Nolan blinked behind his tortoiseshel frames. “Answer the question, Mr. Kel y.”
“No, he didn’t give me any indication as to what he had planned. I think he was about to when things got out of control.”
Nolan leaned in. “And you shot him?”
I nodded. “Whatever Doherty was planning, the details died with him. For what it’s worth, however, I might have some ideas.”
Danielson shifted in his seat and final y spoke. “We’re not interested in your fucking ideas, Mr. Kel y. We’re here for the black case you took from Doherty’s house. Hand it over and this discussion is at an end. Persist with al the bul shit and we move to another phase.”
I looked up at the Terminator and smiled. Behind him was a closet. Inside it, on the top shelf, the black case they were looking for. I returned my gaze to Danielson. “I don’t know anything about any case.”
Danielson rol ed his eyes toward Nolan, who glanced at Wilson. The mayor touched a finger to his lips.
“Gentlemen, let me have a minute.”
Danielson didn’t like the idea. Nolan took him aside and talked in his ear. Danielson relented and held up five fingers. “Five minutes, Mr. Mayor.”
He and Nolan picked up their coats and took a walk. The Terminator fol owed. I noticed he dragged his left foot and hoped it hurt like hel. Wilson waited until the door had closed before speaking. “What do you want, Kel y?”
“How do you know I want anything?”
“How many times have we talked where you didn’t want something?”
“I get the feeling you know as little about these guys as I do.”
“Homeland Security?”
I nodded. The mayor picked up Maggie again and stroked the top of her head. The pup’s eyes immediately began to close.
“You know how many times I get cal ed into meetings with these stiffs?” Wilson said. “First time it happened, three months after 9/11, we went into ful fucking pucker. They sat around, bul shitting for a couple of hours, never gave us a sniff as to what was going on. Poison in the water? Crop dust downtown with some evil-sounding shit? Suitcase nuke in the Hancock? Who the fuck knows? And then you know what I figured out? Who the fuck cares.”
“I don’t believe that, Mr. Mayor.”
Wilson held up a hand. “Hear me out. Of course I care. My point is, what can we do? Someone decides to blow themselves up in the Water Tower this afternoon, what’s Chicago PD going to do? Nothing except clear the street so we can get the ambulances in. We don’t have the expertise, we don’t have the manpower, and we sure as hel don’t get the heads-up from the feds in enough time to do anything even if we did have any of the other shit. So what’s my point, right?”
I nodded.
“My point is one I learned a long time ago. When Homeland Security shows up, we smile and go along. Listen to their happy horseshit, express appropriate concern, and send them on their way. If they catch the bad guy, great.”
“And if not?”
“That’s the beauty of it. So far there hasn’t been any ‘if not.’ At least not in this town, knock on fucking wood. But, real y, that’s al we can do. That and manage the threat.”
CHAPTER 55
The wind kicked a heavy boot against my windows. It was coming up on 7:00 a.m., and I hadn’t been to bed. I sipped some coffee and looked outside. A sparrow stared back, black eyes flicking over mine, feathers ruffling against the elements. I moved my eyes down to the folder on my desk. Inside it was everything I’d need for the day’s business. On top of the file was my gun. I slipped the gun into its holster and looked through the file one more time.
I’d given Homeland Security its black case and whatever tale it told. Then I went to work, scraping together what I needed from the files I had, the Internet, and a few phone cal s. The mayor had cal ed around eleven, and again at midnight. He’d given me the bits and pieces I’d asked for. Hadn’t asked too many questions. Hadn’t had anyone else sit in on our conversations. The mayor was too smart for that. I flipped the folder shut and looked back out the window. The sparrow was stil there, stil clinging to its perch. I took another sip of coffee. The bird lifted its wings and was gone, leaving nothing behind but a bare branch, shivering in the wind. My phone rang. Rodriguez’s cel number flashed up on cal er ID. It was the third time he’d cal ed that morning. I ignored it and walked into my bedroom, Maggie close on my heels. Her crate was sitting beside the bed, along with a bag of food and her toys. I sat down, the pup in my lap. She immediately rol ed over for a bel y rub. I obliged.
