Джеймс Паттерсон - The Black Book

Goldie turned his gun—my gun—and trained it on Amy. “That would be you, Ms. Lentini. So do me a favor and hand it over, if you would.”

One Hundred Two

GOLDIE GESTURED with the gun and said it again. “The little black book, Amy. If you please.”

I realized that Goldie hadn’t heard what Amy told me tonight in the apartment. I had destroyed the bug I’d found in the living room, and the music Amy had turned on in the bedroom blocked out the bug in here.

So Goldie didn’t know that somebody had broken into Amy’s apartment and stolen the little black book.

He thought Amy still had it.

“I made copies,” Amy said, which was smart of her but unlikely to work on a guy like Goldie.

He snickered, showed some teeth. “Sure you did,” he said. “And if you don’t say the word by midnight, copies are going out to all the news stations in town, right? C’mon, now, Amy. Give it up. Or I’m gonna have to do the same thing to you that I did to Kate.”

It was clear to me then that he was going to do that anyway. He couldn’t let Amy live. Not after this. He might think he could convert me, but Amy?

“Don’t tell him,” I said to Amy. “The moment you do, you die.”

“No.” Goldie, showing the first sign of angst. “No. If I get back the little black book, she can live. She can’t hurt me. She’ll have nothing. My word against hers. Margaret’s word against hers.” He looked squarely at me. “ Your word against hers.”

“Not mine,” I said. “I’m not lying for you.”

I started to push myself off the bed. Goldie shook his head and pointed the gun at me. “Don’t move, Billy. Not until I can talk some goddamn sense into you.”

“You kill her,” I said, “you’ll have to kill me, too.”

“Jesus Christ, kid! Why should I have to do that? Just give me Amy’s copy, and I have the original. There won’t be a little black book anymore. Don’t you get it? Everything will work out fine. Margaret’s going to be mayor. She’s going to dump that idiot Tristan Driscoll and appoint…”

He stopped on that.

“Appoint who?” I asked. “She’s going to make you the new police superintendent? Was that the deal you cut with Margaret?”

Goldie’s shoulders rose and fell. “Didn’t have much of a choice. I didn’t want to cut any deal with that bitch. But I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t give her the damn thumb drive.”

Right. I got it now. “Ramona Dillavou did,” I said. “She was trying to cut a deal for immunity with Margaret. Ramona admitted it to you after you tortured it out of her.”

Goldie smirked. “Ramona—she was a tough broad,” he said. “Held out a long time.”

“Then why didn’t Margaret just make it public once she had it?” I asked. “Tedesco’s name was in that book. He’d be ruined.”

Goldie shook his head. “Smart a guy as you are, kiddo, you never did think like a politician, did you?”

Amy cleared her throat. “If Margaret made it public and outed Tedesco, then Tedesco wouldn’t endorse Margaret,” she said. “And he wouldn’t give her his campaign war chest. Margaret couldn’t win without those things. The little black book was more powerful as a threat, as blackmail.”

Goldie wagged a finger. “See? There you go, Amy. You’re a politician already. I’m sure Mayor Margaret Olson will have a nice cozy spot for you in the office.” He drew a breath. “Yeah, I went to Margaret. I had the original, and she had the only copy. So we made a deal.”

He seemed almost proud of it.

“Enough,” he said. “Amy, I need that thumb drive. Give it to me, and we all live happily ever after. You both have great careers ahead of you. You’ll get married and have beautiful babies, and everything will be swell. On the other hand, you don’t tell me, well, I gotta put a bullet in Billy’s kneecap.”

“No!” I said. “Don’t tell him.”

“And you don’t tell me after that, I put one in his other kneecap. We keep going ’til your boyfriend looks like a fucking piñata.”

“Don’t, Amy,” I said. “No matter what, don’t tell him.”

Goldie looked at each of us, his bravado wavering. He gave me a cross look and shook his head.

“I’ll cop to it,” I said. “I’ll say I was the dirty cop. I took the payoffs from Ramona Dillavou. I’ll admit it, Goldie. Just let Amy go. Let Amy walk out of here, and you have my word, on my daughter’s grave, that I’ll take the fall. You already have my name in the little black book, anyway, right?”

A wave passed through me. I thought about what I’d just said, and it didn’t make sense. I could see Goldie doctoring the little black book and putting my name in it to frame me, sure—but that didn’t account for the copy Ramona had made on the thumb drive. Ramona had given Margaret that copy. And she did it without Goldie’s knowledge. Goldie only found out about it later, after he tortured Ramona. So how could Goldie have doctored the copy that Amy had found in Margaret’s safe?

How could my name have been in the copy?

“Not your name specifically,” Amy said. “You never let me finish.”

I wanted to turn to her, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Goldie.

“There were no first names in the book, only last names,” Amy said. “The cop taking the payoff had the last name Harney. That’s all it said. ‘Harney.’”

I closed my eyes a moment, sucked in a breath.

Not Billy Harney. Just Harney.

That’s when I knew who had broken into Amy’s apartment and stolen the little black book.

It was Patti.

Goldie raised his chin, turned his head toward the window. His voice louder, he said, “We’re not getting anywhere. You better come in here and talk some sense into him.”

One Hundred Three

The Present

I TAKE a breath and pause. The clock over the jury box says it’s almost noon. Right about now, the judge should be looking for a logical point to take a break so the jurors can have their lunch—and, more important, so he can have his own lunch.

But the judge has hardly moved, his eyes narrowed in concentration, fixed on a space somewhere between me and my lawyer. The jurors are all leaning forward; some of them have been filling their notebooks with scribbles, but most of them have dispensed with the note taking and have settled into positions best suited for viewing the horror show. It’s so quiet inside this courtroom that you can hear the breathing from the spectators’ gallery, the collective inhales and exhales.

Lieutenant Mike Goldberger, initially shaking his head in mock disbelief, has slowly transformed during my testimony, his eyes now cold, his shoulders drawn in, his fists clenched. He is trapped in the courtroom, essentially. If he runs away, he looks guilty. He looks pretty damn guilty right now anyway, but I know what he’s thinking: This is only Billy’s word. His word against mine . That’s Goldie. It always was. Always calculating. Always seeing every angle.

My father, sitting next to him, eyes me intently, some fingers covering his mouth, unsure how to act.

Margaret Olson, like Goldie, even more so than Goldie, is a prisoner in this courtroom. She’s the prosecutor, after all. She can’t just storm out. She has essentially never stopped shaking her head during my almost three hours of testimony as she watches her political career swirl down the toilet, as she considers every possible angle to salvage it. Ultimately, I assume, she’s thinking the same thing as Goldie. It’s his word against mine. The word of a desperate defendant looking at life in prison who will say anything, no matter how far-fetched, to save his own ass.