The Fifth Floor (25 page)

“The chief told us about the warrants served on Lawrence Randolph,” O’Leary said. “Unfortunately, they turned up nothing useful concerning Allen Bryant’s murder. In fact, they turned up nothing at all. What I don’t understand is why this was run through the feds. My office could have handled things.”

Patrick Wilson held up a hand. “Gerald. Let’s talk about Mr. Kelly’s request to meet.” He turned my way. “Mr. Kelly. You were going to offer some details.”

“Let’s start with 1871,” I said. “There is no letter. Nothing that implicates the Wilson family in the fire.”

The mayor’s cousin and consigliere took a sip of his Coke and cleared his throat. O’Leary took his cue and pulled out a BlackBerry.

“You’ll have to excuse me for a moment.” O’Leary wandered off, pretending to answer a message he’d never received. Patrick Wilson picked up the thread. But delicately.

“I’m not exactly sure what we’re talking about here, Mr. Kelly.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “I have the book Johnny Woods was looking for. I found what was inside. You’ll find out about it soon enough. Point is, it has nothing to do with your family.”

Wilson printed out a smile and pasted it across his face. “What is it you want from the mayor, Mr. Kelly?”

“Mitchell Kincaid,” I said. “He worries the mayor. Politically, that is.” I held up a hand. “Don’t bother to deny it. He’d worry me too. Kincaid will announce he’s withdrawing from the mayoral race this afternoon. Provided we come to an understanding.”

The smile dropped off Little Cousin’s face. He was used to horse-trading. Usually, however, he was dictating terms.

“There’s no understanding here.” Wilson glanced toward Fred Jacobs. “I thought I made myself clear on that.”

“Fred isn’t part of this,” I said. “If you can’t make a deal, get someone in here who can.”

A small vein popped up on Patrick Wilson’s temple. I counted twenty beats in about fifteen seconds.

I looked at Jacobs, who stood up and joined O’Leary and his BlackBerry outside.

“What is it you want, Kelly?”

“Three things,” I said. “First, you drop the vendetta against a reporter named Rawlings Smith. Jacobs says there’s a couple of spots open on the Tribune staff. Your office makes the call and puts a word in for him.”

Wilson’s eyes crinkled a bit at the corners. I don’t know what he expected, but my first term seemed to tickle the mayor’s man. “What else?”

I took a deep breath before the next one.

“Johnny Woods’ murder. You bury it. No charges filed against anyone. Not now. Not ever.”

Wilson drew his hands in front of his face and tapped the tips of his fingers together. “As I understand it, there is no murder weapon and not much of a case against you. I don’t really see that changing, if that’s what you’re concerned about. Now what else?”

“I didn’t kill Woods. Whether you believe me or not is irrelevant. The condition is that no one is ever charged. For any offense in connection with his death.”

Wilson leaned back and looked around the room for a little help. A little posturing. Couldn’t resist, I guess. Then he came back to the deal. “What else?”

“Lawrence Randolph. I know he’s been feeding the mayor information on the fire. He’s also a killer. The warrants didn’t work. Fine. I want him taken down. And I don’t really care how.”

Now Wilson laughed out loud and clapped his hands together.

“Kelly, you’re amusing as hell, you know that. Let this thing go. Set this guy up. How do I know Kincaid will withdraw?”

I pulled out a cell phone. “I’ll make the call right now.”

Patrick tickled his fingers my way. “Go ahead. Go ahead. You have a deal.”

I shook my head. “I need the mayor to sign off. And tell him, if he reneges, the whole thing comes out. Including everything I know about Johnny Woods and the Fifth Floor’s obsession with the fire.”

Little Cousin slumped back in his chair and ran a hand across his forehead. Then he stood up and buttoned his coat. “Sit tight. This might take a minute.”

Wilson left. I was just finishing my coffee when Jacobs slipped back into the room.

“Busting some balls here, Kelly?”

“The Wilson family understands strength. Respects it.” I glanced over at the reporter. “You should remember that.”

Jacobs ran his hand across his Adam’s apple and rolled his eyes toward a menu board tacked to the wall. “You should hope they don’t make you tomorrow’s special.”

