The Fifth Floor

by Michael Harvey

“Johnny Woods’ murder. You bury it. No charges filed against anyone. Not now. Not ever.”

  Wilson drew his hands in front of his face and tapped the tips of his fingers together. “As I understand it, there is no murder weapon and not much of a case against you. I don’t really see that changing, if that’s what you’re concerned about. Now what else?”

  “I didn’t kill Woods. Whether you believe me or not is irrelevant. The condition is that no one is ever charged. For any offense in connection with his death.”

  Wilson leaned back and looked around the room for a little help. A little posturing. Couldn’t resist, I guess. Then he came back to the deal. “What else?”

  “Lawrence Randolph. I know he’s been feeding the mayor information on the fire. He’s also a killer. The warrants didn’t work. Fine. I want him taken down. And I don’t really care how.”

  Now Wilson laughed out loud and clapped his hands together.

  “Kelly, you’re amusing as hell, you know that. Let this thing go. Set this guy up. How do I know Kincaid will withdraw?”

  I pulled out a cell phone. “I’ll make the call right now.”

  Patrick tickled his fingers my way. “Go ahead. Go ahead. You have a deal.”

  I shook my head. “I need the mayor to sign off. And tell him, if he reneges, the whole thing comes out. Including everything I know about Johnny Woods and the Fifth Floor’s obsession with the fire.”

  Little Cousin slumped back in his chair and ran a hand across his forehead. Then he stood up and buttoned his coat. “Sit tight. This might take a minute.”

  Wilson left. I was just finishing my coffee when Jacobs slipped back into the room.

  “Busting some balls here, Kelly?”

  “The Wilson family understands strength. Respects it.” I glanced over at the reporter. “You should remember that.”

  Jacobs ran his hand across his Adam’s apple and rolled his eyes toward a menu board tacked to the wall. “You should hope they don’t make you tomorrow’s special.”

  The green curtain shifted again and a shadow moved on the other side. Patrick Wilson stepped through, a cell phone to his ear, and motioned for us to follow. We ducked outside and into the back of a Lincoln Town Car. O’Leary had already stuffed himself in a corner and was looking out the window. Seven minutes later, we slid to a stop in front of City Hall. Wilson was still on the phone. We walked through the lobby and under a red velvet rope strung in front of an elevator door. It was the mayor’s car. The one he took every morning, express, to the fifth floor.

  CHAPTER 46

  I sat in the same hard wooden chair. Jacobs sat in another. The city lay under the drowse of an afternoon fog. To our left, wisps of gray floated by the windows. To our right, Wilson’s desk was draped in polished mahogany and cluttered with all sorts of mayoral things. Behind the desk was a third chair, the padded one, with soft leather and, at the moment, entirely empty.

  Jacobs had apparently never been inside the inner sanctum. I was about to tell him where they kept the holy water and candles when the door swung open and the mayor walked in. Jacobs jumped like someone had played “Hail to the Chief.” Wilson acknowledged the homage with a nod. Then he walked over to the windows and stared into the soup.

  “Good to see you again, Kelly.”

  The mayor talked without turning. I was still seated and didn’t respond. Wilson backed away from the windows and moved behind his desk. Jacobs didn’t know whether to stand or sit, so he froze. Wilson moved his eyes over the reporter and then looked at the open door. Jacobs got the hint and left, closing the door on his way out.

  “How much does the Trib guy know?” Wilson said.

  “About what?”

  “The fire. And my family.”

  “He thinks it’s an urban legend. Nothing else.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think there’s no letter or document in existence that proves your great-great-grandfather did anything to harm this city.”

  Wilson folded his hands over his stomach and sank into his flesh.

  “John Julius wasn’t stupid,” the mayor said. “Neither am I.”

  “I understand that, sir.”

  “Do you? My great-great-grandfather was a nickel-rubbing, power-greedy bastard. And he always came out on top. It’s a trait that runs in the family. Remember that, Mr. Kelly. You could use a friend in this office and by the looks of it—”

  The mayor’s lips peeled back from his teeth, eyelids lifting for a moment to reveal eyes that were shockingly blue.

