Джеймс Паттерсон - The Black Book

Amy looked at me. “Whoever left you that photograph is in on this with Kate.”

I removed the photograph from my briefcase, examined it, turned it so Amy, who walked over to me, could look at it, too. “This is just like the others,” I said. “All the photos that Kim Beans has published. Same angle, same focus, same everything.”

“Same photographer every time,” Amy murmured.

We looked at each other. It registered with each of us at the same time.

“A cop’s been feeding these photographs to Kim,” Amy said.

I nodded. “We find Kim’s source,” I said, “and we find our dirty cop.”

Seventy-Three

“HAND TO hand,” I said to Amy. “Kim’s source wouldn’t e-mail the photos or text them. Too traceable. The US mail wouldn’t work—the photo could be damaged, and you can’t control timing as much. He wouldn’t FedEx it because he’d have to put down a credit card or walk into a store that has a security camera.”

Amy thought about all that. She was a prosecutor, not a cop, but she’d worked some pretty big federal investigations, and she knew something about the cloak-and-dagger aspect of corruption.

“And you don’t think Kim already has all the photographs?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Whoever this dirty cop is, he’s using Kim for some purpose, and he—”

“Or she,” Amy added.

“Right. The dirty cop—he or she—would want to maintain control over the situation. Handing over all the photos at once to Kim is not maintaining control; it’s giving all the leverage to Kim, letting her do whatever she wants with the photos whenever she wants. No,” I continued, “our dirty cop is smart. He’d want to keep Kim on a short leash. He’d want to hand her one photo a week, keep her nice and compliant and dependent on him.”

Amy nodded, then looked up and squinted. “Well, Kim’s next column comes out in three days. So if you want to catch her in the act of receiving a photo from her source—”

“I have to go right now,” I finished. “I have to start my surveillance right this minute.”

“I’ll go with you,” she said.

“No. I work better alone.”

Amy’s mouth curled downward. “Maybe Kate does, too,” she said. “Maybe she’s working alone on this. Maybe the person handing Kim those photos is the same person who stole the little black book—Kate.”

“Or maybe Kate did neither of those things.”

Amy raised her eyebrows. “I still haven’t convinced you?”

“It doesn’t matter whether I’m convinced or not,” I said. “I’ll find out when I shadow Kim. Speaking of which…”

“You need to get going.” Amy nodded. “Promise me you’ll be careful. People have been killed over this.”

“Careful’s my middle name,” I said.

I left. I didn’t want to get drawn into a long good-bye with Amy, because knowing me and my lack of willpower, we would end up with our clothes off, and I really needed to hurry. I needed to know the truth. Was Kate really behind this? Was she shaking down Ramona Dillavou? Did she steal the little black book the night of the raid? Logic and reasoning made her the most likely suspect. But Kate?

I got to my car and started it up. My cell phone buzzed. A text message from…well, speak of the devil. The message was from Kate.

U never thanked me when do I get my present?

There was a photograph attached. It was a photo of Kate, a selfie, as they call it. She was lying in her bed, naked down to her bra and panties, an angle downward that maximized the cleavage shot, a come-hither look on her face, the hint of a devilish smile. Your basic male fantasy.

Was this real? Or was this some kind of ploy to draw me in? I didn’t know if Kate was trying to rekindle that brief—and, in hindsight, ill-considered—fling we had or if she was playing me.

Was she jealous or devious?

“Well, let’s find out, Katie,” I whispered. “Let’s see who delivers the photo to Kim.”

Seventy-Four

MY SECOND full day of surveillance of Kim Beans. I spent yesterday following Kim to work, to a bar in Ukrainian Village, to the Whole Foods in Lincoln Park, and to a Bulls game last night (which took some effort, but I badged my way into United Center, one of the perks of the job). I saw no indication of any handoff, any passing of a photograph or anything else.

This morning, Kim arrived at her office, in Dearborn Park, at eight. No fancy downtown skyscraper; ChicagoPC was just an online news outlet, so a medium-size office with a plate-glass window sufficed.

I had a Thermos of hot coffee and a box of granola bars, ready to stay in one position for as long as it took. In the ninety minutes I’d sat on her office, I hadn’t seen any cops enter or exit, but then I wouldn’t expect them to. If you were an anonymous source, you wouldn’t stroll into a newsroom. And nobody shuffling in and out of these doors since Kim arrived looked anything like a cop. Most of them were in their twenties and wore ponytails and nose rings and berets and headphones. The new age of journalism.

My phone beeped. A text message from Kate.

Another personal day for Billy? R u sick or is it 4 fun

It was my second day in a row skipping work. I thought that Kate might take time off, too, after the big trial, but apparently not. It was yet another reminder of how far we had drifted, partners who once shared everything now failing to even coordinate our work schedules.

Just some personal stuff, I replied.

U want some company? she came back almost immediately.

I wanted to keep this informal, casual, but after the porn photo she sent me the night before last, it was hard to play dumb. I hadn’t even acknowledged that photo, hadn’t replied to her at all.

I’m good just some errands, I typed. Then I added, Talk soon. My way of politely ending the back-and-forth. I hit Send and heard the swoosh of my phone as it volleyed my message through cyberspace to Kate.

Two hours later: Kim left her office on foot, braced against the cold, and hustled across the street to a deli that was only about twenty yards from my position in my car. It was lunchtime, and lunch was a good cover for a meet. I got out of the car and watched her from the sidewalk through the large window. She didn’t contact anybody, didn’t brush against someone, didn’t pick anything up that someone else had left. She simply pulled a salad out of a refrigerated case, put it on the counter by the cashier, swiped her credit card, and left.

I got back in the car, disappointed. I had to piss, too.

My cell phone buzzed again. Another text from Kate.

You have the right to remain silent

Another photograph attached. Another selfie. Kate, in her patrol uniform, which she hadn’t worn for years, the shirt unbuttoned to her navel, maximum cleavage. Firearm on her hip. Handcuffs dangling from her finger. The sexy-cop thing.

Punching every button she could find, trying to get a rise out of me. Why? I mean, I was a swell guy and all, but I wasn’t that great of a catch.

I put down my phone as if to make it all go away.

An hour passed. Kim took a cab to a beauty salon. Luckily for me, I could see her through a picture window as the hairdresser took an inch off her curly locks. I didn’t make this for the drop spot. Possible but unlikely.

My phone buzzed again and filled me with dread. Yes. Kate again.

Don’t make me beg

“Jesus, Kate,” I mumbled inside my car as my phone buzzed again, then again, in rapid succession:

Unless you want me to beg LOL

On my hands and knees?

There was that brief time during our fling when I would have enjoyed this. But I wasn’t having any fun at all.

I typed the word Stop but didn’t send it. Stared at it. Didn’t want to make matters worse. Didn’t want to throw gasoline on a fire. But I didn’t want to encourage her, either.