Джеймс Паттерсон - The Black Book

I stopped and looked at her. “What do you mean, Maximum Margaret? For mayor? ”

“Wow, you really are out of the loop.” Kim smirked at me, pleased with herself. “I hear her political machinery is already gearing up. She’s going to convict the mayor and then run for his job. Oh, she’ll wait until the trial’s over before she announces. You know, the crime fighter, the corruption buster, the tough broad who’s gonna clean up this town—that whole angle.”

It made sense, I supposed. But it hadn’t occurred to me. Sure, I’d lived in Chicago my whole life, and I followed the circus of politics from a distance, but I was no insider, and I didn’t want to be.

“Are you sure you’re working on this case, Billy?” Kim asked. “Because I seem to know a lot more about it than you do.”

She certainly did. Amy was Margaret Olson’s prized subordinate, her right-hand aide, and I’d never heard a single utterance about political ambition or any talk of plea deals. Maybe, I tried to tell myself, it was none of my business; she didn’t mention it because I didn’t need to know.

But it burned all the same. Every time I thought I’d figured Amy out, I learned something new.

And if she was willing to keep this information from me, what else had she kept from me?

Fifty-Six

I WALKED into Amy’s office at our scheduled time, ten o’clock—preparation for the big trial. My head was still ringing from all the booze I’d drunk last night. And from what Kim Beans had just told me. And from my conversation with my sister, Patti, at the crime scene. Take your pick.

Amy greeted me formally outside her office— Good morning, Detective, so good of you to come —but when she closed her door, when it was just the two of us, she put her hands on my chest. “Hi, there,” she whispered.

I drew back, surprising her. Last night we’d kissed, but it was more than a kiss; it had unleashed things in me I hadn’t felt in years. She felt it, too, or so I thought. She read the look on my face and waited for me to explain.

“I need to ask you something,” I said.

She looked at me as though she didn’t understand. She also looked, by the way, radiant, dressed in a light gray suit, her hair pulled back professionally. She was smart—very smart—and beautiful, a deadly combination for me.

“Did you offer Ramona Dillavou immunity if she turned over the little black book?”

Amy blinked, just once, but otherwise didn’t flinch. “Yes,” she said.

“And the other defendants? The archbishop? The mayor? The celebrities and businessmen—did you offer them immunity if they could help you find the little black book?”

“I did,” she said.

“And you never mentioned it to me?”

She shook her head. “I’m the prosecutor. You’re the witness. It isn’t my job to keep you apprised of every step of my trial strategy.” She angled her head at me. “Anyway, that was before. Before I got to know you. Before I started to…”

“To what?” I asked, realizing how much I want to hear the words.

“To trust you,” she said. “And care about you.”

How badly I wanted to give in to that, to believe that, to let down my guard and let her in. But I didn’t speak. I saw the look of hurt on her face when I didn’t respond, but I needed more answers.

“You know I suspected you took the little black book,” she said. “I never hid that from you. I wanted that black book. I didn’t care how I got it.”

“Do you still?” I asked.

“Do I still what?”

“Do you still think I took the little black book?”

She paused, just one beat of my heart, before she said, “No, I don’t.”

“But you still want it. You still want your hands on it.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Actually, no. I mean, I do, but it’s not up to me.”

“What does that mean?”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, I’ve been told it’s not a priority anymore. I was told to drop it for now and just focus on winning this sex-club trial.”

“And why’s that?” I asked. “Why the change?”

“Why? Because the entire country is following the sex-club case. It’s a heater case. And we don’t want to lose. Why else?”

“Maybe you want to win so your boss, Margaret Olson, can take the mayor’s job after she convicts him.”

Amy made a face. “That’s ridiculous. Margaret’s not going to run for mayor.”

“No?”

“No. And I don’t appreciate your questioning my motives. I’m prosecuting this case because I believe in it.” She thought for a moment. “Who told you Margaret wants the mayor’s job?”

I shook my head. “I can’t say.”

“Well, whoever told you is wrong. Margaret Olson will not run for mayor. You want me to say it again? Margaret Olson will not run for mayor.”

I didn’t know where to go from there. She confirmed one thing Kim Beans told me and denied the other. I wanted to trust Amy. I wanted to more than I’d wanted anything in a long time.

“When the sex-club case is over, I’ll go back to finding that little black book,” she said. “For now, my plan is to win. And with Ramona Dillavou dead, you’re more important to the case than ever.”

I nodded. That much was true.

She approached me again, put her hands on my chest again. “Y’know, after that moment we shared last night, I wasn’t expecting to be greeted with an interrogation this morning. I was expecting something like this.”

She leaned up and kissed me softly. I felt everything melt away.

She drew back just enough to speak, her lips so close to mine I could still feel them.

“So,” she said more quietly. “Are we still okay?”

My heart was racing. I drew her in and kissed her, this time not softly.

Amy Lentini, for better or worse, had cast a spell on me.

Fifty-Seven

AFTER PREPPING for the trial for two hours, I left the Daley Center and walked through the plaza, worn out, my stomach rumbling, hungry for lunch. It was dreary and cold today, pedestrians walking with their heads low, bundled from head to foot. Among the government vehicles parked alongside the plaza, I spotted a fire-engine-red Corvette.

Not very hard to notice. It was like spotting a ball of fire against a dark sky.

Nice ride. The kind of thing I’d never be able to afford. You didn’t become a cop for the money.

The driver’s-side door opened, and who got out but my partner, Detective Katherine Fenton.

It took a moment, though, to register. The lithe, athletic figure; the stylish coat cinched at the waist; the long legs, the knee-high thick-heeled boots—that was the same, that was Kate. But from the neck up, different. Her hair was cut very short, no bangs, the ends curling severely along her cheeks. The color was different, too. Less of the flash of the red. A deeper, darker crimson. More like the color of blood.

And a Corvette.

She saw the look on my face. “Like it?” she said, but not in the way that indicated she was fishing for a compliment. It was more of a challenge, more like Fuck you if you don’t .

I wasn’t sure if she was referring to her new ride or her new look. Probably both. Probably asking what I thought of Kate 2.0. “Sure,” I said. “You inherit some money or something?”

She kept walking toward me, that confident strut she had, the heels clicking loudly on the pavement, her mouth set in a come-hither smirk. Her new tough-chick look, to my mind, was overkill. Look, she couldn’t have had a better body if she tried, and the curve of her face and those high cheekbones—she had sexy oozing off her at all times, day and night. But it worked for her, I always thought, because it was so effortless. Now she was making an effort. She was practically wearing a sign around her neck.