The Fifth Floor (10 page)

“Someone’s dead, aren’t they?”

“You think they’d kill over this?”

Smitty licked his lips dry and pressed his palms flat against the side of his pants. “Come on.”

He led me back to his cubicle. The newsroom was almost empty, a single reporter tapping away on his computer halfway across the room. Smitty put the whiskey away, found a key, and unlocked his bottom drawer. I looked inside and saw the black butt of a. 38 with gray tape on the grip.

“Illegal and unregistered,” Smitty said. “Year in jail, mandatory, just for having it. But I carry it with me everywhere I go. Had something like it with me ever since I left Chicago.”

“Thirty years ago?”

“The boys who saw me out of town suggested it might be a good idea. Don’t know if they were doing me a favor or just trying to keep me up nights.” Smitty nodded down at the gun. “But there it is.”

He slammed the drawer shut and locked it. Like that might be the end of it. The past, however, doesn’t go away that easy.

“Got one more thing to run past you, Smitty.” I pulled out a scrap of paper. “Ever hear of this book?”

“Sheehan’s History of the Chicago Fire.” The reporter scratched the side of his jaw and shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”

I nodded and we stood there. If Smitty was wondering how the book fit in, he didn’t ask.

“Thanks for the help,” I said, and stretched out a hand. Smitty took it and we shook.

“No problem, son. You need anything else, let me know.”

“Really?”

“Sure. I just ask two things. First, keep my name out of it. Like I said, all I want is a comfortable hole in the ground and the dignity to go there without much of a fuss.”

“And the second thing?”

“If you go after the Fifth Floor, don’t go halfway. Otherwise they’ll eat your balls for breakfast and laugh when they’re done.”

Of all the things the old reporter told me, the last was one of which I had no doubt.

I got back into the city at a little after four p.m. A woman was sitting in my lobby. She had a long blue coat on and a brown bag of groceries by her feet.

“Rachel Swenson.”

“I got tired of waiting. Besides, my number’s unlisted.”

“I would’ve found it.”

“Yeah, right.”

I picked up the bag of groceries and led the way through my lobby. “How are you?” I said.

“Cold, tired, and hungry.”

“How’d you find out where I live?”

“I’m a judge, remember? Thought we’d make some dinner. Maybe you could figure out the rest of the night for yourself.”

“Really?”

“No, not really, Michael. You think your life gets that great?”

I looked back over my shoulder and found a smile. Thought that was good but had no idea why.

“We need to talk,” Rachel said. “I was giving you ten more minutes, then it was going to be a phone call. Now open up the door and let us in.”

I fumbled for the keys to my apartment, trying to remember the exact state of disarray on the other side. The images I had were not good, but that couldn’t be helped. I took a deep breath and pushed in the door.

“Not bad, Michael. Not bad.”

Rachel took a quick and kind look around. Then she moved past me. I kicked clothes, shoes, newspapers, and at least one Giordano’s pizza box under the couch. A beer bottle rolled out the other side. I grabbed it and put it on the coffee table. Then I followed the judge back toward my kitchen. She stood in profile, coat off, bag of groceries on the counter, and a couple of cabinet doors open.

“You know where anything is back here?” she said, without looking my way.

Rachel was wearing jeans and a pale blue sweater. Her eyes matched the sweater. Her teeth were white and her hair carried a hint of honey. She had some sort of shiny lipstick on and a touch of blush across her cheekbones. Her nails were hard and clear with white tips. They tapped a tattoo on my kitchen counter and waited.

“That’s a refrigerator,” I said, and pointed in the general direction of the large white box growling silently behind her. “It’s got some beer in it, if you’re interested.”

Rachel closed the cabinets and turned her attention my way. “You ever cook for yourself?”

“Actually, Judge Swenson, I do.” I moved past Rachel and pulled the cabinets open again. “Breakfast is my specialty. I can make an omelet out of just about anything.” I stopped and looked at her. “Seriously, anything.”

“I don’t think I want to know.”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. I can burn a steak with the best of them. Spaghetti, the occasional meatball. That kind of thing. You know, when the mood strikes.”

