Nelson felt inside an inner pocket for the smal brown bottle. It had a cork stopper in it. He stood up and wandered into the rear vestibule. A Chicago cop was there, loaded down with a radio, nightstick, and gun and sweating in a bul etproof vest. He considered Nelson’s filth and turned back toward the service. Nelson shuffled over to the stone cistern that held the holy water and waited. Communion was cal ed, and the cop went forward to get his wafer. Nelson dipped dirty fingers in the bowl and blessed himself with the magic water. Then he slipped the brown bottle from his jacket and tipped its contents into the bowl.
Communion was over and people were starting to wander to the back of the church. Nelson stepped away from the bowl and watched a mother approach, young child in tow. Nelson smiled. The woman recoiled. Stil, she was Catholic and soldiered on, pretending to like the bum and nodding in his direction. She touched her fingers to the water and blessed herself. The young girl beside Mom held her arms up. Before the woman could react, Nelson lifted the girl so she was level with the cistern. He smiled again at the mother as her child sprinkled the water across forehead and cheeks. The mother reached for the child, hustling away once she had the girl back in her arms. Nelson watched them go. Then he crouched in a corner as the rest of the congregation filed out. A couple dozen took holy water. After a bit, the church was empty. Nelson walked outside and shuffled his way to the back of the building. He found his shopping cart, gritted his teeth, and began to push into the wind along State Street.
CHAPTER 9
Rodriguez and I walked into FBI headquarters at a little after noon. A young Asian woman in a blue suit took our names and guns in exchange for plastic IDs. Then she walked us through a door and down a hal way, where she passed us off to a young white man in a brown suit. He put us in a smal office and told us someone would be with us shortly. An hour later, the door to the office opened. On the other side was a young black man in a gray suit. He took us another twenty feet to a conference room, fil ed with al sorts of men and women, clad in al sorts of suits. They al stopped talking as we walked in, and everyone seemed exceptional y good at not smiling.
“This is Detective Vince Rodriguez and, I suspect, Michael Kel y?” The man speaking carried his sixty or so years alarmingly wel. His face was largely unlined, his eyes clear, his hair an efficient salt-and-pepper flattop. He cloaked broad shoulders in a custom-cut three-button suit and walked with the natural grace of an athlete. On his left wrist, he wore a gold watch; on his left hand, a wedding ring. He shot his cuffs as he approached, flashing a set of FBI logos disguised as cuff links.
“Dick Rudolph. Deputy director of the FBI.”
I shook the deputy director’s hand and glanced toward Rodriguez, wondering how and why the FBI’s second-in-command happened to be in Chicago, and how and why he didn’t have better things to do than talk to me. Rudolph seemed to read my mind.
“I’m in Chicago on some unrelated business, was scheduled to fly out this afternoon, when this thing jumped up. Sit down, Mr. Kel y.”
I took a seat beside Rodriguez. Rudolph staked out the head of the table and did his best to make me think I was at least the second-mostimportant guy in the room.
“As you might imagine,” Rudolph said, “the nature of these crimes has sparked concern along several different lines, including possible terrorist acts. The Bureau has stepped in to help, and I decided to sit in on today’s meeting.”
Rudolph turned to the rest of the table. “Mr. Kel y is a former Chicago police officer. Now, a private investigator. As you al know, he was on the Southport L platform this morning and confronted our suspect in an al ey. He also took the cal from our suspect. You have copies of his statement and details on the cal. We’ve asked Mr. Kel y to come in and see if he could be of any further help.”
His role apparently played, the deputy director sat back and waited. A woman across the table cleared her throat. She was thirty-five, maybe forty, with nervous eyes and a tough mouth that would have been attractive if it wasn’t so disapproving. I’d seen it before. Battle fatigue from too many years in the Old Boys’ Club.
