Джеймс Паттерсон - The Red Book

Nicolas drives past the usual spot, pulls up to the rear of one of the interconnected buildings, the one by the old incinerator.

Nicolas gets out, opens the back door for Charlotte. Together, they walk up to the heavy metal door. Nicolas unlocks it, and they go inside.

Disco stays outside, dials his phone.

Inside the building, behind the heavy door, the first whump of contact, followed by a shriek of pain from Charlotte. Disco peeks through the small window. Charlotte is down, her feet trying to gain purchase on the linoleum floor, her hands out in front of her face in defense, Nicolas standing over her, raising his fist, raining down blow after blow.

She’s probably wondering what in the hell is going on. She doesn’t know the test results. Disco gets them straight from the doctor they use for the girls’ monthly STD tests. Charlotte, unfortunately, came back positive. Can’t run a high-end business if the girls aren’t clean. So he not only has to get rid of Charlotte, he also has to scrub her clients from the list; it’s impossible to know which one gave her herpes.

Oh, well. He got six good years out of her. That’s more than most.

One last garbled cry from Charlotte. She’ll be quiet from here on out.

Porter answers on the third ring. “We can talk now,” says Disco.

“SOS is still trying to ID your dead prostitute from K-Town. One of ’em went back to the house where the shooting happened, looking for info.”

“And did he find anything?”

“Sounds like no. He got interrupted, I’m hearing. Is there anything to find?”

“I cannot know this,” says Disco. “Did your people not clean this up? That is your job, yes?”

Dead air. For a moment, Disco thinks the signal’s lost. He peeks through the window again. Charlotte’s body is limp, Nicolas straddling her, hands on her throat, finishing her off.

“First off,” says Porter, “I didn’t know you were gonna use that house for a fuckin’ shooting gallery. I wouldn’t have signed up for that.”

Which is why I didn’t tell you, Disco thinks.

“And number two, the house was never swept. Not for that, at least. The Jane Doe was not the first priority. The solve was.”

“Then sweep it now.”

“No. My people have already stuck their necks out way too far. My guy put down a witness for you. You got any idea what kinda risk that put him in?”

“I don’t care. You are not the only one taking risk.”

“Do it yourself,” says Porter. “You wanna clean up that house, do it your fuckin’ self. And you better do it fast.”

Chapter 55

THE PLACE is called Briona, which probably means something in some language, but here it means a swanky restaurant I could never afford. The appetizers cost as much as the sport jacket on my back. Even the waiters are better dressed than I am.

Glass walls and glass ceilings. A view of the city skyline. Expensive cologne, plastic surgery, cufflinks, diamonds. Viagra, too, I’d wager, had I brought a search warrant with me.

At one of the tables, a man is wearing linen pants and cream-colored loafers with no socks. Dress shoes but no socks? Is that a thing now? Jesus, seriously? I think that might be the fourth sign of the apocalypse.

In the corner, she’s sipping a glass of burgundy and looking pointedly at her companion, a broad-shouldered guy with a lot of hair and a square jawline. I have a seat at the bar where I can watch her. I nurse a glass of bourbon, two fingers of Angel’s Envy with one cube of ice, which came with a price tag that would probably get me the whole bottle at the discount liquor store I favor.

I wait twenty minutes. Then her companion gets up from his seat, drops his napkin on the table, and heads for the john. Before he’s five steps away, a waiter has folded the napkin properly for his return. I slide into the guy’s seat, still warm, a bit of fish and some green sauce smeared on the plate before me.

“Hi,” I say to Angela Dupree. “Mind if I sit?”

She looks at me with a combination of surprise and playfulness. She takes her time looking me over. She’s fifty-two years old, on her second marriage, and wealthy. She doesn’t look fifty-two, but she does look wealthy—the expensive jewelry dangling from her ears and around her neck and wrists, an emerald-green dress with a plunging neckline, some fancy hairdo that allows a few strands of cinnamon hair to caress her impressive cheekbones. She’s had some work done, too.

“I don’t mind one bit,” she says, a twinkle in her eye, suppressing a smile. “But I’m here with someone.”

“I know.” I flip out my badge long enough for her to see it, for her expression to falter, before I snap it shut discreetly. “You’re not in trouble, Mrs. Dupree. Nothing like that. I just have a few questions for you about the murder of your late husband, Nathan.”

She recovers, embarrassed that she took me for a flirt, before embarrassment turns to annoyance. “And you came here ?” she says, cutting that last word with enough force to slice a steel bar.

“You’re right,” I say. “This is probably the wrong time. You and Mr. Dupree”—I nod behind me—“are entitled to a nice night out. How ’bout—is it okay if I wait till he gets back from the bathroom? And we get out our calendars to find a good time to talk?”

If I touched Angela Dupree’s face, it would feel like stone. All except her eyes, shooting daggers at me. “My husband,” she says, “doesn’t know anything about Nathan’s murder. I hadn’t even met him yet when Nathan…died.”

“I hear you. It’s protocol, though. I have to talk to everyone.”

She works her jaw, drumming her fingers on the white tablecloth. “Why don’t you wait over there?” she says, gesturing toward the corner. “And I’ll be with you in a minute? I’d rather not upset my husband about this. I can assure you he doesn’t know anything about Nathan’s death.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I say, getting up from the table. She’s still pretending that the man with whom she’s having dinner is her husband, Matthew Dupree, who is at least twenty years older than her handsome dinner companion tonight. And I’m still pretending that I don’t know otherwise.

I head toward the restrooms, which are one flight down, taking the stairs halfway to a landing. Angela Dupree makes me wait a good fifteen minutes. Probably to punish me.

I make a point of enjoying the view as she comes down, because she seems open to that kind of base flattery. I shake my head. “Believe me, I wish this was a social call. Your husband’s a lucky guy.”

Seems like that got me halfway back in her good graces, but she’s still feeling some heat. That’s right about where I want her.

I give her a quick rundown. Some follow-up on a closed case, the murder of Nathan Stofer. She comes back quickly—they found his killer, convicted him. He’s still in prison, right?

That convicted killer being Antoine Stonewald, Valerie’s last client before her death.

“He confessed,” she tells me. “He pleaded guilty.”

“Right. Let me ask you, Mrs. Dupree—”

“Angela.”

“Angela, can you think of any reason why someone would want to hurt Nathan?”

She blinks. “They said it was a robbery. They said it wasn’t personal.” She’s still struggling with why I’m bringing up a subject that she assumed was long closed.

“Humor me.”

“I…” She shields her eyes. “I didn’t expect to be thinking about this tonight,” she mumbles. Her eyes closed now, shaking her head, she says, “Nathan put together big deals. Millions of dollars involved. So—I guess money’s always a motive. Isn’t that what they say?”