Джеймс Паттерсон - The Black Book

I thought I’d been discreet. I thought there was no way he would know. It wasn’t like I rifled through his desk or put my ear up against the window of his office or opened his mail. I’d been subtle. I was reading old files and looking up rap sheets and monitoring people who seemingly had managed to get off scot-free from serious charges while under the Wiz’s watch. I was cautious. I was sure that he’d have no idea what I was doing.

Apparently I was wrong.

Apparently Lieutenant Wizniewski knew I was investigating him.

I ripped open the manila envelope. I knew Goldie would put something inside the envelope to give it some heft, to make it look legit—for anyone watching me on the subway platform, it probably looked like the envelope contained photographs.

When I looked inside, I saw three or four blank pieces of paper, just as I expected. But Goldie had scribbled a note on the first of those papers. There was no signature, but I’d recognize Goldie’s handwriting anywhere.

Call when you can, it said. And watch your back.

Forty-Two

I POPPED awake, sitting upright on my bed. It took me a moment to orient myself, to separate the real from the unreal: the dreams fading away, images of Kate, of Amy Lentini, of sweat and moans and laughter, of bullets and blood and terrified shrieks.

The noise from the television I’d turned on at some point last night before passing out, the chatter from news reporters about “breaking news overnight.”

And the pounding at my front door, in sync with the drumming of my heart.

I looked at the clock on my bedside table. It was nearly four in the morning.

I grabbed my gun, blinked out the cobwebs, and looked at my phone. Goldie had called me twice. He’d left me two text messages saying Call me.

A new text message popped up while I was holding the phone. Also from Goldie.

It said, Open your fucking door.

I got off my bed, still in my clothes from last night. On the TV, the reporter was talking about a dead cop. “Authorities describe the shooting as execution-style,” she breathlessly reported.

My gun at my side, I went down the stairs and looked through the peephole. Outside, standing beneath the glow of my porch light, Lieutenant Mike Goldberger was dancing in place, trying to stay warm.

I opened the door to an arctic rush. I grabbed my coat. “Saw the news,” I said.

“This is bad,” Goldie said. I locked the front door behind me and followed him to his car. Goldie violated about twenty traffic laws on the way, but the predawn streets were basically empty.

I rubbed my eyes. Five minutes ago I’d been dead asleep. Now I was speeding toward a crime scene in the middle of the night.

“So did you flush your tail out last night?” he asked.

“I did,” I said. “It was Wizniewski.”

“Ah, shit. I was afraid of that. Are you sure?”

“Oh, yeah. It was him on the platform, stealing glances at me. He was good, too,” I said. “He came in on a southbound train and slow-walked his way to the exit. He timed it perfectly so he was there right when I was supposed to meet your guy with the camel-colored coat.”

“So he knows,” Goldie said. “He knows you’re investigating him for the protection racket.”

“Or he suspects.”

“Not good.” Goldie looked over at me. He took his foot off the accelerator as he turned onto Jackson about a mile west of the river and Union Station. Large media trucks had assembled—the rainbow colors of NBC 5 and the local Fox, ABC, and CBS affiliates; reporters in their makeup positioned near the crime scene, speaking into microphones.

I stepped out of the car. It was colder than a witch’s nipple in a brass bra. I couldn’t feel my toes.

I had my star out, and Goldie had his around his neck. We stepped under the police rope and got within ten feet of the crime scene—a gold sedan parked by the curb on Jackson. The passenger door was open all the way, allowing us a view inside.

The windshield and dashboard were splattered with blood.

The driver, an African American, still with his seat belt on, had slumped to the right as far as the seat belt would allow, like a human version of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Blood had spilled from the exit wound on his right temple, covering the seat and floorboard with thick, dark, and now frozen fluid.

The right side of his camel-colored coat was soaked in blood, too.

Mr. Camel Coat had met with me last night on the train platform, and before the sun came up on another day, someone had put a slug through his brain.

And I didn’t think it could feel any colder out here.

Forty-Three

WE STOOD there a while, Goldie and I, the breath trailing from our mouths, staring into the car at Mr. Camel Coat while lab technicians went about their work securing evidence. Reporters were speaking to the cameras, and the few curious onlookers there were at this predawn hour stopped to gape.

“His name was Joe Washington,” said Goldie. “Sergeant. He was a good man. One of my best.” He shook his head, cleared his throat. He gestured toward the car. “They found the driver’s-side window rolled down. Joe must have been meeting with somebody.”

“Somebody he trusted,” I said. “Or he wouldn’t have rolled down the window.”

“Right. But when he rolls down the window, instead of offering a friendly word or some interesting information, the other guy pulls a gun and puts one right through his left temple. He had bled out the right side of his head by the time we found him. Christ, he was probably dead on impact.”

“When was he shot?” I asked, but I knew what was coming. When it’s chilly, it’s almost impossible to use the traditional methods of time estimation—lividity, rigor mortis—because getting shot on a night like this is like being killed inside a refrigerator.

“The best the ME can estimate, offhand, is ten o’clock. But who fuckin’ knows?”

I took a deep breath. “So he was shot about four hours after meeting me,” I said.

Goldie moved closer to me and spoke in a whisper.

“How sure are you about your investigation?” he asked. “How sure are you that Wizniewski’s running a protection racket in the CPD?”

“Pretty damn sure. I’ve got a list of people who seemed to have immunity from prosecution. People who got picked up and released in the blink of an eye. There’s a protection racket, Goldie, I’m sure of that much. There are dirty cops letting people off the hook for no good reason.”

“But you can’t prove it was Wizniewski running it.”

“Not yet, no. But I’m close.”

“Okay, now question number two,” he said. “How sure are you that Wizniewski was the one who saw you two together on the train platform last night?”

“A hundred percent sure.”

Goldie nodded, shook out a chill. “But you can’t prove that, either.”

That was the thing. He was right. I couldn’t. “He was on the opposite platform,” I said. “And he kept his head down. There’s gotta be video down there in the subway, but ten gets you twenty he kept his face off it.”

“Yeah,” said Goldie. “Yeah, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

That seemed like a good summary of the state of affairs.

I tried to think it through, but it wasn’t easy.

“Where did Camel Coat—Joe Washington, I mean…where did Joe go after meeting me at the subway?” I asked.

Goldie shook his head. “I don’t have the first clue. We’re starting at square one. I don’t know what he did or where he went. I don’t know who he talked to. I can’t put a single person next to him last night.”

That wasn’t entirely true, and both of us knew it.

“You can put me next to him last night,” I said. “And I didn’t keep my head down in the subway. I kept it up. I wanted to be seen. I’ll be all over that video. There will be nice clear shots of me with a guy found dead a few hours later.”