Джеймс Паттерсон - The Black Book

Goldie let out a pained sigh. “That’s not good.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Maybe it’s time to go public on this thing,” said Goldie. “Maybe we announce that Internal Affairs has been investigating the Wiz, and now we think he killed the guy he thought was your informant.”

“No.” I shake my head. “No way. I make that public now, and everything I’ve been doing the last eighteen months goes up in smoke. I’m not stopping now. I’m gonna nail the Wiz and anyone else helping him protect criminals. And while I’m at it, I’m gonna nail the Wiz for this murder, too.”

Goldie made a face like he’d just swallowed vinegar. He peeked up at me.

“You see the problem here,” he said. “You’re on the subway video last night with Joe only hours before somebody pumps lead into his brain. And I’m guessing you have no alibi for last night after you left the subway.”

“My alibi last night is me, myself, and I,” I said. “I went straight home.”

“So if you don’t explain that you’re Internal Affairs undercover, you got no answer for why you and Joe were talking last night. You become suspect number one.”

“I don’t care.” I shoved my hands in my pockets. “Fuck it. I’ll take my chances.”

Goldie pinched the bridge of his nose, like a major migraine was coming.

“Well, isn’t this a shit sandwich?” he said.

Forty-Four

LATER THAT same morning, news of Sergeant Joe Washington’s murder rippled through the department like electricity through water. Homicides in Chicago come by the bushel, sure, but it isn’t every day a cop gets shot. Morale in the department was low enough already. Our pensions were under attack. Crime on the West and South Sides was pandemic, but nobody blamed it on the breakdown of families or unemployment or bad schools—it was always the cops’ fault. And everybody with a smartphone, which meant everybody, was ready to hit the Record button on their cameras every time a cop confronted a defiant civilian on the street. Half the time it felt like people were daring us to overreact so they could get their video on MSNBC, where talking heads who never spent a single day on patrol, who never once were in fear for their lives, could cluck their tongues at us.

And now this—a cop murdered execution-style only a mile from the river, from Union Station and downtown.

So I was looking forward to my date with Amy Lentini that night. Something to get my adrenaline going in a positive way. Or at least I hoped it would be positive. An objective observer might say I was crazy asking out a prosecutor who suspected I was a crook. And it wasn’t like I gave it a lot of thought before I asked her. It was an impulse—a drunken one, at that.

But when she walked out the front door of her apartment building, I knew I’d made the right decision.

Her hair was pulled back, and some strands had been teased out on each side. They brushed her cheeks gently. There was probably a fancy term for that hairstyle, but sexy and classy were the only ones that sprung to mind. She wore a gray hat and a long gray coat that was appropriate but somehow formfitting at the same time.

“Our big date,” she said as I tried to fold my tongue back into my mouth.

We hit an Italian restaurant on the North Side with valet parking so I wouldn’t have to sweat the parking situation. Dinner was awkward at first, which was weird, because if there’s one thing you can say about me, it’s that I can talk. I was nervous. And it had been a long time since I’d been nervous.

We ran through some small talk—the murder of Sergeant Joe Washington being the hot topic, but I played it as if I’d never met the guy—until we hit our second glass of wine, when we both loosened up. There was a twinkle in her eyes, a soft flush to her cheeks from the booze.

“You didn’t like me at first,” she said.

I let out a small laugh, took a drink of the Pinot. “Memory serves, the first time we met, you were trying to tear my head off.”

“I was asking you straightforward questions,” she said with no trace of apology. “Questions I thought you should be able to answer. If you were telling the truth.”

“So here we go again,” I said. “The little black book.”

“Here we go again.” But I saw a trace of amusement in her expression. Like she enjoyed busting my balls. She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Okay, Detective, I’ll tell you what. Maybe there is a small possibility that I came on a bit too strong.”

“A small possibility,” I repeated. “A bit too strong. Wow, Counselor, don’t go overboard.”

She raised her eyebrows. They were nice eyebrows, not thick, but not so thin that they looked fake. She didn’t need to fake anything with her looks. She gave the impression, at least, that it was effortless.

I cleared my throat. “Okay, Amy, since you were so forthcoming,” I said. “There is an infinitesimal chance, so small that you’d need a microscope to spot it, that I can be kind of a horse’s ass every now and then.”

“No.”

“It’s true.”

“I don’t believe it,” she said. “You?”

The food arrived. She got some rotini dish with vegetables and red sauce. I got the chicken parm. I liked the fact that she didn’t just order a plate of lettuce or something.

“But I’m honest,” I said. “I’m a good cop.”

She paused, narrowed her eyes. Then she sunk her fork into the pasta.

“Don’t feel the need to comment,” I said.

She looked at me again, as though she were trying to find the words. I waited her out. I didn’t want to change the subject. I wanted to hear what she had to say.

After she drained her glass of Pinot, she wiped her mouth and looked at me. “I haven’t really figured you out,” she said. “And that’s weird for me. I usually can size up somebody like that.” She snapped her fingers.

“I’m a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.”

She cocked her head. “Who said that?”

“I just did.”

“No, I mean—”

“I think it was Joe Pesci.”

A wry smile played across her face. “I think it was Churchill.”

“I haven’t seen his movies.”

She found that amusing, or she pretended to. “No, I’m saying my judgment tells me that you’re a good person. But then I have these suspicions about what happened at the brownstone that night. Hey,” she said, reading my expression. “I’ve been up front about that. I haven’t hidden that.”

“No, you’ve been clear about that. You think I stole that black book.”

“I suspect you might have.”

I didn’t answer.

“Did you?” she asked.

“Why would I do something like that?”

“That’s not an answer. That’s responding to a question with a question. It’s a way to manipulate a conversation. You’re very good at that, did you know that?”

“Me?” I shrugged. “I’m just a simple cop.”

“And I’m just a farm girl from Appleton.” She wagged a finger at me. “Whatever else you may be, Detective Harney, you’re not simple. I suspect, in fact, that you’re quite intelligent. Far more than you want anyone to realize.”

“Which allows me to manipulate.”

She started to respond, then opened her hand. “Exactly.”

“How is everything here?” the waiter said, pouring the last of the wine into our glasses.

“Great,” I said. “I’m learning a lot about myself.”

I ordered a second bottle. Amy smiled to herself. I could imagine what she was thinking—I was trying to get her drunk.

When the waiter left, I said to her, “If you think I stole the black book, then why are you here with me? Why would a pristine, well-credentialed attorney with a bright future want to mingle with a crooked cop?”