The Third Rail (23 page)

Forty minutes later, I was still piecing through the old papers when my phone rang. Marge Connelly had worked her
magic with the autopsy photo. I downloaded the shots and talked to the medical examiner for another hour. Then I thanked her and hung up.

I closed my eyes and visualized all those pieces of the puzzle, still floating in the darkness. Slowly, one, then another, then a third stopped turning. They hung before my mind's eye, slipped neatly together and locked into place. The picture sharpened, and a face came into focus. I printed out the photos the ME had sent me, packed up Sol Bernstein's paperwork, and locked up the office on my way out.

I
should have known when I didn't hear the pup at the front door. But my mind was somewhere else, sunk into the tangled depths of CMT Holding and a single autopsy photo. I was halfway across my living room when I looked up and saw her, wagging her tail and sitting comfortably in the lap of the mayor of our good city, the honorable John J. Wilson.

"Nice dog, Kelly. I should have kept this one." The mayor gave Maggie a scratch behind the ears and set her on the floor. Then he gestured to the two men sitting on either side of him.

"These are federal agents. They want to ask you some questions."

I took the only chair left in the room and considered the pair of suits, one black, one blue. If they weighed two hundred pounds between them, they were lucky. Behind them was the muscle, a linebacker type, wearing a gray cashmere overcoat, finished with black leather gloves and Maui Jim wraparounds.

"What about the Terminator back there?" I said.

Wilson waited for someone else to speak. When no one did,
he shrugged. "I told them you could be reasoned with, but they were wary. Of the gun and all that."

"And you just came along for the ride?"

Wilson stretched his thick lips into a thin line. "I came along to protect the city's interests, Kelly. And maybe yours, as well."

"I'm listening," I said.

Blue suit thumped a briefcase onto my coffee table and snapped it open. I caught a glimpse of red inside and got an idea where this might be headed. Then the suit opened his mouth and I got an even better idea.

"Mr. Kelly, my name is Leo Nolan. This is Dr. Matthew Danielson. We work with Homeland Security."

Nolan didn't flash an ID and I didn't ask for one.

"We know you were involved in the capture and death of James Doherty," Nolan continued. "We also know he talked to you about a red binder he had in his possession at the time he was shot."

"I never got a look inside the binder," I said. "Agent Lawson took it with her from the scene."

Nolan nodded. "And yet, we have reason to believe you continue to make inquiries about the binder and the nature of its contents."

"And how would you know that, Mr. Nolan?"

Nolan shuffled through his briefcase for some paperwork. "We operate under a federal directive called the Cyber Initiative. Allows us, among other things, to monitor computers and Internet activity that might pose a threat to national security."

I looked at the mayor, who shrugged. "That's as much as they told me, Kelly. Maybe you can explain the rest."

I turned to Nolan. "The red binder you're talking about is a Pentagon report issued in 1998, called 'Terror 2000.' Yes, I saw the title when we were in Doherty's house. And yes, I did some searching about it on the Internet."

"Why?" Nolan said.

"Why not? A guy like Doherty carries something like that around with him, it gets my attention. How about you?"

Nolan flicked a piece of lint off his pants. "Did Mr. Doherty make any specific threats?"

"That's what Mr. Doherty did best."

"Specific threats against the city?"

I glanced toward the black suit named Danielson. "Does he ever talk?"

Nolan blinked behind his tortoiseshell frames. "Answer the question, Mr. Kelly."

"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 finally spoke. "We're not interested in your fucking ideas, Mr. Kelly. 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 all the bullshit 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 rolled 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 followed. I noticed he dragged his left foot and hoped it hurt like hell. Wilson waited until the door had closed before speaking. "What do you want, Kelly?"

"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 called into meetings with these stiffs?" Wilson said. "First time it happened, three months after 9/11, we went into full fucking pucker. They sat around, bullshitting 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 hell 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, really, that's all we can do. That and manage the threat."

"What does that mean?"

"You know what the estimated death totals would be for one of these doomsday attacks?"

I shook my head.

"Fifty, hundred thousand. If the fuckers got lucky, maybe a million or more." Wilson chuckled at the impossible piles of imaginary dead. "If it's biological, we couldn't even bury the dead. Have to burn 'em in funeral pyres. Funeral pyres, Kelly. People can't handle that shit. So we manage the message. Keep it positive. Serious and focused, but never too scary. That's the whole job."

"So the
idea
of Armageddon is actually much worse than the real thing?"

"Exactly. Now, take your asshole Doherty. He doesn't have any mass fucking weapons. He was bullshitting you the whole time."

"How about Holy Name?"

"How about it? He threatened to contaminate all of our churches, people would die, blah, blah, bullshit, blah. Then
what does he do? Throws a little ammonia in the cathedral's holy water."

"It was a little more than ammonia."

"All right, all right. Glorified ammonia. Thing is, how many people died? How many are still in the hospital? Zero. He was full of shit, just like the rest of these motherfuckers. I don't tell anyone this, but they got lucky on 9/11. Incredibly lucky. And we're going to spend the rest of this century and untold billions waiting for that other shoe."

"One that's never gonna drop?"

"Not on my watch. So don't worry about Doherty. If he could have torched this city, he would have. He just wanted to fuck with people, especially you. Then he wanted to kill your girl while you watched. And thank God he didn't."

"What do you need from me?"

"Give them the case and let's move on."

"You think I have it?"

"We know you do. Lawson mentioned it in a report she filed. Said she didn't think the thing was important, but saw it in Doherty's kitchen. Saw you pick it up. These guys heard that and got all hot and bothered."

"You want to know what's inside?"

"Not really."

"There's nothing inside. Just two Styrofoam cutouts where something used to be."

"See, more nothing. Give them the case, Kelly. You may think you're John Wayne, and maybe you are. But the feds don't give a shit. They'll roll right over you and never miss a beat."

Wilson lowered his eyelids as he leaned down and kissed Maggie on the top of the head. "She's a good pup, Kelly. She likes it here."

I thought about the black case. About my conversation with Marge Connelly. About making things right. "I need something in return."

"Fucking ballbreaker." Maggie lifted her eyes as the mayor shifted in his seat.

"Something that stays between me and you," I said. "Actually, it's something you might enjoy."

Wilson dropped my pup gently to the floor and leaned forward, long nostrils quivering, hoping to catch a scent. "Fucking ballbreaker. What do you got?"

So I told him. Some of it. He licked his lips and grinned.

"The evil fucking empire. Gotta tell you, Kelly, I'm a little impressed."

The black case was forgotten, at least for the moment, as I laid out the rest of my proposal to the mayor. All in all, I was pretty sure it made his day.

T
he 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 calls. The mayor had called 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 still there, still 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 cell number flashed up on caller ID. It was the third time he'd called 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 rolled over for a belly 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 called, 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 pulled 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.

A
n hour later, I pulled 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 walls 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 small door, with the word
MAINTENANCE
stenciled in black on a beige wall. That's where I found her, sitting on a beat-up bench.