“You heading over today?” I said.
Rodriguez reached back for his coat. And the purple flowers underneath. It was May first, Nicole Andrews’ thirty-fifth birthday.
“Yeah. Thought I might drop these off.”
They were orchids, lightly scented, lovely to look at, and impossibly fragile. Rodriguez cupped the blossoms with the side of one hand and then laid them in his lap.
“You want to come?” he said, but didn’t mean it.
I shook my head. “Think I’ll head over later.”
The detective nodded and stared at a spot of nothing in the rearview mirror. He might cry when he got to Nicole’s grave. He might just feel the hole inside. Either way, after a while, he’d leave. The orchids would stay. In this weather, they’d be lucky to make it through the night.
“Give you a lift back to your place?”
I opened the car door. “That’s okay, Vince. I’m gonna walk for a bit.”
I got out of the car and watched Rodriguez drive off. Then I turned into the wind, for the long, cold walk home.
CHAPTER 51
It was a small ritual between friends. At least, it seemed small. Until one of the friends got herself murdered. Then everything changed.
It was the day after Nicole’s birthday. Ten years ago. The day the ritual was born. We had gone out for drinks with some people the night before. Then it was over. Nicole was officially twenty-five. Another year stretched out ahead of her. That’s when we decided to go out again. To celebrate again, the day after Nicole’s birthday. Just the two of us. I remember my friend smiling and tugging lightly at my sleeve.
“It’ll be great, Michael. Just me and you. Nothing fancy. Just lunch. A little way to decompress. Ease out of the birthday thing.”
“Kind of like coffee after a big meal,” I said.
“Really good coffee,” Nicole replied.
“Okay. Really great coffee.”
And so we did. Picked out a Chinese restaurant on Clark Street, a hole in the wall that never seemed to have a customer. Nicole thought it was perfect for a post-birthday birthday party. We ate lunch, split a bottle of wine, and toasted the year. It was quiet. It was nice. And the ritual was born. Every year, twice a year. First Nicole’s birthday, then mine. Same table. Same waiter. Lunch and a bottle of wine.
IT WAS 12:03. The day after my friend’s thirty-fifth. I walked down to the restaurant. Our waiter was there. The place was empty, like it always was. I asked for a bottle of wine. Then I made it a half. I ordered a plate of noodles and steamed vegetables. The food came in about twelve minutes. I ate it in less than three. The noodles tasted like nothing. The conversation was even less. Then I paid the bill and opened up the fortune cookie. It read, Better times are around the corner. I nodded to the waiter, left the restaurant, and took a look at my watch. It was 12:24.
Ten minutes later I was inside Graceland Cemetery. I spent a couple of minutes at my brother’s grave. Then I walked the fifty yards or so to Nicole’s. Rodriguez’s purple bouquet was front and center. There were a couple of other offerings around the headstone. Everything looked a little tattered, a little worn. I stood there for a while. Then I pressed a knee into the grass. Like I’d done before. I told my friend she’d just turned thirty-five, in case she didn’t know. I told her about our lunch and wished her a happy birthday. Then I told her about the case. About Lawrence Randolph. About a mother, her daughter, and the demons that walked with them.
“Michael?”
The voice came creeping up and over my shoulder. I stood and turned toward it. Rachel Swenson was wearing a short black coat. Her hair was swept up away from her face and pinned back under a maroon stocking cap. Her cheeks were red and she looked like she’d been crying.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey. I didn’t mean to bother you.”
“You didn’t.”
We began to walk.
“I just came by for her birthday,” I said.
“I know. Nicole told me.”
I glanced over, but Rachel was looking straight ahead.
“Told you what?” I said.
“She told me about you guys. How you’d go out to lunch on the day after.”
“She told you that, huh?”
“Yes, Michael, she did. She told me it was one of the treasured things in her life.”
I nodded and kept my head down. Rachel slipped an arm around my waist. I pulled her close and we kept walking.
“Everything turn out okay with Kincaid?” I said.
“Everything turned out just fine.”
“Thanks for trusting me,” I said.
She stopped and kissed me on the cheek. A soft breeze pushed us out of the graveyard and down Clark Street. I closed my eyes and let the sun warm my face. Chicago’s winter had finally broken. For the first time in a long time, it seemed like spring was going to happen.
“You like puppies?” I said, and opened my eyes.
Rachel smiled and nodded. I stopped again and considered this beautiful woman who could say so much, sometimes by saying nothing at all. I lifted her chin and kissed her on the lips. We held each other for a moment and let the world fall away. Then we walked as far as the Gingerman Tavern. We stopped there and ordered a couple of beers. They were cold and tasted good. We held hands, under the table, and talked about the future. Finally, after a while, it was time to go home.
