The Fifth Floor (17 page)

I nodded. “One to twenty.”

“You’ve done your homework. Four’s the lucky number. The first edition of Sheehan’s numbered four contains information as to the location of the letter.”

“Sheehan’s number four, huh?”

“That’s what they say. There’s a clue in there somewhere.”

“And you believe all this?”

Woods grunted again. “My bosses do. That’s all that matters.”

“You keep talking about rumor, Johnny. But I don’t believe it. There’s a source here. Someone is making you guys believe.”

“You think so?”

“I think so. And I have a picture in my pocket. A picture of you running from a murder. A picture that tells me I’m gonna get his name. Probably sooner than later.”

“Piss off, Kelly.”

“Not a problem, Johnny, once I have your source. Someone put you guys onto the letter and the Sheehan’s. Probably offered to read the tea leaves once you got the book and parse out the clue. Am I right?”

No response.

“Let me ask you this. Did he put you on to Allen Bryant’s trail?”

Woods cut me a look at that one. “I found Bryant myself. Tracked down six other first editions before I found him.”

“Bryant had the number four, didn’t he?”

Woods nodded. “I met with him the night before he was murdered. He told me he had the book at his house and would give it to me the next morning. I showed up…” Woods shrugged and shook himself free. “He was dead, Kelly. I saw the body and split.”

We sat in the silence of the moment. Each with our own set of problems.

“Does the mayor know about Bryant?” I said.

“Not from me. On the other hand, there isn’t much he doesn’t know.”

“Is anyone else interested in the letter?”

“Mayor’s got a lot of enemies,” Woods said. “Love to get their hands on something like that.”

“But would they kill to get their hands on it?”

Johnny smoothed out the wrinkles in his suit, took a little water, and washed some blood off a cuff.

“These people are civilized, Kelly. Political types.”

“Doesn’t answer my question. Would they kill to get their hands on the letter?”

“Absolutely not.” Woods swiveled his head my way and offered up a narrow smile. “Unless, of course, they thought they could get away with it.”

“Who’s your guy on the letter?”

“Not going to let that go, are you?”

“No.”

I thought I knew the answer but wanted to be sure. Woods shrugged.

“Fuck it. He’s a little weasel, anyway.”

I nodded. “The curator at the Chicago Historical Society.”

“Now I am impressed,” Woods said. “You got it. Lawrence Randolph. He’s the one who pushed this thing on the mayor. Convinced him the letter from his great-great-grandfather might be real. Might be in play.”

“And the Sheehan’s?”

“Way I hear it, Randolph was the one who thought the Sheehan’s was worth getting. Just to take a look at.”

I thought about my friend the curator, sitting behind his desk. Pulling strings and moving pieces around the city. Probably got a big charge out of the whole thing.

“What does Randolph want?” I said.

“What else? Power. He wants to be the first curator for the City of Chicago. Official fucking historian or something. Mayor promised him all sorts of things. If we get the letter.”

“And bury it?”

“Right. Bury it. If you ask me, the thing doesn’t even exist, but there you go. In my world, sometimes the things that don’t exist are the most dangerous. Now you know everything I do, Kelly. Keep me the fuck out of it.”

“Or else?”

“Or else you have another enemy downtown you probably don’t need.”

“You worried?”

“To be honest, no. Word is you play it straight up. I figure my chances are pretty good I come out clean.”

“If you’re telling me the truth.”

“Like I said, you know everything I do. That’s all I can offer.” Woods checked his watch and nodded toward the basilica. “I’m gonna slip in the back. Catch the eight-thirty mass.”

He reached for the door latch. I put a hand on his shoulder.

“Just so you understand, Johnny. What I said about your wife, I meant it. Anything. Even a little bit of hurt, for her or the girl, and it all comes down on you. No talk. No bullshit. Just you and me and no happy endings.”

Woods pulled out of my grip, rolled his shoulders, and ruffled up his dignity.

“Don’t worry about it, Kelly. You can have her.” He cracked the door to my car, put a foot outside, and leaned back toward me.