“You be a good girl,” I said and picked her up. She licked my face. I held her for a moment. Then I put her into her crate and slid the latch over. I loaded the pup, her food, and the toys into my car and headed south on Lake Shore Drive. The hospital had cal ed, asking for anything from home that might make Rachel feel more secure, more relaxed. It was a short list, one that didn’t include me. I pul ed up to Northwestern Memorial. Hazel Wisdom was waiting in the lobby.
“I could use a smoke,” she said. I nodded and we stepped outside.
“It’s just for a couple of days, Michael.”
“It’s okay,” I said.
Maggie scratched at the bars. She didn’t like the crate. I couldn’t blame her.
“She’s a cute dog,” Hazel said.
“Yeah, she’s pretty easy. Just feed her when she’s hungry, walk her when she has to go, and let her do whatever she wants the rest of the time, and you should have no problems.”
“Sounds like a few doctors I know.”
“I bet.”
“Rachel’s getting better, Michael.”
“Like you said, there’s nothing I can do but wait.” I finished my cigarette and flipped the butt into the wind. “So that’s what I’m gonna do.”
Hazel gave me a hug and I handed the crate over. The pup stared at me as she disappeared into the hospital. I wanted to wave, but felt like an idiot. Instead, I got back in my car, the file folder on the front seat beside me.
CHAPTER 56
An hour later, I pul ed into an industrial park in the 700 block of South Jefferson. The sky was heavy with the promise of rain. The lot, empty. I tugged a black knit hat low over my eyes and walked three blocks with my head down. The cops had taken down the tape from Maria Jackson’s murder, but I took a quick look around anyway.
The CTA access door was unlocked this time. A single bulb did yeoman’s work, painting a swath of white against rough wal s and the run of stairs. I spiraled down until I hit bottom. Then I stepped out, for the second time, into Chicago’s subway system. The light down here was brighter, it seemed, than the night I’d found Jackson’s body. I walked in the opposite direction, across a switchback and alongside an old spur of track. A half mile in, I came to a curve. To my left was a smal door, with the word MAINTENANCE stenciled in black on a beige wal. That’s where I found her, sitting on a beat-up bench.
“Michael, you found it.”
“Sorry, I’m late. I got tied up.”
I moved a little closer. Katherine Lawson was wearing a black leather coat and kept her hands in her pockets. Behind her was a row of old lockers, most with their doors missing.
“What do you think of the place?” She withdrew a gloved hand and swung it around the tiny room. “Maria Jackson’s body was found about a hundred yards down the tracks from where you came in. They found this little shed while they were working the scene.”
“That’s nice, Katherine. Why did you want to meet me here?”
I had wanted to set up my own meeting with the FBI agent and struggled with time and place. Then she’d cal ed late last night and did the heavy lifting for me.
“You mean why not a drink like normal people?” Her laugh sounded flat and never reached her eyes. “There’s a few things we need to talk about, Michael. A few things we need to take a look at.”
Lawson pul ed a sheaf of papers from her pocket. “You asked about Jim Doherty’s red binder the other day. I copied some page
s for you. Thought you might want to take a look.”
I shook my head. “Had a long talk with the mayor. He convinced me the binder real y wasn’t worth my time.”
“I’m sorry about that,” she said. “I didn’t realize Homeland Security would get involved. Otherwise, I never would have filed that report.”
“You heard about their visit?”
“I got one, too. There’s something about the Doherty thing that bothers me, Michael. Something I think we’re missing.”
“I know what you mean.”
She held up her fistful of paper. “It has to do with the binder and the tracks near where Jackson’s body was found. Let me show you, then you can take a pass if you want.”
I sat down opposite her on the bench. “There’s something else we should talk about first.”
“What’s that?” she said.
I took out my folder and placed it on top of the paperwork she had already spread out between us. She looked, but didn’t touch.
