The Fifth Floor (13 page)

“What’s the problem, Willie?”

Dawson gave his head a shake and turned back to his filing. “You know what’s the matter. It’s been what-two, three years and he can’t even stand the mention of your name.”

“When has my name been mentioned?”

“Never.”

Willie turned around and leaned across his desk. The smell hadn’t gotten any better. Cheap cigars, bad teeth, and something like Vitalis. If they still made Vitalis. If not, Willie probably had some stashed away.

“And it’s not going to get mentioned,” he said. “Not by me, anyway.”

“Got an election coming up.”

“Thanks for the news flash. Mayor got eighty-six percent of the vote last time out.”

“Mitchell Kincaid wasn’t the other name on the ballot.”

Willie chuckled and shuffled some papers. “Mitchell Kincaid. Fuck Mitchell Kincaid. He’s a nobody.”

Willie Dawson was black. Mitchell Kincaid was black. Kincaid, however, didn’t sign Willie Dawson’s checks. The mayor did.

“Is that what you came up here for? Talk to me about Mitchell-fucking-Kincaid?”

“No, Willie, this isn’t about Kincaid. Just a feeling I got.”

Willie had stacked and restacked all the paperwork he could find. Now he sat down, propped a pair of green Converse high-tops on his desk, and stared out a window he didn’t have.

“A feeling, huh?”

“Yeah, a feeling.”

The first line of sweat decorated Willie’s upper lip. He wiped it away, pulled his feet to the floor, and angled closer.

“Your last feeling, half the sheriff’s office went upstate.”

“Six guys, Willie. There were a lot more should have been with them.”

“Six was enough, Kelly. Six senior guys. Joe Dyson, two months from retirement. You know what he’s doing now? Let me tell you.”

Willie’s chair creaked and his voice dropped to a hiss. “He’s pissing through a tube and crapping into a bag. Know why? He had a stroke. Second month in the joint. A stroke. Paralyzed. No bodily functions. Doing his five years in a fucking prison hospital. Not that it matters.”

I’d heard about Dyson. Even felt bad about it. But not bad enough. The back of my neck began to burn a bit. I pulled a pen and a pad of paper from across Willie’s desk and began to write.

“This is the address of Kim Bishop. She lived over on the West Side. Henry Horner Homes. Joe Dyson sat her husband, Ray, on a radiator. Inside a prosecutor’s office. Ray confessed to three separate murders. Hell, he would have confessed to killing Jesus Christ himself. See, Willie, his flesh was cooking. And it was going to cook until he talked.”

I pushed the pad back across the desk.

“I was there when they gave Ray the needle. So was Kim. The needle for three murders Ray had nothing to do with. Thanks to Joe Dyson, a cop who just wanted to get ahead. You go tell Joe’s story to Kim. Maybe you two can go to church together.”

Willie ripped out the page and threw it into a wastebasket under his desk. Then he turned his back on me again. The burn subsided, the pulse slowed. I had overplayed my hand.

“Listen, Willie, I don’t expect any warm welcome up here. I’m just telling you, there’s something going on you want to know about. You didn’t listen last time. I’m telling you now.”

Ever so slowly, the chair turned. Willie was nothing if not shrewd. He didn’t have to like me to be that.

“Could be bad, Willie. Worse than Dyson. Could be flat-out murder.”

“Coming out of the Fifth Floor? Murder? What, the mayor is whacking people now?”

“Willie, listen.”

“No, Kelly. You listen. What is it with you? Every time you come around, you got a hard-on for the mayor. What did he ever do to you? You think you lost your badge ’cause of him? Wrong. You brought that on yourself. He didn’t necessarily want you out. That was the county’s call.”

“He didn’t stop it.”

“Not the fucking point,” Willie hissed. “So you do have a hard-on for the mayor. You know what, get the hell out of here. You could be wearing a wire right now, for all I know. Murder. Get the fuck out before I call downstairs.”

Willie stood up. I had worn out my welcome, which wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

“I need to see Johnny Woods,” I said.

“So go see him. He’s not my fucking problem.”

“Where’s his office?”

Dawson gestured down the hall.

“Thanks, Willie. I’ll see you around.”