  “I’m not going anywhere. At least for another term.”

  “So we have a deal?” I said.

  “If Kincaid announces he’s not going to run, we have a deal. On one condition.”

  The mayor held up a hand. I could see the hint of his tongue and he seemed to be slightly out of breath. The whole affair was somehow exciting to him. Rolling dice on the Fifth Floor. Playing God with other people’s lives. It was his lifeblood. The lifeblood of Wilson’s ancestor and namesake, John Julius. A ruthless need to manipulate, to control, to dominate. Whatever the means and heedless of price. In such a world, there can be only one king. And he answers to no one, save the demon called paranoia.

  “And what condition would that be, Mr. Mayor?”

  “I need to know what it is you really want.”

  “I laid it out for Patrick.”

  Wilson nodded and settled in again. “I understand that. Problem is, Mr. Kelly, it’s not enough.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I know my family’s history. Better than anyone. I think you’re aware of some things that might cause me problems.”

  “I told you. I told your cousin. There’s no letter.”

  “Fuck the letter. You still know—or at least think you know—what actually went on in 1871.”

  “And if I do?”

  “Then you have leverage. In my world, that makes you an enemy.”

  “Funny, some people might think our chat the other night was all about leverage.”

  Wilson lifted an eyebrow. “You mean the thing with the judge?”

  I nodded.

  “Sean Coyle’s an embarrassing story for Rachel Swenson,” Wilson said. “But she’d probably survive. Either way, I’m concerned it’s not enough to keep you in line.”

  “All due respect, Mr. Mayor, you might just have to learn to live with that.”

  Wilson wasn’t used to that particular collection of words coming at him. He poured himself a glass of water and took a sip.

  “The way we usually do this is with a favor. A personal favor.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Something that binds me to you. Gives you back the edge.”

  The mayor opened up his desk drawer, pulled out a manila folder, and threw it across the desk.

  “Another file?” I said. “You guys never run out, do you?”

  “Gerald O’Leary ran you off the force. He did it to cover up his own corruption and malfeasance. I told you before, I had nothing to do with it. I can, however, make O’Leary pay.”

  I looked at the buff-colored folder. Thought about the day they slipped the cuffs on my wrists. The day I lost my shield, my reputation, my life. It seemed like a long time ago. Until I reached out and ran my hand across the file’s surface. Then it seemed like yesterday. The mayor laid out his favor.

  “Gerald O’Leary has a zipper problem. Wife of thirty-two years, four kids. Wife’s name is Pat. I know her well.”

  Wilson took another, longer sip of water. The man might be thirsty, but that didn’t prevent him from selling out his colleague of two decades.

  “Anyway, turns out O’Leary is banging this young girl. Monday night maître d’ at Gibsons. She’s of legal age, but just barely. Doesn’t matter. The pictures will finish him.”

  “The pictures in here?” I said, and brushed a finger along the open edge of the folder.

  Wilson nodded, as if it were a shame this had to happen at all.

  “
I see this guy at St. Pat’s every Sunday. Really heartbreaking. Anyway, we get these photos to your pal, Jacobs, O’Leary’s career is done. Marriage done. Everything done.”

  Wilson turned out his half smile again. There was a bit of food stuck between his front teeth. Must have been breakfast. I pushed the folder back into his lap.

  “Not interested, Mr. Mayor. In fact, if these snaps see the light of day, our deal’s off.”

  I stood up. Wilson remained where he was, staring at the chair I had just vacated. Then he looked up. It was a look that had served his family for generations. And it wasn’t pretty.

  “You want to be an enemy?” he said.

  “No, Mr. Mayor, I don’t. Told you at the beginning. I play things pretty much as they lie. Straight up.”

  “Let the chips fall where they may?”

  “Call it what you want. You abide by our deal. And you leave Rachel Swenson alone. Got nothing to fear from me.”

