The Black Book

by James Patterson

  “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.

  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 anyth
ing 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.

  Ninety minutes later, Kim was back at her office in Dearborn Park. Another text from Kate:

  This is bullshit

  I was beginning to feel the same way, and my lack of progress on Kim’s surveillance had me pretty agitated already. The word Stop was still typed into my phone from the last time Kate had texted me.

  This time, I hit the Send button. And took a breath. Steeled myself for the counterpunch. I was pretty sure Kate wouldn’t enjoy being told to stop anything.

  Nothing, on any front, for the next ninety minutes, as the sun sank below the buildings in the South Loop and dusk began to cover the sky. Nothing from Kim, and nothing from Kate.

  Then my phone buzzed again. Another message from Kate.

  See anything u like?

  Another photograph attached. Another selfie. Kate, inside her hot-red Corvette, naked except for a leather jacket spread open generously for a nice view. Yet again, a photo worthy of a porn website, the third one she’d sent me.

  But this time there was one difference: in her right hand she was holding her service weapon against her temple.

  It hit me hard, a clash of cymbals between my ears, a hot spear to my stomach. She knew very well how my wife had died.

  Kate was coming unglued. Something was happening. I didn’t know what. But I couldn’t ignore it.

  At that moment, Kim Beans left her office and walked to her car.

  Shit. I had to stay with Kim. Tomorrow was the day her next photo was set to be published. If she was meeting her source, it would be between now and tomorrow morning. I couldn’t leave her side now. Not now.

  I typed, but erased, several messages into my phone.

  That’s not funny

  I hope you’re joking

  Don’t do anything rash

  None of them felt right. I threw my car into gear as Kim sped away in her car. I hastily typed Talk soon I promise and hit Send. It wasn’t the perfect message, but it would have to do.

  I didn’t know whether she was playing me or in real distress. I hoped that I would have the chance to find out.

  Seventy-Five

  I STEPPED out of the car, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm. It was long past dusk, and the air stung my face. I couldn’t remember the last time it had been so cold in early April. It was so cold that the prostitutes were charging money to blow on your hands.

  I was in a strip mall at the corner of Ogden and Grand—West Town. One of my favorite areas. I knew the Twisted Spoke well. One of the best burgers in the city; thick, spicy Bloody Marys. I wished I was in there right now ordering a fatboy, debating between whiskey and beer.

  But I was across the street, bundled to my chin, blowing frosty air out of my mouth, binoculars in hand. I had pretty good eyesight, so as long as Kim Beans just sat at her table inside the Spoke sipping her drink with her back against a window, I wouldn’t use the binoculars and look like some pervert. Whenever anyone approached her table, the binoculars went up to my eyes. So far thirty minutes had passed, and the only person coming within ten feet of her was a surly overweight guy with facial hair and a bald head who took her order.

  My car was running, headlights off, dome light off, heat blasting. Every ten minutes or so I ducked into the car for a quick warm-up, never taking my eyes off Kim’s position.

  I stomped my feet in place and bounced up and down. I looked like an ice fisherman doing aerobics.

  Inside the Spoke, Kim looked at her watch and nursed her drink, something yellowish, a fruity job. She’d been there now for forty-five minutes. I decided to get back in the car, because I could use my binoculars without being so conspicuous, and the view was good enough—the angle wasn’t quite as good if I wanted to see anyone across the table from her, but I could see Kim just fine, and if she moved even an inch, I’d jump out and get a wider look. Until then, I didn’t feel any particular need to get hypothermia.

  An hour later, Kim hadn’t moved an inch. She ordered something from the menu—hummus and pita, probably, just to keep up appearances and not piss off the owner by monopolizing a table without ordering anything.

  By eleven thirty, Kim was drumming her fingers. Her back was to me; I could only see her face when she looked toward the door. But in those few moments when I could see her, I wasn’t getting angry from her. Her eyebrows were knit together, her mouth tight. She was concerned.

  I was, too.

  By midnight she was looking pretty unraveled. There wa
s absolutely, positively no way that she was waiting for a friend or a date. She wouldn’t have stayed two hours past the meet time. And she would have made a phone call, one of those Hey, I’m here: is everything okay? calls, politely telling her friend or date to hurry the hell up.

  But she hadn’t made a call. Because whomever she was here to meet, she didn’t have that person’s phone number. Her source wouldn’t want any kind of trail. No e-mail. No texts. No cell-phone calls.

  Kim paid her bill and left. She hailed a cab and went back to her place in Lincoln Park. I followed her, watched her walk in and go upstairs to her apartment on the third floor. I was done for the night.

  I hadn’t gotten everything I wanted, but I had learned two things.

  One: Kim had definitely been planning to meet her source. That part was easy and good. It meant I was on the right path.

  The second thing was not so good. It was like an ugly growth: it could be nothing more than an unsightly blemish, but it felt more like a cancerous tumor that was slowly spreading its ugly poison, a tumor that grew larger and uglier the longer I watched Kim Beans wait in vain for her source.

  My cell phone buzzed. Caller ID said Amy. My heart kicked up like I’d been hit with a cattle prod.

  I reached for the button on my cell, considered not answering. Punched it anyway.

  “How’s it going?” Amy asked.

  I waited a beat, thought about my answer.

  “False alarm,” I said. “She just had dinner and went home.”

  That was technically true, but I’d left out how long Kim had been waiting. I left out that I was sure she’d been waiting for her source, that I had no doubt.

  Because the second thing I’d learned tonight was that Kim’s source, somehow, in some way, knew not to come tonight.

  Somebody tipped off Kim’s source that I’d be watching.

  And the only person who would have known that piece of information was on the phone with me right now.

  Seventy-Six