“Does this have to do with Doherty?” she said.
“Open it up and take a look.”
She flicked the edge of the file open. I kept talking.
“The top set of papers comes from 1978. Outlines the ownership structure for Transco and its holding company, CMT.”
Her eyes shimmered in the jaundiced light. “The company you think caused the old train accident?”
“Yeah.”
Lawson flipped through the documents and twisted her face into a smile. “Is this supposed to mean something to me?”
“I’m guessing you came across it when you worked the case on Father Mark. He was ripping off his parish, and someone made the mistake of giving you a look at the archdiocese’s books.”
“Everyone knows I worked that case, Michael.”
“What they didn’t know about was CMT Holding.”
Lawson didn’t say anything, but I could see the muscle in her jaw pumping like a piston.
“You know how much money the Chicago archdiocese takes in every year, Katherine? A little more than a bil ion dol ars. Cash money. Tax-free. Not even an IRS form to file. Nice work if you can get it.”
I waited, but Lawson just sat there, hands in her pockets, and listened.
“CMT was set up in the 1920s. It’s a tangled trail, but a lawyer named Bernstein provided me with a map. The seed money came from the archdiocese’s coffers. A greedy cardinal’s way to secretly invest in a little property, a few railroads. Make a little coin he didn’t have to share with the parishioners. CMT got bigger over time. Cardinals and bishops got greedier with each passing generation. Created a web of related businesses, subsidiaries like Transco. Then 1980 happened. The crash at Lake and Wabash and eleven people dead. Blood the men in col ars needed to get clean of. So they divested themselves of everything, dissolved CMT, and walked-no, ran-away and hid. Then you came along.”
Final y, something had caught her interest, and Lawson stirred. “Excuse me?”
Among other things, the Honorable John J. Wilson keeps a man named Walter Sopak on his personal payrol. Sopak is what’s known as a forensic accountant-a guy who knows how to hide your money and how to find out where someone else’s is hidden. I’ve never met the man. Wilson made sure of that. But I pul ed Sopak’s report on Katherine Lawson from the folder.
“You make a little over a hundred thousand a year, Katherine. Your parents are dead. They left you a nice set of teeth and a pile of debt. Stil…” I tapped Sopak’s report. “There’s the condo in Sante Fe and a timeshare in Italy. Hidden pretty wel, but there they are. And then there’s the money that goes offshore and just disappears. Even the guy who put this report together wasn’t sure he found it al, but he made a pretty good guess.”
“Guess at what, Michael?”
“He figures you’re good for maybe one to two mil ion a year, minimum, from whoever keeps the church’s secrets. Maybe seven to ten mil ion total over the last five years.”
“You’re crazy,” she said.
“Am I?”
“Either that or you need a long vacation.”
I pul ed out the unregistered. 38 Rodriguez had given me to use on Doherty. “You got a gun, Katherine?”
She ran her eyes to the tracks behind me and back. “I have my service weapon, Michael.” She showed me the Glock on her hip.
“Stand up, take it out, and put it on the ground.”
She did.
CHAPTER 57
A solitary figure stepped out of the black and walked along the tracks, a thin pistol in his right hand. There was no sound, save his own languid footsteps and the rats, scratching against the darkness. The man moved closer to the wal and stopped. He’d tracked the woman here, then waited. He’d heard the voices, but couldn’t make out any words. Then, the gunshot. Maybe someone had done the man a favor. Now he’d find out. Just ahead, he saw a shal ow pool of white floating against the black. The man crept closer and clicked on his flashlight. She was crumpled in a corner, eyes closed, breathing even. Her left hand was cuffed to a locker, and she’d taken a bul et in the leg. The man crouched down to take a closer look. Flesh wound. Hardly this woman’s biggest problem. He glanced at the scatter of paperwork on the floor, but didn’t bother with any of it. He hadn’t been told to read anything. Hadn’t been told to col ect anything. And the man did what he was told. He compared the woman’s face with the picture they’d given him. Then he stood up, raised his pistol, and fired twice. Two tiny pops. Two smal holes. He checked the woman again. Satisfied, the man slipped the pistol into his coat and pul ed the gray cashmere close around him. Then he turned and walked away, his left foot dragging behind him. The man hated rats and could feel them as he walked, staring out at him from the darkness.