  The mayor weighed my life, such as it was. Took a while. At least another sip and a half of good mayoral water. Then he shrugged, stretched out all six feet three inches, and came around the desk.

  “My guys will call the reporter and set it up on the curator. What’s his name?”

  “Randolph,” I said. “Lawrence Randolph.”

  “Yeah, Randolph. Okay, we got it.”

  “What’s it gonna be?” I said.

  Wilson shrugged. “They’ll come up with something.” Then His Honor leaned in for a final word. “Just remember one thing, Kelly. It’s my city you live in. Every inch of it.”

  The mayor placed a hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Now go get yourself something to eat. We just opened up a new place at Millennium Park. Great burgers.”

  Wilson’s hand slipped off my shoulder and down my arm. Then he turned and walked to his windows. I opened the door and took a final look. The mayor had his back to me, looking out over his city, edges of buildings peeking through a torn curtain of gray. In an hour or so, the afternoon fog would be swallowed whole by an early dusk. Night would steal in and lights would come on: in the Sears Tower, the Hancock, and across two miles of steel and concrete in between. The darker it got, it seemed, the better the view. At least from the fifth floor.

  CHAPTER 47

  The hall outside the mayor’s office was empty. I was halfway toward the elevator when Willie Dawson stuck his head from around a convenient corner.

  “Kelly,” the mayor’s aide whispered.

  I shuffled over, trying to look furtive albeit not understanding why. Willie hustled me into a small office. It contained a wooden table with a cardboard box on top of it.

  “He didn’t flame-broil your ass, like I suggested.”

  “Thanks, Willie.”

  “Should have flame-broiled your ass. Like a goddamn BK Whopper. Yessiree. ‘Gonna regret it,’ I told him.”

  “What do you want, Willie?”

  “Want? From you? Nothing. You’re nothing but trouble.”

  Willie gestured down to the box on the table between us. For the first time I registered holes, poked into the box’s cover.

  “Mayor wants you to have this.”

  Willie took off the top. Inside was a pink baby’s blanket. Nestled inside the blanket was a puppy, brown and white with long ears and gold markings.

  “What’s this?”

  “The mayor’s springer had her litter. Mayor says you need one. Told me to make sure you got a female.”

  I looked down. The pup opened one eye, then the other. I tried to look away, but it wasn’t easy. The pup yawned and rolled over on her back. Apparently, it was time for a belly rub.

  “Pick her up, Kelly.”

  I did. The pup licked the side of my face, burrowed her head into my chest, and promptly fell asleep. I looked over at Willie, who was fighting it but smiling all the same.

  “You have that effect on all women?”

  “Funny guy, Willie. I can’t take care of a puppy.”

  “Mayor didn’t ask if you wanted his gift. If you understand what I mean?”

  I looked down again at the pup, dug in and already offering up a light snore. I shrugged. What the hell.

  “What do I feed her?”

  “Instructions are in the box.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “You the daddy, Kelly. You decide. Now if I were you, I’d disappear. Sooner the better.”

  Two minutes later I was out the door, mayoral pup still in my arms, trying to hail a cab. It wasn’t easy, but I made it home. Cabbie talked at me the entire ride. About crate training, housebreaking, and something called doggie day care. I nodded and wondered what the hell language he might be speaking. My new friend didn’t seem nearly so concerned. In fact, she didn’t crack an eyelid the whole way home.

  CHAPTER 48

  The cabbie dropped me in front of my flat. I carried Her Highness upstairs and put her down just inside the front door. The as-yet-to-be-named pup took a look around and another look back at me. Then she made her way into the bedroom. I followed. She was sitting on the floor and staring up at my bed. I shook my head no. The pup had other ideas. She got a running start, bounced off the side of my box spring, and landed, snout first, on the floor. I laughed. The pup yelped. She might have considered it a bark, but, trust me, she was kidding herself. I leaned against the door frame and watched as she took another go at the promised land, otherwise known as a soft mattress. The pup came up short again, hitting the ground, butt first this time, with a thud. She got up a bit slower, walked over, and sat down in front of me.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  She cocked her head, wagged her tail, stretched her paws out in front of her, and wiggled her butt in the air. I’d discover later this was a signal. The pup wanted to play. At the time, I thought she was probably going to go to the bathroom. Instead, she yelped again. Once, twice. Then a whole series of them. Finally, I did what any new parent would do. I caved, picked up the pup, and set her down on the bed. She ran around in circles for half a minute or so, then found a spot on my pillow. Thirty seconds later, she was asleep again. I turned off the light and closed the door. What the fuck.

