Джеймс Паттерсон - The Black Book

She used her remote to lock her Corvette. “Last I checked,” she said, “I don’t need your permission to buy a new car.” She stopped in front of me, daring me to be unimpressed. “So no more Ramona Dillavou,” she said. “Who do we like for it?”

Whom did we suspect in Ramona Dillavou’s death? Well, nobody had asked my opinion so far, and it wasn’t my case. I didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to confront it, but I knew deep down that I hadn’t crossed my own sister off the list.

Still, it seemed pretty obvious that Dillavou’s murder was tied to the little black book, and I also hadn’t ruled out Kate’s taking it from the crime scene.

Which meant she was on the list, too.

“No idea,” I said. “You?”

“How would I know?” Again, the hostility, the challenge in her voice. She nodded toward the Daley Center. “How was your prep session? I’m up next.”

That made sense. She was a witness, too, in the sex-club trial. It just highlighted the distance between Kate and me that I didn’t even know she had the appointment. We still partnered every day, but it was all business, no talk in the car, no sharing of thoughts or secrets. Not long ago, I knew everything about her. I knew what she had for dinner the night before, her plans for the weekend, every thought or opinion that cascaded through her brain. Now I didn’t even know when she was meeting with the prosecutor on one of our cases.

“Is your girlfriend Amy in a good mood today?” she asked.

I rolled my eyes.

“Well, at least you’re not denying it anymore,” she said in a strange way, like she’d won a small victory but wished she hadn’t.

I couldn’t think of anything I could throw on that fire that would douse it, so I let it go, didn’t say a word.

“Please tell me you didn’t just fuck her in that office,” she said. “I have to sit in there.” Still no response from me, because she didn’t need any help. “A little dangerous office sex, people standing just outside the door, you’ve got her bent over the desk—”

“Kate, for crying out loud.”

Her eyes stayed on me. “Just checking. I know Billy likes it a little kinky every now and then.”

A reminder of our recent past, our fling, delivered with icy relish. But it felt like cover for her hurt. Do you really like Amy more than you like me?

There wasn’t anything I could do with that, standing in the cold in the middle of Daley Plaza, the wind punishing us. Not the place for an intimate chat about our feelings. Only time for a hostile confrontation.

I had to leave, head back to the station, but she wasn’t done with me.

“She still on your back about the little black book?” she asked. “Should I be prepared for another inquisition?”

“Nope,” I said, relieved to change topics. “Just the facts of our case. They put the little black book on the shelf for now.”

Kate went silent, looked at me, tried to read my facial expression. Gray fog escaped from our mouths. The wind whipped up and slithered inside my coat.

“She doesn’t care about the little black book anymore?” she finally asked. Her words had an edge, though she was trying to sound casual. “I thought that was the only thing in life that motivated our Miss Amy. Now she doesn’t care?”

I shrugged. It wasn’t my job to speak for Amy.

“Well, Billy, congratulations on getting her mind off that. You must be fucking her good and proper.”

“Kate, enough.”

She cocked her head, an eyebrow rising. “Don’t tell me she’s playing hard to get. The innocent, doe-eyed girl from Wisconsin? Saying she wants to take it slow, wants to wait for the right moment, it’s a big deal for her? Leaving you high and dry at the end of the night, stringing you along like a pup—”

“I’m done with this,” I said, moving past her. “I’m not playing this game.”

“No,” she called out to me. “You’re playing her game. And you don’t even know it.”

Fifty-Eight

LIEUTENANT MIKE Goldberger carved up his eggs with a knife and fork, like a general executing some divide-and-conquer strategy. He was fidgety, which was unusual for him, and the eggs were paying for it. We used to do this a lot—breakfast at Mitchell’s before work. It had been a long time, but Goldie wanted to rekindle our tradition this week, probably because it was the week of the sex-club trial.

“So what’s the latest on Ramona Dillavou?” I asked. “And Joe Washington? Any leads on those murders?”

“He was good, whoever he was,” said Goldie. “Pristine crime scenes. No forensics, no nothing. Almost professional.”

He moved on to his sausage, carving the links up like his life depended on it.

I picked up my cup of coffee and put it back down. “Jeez, Goldie, you’re making me nervous. I’m the one who has to testify.”

“That’s what’s worrying me,” he said, and he rarely said things like that. Goldie didn’t show worry much, usually going with the cucumber-cool thing. “If this case goes south, if the judge says you had no probable cause to enter that brownstone—well, it’s on you, Billy Boy. Nobody else will take the blame.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Then act nervous, kid.” He waved his hands at me. “You’re sitting over there like you don’t got a care in the world. You always do. You always have . When you were a kid, your brothers, they’d share every single thought that came through their brains. And Patti? Patti was a freakin’ mess, always stressed out over this or that, always seeking approval—but there you were, cracking wise but never showing a damn thing, like you had every fuckin’ thing already figured out. It’s annoying is what it is.”

It was just my way. I should have been a poker player.

“I am nervous,” I said. “But Amy thinks we have a good shot. Me, I’d say I just went with my gut when I raided the brownstone, but she’s got my testimony sounding like I drew up some flowchart of reasons before I busted through the door. She’s good, Goldie. She’s a great lawyer.”

He wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin and gave me a sidelong glance.

“That look you’re giving me.” I sat back in the booth. “Speak.”

“Why don’t you just admit you’re in love with that girl?” he said.

A quick denial, an easy retort, came to my lips, but I didn’t say it.

“Y’know, which is fine,” he went on. “Dandy. Great. About time you got back on your feet after Valerie. Nobody’s happier for you than me, my boy.”

I leaned forward. “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

He let out air. Took a sip of coffee, set the mug down. “But,” he said, “does it have to be Amy Lentini? No offense intended, but the lady’s a shark. She’ll chew you up and spit you out.”

“No offense intended? What was that, a compliment?”

“Hey, look.” He held up his hands in surrender. “The lady’s drop-dead gorgeous. On a scale of 1 to 10, she’s a hundred. No question about it. Have a good time with her. But Billy, that woman does not have your best interests at heart.”

“No?”

He thought for a moment, then leaned forward. “She’s going to find that little black book eventually. You said she put that on hiatus until the trial’s over—but the trial’s this week. And when it’s over, she’s back to looking for it. Am I right?”

“Yes,” I conceded.

“And she thinks you took it. Am I also right?”

“She says no.”

“She says no. She says no.” Goldie shook his head. “And you believe her, of course, because she’s never held anything back from you.”

A fair point. But I did believe her. I could separate my brain from my heart.