Джеймс Паттерсон - The Black Book

“That’s right. I remember being at Ramona Dillavou’s apartment, and then, like I told you, poof .”

“That’s not physical,” she says. “That’s emotional. It’s not that you can’t remember, Billy. Whatever happened…you don’t want to remember it.”

Fifty

I DRIFT through the streets—or, as I like to call it, undergo physical therapy, which means walking two miles a day, if my halting limp qualifies as walking. I move my feet and arms and hope that collectively they will jar something loose in my brain and suddenly it will all become clear. I haven’t gone more than a block before sweat is covering my face, my shirt sticking to my chest.

Losing your memory is like misplacing something, except not only can you not find the thing you lost, you also don’t even know what it is you lost. So you drift through the fog, hoping you’ll bump into something and recognize it when you do.

Or, as I said, you go through physical therapy.

It’s summer, so kids are everywhere, throwing baseballs across the street to one another, dancing through the gushing water of an open fire hydrant, sliding and climbing and playing in sandboxes in the park down the street. Everywhere I look there are yard signs, or posters wrapped around light poles or tied to fences; the ones I see the most are the kelly-green ones with huge white letters saying MARGARET FOR MAYOR.

When Mayor Francis Delaney was forced out of office in disgrace, and the state legislature passed a law calling for a special mayoral election, everyone figured that the front-runner for the position was a congressman who represented the North Side. Congressman John Tedesco, silver-haired and handsome, had served in the House of Representatives for fourteen years. He had millions in his campaign coffers and favors owed to him that had accumulated during his time in public office. But he cited declining health and begged out of the race, throwing his support behind his friend the state’s attorney Margaret Olson.

Maximum Margaret currently leads a crowded field in the special election to replace Mayor Delaney. Three aldermen and two county commissioners have also declared their candidacy, but Margaret is the only woman. She also has far more money than anyone else, and her slogan—“A crime fighter to end corruption”—seems to be carrying the day.

Margaret Olson is everywhere—on TV, on the Internet, on laminated brochures in my mailbox. The most vicious and ambitious prosecutor the county has ever seen is almost certain to become the next mayor of Chicago.

I spend more than an hour walking. I brought a bottle of water with me, but by the half-hour mark I’ve emptied it. I make it to the three-way intersection of North, Damen, and Milwaukee, where well-dressed yuppies and hipsters hang outside at the outdoor cafés or carry their shopping bags from their trip down Damen.

I’m still young, but I feel old. I’ve been through a marriage and a near-death experience, and I move like an octogenarian, limping and moaning while I wait for myself to get back to good. By the time I reach my block, I’m ready to collapse.

Then I stop in my tracks.

Three squad cars and two unmarked sedans are parked in my driveway and along the curb. Five cars full of cops. That can mean only one thing.

As I approach, a few officers who know me nod with apologetic looks on their faces. I nod back. It’s not their fault. They’re just following orders, doing their jobs.

When I reach the cavalcade of law enforcement, Lieutenant Paul Wizniewski gets out of one of the sedans and holds out a piece of paper. He could at least pretend not to be so happy about it.

“William Harney?” he says, like we haven’t worked together for years. “We have a warrant to search the premises.”

“Gee, I wish I’d known,” I say. “I could’ve tidied up the place. Made some cookies.”

Wizniewski steps even closer, so we are almost nose to nose. “You might think about making some omelets,” he says. “We’re going to be here all day and all night. I’m going to find it, Harney, sure as I’m standing here.”

Fifty-One

PATTI HARNEY gets out of her vehicle and rushes toward the squad cars outside Billy’s building. She sees a young officer she recognizes, not by name but by face. “Where is he?” she asks. “Where’s my brother?”

“In the car, Detective,” the officer says, nodding toward a rust-colored sedan parked along the curb.

She finds Billy in the backseat, leaning his head against the headrest. He looks utterly depleted. A lot of that is simply physical. He still hasn’t recovered his stamina. The doctors said it could be a full year before he can do everything he used to do.

She raps her knuckles lightly on the window. Billy’s head lolls over, and he looks at her. She opens the door.

“You wanna get some fresh air?”

“I better stay here, keep an eye on things,” Billy says.

Patti gets into the car and shuts the door. She sits close to him. They lean their heads toward each other until they touch.

“You doing okay, little brother?”

He shrugs. “I’m in a fog, Patti. I don’t know if I’m supposed to be nervous or angry or sad or…what.”

“I know, I know. It’s gonna be okay. This is just Wizniewski getting his jollies.”

Through the window, she sees officers leaving the house, carrying boxes. One of them is holding an old computer in his arms.

“I’ll be lucky if they don’t pull the stove out of the wall,” says Billy.

Sarcasm like that makes her think that Billy is becoming himself again. But he is a long way from back. He used to always wear a smile—everyone’s friend; the comedian; the glass always half full, as though the sun were following him wherever he went. Now it’s like he’s haunted. The glass is half empty, and the sun, which always trailed him, is covered by a black cloud.

Now you know how I feel, Billy. Not so fun, is it? Life ain’t so grand when things don’t fall into your lap, when people aren’t constantly telling you how funny and smart you are.

“I never asked you,” Billy says. “I’ve wanted to, but…I don’t know.”

She turns to him. “Asked me what?”

“One night back before I was shot,” he says. “I followed Ramona Dillavou. I found her with you at Tyson’s, on Rush.”

Patti stiffens.

“Why were you meeting with her? I never asked.”

But you did, Billy. You did ask me that question. You just don’t remember.

“I was trying to get the little black book,” she answers. “I was trying to help you.”

“By buying her a drink? You thought that’s all it would take?”

She lets out a sigh and runs a soothing hand over his leg. “Billy, Billy,” she says. “Always pushing away the people who want to help you. Always drawn to the people who don’t.”

“That’s not an answer to my question.”

Patti shakes her head and looks out the window again. Another officer, carrying another box out of his town house.

“Don’t worry about a thing,” she says, stroking his arm. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Your sister will protect you.”

“I don’t need protecting. I just need the truth.”

She turns again and looks at her broken, damaged baby brother, even if he’s only younger than she is by a few minutes. She’s the elder, but it’s always been as if it were the opposite, as if she were the baby, as if she needed assistance, propping up, protection from the world.

“Remember,” she whispers. “Don’t say a word to Wizniewski. Don’t tell him anything.”

Fifty-Two

I SIT in an interview room, the irony not lost on me—this is a room where I have questioned dozens of suspects over the years. I know where the creaks are in the floor. I know where to seat a suspect so he’s right under the air-conditioning vent or, depending on the time of day, so he’s right where the sun will angle through the blinds and hit him squarely in the eyes.