The Fifth Floor mk-2
Page 22
“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
I t 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.
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