EPILOGUE
I don’t know why I needed to know. But I did. Call it the Oedipus that exists in all of us.
It was early on a Thursday morning, a little more than two months after Janet Woods had left town with her daughter. Rachel Swenson was asleep beside me, breath barely audible. I slipped out of bed, into my living room, and picked up the phone. An hour later, I had the piece of paper I needed in my hands. Taylor Woods’ birth certificate. According to the county’s Bureau of Vital Records, she was actually baptized Taylor Collins, Janet’s maiden name, on January 25, 1992. That meant Taylor was sixteen years old. Not fourteen as she and her mother claimed. It also meant Janet might never have terminated the pregnancy she told me about when I agreed to take her on as a client. And that Taylor Woods might very well be my daughter.
I heard Rachel stirring in the bedroom, folded up the birth certificate, and pushed it into the deepest part of a bottom drawer. I wanted to know. Now I did. Like Oedipus, however, I had no idea where that knowledge might lead. Or whether I was ready for the journey.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
There are a few unassailable items of fact surrounding the Great Chicago Fire of 1871. First, it started in or around Catherine O’Leary’s barn on the night of October eighth. Second, it burned for more than twenty-four hours and destroyed more than seventeen thousand buildings. Finally, while there is no smoking gun (excuse the pun) pointing us to the definitive cause of the fire, most historians agree it was almost certainly accidental in nature. This final point underscores the obvious: this is a work of fiction. While I have tried to be faithful, wherever possible, to Chicago’s geography, buildings, and institutions, the characters and events depicted herein are entirely fictional. Names, characters, places, and incidents, past and present, either are the product of my own imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
If you are interested in the history of the Great Fire, there is a wealth of information available. I would highly recommend the following titles: The Great Chicago Fire, Robert Cromie; The Great Chicago Fire and the Myth of Mrs. O’Leary’s Cow, Richard F. Bales; The Great Chicago Fire, in Eyewitness Accounts and 70 Contemporary Photographs and Illustrations, David Lowe; and Smoldering City: Chicagoans and the Great Fire, 1871–1874, Karen Sawislak.
In addition, a trip to The Chicago History Museum, formerly known as The Chicago Historical Society, is a must. The museum has an extensive collection of primary and secondary source materials, as well as a marvelous staff available to help you navigate it all.
> ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is my second novel. I would first like to thank the folks who bought and, hopefully, enjoyed The Chicago Way. I hope you’ve enjoyed The Fifth Floor.
I would also like to thank my agent, David Gernert; a marvelous Chicago writer and friend, Garnett Kilberg-Cohen; my editor at Knopf, Jordan Pavlin; and all the folks at Knopf and Vintage/Black Lizard who have provided such amazing support for my first two novels. I would especially like to thank Laura Baratto, Erinn Hartman, Jim Kimball, Leslie Levine, Jennifer Marshall, Maria Massey, Russell Perreault, and Zachary Wagman.
A special thanks to all the bookstore owners, librarians, reading clubs, Web sites, and others who help to promote writers and get their work into the hands of the reading public. With all the wonderful titles and authors in the marketplace, it is tough for any new writer to “break through.” Without this special network of people, it would be virtually impossible.
Thanks to my friends and family for all their love and support. Special thanks to the following people: my mom and dad, my brother and sisters, Sister Eileen Harvey, Frank Harvey, Mike and Lily Lyons, Dickie and Alice Lyons, Katie Reardon, Martha and Richard Shonter, and Rick Shonter.
Finally, thank you, Mary Frances. I cannot imagine doing any of it without you.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael Harvey is the author of The Chicago Way, as well as a journalist and documentary producer. His work has won numerous national and international awards, including multiple Emmy Awards and an Academy Award nomination. Mr. Harvey earned a law degree from Duke University, a master’s degree in journalism from Northwestern University, and a bachelor’s degree in classical languages from Holy Cross College. Additional information can be found at www.michaelharveybooks.com.
ALSO BY MICHAEL HARVEY
The Chicago Way
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK
PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
Copyright © 2008 by Michael Harvey
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
www.aaknopf.com
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Harvey, Michael T.
The Fifth Floor / Michael Harvey.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Police—Illinois—Chicago—Fiction. 2. Chicago (Ill.)—Fiction. 3. Murder—Fiction. 4. Great Fire, Chicago, Ill., 1871—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3608.A78917F54 2008
813'.6—dc22 2008001484
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
eISBN: 978-0-307-27038-2
v3.0
The Fifth Floor Page 22