“How often does the mood strike?”

“Not very.”

“Well, I invited myself over, so I’ll cook tonight.”

“Fair enough.”

I grabbed a couple of Goose Islands from the fridge and sat up on the counter. Rachel pulled some onions, garlic, and olive oil out of her bag.

“Glad you like pasta, because that’s what’s on the menu.”

I gave her a thumbs-up. “Meatballs?”

“Sausage,” she said, and took a sip of beer. “And the best on-the-fly red sauce you ever tasted.”

“Red sauce. You sound like Tony Soprano.”

Rachel smiled. “Actually, I got this recipe from one of Vinny DeLuca’s bagmen.”

Vinny DeLuca was about a hundred years old and the head of Chicago’s Mob. He’d like someone like Rachel. She was tough, smart, and stood her ground. He’d like her a lot. Unless she got in his way. Then he’d kill her if he had to, stick her in a trunk, and put her in remote parking at O’Hare. Nothing personal.

“You know Vinny?” I said.

“No, but I headed up a federal probe we did a few years back.”

“Didn’t know you were a prosecutor.”

Rachel pulled a chef’s knife from the drawer. “You think I’ve been a judge my whole life?”

She cracked a couple of cloves of garlic with the flat of the knife and began to chop. I went into the living room and slipped on a CD of Charlie Parker. The Bird’s genius floated through the flat. When I got back to the kitchen, Rachel had heated up some olive oil in a pan and thrown in the garlic. I moved close. She was humming along to the music and tapping her foot. It was nice.

“So how did you get the recipe?”

She tumbled some onions into her saucepan. The sausage followed.

“This guy named Tommy Tata. Low-level guy we were looking at for wire fraud. For some reason he loved to talk to me.”

“I bet,” I said.

Rachel washed her hands and opened up a can of tomatoes.

“One day he slips me a piece of paper as we walk in for a hearing with the judge. I had been talking to Tommy about maybe working a deal. Take some years off for information on DeLuca.”

“And you thought this was the payoff.”

Rachel dumped whole tomatoes into a pot and began to crush them with a wooden spoon.

“Yeah, well, I open the note up at counsel table and what do I get?”

She pointed to the stove with the spoon.

“Tommy’s twenty-minute red sauce?” I said.

“You got it. Tata pulled down fifteen years and never said a word. I got the recipe. So let’s enjoy.”

I watched as Rachel worked on her sauce. A little salt and pepper. Oregano, basil, a finely grated carrot, and some low heat.

“That’s it,” she said. “Now we let the sauce simmer for a bit.”

I pulled another beer out of the fridge and opened it up. The judge and I walked back into the living room and sat down.

“Okay, Rachel.”

“Okay, Michael.”

“I must come to the unfortunate conclusion that you’re not here to jump my bones. At least not until I get you a little drunker.”

Rachel tipped her bottle my way and winked. “Don’t be so sure.”

“Really?” I felt a flutter at the back of my throat. Rachel picked her words with a careful sense of grace.

“Nicole used to talk about you. A lot. Then I saw you at the grave.”

“That’s not such a big deal.”

“Yes, actually, it is. When I ran into you again at the lake, I don’t know. Thought it might be kind of fun.”

“Might be more than fun.”

“You think?”

I moved closer and kissed her. Hadn’t planned on it, which was usually the best way. She closed her eyes and kept her arms at her side. Then she moved her cheek against mine and gave me a chill.

“We do need to talk, Michael.”

“Better be good.”

She pushed back against my chest. I let her go. She reached for her beer and took a sip.

“I don’t know that good is the word. A friend of mine took a call yesterday.”

“And this friend works where?” I said.

“He’s a special agent for the FBI.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be. One of his colleagues works a lot with City Hall.”

“Taking out the mayor’s trash?”

“You know how that works.”

I thought about Fred Jacobs and Hawkeye’s. “Seems a lot of folks help the mayor with his problems.”

Rachel folded her hands together and considered her perfectly sculptured nails. I got a bad feeling and waited.