“Final word of advice, pal. Whatever she’s selling, take a pass. Janet’s all about Janet. Always will be. Now leave me the fuck alone. I gotta go to mass.”

With that, Johnny Woods got out and walked across the grass, toward his God. An old priest in a red and purple hat was waiting at the top of the stairs. They shook hands and Johnny disappeared inside. The priest turned and looked back my way. I knew he couldn’t see into my car, but I felt his weight, anyway. Being Irish Catholic will do that to you. I pulled away and put the basilica in my rearview mirror. The domestic problems in Sauganash would have to wait. There was still a murderer or two afoot. Not to mention the matter of the Chicago Historical Society and a weasel named Lawrence Randolph.

R andolph was sitting behind his desk, holding what looked like an elephant tusk in one hand.

“Know what this is?” he said.

I didn’t.

“It’s an oosik.”

The curator offered me the object but I wasn’t interested.

“Know what an oosik is?” he said.

“Tell me.”

“It’s the bone from a walrus’ penis.”

I looked again at the object. Two feet long and seven inches around. “Congratulations to the walrus.”

Randolph chuckled and laid the walrus’ pride and joy on his lap. “I have a poem on the wall over there,” he said. “It’s called ‘Ode to an Oosik.’ Want to take a look?”

“I want to know about the Sheehan’s. First edition. Number four, to be exact.”

Randolph ran one hand down the side of his oosik and took some time in formulating a response. When it came, it wasn’t much.

“Number four, you say?”

“Yeah, Randolph. Number four. The first edition you have the mayor’s people chasing. The key to finding a letter…about a scandal you told me never happened.”

Randolph’s eyes moved back and forth across my face, looking for a lever to pull, an angle to push. After a while he gave up and decided to play it out.

“You know about the letter?”

“Johnny Woods told me.”

“Okay, so I think there’s a chance that Wilson’s copy might exist. So what? I have no obligation to discuss that with you.”

“You got the mayor’s people going on this, didn’t you?”

“Sure, I pushed it along. If true, it’s a major bit of history. I’m a historian. So, why not?”

“Got a person killed. How’s that for starters?”

“I know the mayor’s men. They’re not going to kill anyone over this.”

I shrugged. “Who else would be looking for the letter?”

“As far as I know, it’s just Wilson and his inner circle.”

“Those are the only people you talked to about this?”

“Yes. And, as I understand things, Allen Bryant was going to give them the book. So why kill him?”

“So you knew about Bryant?”

“Woods called me on the morning you showed up at the society.”

“You’re a weasel, Randolph.”

The weasel was back to petting his walrus. He held up the oosik and pointed it my way. “We still have a deal?”

“Fuck off. And put that goddamn thing down before I stick it somewhere.”

The curator did as he was told. He could be bullied, but only to a point. If the man had cards to play, he was in. To the last hand.

“I can help you,” Randolph said.

“How?”

“Get me the book. It will take us both to the letter.”

“And, presumably, Allen Bryant’s killer.”

“That’s your business. I just want the letter.”

“And to get that, you need the book.”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“I don’t have it, Randolph. So I don’t have to think about cutting deals with you.”

I got up to go. The curator remained seated. “Not yet,” he said. “If you get your hands on the Sheehan’s, however, you’ll be back.”

“You think so?”

“If you suspect it might help solve your murder, you’ll work with me.”

Randolph was probably right. That bothered me.

“Whoever has the book,” Randolph said, “doesn’t know how to use it. Otherwise, we would have heard about it by now, don’t you think?”

“Probably.”

“Precisely. I’m guessing the Sheehan’s is still out there. Maybe Mr. Bryant hid it somewhere. Who knows?”

“And if it’s out there, I’ll track it down. Right?”

“That’s what I’m betting on, Mr. Kelly.” Randolph shifted comfortably in his seat. “In fact, I’m counting on it.”

I pushed out of the historical society just after five p.m. and drove north on Stockton Drive. Randolph was proving to be a hard guy to get a handle on, which surprised as much as bothered me. I flipped open my cell and punched in Fred Jacobs’ number. It took four rings, but the reporter finally picked up.