  I was back in the front room of my apartment, thinking about the cold beer in my fridge, when I heard a light tap on the door. I forgot about the beer, picked up my gun, and thumbed off the safety. I had been home less than five minutes and figured my visitor to be no coincidence. Whoever it was had been waiting, watching, as I came in. The only encouraging sign, they were knocking at my door. Not knocking it down. I was half hoping for a certain female federal judge named Swenson to be on the other side. What I got was nothing close.

  “Kelly, can I come in?”

  Dan Masters was wearing a Lucky Strike T-shirt and smelling like fast food and cheap hotels. One hand held a cigarette cupped against his palm. The other rattled a set of keys to a rental car. The detective wasn’t wearing a badge and I didn’t see a gun.

  “When was the last time you slept, Masters?”

  “Don’t worry about me. Can we come in?”

  Masters stepped back and I looked down the hallway. Janet sat on the stairs and looked at the wall less than two feet away. Taylor stood nearby, staring at nothing out the window. I leaned back in the doorjamb.

  “My two friends,” I said, and turned back into my apartment. Masters followed, closing the door behind him.

  “You want a drink?” I said.

  “No, thanks.”

  I opened up a drawer and pulled out copies of three insurance policies Vince Rodriguez had dug out for me.

  “A hundred and a half in coverage on Johnny Woods,” I said, and threw them on the table. “Most of it taken out in the last three months.”

  Masters turned his head sideways to look at the policies. Like he was looking at one of those modern paintings no one could ever understand or even know which way to hang. Then he straightened up and looked at me.

  “You got a glass of water?”

 
I walked out to the kitchen. The detective got his drink while I waited. I was thinking about the two women in my hallway. I suspected Masters was as well. I don’t think either of us was happy about any of it.

  “I knew about the insurance,” Masters said. “At least some of it. Two days ago, Janet tried to cash one of them in.”

  I nodded and got that beer from the fridge. “Let me guess. There was a hold on payment.”

  The ghost of a grin played at the corners of Masters’ eyes. “They told her the Chicago PD had been making inquiries. Then they told her if she had any questions, she should follow up here.”

  “I bet she was pissed.”

  Masters finished his water and filled up again. “Slightly. I figured it was you and Rodriguez. Wanting to flush her back to Chicago.”

  “Looks like it worked,” I said, and walked back into my living room. “Maybe we should bring the ladies in and hash things out.”

  “One more second.” Masters took a seat on the couch. I leaned against the wall. He took a final hit on his cigarette and rubbed it into an ashtray.

  “I need this settled,” he said. “Tonight.”

  “They killed him, Dan. Used my gun to do it. Then they sent me over there. Probably tipped the police to the house right after I left them. I’m telling you and I’d know better than anyone. I didn’t shoot Johnny Woods. I don’t know anyone else who could’ve.”

  “And they would have expected you to lie down and take the rap?”

  “Hell, no. But who’s going to believe me? Neighbors saw me trading fists with Woods outside his house. I’m talking from a jail cell. And it’s my gun. If you hadn’t come along and deep-sixed the evidence, they’d have been free and clear.”

  Masters nodded. The skin looked thin around his eyes, and there was a sudden quiver making a living just below his lip. “Janet’s not what you think, Kelly.”

  I thought of her. At a wonderful place called twenty years old. Enjoying her youth, her looks, her life. Waiting for the rest of it to happen. And here it was.

  “You don’t know what I think about Janet Woods,” I said. “Let’s keep it at that.”

  “Fair enough. What happens after we talk?”