“Mr. Kel y, my name is Katherine Lawson. I’m heading up our field investigation.” Lawson had long, thin hands that she folded in front of her as she spoke. Her fingers were devoid of any jewelry, save a gold ring with a black stone that also carried an FBI crest. I guessed cuff links didn’t work for her.
“Did you, by any chance, recognize the man in the al ey?” Lawson said.
“He was wearing a ski mask,” I said. “It’s in my statement.”
“Voice?”
I shook my head. “Sounded young. Plenty strong and looked to be in good shape.”
Lawson glanced down at her notes. “He asked if you were ready to die?”
“That’s right.”
“Any idea why he said that?”
I shrugged. “I assume he was just making conversation.”
Lawson caught her boss’s eye. Rudolph seemed to be watching the exchange closely, but kept quiet.
“And why would you assume that?”
The last question came from a black man with white tufts of hair planted on either side of his head and a trim white goatee. He was sitting at the far end of the table, his chair turned to face the nearest wal.
“This is Dr. James Supple,” Lawson said. “He works with our Profiling Section out of Quantico.”
I nodded, but Supple continued to study the wal. Fuck him. Fuck profilers.
“He didn’t pul the trigger,” I said. “What else should I assume?”
Supple turned a fraction in his chair. A smile licked at the corner of his lips. “So the suspect was playing with you?”
“You mean suspects,” I said.
Supple sat up a bit. “Excuse me?”
“Suspects,” I said. “There were two suspects in that al ey. Not at the same time, but they were there.”
I went on to explain the theory Rodriguez and I had worked out.
Supple shook his head and glanced at Rudolph. “Doubtful.”
“Why?” the deputy director said.
“A kil er like this almost always operates alone.” Supple plucked his glasses off his nose and wiped them down as he spoke. “I know, everyone cites the DC sniper. But that was a unique set of facts. A man and a boy. Student and teacher. The exception, rather than the rule. I can tel you, without any doubt, this suspect almost certainly works without an accomplice.”
If they hadn’t taken my gun at the door, I would have considered shooting the profiler where he sat. Instead, I took a sip of bad coffee and worked on summoning my reflective self.
“The phone cal you took, Mr. Kel y. About how long did it last?” That was Agent Lawson, dutiful y picking up the bal and trying to move it forward.
“Less than a minute.”
“And the voice on the phone, was it the same as the voice in the al ey?”
“The voice on the phone was disguised. Electronical y altered. Must have had some sort of device tapped onto the line.”
“And why would he do that, do you suspect?” Supple was back again, laying out his piece of cheese and waiting to pounce. Fuck it. Let him pounce.
“I have no idea,” I said. “Why?”
“You had heard his voice once in the al ey, and he wanted to make sure you didn’t hear it a second time, especial y if there was a possibility you might record it.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “That supports your theory of a single shooter?”
“The facts speak for themselves, Mr. Kel y.”
“Real y? Because it seems to me if he’d let me hear his voice in the al ey, why would he go to the trouble of disguising it the second time around?
And why would he think my cel would be set up to record a cal I had no reason to suspect I was even receiving?”
Lawson intervened again. “What’s your point, Mr. Kel y?”
“My point is pretty simple. This guy disguised his voice because he was afraid I might recognize it. Not from
this morning, but from some other time.
CHAPTER 10
The feds stuck me in another smal room, this time with a pot of cold coffee and a door that was locked. Every ten minutes, a sal ow-faced woman would check to see if I had accomplished anything worthwhile-like, perhaps, hanging myself. No such luck. After two more hours of nothing, Rodriguez walked in.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“So soon?”
The detective grimaced and handed me my coat. We didn’t say much more until we had cleared the building and were safely in his car.
“They’re not happy.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” I said.
“They can’t get a handle on any pattern to the shootings. And they definitely don’t like the fact that he cal ed you.”
“And then there’s al those dead people.”
Rodriguez ignored me. “They’re thinking of giving you a new cel phone, one with your old number. If this guy cal s again, they’d be able to trace it. By the way, Rudolph’s worried you might go to the press.”