“Kelly, not in jail yet? I guess there’s something to be said for that.”

“Thanks, Fred. I got another favor to ask.”

Lightning flickered silently over the lake. I rolled down the window. There was a high wind moving through the trees and it smelled like a cold rain.

“Where’s my story?” Jacobs said.

“It’s there, Fred. Just needs a little push.”

“What kind of push?”

“Hardly nothing. If you’re any good, shouldn’t take you more than a half hour. And you don’t even have to leave your office.”

Something I had seen on TV at Janet Woods’ house was scratching at the back of my mind. Something I needed to nail down. I told Jacobs what I wanted. When I finished, the reporter sat on the other end of the line and breathed. It didn’t sound like anything close to healthy, and I wondered how many cigarettes the man smoked every day.

“Where the fuck you headed, Kelly?”

“Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“High profile, Fred, high profile. So you want that third Pulitzer or what?”

I knew he’d agree to do it. It was easy enough for a guy like him and too damn tempting not to. I went over the specifics twice and hung up. Then I held my breath and dialed up a friend.

“Look what the cat dragged in.”

“Hey, Rachel.”

“Hello, Mr. Kelly. I hope you’re not inviting me for another overnight.” Her tone was amused. A detached “had a fling with this guy once” sort of amused. I didn’t especially like it.

“I thought we might get together tonight,” I said. “Grab a beer.”

“Why?”

“Maybe I just want to see you.”

“Maybe not. Last time I was with you, I got shot.”

“I know, Rachel. That was messed up and I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” A pause. “Listen, Michael, tonight doesn’t really work. I already made plans.”

Convenient word, plans. Great weapon. Women use it especially well. Tells the poor bastard at the other end of plans she’s on a date without ever actually saying it. Twists the knife and preserves the veneer of deniability. Also rife with the possibility of sex-again, something the poor bastard hearing about her plans is not going to be any part of.

“Plans, huh?”

“Yes, Michael. Plans. No breaking and entering. No guns. No possibility of cardiac arrest. Just dinner. Plain old boring dinner. Really, it’s all my heart can take.”

I smiled at my windshield, but it didn’t seem to do much good. “Fair enough, Rachel. Maybe we can do this over the phone.”

“Do what over the phone?”

“You remember the guy who broke into my apartment?”

“Could I forget?”

“I got a hunch as to who it might be.”

“Okay.”

“Gonna run the guy’s prints against the lift Rodriguez pulled off my windowsill.”

“That was only a partial. Not going to get you very far.”

“There was blood as well.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” she said.

“If this hunch pans out, I might need your help.”

“What kind of help?”

“Mitchell Kincaid.”

There was nothing for a beat. Then her voice came back, brittle to the point of angry.

“What would Mitchell Kincaid have to do with any of this?”

“It’s complicated.”

“It usually is. Let me guess. The mayor is involved.”

“Could be.”

“Mitchell’s not going to grab at a rumor about your break-in and try to smear Wilson with it. That’s not how he works.”

“I know, Rachel. That’s not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about?”

“I can’t tell you right now. I just need to know. If I wanted you to take a message to Kincaid, would you do it?”

More silence collected at the end of the line.

“What’s the message?”

“I don’t know yet.”

My soon-to-be-distant memory of a romance that never was had heard enough.

“You want me to get involved, Michael, tell me what’s going on. Otherwise pick up the phone and dial the man yourself.”

“Can’t do that. Not until I run these prints against the partial.”

“Then we have nothing to talk about. I gotta go.”

Rachel gave me half a goodbye and hung up, off to her plans, which undoubtedly included a lot of wonderful sex without yours truly.

I flipped my phone shut and cursed on behalf of clueless men everywhere. Then I drove until I found a Kinko’s, one with an Internet connection and a printer. It took a while, but Fred Jacobs was as good as his word. A little after nine, I left with the set of prints I needed to test my theory. Now I wanted a place to think and drink. Not necessarily in that order.