Джеймс Паттерсон - The Black Book

“You’re my problem,” she said.

I rubbed my arm. The kid could pack a punch.

When the elevator door popped back open, we walked through the lobby, full of lawyers and cops and sheriff’s deputies—even a small group protesting police brutality, which was probably allowed to come inside because it was so freaking cold out in the plaza.

I zipped my coat up to my neck and pushed through the revolving door.

“So how am I your problem?” I asked. “Because I ‘played nice’ with the prosecutor?”

“Because you’re an idiot,” Kate answered, walking so fast I could hardly keep up with her.

“Hey,” I said, stopping, hoping she’d stop, too.

She did, turning around, something in her eyes suggesting concern, maybe hurt.

“My ass is on the line,” I said. “If the search gets tossed and I blew the arrest on the mayor of Chicago, then I really look like an idiot.”

“I see. So the prosecutor is helping you.”

I nod. “I thought she had a point, yeah. She’s smart. She’s thorough.”

“Oh, she’s smart, I’ll give her that.”

I opened my arms. “So…”

Kate smiled, but not a smile of happiness—more like a grin-and-bear-it smile. “She is playing you like a fiddle, Detective.”

“Oh, now it’s ‘Detective.’ Not Billy?”

Kate walked over to me. “In case you hadn’t noticed, my ass is on the line, too. And my fate is basically in your hands. Which means I have to sit and watch while she leads you around wherever she wants you to go. You have a serious blind spot.”

“I don’t see that,” I said.

She leaned in nice and close, her mouth next to my ear. “That’s why they call it a blind spot.”

She stepped back and shoved me, this time in the shoulder.

“So yeah, now it’s ‘Detective,’” she said. “We’re partners on the job, and that’s all we are. We always said it was a one-nighter, right? Even if it was more than one night.”

She tossed me the keys to our car, still parked in the fire lane on Clark.

“C’mon, Kate,” I said. “You’re not even going to ride with me?”

She started away but turned again, facing me, giving me a good long once-over. “Did you take the black book?” she asked.

“What?” It felt like a punch to the gut. “I can’t believe you’d even ask me that.”

She was only about five yards away from me, but suddenly it felt like the distance between us was measured in miles. The woman who rode with me for almost five years, who went through doors with me, who solved murders and rapes with me, who cried in my arms when her father died two years ago, who spent hours in the hospital with me three years ago, when everything happened—that woman was gone. Now all I had was a partner who didn’t trust me.

“Did you take it?” I asked back.

I felt something break between us. She did, too. Her reaction wasn’t anger but sadness, loss. She broke eye contact with me and walked away.

And she never answered the question.

But then again, neither did I.

Thirty

“THERE HE is,” Lieutenant Mike Goldberger said. “The newly reinstated detective.”

We met at a pub by the station, though it was for lunch only, not beers.

“Congratulations,” he said.

I bumped fists with him. Goldie was saying all this as though he’d just heard the news. I seriously doubted that. I had a sneaking suspicion that Goldie had something to do with my reinstatement. Did he know somebody on the police disciplinary board? I wasn’t sure, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Goldie had a gift for networking. His current position, heading Internal Affairs, was really a perfect fit for him. He was the consummate behind-the-scenes player. He never sought credit, but you always knew that when things happened, somewhere behind a curtain, Goldie was turning the levers.

And if he did know someone on the disciplinary board, if he did pull a string or call in a favor to get me reinstated, he’d never tell me. It wasn’t his way.

I never thought I’d work for BIA. Most cops don’t. Most cops, you put a gun to their head, they wouldn’t work in the bureau that investigates other cops. I was resistant myself—I only agreed to do it because it was Goldie who was asking and because he promised that it wouldn’t involve rinky-dink stuff. My job wasn’t to catch cops doing little things like fudging a time sheet or tardiness or missing a court appearance or uttering a politically incorrect word or two at the station.

No, we would stick to the important stuff. Major crimes. Big-time corruption.

As far as I knew, nobody but Goldie and I knew that I was undercover. Not even my sister, Patti, or my father knew. Nor did Kate. It felt odd not telling those people closest to me, but really, I was doing them a favor. I was working on something that could be pretty explosive, and if my role came out, a lot of shit would hit a lot of fans. My family and Kate would be better off claiming, truthfully, that they never knew a thing about it.

We sat at the bar and ordered corned-beef sandwiches. The bartender put a wicker basket of popcorn in front of us. We dove into it, stuffing handfuls into our mouths.

“I had two weeks sitting on my suspended ass, doing nothing but thinking about this,” I said. “And all I could think was, this whole thing with the little black book isn’t about a little black book at all. It’s about me . Somebody made me. Somebody knows I’m undercover. Somebody knows what I’m investigating. And whoever it is wants to stop me.”

“Nobody knows what you’re investigating. Nobody but me. Your name isn’t anywhere.” Goldie looked over at me. “You told me you never told anyone. Not your sister, not your partner—”

“I didn’t.”

“Then nobody knows but you and me. You’re a ghost, as far as that’s concerned.” He whacked my arm with the back of his hand. “How’d your meeting go with the prosecutor?”

I drew back. “What, you know everything I do now?”

“Kid, I know what you had for breakfast today.”

That was Goldie. Eyes and ears everywhere. I couldn’t have a better person looking out for me.

“This trial’s gonna be a bitch,” I said. “She’s afraid they’re gonna punt the whole thing on probable cause.”

“Translation: it would be your fault,” Goldie said, cutting right to the chase.

“No fuckin’ foolin’.”

“Ride it out,” he said. “You never know when the winds might shift.”

I looked at him. Goldie never opened his mouth without a reason.

“Talk to me,” I said.

He shrugged. “I’m just sayin’—the state’s attorney’s golden girl, Lentini, the one who two weeks ago was trying to make you for stealing the ledger.”

“The little black book.”

“Right. Now she’s the one trying the brownstone case. Now she needs you. That strike you as odd?”

It did, actually. “What do you think it means?”

“Maybe our good state’s attorney is recalculating. Maybe Maximum Margaret is taking a lay of the land and seeing things different.”

“How so?”

“Well, her first reaction was, you took down the mayor, and the mayor’s her Chinaman, right? He’s the reason she became state’s attorney. So she was trying to smear you.”

“For sure.”

“But now?” Goldie threw up his hands. “Maybe she’s thinking, hell, the mayor doesn’t have a prayer now—he’s going down for this thing. So she might as well make the best of it.” Goldie looked at me. “Somebody’s gotta take the mayor’s place, right?”

I hadn’t thought of that. “Maximum” Margaret Olson could be the next mayor. Sure. Of course.

“This Amy Lentini,” Goldie went on. “She’s their ace. She was a federal prosecutor up in Wisconsin. You remember a couple years back, that US senator up there went down for taking a bribe?”