not after that phone call from Dennis Porter.