The green curtain shifted again and a shadow moved on the other side. Patrick Wilson stepped through, a cell phone to his ear, and motioned for us to follow. We ducked outside and into the back of a Lincoln Town Car. O’Leary had already stuffed himself in a corner and was looking out the window. Seven minutes later, we slid to a stop in front of City Hall. Wilson was still on the phone. We walked through the lobby and under a red velvet rope strung in front of an elevator door. It was the mayor’s car. The one he took every morning, express, to the fifth floor.

I sat in the same hard wooden chair. Jacobs sat in another. The city lay under the drowse of an afternoon fog. To our left, wisps of gray floated by the windows. To our right, Wilson’s desk was draped in polished mahogany and cluttered with all sorts of mayoral things. Behind the desk was a third chair, the padded one, with soft leather and, at the moment, entirely empty.

Jacobs had apparently never been inside the inner sanctum. I was about to tell him where they kept the holy water and candles when the door swung open and the mayor walked in. Jacobs jumped like someone had played “Hail to the Chief.” Wilson acknowledged the homage with a nod. Then he walked over to the windows and stared into the soup.

“Good to see you again, Kelly.”

The mayor talked without turning. I was still seated and didn’t respond. Wilson backed away from the windows and moved behind his desk. Jacobs didn’t know whether to stand or sit, so he froze. Wilson moved his eyes over the reporter and then looked at the open door. Jacobs got the hint and left, closing the door on his way out.

“How much does the Trib guy know?” Wilson said.

“About what?”

“The fire. And my family.”

“He thinks it’s an urban legend. Nothing else.”

“What do you think?”

“I think there’s no letter or document in existence that proves your great-great-grandfather did anything to harm this city.”

Wilson folded his hands over his stomach and sank into his flesh.

“John Julius wasn’t stupid,” the mayor said. “Neither am I.”

“I understand that, sir.”

“Do you? My great-great-grandfather was a nickel-rubbing, power-greedy bastard. And he always came out on top. It’s a trait that runs in the family. Remember that, Mr. Kelly. You could use a friend in this office and by the looks of it-”

The mayor’s lips peeled back from his teeth, eyelids lifting for a moment to reveal eyes that were shockingly blue.

“I’m not going anywhere. At least for another term.”

“So we have a deal?” I said.

“If Kincaid announces he’s not going to run, we have a deal. On one condition.”

The mayor held up a hand. I could see the hint of his tongue and he seemed to be slightly out of breath. The whole affair was somehow exciting to him. Rolling dice on the Fifth Floor. Playing God with other people’s lives. It was his lifeblood. The lifeblood of Wilson’s ancestor and namesake, John Julius. A ruthless need to manipulate, to control, to dominate. Whatever the means and heedless of price. In such a world, there can be only one king. And he answers to no one, save the demon called paranoia.

“And what condition would that be, Mr. Mayor?”

“I need to know what it is you really want.”

“I laid it out for Patrick.”

Wilson nodded and settled in again. “I understand that. Problem is, Mr. Kelly, it’s not enough.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know my family’s history. Better than anyone. I think you’re aware of some things that might cause me problems.”

“I told you. I told your cousin. There’s no letter.”

“Fuck the letter. You still know-or at least think you know-what actually went on in 1871.”

“And if I do?”

“Then you have leverage. In my world, that makes you an enemy.”

“Funny, some people might think our chat the other night was all about leverage.”

Wilson lifted an eyebrow. “You mean the thing with the judge?”

I nodded.

“Sean Coyle’s an embarrassing story for Rachel Swenson,” Wilson said. “But she’d probably survive. Either way, I’m concerned it’s not enough to keep you in line.”

“All due respect, Mr. Mayor, you might just have to learn to live with that.”

Wilson wasn’t used to that particular collection of words coming at him. He poured himself a glass of water and took a sip.

“The way we usually do this is with a favor. A personal favor.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Something that binds me to you. Gives you back the edge.”

The mayor opened up his desk drawer, pulled out a manila folder, and threw it across the desk.

“Another file?” I said. “You guys never run out, do you?”

“Gerald O’Leary ran you off the force. He did it to cover up his own corruption and malfeasance. I told you before, I had nothing to do with it. I can, however, make O’Leary pay.”

