Джеймс Паттерсон - The Black Book

The door opens, and the chubby face and cigar odor of Lieutenant Paul Wizniewski greet me. He is carrying a plain brown box and places it on the table between us.

“You understand you’re not in custody,” he says. “You understand you’re free to leave.”

“I understand you’re saying that so you don’t have to read me my Miranda rights and so you don’t have to turn on that video recorder.” I nod in the direction of the camera perched on a tripod in the corner of the room.

A wry smile crosses Wizniewski’s face as he takes his seat.

Whether I’m read Miranda or not, I obviously know my rights. And I know what Patti, Pop, and Goldie have all said to me—don’t talk to the police.

But here’s the thing: I’m on the outside now, looking in. I can’t just pick up the phone and ask the Wiz about the status of the investigation. They won’t even tell my father what’s going on. So this is the only way I can get the cops to talk—by agreeing to an interview.

“Whatcha been doing these last couple of days, since I last saw you?” he asks.

“Since you ransacked my house? I’ve been trying to clean it up. Three days of cleaning, and it still looks like it was hit by a hurricane.”

“Yeah, that’s a real shame. Hey, I want to show you something,” he says. “It’s a video taken in the subway station at Jackson.” He picks up a tablet and turns it so I can see it, hits the Play button.

I haven’t seen the video, but I remember meeting with Camel Coat—Sergeant Joe Washington. The video shows us doing what we did that night, pretending we were meeting in secret, cloak-and-dagger stuff, the handoff of an envelope.

“Do you know who that person is?”

I don’t answer.

“Sergeant Joe Washington,” says the Wiz. “You might recall that the same night you were seen with him doing a James Bond routine, he was found dead from a GSW to the noggin, parked in his car on Jackson. Anything you’d like to tell me?”

“I’m not a big fan of your aftershave,” I say.

“If memory serves, you were at the crime scene later that morning,” says Wiz. “Come to think of it, I saw you at Ramona Dillavou’s crime scene, too, the day after that. Anyway, let’s stick with Joe Washington for now. You and him on the subway platform.”

“If memory serves,” I say, mimicking him, “I recall seeing you on the platform across from us, Wiz. Watching the whole thing.”

His face lights up with a smile. “Is that a fact?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Hmph. Camera didn’t seem to pick that up.”

Yeah, because you were hiding in the shadows with your head down.

“Anyway…” As if he doesn’t have a care in the world, the Wiz reaches into the evidence box sitting on top of the table. He pulls out a handgun in a clear plastic bag, which he holds at the top, letting the gun dangle in front of me.

“Look familiar?” he asks.

“Based on my years of detective training, I’d say that’s a firearm.”

“Yeah, but this firearm, it so happens, I found inside an old cigar box in your basement.”

I do a slow burn.

“Took us a bitch of a long time to find it. You had it tucked away nice and good.”

“Not my gun,” I say.

“We got ballistics back,” he says.

“That was fast. Three days and you have ballistics results?”

“Yeah—go figure. See, our state’s attorney, you mighta noticed—old Maximum Margaret—is running for mayor.”

“Yeah. I might have seen a yard sign or two.”

“Right. Sure. ‘Margaret for Mayor.’ And this is a priority for her. Y’know, Amy Lentini was one of her top people. She was grooming Amy. Had high hopes for her.”

Wizniewski draws a long, delicious breath. “Anyway.” He holds up the bag with the gun again. “So ballistics comes back on this gun we found in your basement. And guess what? You’re never gonna guess in a million years. I tell ya, you could’ve knocked me over with a feather.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. I know what’s coming. Wizniewski is far too happy for it to be anything else.

“Let’s get this over with,” I say.

“This gun,” he says, shaking the bag, “which we found in your basement, came back positive for the GSW to Sergeant Washington. This is the gun used to kill Joe Washington.”

“Let me guess,” I say. “No fingerprints.”

He wags a finger at me. “Correct. You were smart enough to wipe it down.”

“But dumb enough to leave it in my basement.”

He opens his hands, shrugs. Oh, is he enjoying himself. “One of the mysteries of the world, what people do. Maybe, deep down, you wanted to be caught, Harney. Y’know, atone for your sins and whatnot.”

I don’t say anything. He set me up. We both know it. But there’s nothing I can do, sitting here, that will improve my situation. Let him have this moment. I’ll have mine later. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

“Maybe that’s why you didn’t dispose of this, either,” he says, reaching into the evidence box again, producing another clear bag, this one holding an ordinary kitchen knife, the kind you’d use to cut an apple. Only this one is caked with blood on the tip.

“And what would that be?” I ask in a flat tone.

“I asked myself the same question,” says the Wiz, pointing a finger to his head. “I said to myself, ‘Why would Detective Billy Harney tape this kitchen knife under the lid of his basement toilet?’ But see, then we ran some tests on the knife, too. DNA tests, to be specific.”

“DNA results in three days,” I say.

“There you go again with Maximum Margaret rushing the results. We actually got back DNA before ballistics. This case is just fulla surprises.”

He holds up the bag for my inspection. “Three guesses what I found.”

I push myself away from the table.

“The blood on this knife belongs to Ramona Dillavou,” he says. “This dull kitchen knife was used to torture and murder the manager of the brownstone brothel.”

Keep your powder dry, I tell myself. You don’t gain anything by responding.

“And you know the best part?” Wizniewski asks. “This knife does have your fingerprints on it.”

Fifty-Three

LIEUTENANT PAUL Wizniewski watches me expectantly, his eyebrows raised, the joy in his expression evident. He wants me to deny this. He wants me to say things that could tie me up later.

There are so many things I want to say to him. That’s not my gun, and that’s not my knife. You framed me, Wizniewski. You knew I was close to nailing you for the protection racket you’re operating, and this is your way of stopping me.

Your second way of stopping me. Your first way was shooting me.

But I didn’t die. And I’m not going down this way, either—not without a fight.

But I don’t say a word. It won’t do me any good. My hobbled mind needs to stay focused. I can’t stop what’s coming next. But there is a bigger game being played here.

“Let’s talk about Amy Lentini and your partner, Kate,” he says.

He removes a folder from his evidence box and drops crime-scene photos in front of me.

Kate, lying dead on the carpet near the doorway.

Amy, lying dead in the bed, rolled over, with her back to the camera, almost falling off the bed.

I’m not in the photos. By the time the photos were snapped, I’d started up a pulse again and had been whisked away from the scene by paramedics.

“We rechecked ballistics, as your daddy requested,” he says. “Same result. Your gun, the one found in your hand, was used to shoot Amy and Kate.”

I shake my head. That just can’t be true.