“As of yesterday, you became one of those problems.”

“How so?”

“My friend claims the mayor’s office floated your name.”

“They float names, do they?”

“Sure. People to keep an eye on.”

“And what does the FBI do?”

“Sometimes they take a look. Run a background check. Pull up financials. Depends on the tip.”

“Nice to know Big Brother is alive and kicking. Tell me, how much did I make last year?”

“My guy says they took a pass. Didn’t feel it was worth their time.”

“I’m devastated.”

“Thought you would be. Anyway, there’s your comforting moment for the day. Now, would you like to tell me what you’ve done to get our good mayor so pissed off?”

“Paranoid is more like it.”

“Whatever. Want to talk about it?”

“Probably not.”

Rachel shrugged. “Your call. Just remember what the mayor can be like.”

“You’re not a fan?”

“Of the evil empire? Please. The man is genetically ruthless, morally bankrupt, and a dictator.”

“Ah, but a benevolent one.”

“Right. As long as you don’t threaten him. Something you, apparently, have managed to accomplish.”

I took a sip of beer. “You find that at all exciting?”

She moved a little closer. “It’ll do. For now.”

I laid my palm against hers. Then my fingers. One tip at a time. Our lips brushed together, then brushed again, and we both swayed a little. Even while seated, we swayed. On the couch. In the middle of my living room. Moving to a rhythm neither of us anticipated or necessarily understood. Still, it was nice. Like there was a lot to look forward to and no need to rush. I felt her put her bottle down on the table behind me. I thought I should pull the blinds down on my front windows. Then she moved again and I didn’t think about that anymore.

F irst the sauce bubbled, then it burned. We didn’t care. We ate cereal afterward. On the rug, in my living room. She wore one of my shirts and drank coffee. I had tea. It seemed good. Like it fit together. At least for now.

“You think this will work between us?” she said.

“Work as what?”

“Good question.”

“How about we see where things go and enjoy it for whatever it’s worth?”

She wrapped both hands around her mug and blew on coffee that wasn’t hot to begin with. Then she spoke again. Slowly, softly.

“You know about me?” she said.

“What do I need to know?”

“Well, I was engaged a few months back. Kind of a quick thing. Actually, kind of a stupid thing.”

“Didn’t know that.”

She peered out at me from under her newly revealed past. “Now you do.”

“So I do. Didn’t work out, I take it?”

She held out her left hand, five digits devoid of any significant jewelry. “Not exactly.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Not especially.”

“You okay now?”

“I hope so.”

“Look at me.”

She looked up.

“You look okay to me,” I said.

“Thanks.”

“I was going to call, you know.”

“I believe you.” She smiled, leaned over, and kissed me. “I just beat you to the punch.”

“Yeah, well, you might regret that.”

“How so?”

“The stuff we talked about earlier.”

“The mayor?” Rachel said. “He doesn’t scare me. Does he scare you?”

“He gets my attention.”

“Good. He’s someone who should get your attention. Especially if he’s asking around about you. I told you, he’s a ruthless man who has got to go.”

“I thought judges weren’t supposed to be political beasts.”

“We’re not, generally speaking. But there are exceptions. Thing is, in this town we’ve never had any good alternatives to the mayor. He keeps the streets clean, taxes low-or at least someone else’s fault-and rules with an iron fist. So everyone shuts up.”

“And now?”

“Now we have someone. A real alternative.”

“Let me guess. Mitchell Kincaid.”

Mitchell Kincaid was fifty-three years old, black, and good-looking. He graduated from Northwestern Law School, which, in academic circles, made him very smart. He was also about to launch a run for mayor, which, in Chicago circles, made him incredibly stupid.

“Mitchell is what this city needs,” Rachel said.

“And you really think he can take down Wilson?”

“I’ve gotten to know Mitchell pretty well. Been on some boards. Fund-raisers. He’s transcendent.”

Rachel glowed when she said it, in a way I found both exciting and disturbing. Exciting because she was in my apartment, wearing nothing except a pin-striped button-down oxford. Disturbing because she was glowing for another man, one who wasn’t even in the room.