Джеймс Паттерсон: The Red Book

“Great—do it,” I say. Nobody should have a better idea of who hit the Hustlers than the Hustlers themselves.

I check my watch. It’s nearly 5:00 p.m.

“Eight bells, tomorrow morning, we’re back here in this room. Eight and five, every day, until we solve. But we’ll have this wrapped up by tomorrow, right?”

Yeah, probably not, but it won’t be for lack of trying.

Lieutenant Wizniewski takes front and center. “This is why you’re here,” he tells the room. “This case is the exact reason we have SOS. They already have a protest rally planned, day after tomorrow, at Daley Plaza. Father Pfleger, Jesse Jackson—even Reverend Al is flying in for it. Let’s have a solve by then, ladies and gentlemen.”

The crew breaks up. The Wiz levels a stare on me. “Get this solved, Detective.”

“Will do, Lew.”

That’s what I keep telling myself. I’ve been gone a long time, after the shooting and recovery and then that fun little murder charge filed against me. I’m rusty. Figured I still had it in me, but you never know. Until you’re back, until you’re in the shit again, you don’t really know.

I still don’t. The docs swear to me up and down that I don’t have any permanent damage from the shooting. Headaches aside, that seems right. Visibly, at least. Arms and legs work fine, reflexes seem okay. I can still hit a target with my Glock. I don’t slur my words, no droop on one side of my face. But I’m a rebuilt car, and I’ve never seen a wrecked car come back as good as new. This is a hell of a case for my first test run.

But I won’t show it. I can’t. You show fear, hesitation, uncertainty, you’re nothing on the street or in this house.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, a new text message:

Don’t keep me in suspense!

This from my sister, Patti, also a CPD detective. I promised to let her know when I got my new assignment. I haven’t had a chance to get back to her. She’s been shooting me notes all day. What’s your horsie’s name? Just say no to illegal left turns. Crossing guards are people, too! Real supportive stuff.

You won’t believe it, I write back. SOS.

No fn way, she types back.

Same reaction I had.

The lead teams—Carla and I, Soscia and his partner, Mateo Rodriguez—head to Mat’s desk, where he’s got the POD footage pulled up.

“Shiv’s dead,” Mat says. “Didn’t survive the surgery.”

Great. Another casualty. Another potential lead lost.

We reach his desk, where he shows us what he found.

“That’s gotta be it,” Sosh says. “That’s gotta be the car.”

Sosh and Mat did the initial run through the POD footage. One at Cicero and Van Buren, one on Van Buren near Kilbourn. Closest thing to triangulation we can manage.

Best bet, the shooters drove east on Van Buren, probably from Cicero, and then took Kilbourn north. That’s how the suburbanites buy their smack, and it wouldn’t draw attention. The Heroin Highway does a brisk business.

The POD footage is black-and-white, herky-jerky—the camera rotates every three seconds—and grainy. So we can see the vehicles but not their colors. We might get partials on license plates at best. And we usually can’t see the occupants inside the vehicles.

Still, we have five vehicles in our sights. Sosh thinks it’s the last of the five, captured by the Van Buren POD only four minutes before we received our first 911 call about the shooting. He’s probably right.

“Pretty sure that’s a Toyota 4Runner,” says Rodriguez. Like me, Detective Mateo Rodriguez comes from a family of cops. Until today I’d never met him or heard of him, but Sosh says the word is Mat comes from good people, and Sosh has sources everywhere. Me, I usually assume the best about people until they give me a reason not to, which usually takes around ten minutes.

“Let’s run that partial against stolen vehicles and vehicle regs.”

“Now, why didn’t I thinka that?” Sosh smirks. “Waiting on a call.”

“And we need to ID the dead girl on the porch. Mat, you got the DNA sample to Forensics?”

“Done.”

Sosh answers his cell phone, gets a look on his face. “The 4Runner,” he says. “Reported stolen last night in Melrose Park.”

“Great.” That’s it. That’s the vehicle.

“My cousin’s deputy chief out there,” he says. “I’ll go now.”

Mat reaches for his phone. “Lemme text my wife.”

Sosh clasps a hand on Mat’s shoulder. “Detective Rodriguez, take it from me: it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.”

“Marital advice from a guy with two divorces,” I say. “You should probably carry around a recorder so you can memorialize all these pearls of wisdom.”

“I don’t need my wife’s permission,” Mat insists.

“Sure ya don’t.” Soscia winks at me and grabs his sport jacket. “C’mon, Rodriguez, we’ll get a beef sandwich at Johnnie’s on North Avenue. My treat.”

“Write that down,” I say. “When the bill comes, he’ll forget he ever said it.”

They take off, leaving me and Carla. She’s over by her desk, throwing some things together and popping another pill in her mouth, her back turned.

Jesus, that better be aspirin. Or a vitamin.

“Feeling okay?” I ask without looking at her.

“I was gonna ask you the same question,” she says. “When we were inside that house, you were looking a little wobbly.”

Nice deflection. She’s quick on her feet.

I shoot a glance her way. “That right?”

“I mean, I get it, with your past, your daughter and all. Anyone would understand.”

I throw on my sport jacket. “Detective, we’re on the clock. You got something to say, say it.”

“I just want to make sure nothing’s gonna slow us down. This is too important.”

I turn to her. She’s looking right at me.

“Am I slowing you down so far?” I ask.

“Hey.” She opens her hands. “I’m just saying. This is the deep end, Harney.”

“I didn’t forget how to swim, but thanks for your concern.” I snatch my keys off the desk. “C’mon,” I say.

“Where we going?”

“You’ll find out,” I say. “If you can keep up.”

Chapter 11

DISCO PULLS his convertible up to the curbside valet and throws it in Park. “Do not speak unless you are spoken to,” he says to Nadia. “This is one of the finest restaurants in Chicago.”

“I know.” Her tight purple dress worn off the shoulder, hair slicked back into a bun.

“What do you know about fine restaurants?” Nothing, that’s what she knows.

He turns the rearview mirror toward himself, his hair gelled and coiffed, two days’ worth of stubble on his face, small circular eyeglasses. Nailed it.

He sucks in his stomach and walks toward the simple black door to Domaine—the name of the restaurant spelled out in fashionably minimalist small-block lettering. This place is, indeed, one of the city’s finest, if you believe Time Out Chicago, but Disco’s not much of a foodie. He just likes being seen in one of Chicago’s finest restaurants.

Business always comes first, always, said the general years ago. But you must make time to enjoy life’s comforts, too.

Besides, one day he might be running more than Chicago. He could get the entire Midwest. That would mean millions. He might as well get used to consorting with the elite.

Inside, low-hanging lanterns wash simple wood tables in dim orange light, while casual-cool patrons sitting in black chairs listen to retro music playing from the overhead sound system. Most of the men are wearing jackets over T-shirts or open-collar dress shirts, some in jeans.

Disco frowns. He overdressed. But he still looks good, and enough heads turn at Nadia and her sleek figure to make him feel better, keep his chin held high. She was the right one to bring. Nadia is probably his hottest girl, certainly one of the most popular.