I looked at the buff-colored folder. Thought about the day they slipped the cuffs on my wrists. The day I lost my shield, my reputation, my life. It seemed like a long time ago. Until I reached out and ran my hand across the file’s surface. Then it seemed like yesterday. The mayor laid out his favor.

“Gerald O’Leary has a zipper problem. Wife of thirty-two years, four kids. Wife’s name is Pat. I know her well.”

Wilson took another, longer sip of water. The man might be thirsty, but that didn’t prevent him from selling out his colleague of two decades.

“Anyway, turns out O’Leary is banging this young girl. Monday night maоtre d’ at Gibsons. She’s of legal age, but just barely. Doesn’t matter. The pictures will finish him.”

“The pictures in here?” I said, and brushed a finger along the open edge of the folder.

Wilson nodded, as if it were a shame this had to happen at all.

“I see this guy at St. Pat’s every Sunday. Really heartbreaking. Anyway, we get these photos to your pal, Jacobs, O’Leary’s career is done. Marriage done. Everything done.”

Wilson turned out his half smile again. There was a bit of food stuck between his front teeth. Must have been breakfast. I pushed the folder back into his lap.

“Not interested, Mr. Mayor. In fact, if these snaps see the light of day, our deal’s off.”

I stood up. Wilson remained where he was, staring at the chair I had just vacated. Then he looked up. It was a look that had served his family for generations. And it wasn’t pretty.

“You want to be an enemy?” he said.

“No, Mr. Mayor, I don’t. Told you at the beginning. I play things pretty much as they lie. Straight up.”

“Let the chips fall where they may?”

“Call it what you want. You abide by our deal. And you leave Rachel Swenson alone. Got nothing to fear from me.”

The mayor weighed my life, such as it was. Took a while. At least another sip and a half of good mayoral water. Then he shrugged, stretched out all six feet three inches, and came around the desk.

“My guys will call the reporter and set it up on the curator. What’s his name?”

“Randolph,” I said. “Lawrence Randolph.”

“Yeah, Randolph. Okay, we got it.”

“What’s it gonna be?” I said.

Wilson shrugged. “They’ll come up with something.” Then His Honor leaned in for a final word. “Just remember one thing, Kelly. It’s my city you live in. Every inch of it.”

The mayor placed a hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Now go get yourself something to eat. We just opened up a new place at Millennium Park. Great burgers.”

Wilson’s hand slipped off my shoulder and down my arm. Then he turned and walked to his windows. I opened the door and took a final look. The mayor had his back to me, looking out over his city, edges of buildings peeking through a torn curtain of gray. In an hour or so, the afternoon fog would be swallowed whole by an early dusk. Night would steal in and lights would come on: in the Sears Tower, the Hancock, and across two miles of steel and concrete in between. The darker it got, it seemed, the better the view. At least from the fifth floor.

T he hall outside the mayor’s office was empty. I was halfway toward the elevator when Willie Dawson stuck his head from around a convenient corner.

“Kelly,” the mayor’s aide whispered.

I shuffled over, trying to look furtive albeit not understanding why. Willie hustled me into a small office. It contained a wooden table with a cardboard box on top of it.

“He didn’t flame-broil your ass, like I suggested.”

“Thanks, Willie.”

“Should have flame-broiled your ass. Like a goddamn BK Whopper. Yessiree. ‘Gonna regret it,’ I told him.”

“What do you want, Willie?”

“Want? From you? Nothing. You’re nothing but trouble.”

Willie gestured down to the box on the table between us. For the first time I registered holes, poked into the box’s cover.

“Mayor wants you to have this.”

Willie took off the top. Inside was a pink baby’s blanket. Nestled inside the blanket was a puppy, brown and white with long ears and gold markings.

“What’s this?”

“The mayor’s springer had her litter. Mayor says you need one. Told me to make sure you got a female.”

I looked down. The pup opened one eye, then the other. I tried to look away, but it wasn’t easy. The pup yawned and rolled over on her back. Apparently, it was time for a belly rub.

“Pick her up, Kelly.”

I did. The pup licked the side of my face, burrowed her head into my chest, and promptly fell asleep. I looked over at Willie, who was fighting it but smiling all the same.