CHAPTER 58
The cal came at eight the next morning. I was up on Rachel’s floor by eight-fifteen. Hazel was not there to greet me. Instead, it was a sad-eyed doctor named John Sokul. He slid a summary of Rachel’s injuries in front of me.
“Just so you know what we’ve been dealing with, Mr. Kel y.”
I scanned the sheet. A fractured skul, two cracked ribs, fractured col arbone, fingers, and cheek.
“As you know, there were two assailants,” the doctor said. “According to Rachel, they hit her with a brick so she was at least partial y unconscious during the attack. There was no sexual assault, but, of course, this was a brutal attack. We’ve kept her under mild sedation due to the extensive physical injuries, but also to ease the mental and emotional trauma she’s suffered.”
“And now?”
“And now she needs to reenter the world. Or at least start the process. She’s been mostly withdrawn, which is not unusual. She answers our questions and takes al her medication, but she doesn’t offer anything on her own. She doesn’t react wel to most physical contact and typical y wil not al ow any male member of our staff to touch her at al.”
“What does she do al day?”
“Most of the time, she just sits in our common room and looks out the window. And she holds that dog you brought, Maggie. She holds that dog al day.”
Rachel was sitting with her back to the door, by a window overlooking the lake. She had a splint on one hand and the pup cradled in both arms. I approached quietly. She turned as I sat down beside her. One side of her face was swol en with bruises, and her left eye was stil partial y shut. There were stitches holding together her lower lip, and one cheek was covered by a bandage. Maggie wagged her tail and squirmed in Rachel’s arms. She let the pup go, and I picked her up. The pup licked my face.
“She misses you.”
“Yeah.” I put the dog down. She scrambled across to Rachel, who gathered her up again.
“How you doing?” I said.
Rachel scratched the dog’s ears and turned back to the lake. “My face hurts. I feel like I’m about a hundred and I got viciously attacked by some fucking animals. That doesn’t include the quality time I spent with your friend Jim.”
I reached out to tou
ch her sleeve.
“Don’t.” I thought she might push me away, but she just hugged the pup, who buried her head under Rachel’s arm.
“You know al the work I do with the Rape Volunteer Association?” she said.
The association was a support group for women who’d been assaulted. I’d met Rachel at its annual fund-raiser.
“Sure.”
“I used to think I shared this special bond with the victims. Felt their pain just because I felt something. Truth is, I was clueless, smiling like an idiot, trying to comfort someone about something I knew absolutely nothing about.”
“You think the women you helped feel that way?”
“If I were them, I would.”
I shook my head and joined her in looking out the window. After ten minutes or so, Rachel sighed. I ran my fingertips across her hand. She dropped her head to my shoulder, and I slipped an arm around her. She felt thin and brittle. The pup yawned and wagged her tail slowly.
“I’m sorry, Rach.”
“I know.” Her face was wet and I brushed away a tear. She swore and dabbed at her face with the back of her sleeve. “Pretty bad when you’re no longer aware you’re crying.”
“It’l get better, babe.”
“Maybe, but it won’t be the same.”
We fel back into the chasm of silence. After a while, Rachel moved to a chair across from me and leaned forward.
“I don’t know where anything goes from here,” she said.
“We’l figure it out, Rach. Day at a time.”
She held up a finger, close to my lips, but not touching. “Shh, Michael. Listen.”
I fel quiet.
“It’s not always about figuring,” she said. “And it’s not always about ‘we.’”
I felt the cold touch my heart, the lovely bruise rising with her name on it, the ache I was already pretending wasn’t there.
“That’s al right,” I said, smiling hard against the lie.
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