I left Dawson in his cubbyhole, head again deep in his filing cabinet. Willie’s mind, however, wasn’t on his paperwork. He was thinking about murder. An election. And the mayor. Pretty soon Willie would start talking. Probably about all three. Sometimes, that was all it took to get things going.

I was halfway down the hallway when Johnny Woods came around the corner and nearly ran into me. He was carrying a folder in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. A small woman, curly brown hair, perfume, and curves, followed in his wake. Woods stopped short and saved his coffee from spilling on both of us.

“Whoa, sorry about that, fella.”

Johnny gave me his best guy smile. I gave him one right back.

“That’s okay, Johnny. I was just coming to see you.”

Woods gave the woman a quick nervous look. “We know each other?”

I offered a hand. Out of reflex, the mayor’s man grasped it.

“No, but we have some mutual friends,” I said. “Name’s Michael Kelly.”

I could see Woods trying to place the name. Then he did. And didn’t like it at all.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Kelly?”

“Maybe we could go into your office?”

Woods gave a halfhearted nod and led the way. His office consisted of white walls and a blue carpet. His desk was standard issue, gray gunmetal. The credenza behind him was filled with pictures of Woods and the mayor, signing bills, cutting ribbons, breaking ground. All the usual bullshit stuff politicians take pictures of. I sat on a metal chair with red padding. Woods had a nice leather one and eased himself into it.

“I assume you’re the same Michael Kelly who got himself booted off the force a while back?”

“I’m a private investigator now.”

“I know. You took down Bennett Davis last year, if I recall.”

“You recall well.”

“That was quite a high-profile thing.”

“Murder usually is. Especially when the killer is also a county prosecutor.”

Woods straightened some papers and adjusted a silver picture frame facing him on his desk. I caught a glimpse of Taylor. She was holding what looked like a good-size muskie. Woods had an arm around his stepdaughter. Seemed like a man who liked his life. At least, for that moment in time. Then the snapshot disappeared and the city fixer cleared his throat.

“So tell me, Mr. Kelly. What can I do for you?”

“It’s about a house on Hudson. Number 2121. Lovely place, turn of the century, stained glass, wooden floors, and a dead guy hanging off the second-floor railing.”

The blood in Woods’ face drained into his feet. He looked past me to see if his door was closed. Fortunately for him, it was.

“Ring a bell, Johnny?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Maybe this is something I should take to the police. Or, better yet, the press.”

I dropped a small black memory card onto the desk between us.

“Know what that is, Johnny?”

Woods didn’t say anything. Just looked at the card. I thought he was having one of those out-of-body moments they talk about on Oprah, but I couldn’t be sure.

“That’s a memory card from my digital camera,” I said. “It’s got about nine shots on it. Time-stamped. Of you walking down Hudson. Into the house and back out again. I’m afraid you look a bit rushed on the way out.”

The card was actually empty. Johnny didn’t need to know that. He’d been inside the house on Hudson and knew it. Now he knew I knew. That was all that mattered.

“What do you want, Kelly?”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why the house on Hudson? Why Allen Bryant? What the fuck does the mayor’s hatchet man want with all of that? And murder on top of it?”

“Jesus, Kelly. Enough already. The boss is five doors down.”

“I assume this was a job for him.”

“Don’t assume anything. That’s rule number one. As for murder, like you said, I was as shook as anyone when I walked into the goddamn house. Christ, I’d never seen anything like that.”

Woods reached for a pitcher of water on his desk and poured himself a glass.

“Never seen a dead guy, Woods?”

“Honestly? Outside of a funeral home, no.”

“Who did you tell?”

“About me being inside Hudson? Nobody. Not yet. Been trying to figure it out.”

I figured Woods was telling the truth. At least, as far as he went. There was more, of course. There was always more.

“Have you talked to the police?” Woods said. “No, you couldn’t have. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. What is this? Blackmail? Jesus Christ, I got nothing.”

“I’m not here to blackmail anyone, Johnny. If I wanted to do that, I’d take my memory card five doors down. I told you what I want to know. Why did you go to see Bryant in the first place? What’s the connection to downtown?”

“I can’t get into that.”

“No, huh?”

Woods shook his head and gave me the look of someone who didn’t know what he was made of inside and was deathly afraid of finding out.

