Джеймс Паттерсон - The Black Book

“Tell me about it. I think we just convicted a dozen people for it.”

Her eyebrows wrinkled, forehead creased. “ That’s not what I’m talking about. You think—what? You think that photograph shows me about to have sex with a prostitute? Really?”

I didn’t have an answer. The truth was, I didn’t have any idea what to make of this photograph.

“I’m talking about obstruction,” she said. “Whoever gave you that photo is guilty of obstruction of justice.”

It took a moment for that to sink in. “What are you telling me? This was part of an investigation?”

Amy dropped her head, placed her hands on her hips. Took a breath. Made a decision.

“Billy,” she said, raising her head, “did you ever wonder why I was so hell-bent on finding the little black book? From the first moment after the bust, when we hauled you and Kate into Margaret’s office, all we cared about was the little black book. Did that ever strike you as odd?”

“It did,” I answered. “But I figured you were trying to smear us. To protect the mayor. Margaret Olson and Superintendent Driscoll—both of them had their jobs thanks to the mayor. They wanted to keep him in power so they’d stay in power.”

She listened to all that and made a sour face, like those political shenanigans were beneath her. Then her expression broke, and her eyebrows raised. “Wow,” she said. “You must have had a really low opinion of me.”

And she of me. But we had gotten past that. We had sailed those treacherous waters and found something on the other side, something warm and soothing, something that made my heart go pitter-patter like a schoolboy kissing a girl for the first time. I couldn’t deny it. I was all in. I was in love with Amy Lentini.

“Talk to me,” I said.

She nodded, took another breath, confirmed her decision. “For the last year or so,” she said, “the state’s attorney’s office has been conducting an investigation. We have reason to believe that Chicago police officers have been running a protection racket. Taking bribes to let people walk.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t show a thing. Didn’t mention the fact that I had been investigating the same thing as an undercover officer for Internal Affairs.

Two different law enforcement agencies investigating the same damn thing, not saying a word to each other.

“And this brownstone was front and center in our investigation,” she said. “Powerful people, with a place to go to get their jollies, indulge their fantasies, whatever—but it needs to be a safe place, right? They can’t be caught publicly. The shame would be too intense. A woman like Ramona Dillavou knows that. She’s not going to draw the rich and famous to her club if they’re afraid of a police raid, right?”

“Right,” I managed.

“Ramona Dillavou was paying off cops. Protection money.”

“Who?” I asked. “What cops?”

She looked at me dead-on. Held perfectly still. Like a breathtaking portrait, my Italian beauty, my work of art. All that was missing was the gold frame and the artist’s signature in the corner.

“Who was Ramona paying off?” I tried again.

The longer Amy paused, stood frozen, the harder my heart pumped.

“Kate,” she said. “Detective Katherine Fenton.”

Seventy-Two

I FELT a No reach my lips but didn’t say it. “Kate?” I mumbled. My brain tried to keep pace with my racing heart, tried to connect the dots. “Are you sure?”

“I can’t prove it, if that’s what you mean,” she said. “Process of elimination. It has to be her.”

I brought a hand to my face. The woman with whom I’d partnered, shared so much over the years—she was on the take and I didn’t know it?

“We were just about to find out,” she said. “We’d been tracking Ramona’s bank accounts, her cash withdrawals. We were about to close in. I was literally in the process of drafting a complaint for a search warrant. We were no more than days away from raiding the brownstone.”

I slowly nodded. “But then I raided the place first.”

“But then you raided the place first.”

It was coming clearer now. “You thought the cops knew,” I said. “You thought the dirty cops got wind of your investigation, so we raided the place for cover. Publicly exposed the VIPs. Got Ramona in the soup. Blew up the whole thing.”

“And stole the little black book,” she said.

Right. Exactly. The little black book, the ledger, the computer disk, whatever it was—Amy didn’t want it for the names of other VIPs who frequented the place. She didn’t care about the identities of the johns.

She wanted the names of the cops Ramona Dillavou was paying off.

“So you thought I was one of the dirty cops,” I said. “You thought I was part of the protection racket.” I said it with a hint of accusation, though I couldn’t blame her. As much as it burned, I couldn’t deny that her initial reaction was logical. Before she knew me, it was her first instinct—she’s about to raid the brothel and secure the little black book, and wham, I beat her to the punch by a matter of days. And the little black book mysteriously disappears. Yeah, if I were in her shoes, I’d have suspected me, too.

“You or Kate,” Amy said. “You were the detectives in charge. So yeah, I suspected both of you for the protection racket. And stealing the little black book. But now I’ve ruled you out.”

“How? Why?”

She was taken aback, hurt by the question. “Because now I know you.”

Too much. Overload. Too many emotions swirling in too many directions, blurring everything together. I needed to think straight, sort through everything.

“Kate was the evidence recovery officer that night,” Amy said. “She would have had the easiest access to that black book. Easy as pie she could’ve pocketed it, and nobody would have known.”

I thought back to the night of the raid.

Remembered Kate being so ginned up to go in.

Remembered my thought that maybe we should call in Vice, because this was their turf, and Kate’s reaction: Fuck Vice. This is ours.

Remembered Kate leading the search upstairs of Ramona Dillavou’s office.

She easily could have done it.

“Kate,” I said again, only this time not as a question.

“That photograph you showed me, of me walking up to the brownstone? That just confirms what I thought,” Amy said. “That photo was taken only a couple of weeks before your raid. It had to be, because that was the only time I was there. I just wanted to see the place for myself. We’d spent so much time investigating it, but I’d never actually gone there. I didn’t go in. I just walked up a couple of stairs and looked at it.” She wagged a finger. “But the photograph proves that somebody knew I was there.”

“Whoever snapped this photo knew that you, one of the top prosecutors with the state’s attorney’s office, was interested in that brownstone.”

“They knew we were close, Billy. The dirty cops knew we were coming. And then, suddenly, just before we made our move, you and Kate lead a squad of officers and raid the place. And the little black book goes bye-bye.”

She was right. It all lined up.

“But Kate didn’t act alone,” said Amy. “This operation is too big for one person. Which brings me to my original question when you first showed me that photograph: Where did you get it?”

“Found it on my doorstep,” I said. “Anonymous. Plain manila envelope, no writing, nothing but the photograph inside.”

She thought about that, disappointed that I didn’t know more, paced her living room.

“Whoever left me that photograph doesn’t want me to trust you,” I said.