“Rudolph’s a fucking moron. Not as much of a moron as that profiler, but he’s stil awful y dumb.”
“Yeah, wel, the good news is Lawson thought you’d keep your mouth shut, and that seemed to carry a lot of weight. Stil, it’s the Bureau. They don’t trust anyone. Especial y, anyone inside.”
“Who said I was inside?”
“You’re not. So that’s another point in your favor. At least, it was.”
“What does that mean?”
Rodriguez sighed and spun the wheel. His car scraped onto Halsted Street and accelerated. “Rudolph decided the Bureau doesn’t want to be on the hook alone in case they don’t catch this guy.”
“Let me guess, a task force?”
“Just got off the phone with the mayor and my boss. Local, state, and federal. Lawson is running point.”
“Bet the mayor loved that.”
“I’m the scapegoat for the city.”
“Even better.”
“Fuck you, Kel y. At the end of the cal, Lawson pipes in that she might want you attached to the investigation.”
“As what?”
Rodriguez pul ed his car to the curb in front of a fire hydrant at the corner of Halsted and Adams.
“That’s what the mayor wanted to know. Come on, let’s go.”
Rodriguez popped out of the car and walked across the street. We were in the heart of Greektown, home away from home for out-of-town businessmen looking for a shot of ouzo, a leg of lamb, or a wayward bel y dancer.
We ducked our heads inside a restaurant cal ed Santorini. The bar was warm and fil ed with dark men in starched white shirts with nothing to do. Rodriguez flipped open his badge. The bartender smiled and nodded toward a set of stairs. Rodriguez turned to me.
“He’s at a table upstairs, Kel y.”
“Who?”
“Who do you think? And don’t be an asshole.”
I WALKED UP two flights alone and surfaced in a dining room that was as large as it was empty. A burst of sizzle and flame flared to my left. Two smal Greek men danced around a table, clapping their hands and crying “Oopah” while a third worked on containing the smal inferno he’d created. In the midst of it al, Mayor John J. Wilson sat and scowled. The dish was cal ed saganaki, essential y a piece of cheese doused in booze and set on fire. Wilson had a forkful halfway to his mouth as I approached. The mayor waved me to an empty chair.
“You like this shit, Kel y?”
I shrugged. “It’s fried cheese. What’s not to like?”
“Give him a piece,” Wilson said. The waiter smiled and set another hunk of cheese on fire. After I had my portion, Wilson gave the boys a look, and they disappeared downstairs. We were alone. Just me, the mayor, and our saganaki.
“Feds busting your bal s, Kel y?”
“A little bit, yeah.”
The mayor pointed his fork my way. “How the fuck is it you’re in the middle of this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Coincidence, huh?”
I shrugged. “Could be.”
“You’re a liar.” Wilson cut off another piece of his appetizer and smiled as he chewed. “But that’s okay. Everyone lies.”
“You think so?”
“Sure. In a way, al the bul shit lies restore my faith in human nature.”
“That’s comforting.”
“For what it’s worth, the feds are trying hard to believe you. The female agent, what’s her name?”
“Lawson. Katherine Lawson.”
“Right, Lawson. She thinks you have a connection. But she’s not sure what it is. Anyway, she wants to keep you close. Keep an eye on you. You gonna eat the rest of that?”
I shook my head. The mayor shoveled my saganaki onto his empty plate and continued talking.
“I come here two, three times a week. Sometimes for lunch. Sometimes just to get the fuck away. Listen to these crazy bastards run around, yel
‘Oopah,’ and al that shit. Glass of wine. Good fish here. You like fish?”
“Sure.”
“Me, too. This is a steak town and I love it. But a good piece of fish is tough to beat. Anyway, the Bureau wants you around, but they don’t want you in their way.”
“I’m sure you can understand why.”