“Let me explain something to you, Johnny. When you walked into that house, you walked into a murder. When you fled the scene-and you did flee the scene. I have some great shots of you getting into a Checker. Even got the tag number so we can track down the cabbie. Anyway, when you fled the scene, you became suspect number one. By my count, there is no suspect number two. What does all that mean? Even you can figure it out. Whatever you were doing there, it won’t matter. I go public and the Fifth Floor drops you like a bad habit. Police arrest you and it’s over. Your career, your life. Everything except your picture on the front page and a steady diet of prison sex. They’d enjoy a beefy guy like you, by the way. That’s your future, Johnny, and it’s all just a phone call away. So you figure out if it’s worth it to play the stiff-upper-lip routine for the mayor. Of course, maybe he’ll stand by you when it goes bad. What do you think?”

Woods looked at me. Then out the window. Then back at me.

“You’re a real motherfucker, aren’t you? I mean, I heard about you but, hell, I’m just doing a job here.”

“If it wasn’t a dirty job, you got no problems.”

“Christ, Kelly, it’s politics. What the fuck do you expect?”

“Tell me about it. If I can keep you out, I will.”

Woods hesitated, but not too long. Sometimes when you look inside, it doesn’t take that long. I think this was one of those times.

“Okay, I’ll give you some details, but not here. Not now.”

“When?”

“Give me a number. I’ll call you.”

I scribbled down my cell number and shoved it across the desk. “Don’t wait too long, Johnny.”

He nodded.

“And make sure you have a story ready about why you met with me this morning. The mayor will want to know.”

Another nod.

“And make sure your girlfriend outside backs you up. They’re the ones who always get you.”

This time Woods just looked at me. Moved his lips and nothing else. “Close the door behind you.”

I did. The person with the curves was sitting at her desk, trying hard to pretend she wasn’t trying hard to listen through her boss’s door. It was a thick door. I figured she got every other sentence. Tops.

“Your boss wants to see you,” I said.

She got up, swift and stiff, head down, eyes averted, and slipped inside Johnny Woods’ inner sanctum. I was twenty feet down the hall and could still hear Johnny when he started to yell. Maybe the door wasn’t so thick after all.

I was waiting for the elevator and thinking about lunch when the door with the word mayor on it swung open. Three men came out and checked the hallway. A moment later, the man himself walked out. Through a tangle of arms and legs I could see the lean frame, long arms, and pale, heavy-wristed hands. A body shifted and I caught the mayor’s face in profile. A dark brow crouched over darker eyes. Below that lay a blunt expanse of nose, long, pockmarked lines for cheeks, and thick lips the color of uncooked sausage. The mayor’s surname might be Irish, but his features carried more than a touch of Poland, from his mom’s side. The mix was not one to win any beauty contests. In Chicago circles, however, it was every bit the potent political offering.

The mayor checked his watch as his minions circled in a tight orbit. Then Wilson’s eyes traveled down the hall, flicking over me like a cold shadow before returning with a bit of interest. The mayor leaned his head an inch or so to the left and whispered into the ear of the man next to him. It was his cousin Patrick Wilson, also known as the brains of the family. Not that the mayor was dumb. Just simple. Like a shark is simple. Single-minded. Relentless. Looking for an easy meal.

“Michael Kelly.” The mayor’s cousin stepped forward and offered a hand. I took it.

“Hi, Patrick.”

Patrick Wilson was easy to like. He loved to smile, shake hands, and talk about “win-win situations.” I believe that was the phrase he used just before they flushed my career as a cop. In the parlance of the Fifth Floor, Patrick was known as the velvet glove. The hammer stood just behind him.

“Nice to see you,” Patrick said.

I heard a grumble. Or maybe it was a snort. Or maybe the mayor just scratched himself somewhere private and liked it. Whatever it was, the secret signal was given. Patrick Wilson immediately flared to the left. The mayor’s other two henchman spread out to the right. I stepped into the semicircle as the elevator behind me chimed. No one took any notice. I shook the mayor’s hand as his crew checked me out from a variety of angles. This was always how it was with the mayor. Sort of like an audience with a Mob boss, only we were standing in a corridor of City Hall.