35 - The Black Book by James Patterson & David Ellis

Author:James Patterson & David Ellis [Patterson, James & Ellis, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Fifty-Seven

AFTER PREPPING for the trial for two hours, I left the Daley Center and walked through the plaza, worn out, my stomach rumbling, hungry for lunch. It was dreary and cold today, pedestrians walking with their heads low, bundled from head to foot. Among the government vehicles parked alongside the plaza, I spotted a fire-engine-red Corvette.

Not very hard to notice. It was like spotting a ball of fire against a dark sky.

Nice ride. The kind of thing I’d never be able to afford. You didn’t become a cop for the money.

The driver’s-side door opened, and who got out but my partner, Detective Katherine Fenton.

It took a moment, though, to register. The lithe, athletic figure; the stylish coat cinched at the waist; the long legs, the knee-high thick-heeled boots—that was the same, that was Kate. But from the neck up, different. Her hair was cut very short, no bangs, the ends curling severely along her cheeks. The color was different, too. Less of the flash of the red. A deeper, darker crimson. More like the color of blood.

And a Corvette.

She saw the look on my face. “Like it?” she said, but not in the way that indicated she was fishing for a compliment. It was more of a challenge, more like Fuck you if you don’t.

I wasn’t sure if she was referring to her new ride or her new look. Probably both. Probably asking what I thought of Kate 2.0. “Sure,” I said. “You inherit some money or something?”

She kept walking toward me, that confident strut she had, the heels clicking loudly on the pavement, her mouth set in a come-hither smirk. Her new tough-chick look, to my mind, was overkill. Look, she couldn’t have had a better body if she tried, and the curve of her face and those high cheekbones—she had sexy oozing off her at all times, day and night. But it worked for her, I always thought, because it was so effortless. Now she was making an effort. She was practically wearing a sign around her neck.

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.

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