“I certainly can. You’re an asshole. Simple as that. Don’t give a fuck who you fuck. Or why. Can’t be reasoned with, et cetera, et cetera. Don’t get me started. I already got some indigestion working. You want dinner?”
“No thanks, Your Honor.”
“Yeah, I don’t real y feel like eating with you, either. So, here it is. The feds are going to use you as their personal piss boy. And you’re not going to like that. Not one bit. Am I right?”
“When you put it that way…”
“Meanwhile, I got some asshole shooting people on the CTA. No rhyme. No reason. Just for the hel of it. And where the fuck does that stop?”
As he spoke, a flush of crimson rose in the mayor’s cheeks, a darker thread of purple pooling in the cracks of his fractured complexion.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Me neither.” The mayor gestured around the empty dining room. “Look at this place. Two nights ago I was in here, and the joint was packed. A week from now, who knows? People get afraid to come out of their house.”
“Or their hotel room.”
“Exactly. You know how much tourist money this kind of thing could cost us?” Wilson took a sip of water and cracked hard on the ice in his mouth.
“What do you want from me, Mr. Mayor?”
Wilson chewed up his ice and swung his head around the empty room. “Stand up for a second.”
I did. The mayor walked behind me and executed a pretty impressive pat down.
“Don’t think you’re anything special. These days I check my wife for a wire before we get into bed at night.”
“Nice life.”
“Yeah, sit down.” I did. Wilson leaned forward and let his jaw hang open so I could see his back teeth. “I need you to work this case for me. Under the radar. No official ties to the city.”
“Just you and me?”
“And Rodriguez. He’l be my eyes and ears with the feds, who, for my money, are gonna get nothing done with their task force.”
“You don’t feel good about the Bureau?”
Wilson waved a cold hand in my face. “Fuck them. Bunch of pencil pushers sitting around in meetings trying to figure out the quickest way to get their ass back to Washington. Meanwhile, this guy is out popping people. My people. In my city. Our city, for Chrissakes.”
“I know.”
“So get on it. If you got an angle to play, go ahead and play it. You don’t want to tel me your connection to al of this, fine. I’l provide cover for you. Rodriguez wil provide whatever information the task force digs up.”
“What do you mean by ‘cover,’ Your Honor?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’
d like to hear it.”
Wilson leaned in farther, his voice crawling across the table on its bel y. “You want to hear it, Kel y? Fine. Find this guy. Guys. Whatever. Put a bag over his head and drop him down a fucking hole. No arrest. No trial. No questions asked.”
“You can’t find a cop to do that for you?”
“This isn’t a Chicago operation.”
“And task forces can get complicated.”
“That’s right. Let me ask you a question. Can you find this guy?”
“Maybe.”
“You have an angle, you cocksucker.”
“Maybe.”
“And the feds are fucking useless, right?”
I shrugged. “I wouldn’t say that. The feds are gonna use their methods, like they always do. Sometimes they work…”
“And usual y they don’t. If you don’t want to drop someone down a hole, that’s not a problem. Just get a line on him and we’re good. I’d offer your badge back, but you’re too much of an asshole to accept it, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, then. We’l figure out something else for you. Just find this guy. Now get out of here so I can order dinner.”
Sometimes the less said, the better. Every instinct told me this was one of those times. So I left the mayor and his offer floating in the Grecian darkness.
CHAPTER 11
Rodriguez was waiting in the car outside Santorini. “How’d it go?” he said and turned over the engine. “How do you think?”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m gonna work it. You already knew that. So did Wilson.”
Rodriguez pul ed into a line of early evening headlights streaming north on Halsted. “Let me guess, on your own terms?”
I shrugged. “What are the feds focusing on?”
“About what you’d expect. Physical evidence, witness statements. They’re developing an offender profile, gonna run al their data through NCIC, VICAP, and every other database they can think of.”
“What about the rifle?”
“Preliminary from Bal istics established it as the sniper kil. No prints. They’re running a trace right now.”
The Third Rail mk-3 Page 3
