The Third Rail (18 page)

"I took a ten-minute time frame for this morning," the detective said. "Centered it around seven." He showed me his list. "There were three firehouse calls. One in the Loop. One on the Northwest Side and one on the Near North."

I put my finger on the third address. "This one's three blocks from Cabrini."

Rodriguez nodded. "Maria Jackson was grabbed there. Let me see that video again."

He double-speeded through it until he found the image he
wanted. It was a wider shot, revealing a piece of the room behind Rachel.

"The wall behind her." Rodriguez pointed to a section of crumbling drywall. "At the very edge of the frame, you can just see the hole."

I looked closely. The detective was right.

"Tunnels," I said. "You thinking high-rise?"

"If it is, there's only one left standing in Cabrini."

I knew we should call for backup. I knew we should coordinate with the task force. I also knew Rachel was maybe less than a mile away. "Give me an hour before you call in the troops."

Rodriguez shook his head. "Fucking Kelly. Let's go before I change my mind."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. How do we play it once we get inside?"

"If he's there, he dies."

"That's what I figured." Rodriguez pulled out a snub-nosed revolver and laid it on the table. "Just in case."

I slipped on a pair of leather gloves. Then I picked up the gun and put it in my pocket.

"Let's go."

T
he building sat fifteen stories high on an otherwise empty lot near the corner of Division and Halsted. Its outer porches were covered over in steel mesh, its pale concrete skin stitched with graffiti. The lower floors were boarded up, while the top two featured large black holes where windows once stood.

Rodriguez and I approached along Division. A couple of kids watched from a breezeway across the street and then melted into a two-story low-rise.

"Gangs usually tunnel between apartments on the top two or three floors," Rodriguez said. "I'm thinking we start there and work down."

"This place supposed to be empty?" I said.

The detective shrugged. "Don't count on it."

We came up on a back entrance. The plywood that covered it over had been pried loose, and we slipped inside. Dim light and a current of warm air greeted us. The high-rise might have been a shell, but the city was still heating it and providing electricity. We picked our way through the lobby, sectioned off with scratched Plexiglas. Metal mailboxes scored with bullet
holes ran along one wall, and the linoleum floor was covered with broken glass and a handful of syringes.

Rodriguez motioned up and took the lead. We climbed the staircase in single file, guns drawn. An elevator door stood open next to the fourth-floor stairwell. I glanced down into the black hole. A set of eyes looked back.

"What the fuck?" A head popped up from the hole, hands already behind his head, gaze fixed on the barrel of my gun. "You guys five-oh?"

Rodriguez pulled the young man out of the shaft and shoved him up against the wall. The kid was maybe fifteen and held a narrow, angled head atop a precariously long neck. He wore loose baggy jeans and an oversize Chicago Bulls jacket.

"What's your name?" Rodriguez said.

"Chubby. You five-oh?"

"Shut up." Rodriguez took out a small flashlight and shined it into the shaft. All eighty-five pounds of Chubby had been sitting, or maybe sleeping, on the top of the elevator car that sat just a few feet below us.

"How long you been here?" I said.

"I come in once, maybe twice a week. Get warm. Sleep a little."

"You seen anyone around?" I said.

"What you mean by 'anyone'?" Chubby's voice rose at the prospect of perhaps having a card to play.

"A guy who doesn't belong," I said. "And a woman."

Chubby shook his head. "No woman. Seen a white dude. Maybe yesterday. Don't think he saw me, but he was coming from upstairs."

"You get a look at the guy?" I said.

Chubby smiled. "White dudes all look the same to me."

Rodriguez grabbed the kid by the collar. I glanced at the detective, who let the kid go. Chubby stepped back and watched both of us closely.

"You know which floor the white guy might have been coming from?" I said.

"I'd say top floor. No one else up there for sure."

"Why's that?" Rodriguez said.

"No wood on the windows. No heat. Colder than shit up there."

Rodriguez jerked his head toward the stairs. "I need you to go down into the lobby and wait. You're not there when I come down, I come looking for you. And that ain't good."

Chubby glanced back toward the elevator shaft. "I got some shit down there."

"Forget it," Rodriguez said. "Now get the fuck out of here before I lock you up."

Chubby didn't care about his stuff. Chubby also wasn't moving. "You slick boys goin' upstairs, best take me with you. I know how it works."

"How what works?" I said.

"The layout. Nigger can shift right down the hallway for you. See if your boy's there and tell you exactly where. Now, how much that worth?"

I put my gun to his nose, and Chubby's grin fell apart at the seams.

"You want to help?" I said.

Chubby kept his eyes on the gun. I took that as a yes.

"Do just what we say and don't say a word unless we ask you a question. You got it?"

Chubby nodded.

"Okay," I said. "Get behind us and follow."

And so we began to climb again, traveling on the edge of
Dante's circles--also known as Chicago public housing. Twice we heard a groan, once a thick whisper and some quick footsteps. Each time, Chubby slipped away, only to return with a nod to keep climbing. Eleven flights later, we hit the top.

"This is it," Chubby said, hunched in the stairwell. "No heat up here. Only safe place for a white man."

I edged my head around the corner and took a look down the corridor. Our guide was right. The wind was whistling through blown-out windows, dropping the temperature to whatever it was outside. I could only see two units on my left. Neither had doors on them. I ducked back into the stairwell.

"Any of the apartments up here have doors," I said.

Chubby shook his head. "Not likely."

"You think you could take a look for us?" Rodriguez said.

"Sure."

"Go ahead," I said. "Just walk down the hall and right back. Nice and slow. We'll be watching."

I stepped back and motioned with my gun. Chubby eased past us and around the corner. Thirty seconds later, he was back.

"Know exactly where your boy is."

I felt my heart jump and my fingers itch.

"How so?" Rodriguez said.

"Last apartment on the right," Chubby said. "Got a door and maybe a lock on it. Gotta be your boy."

"That unit tunneled out?" I said.

"They all got tunnels up here," Chubby said.

"Stay here," Rodriguez said.

I crept around the corner and moved down the hallway, the detective on my shoulder. Chubby was right. None of the units had doors, until we got to the last. We stacked on either
side. I took a deep breath and nodded. Rodriguez raised his boot and kicked in the door. I went first, ducking low and scooting along the wall. It was warmer in here, fetid, with fractures of light cutting up the floor. I saw a shape and moved toward it. Somewhere behind me, Rodriguez yelled "Police." I was turning over a body and staring down at a young black man, eyes open, dead. There was a second boy close by. I took off my glove and felt for a pulse. Blood greased my fingers as Rodriguez ripped the shade off a window covered over in plastic. The apartment's north wall had been boarded up, sealing the unit off from the rest of the floor. The opposite wall had a huge hole in it. Rodriguez ducked through it and popped back out.

"Bedroom. Clear."

An empty chair sat in the middle of the main room. A second interior door stood ajar to my left. Rodriguez eased the door open with his foot and ducked in.

"He must have moved her." The detective's voice drifted back through the unit. I was staring at the chair Rachel had sat in just a few short hours ago.

"Kelly, you hear me?"

I kicked the chair across the room. "I heard you. He knew Rachel had tipped me on the video. Knew I'd come here."

"Couldn't have taken her too far," Rodriguez said and paused. "Kelly, come in here."

I walked into the third room. Rodriguez had his back to me and was running his flashlight over what looked like a bed. I moved up behind him and felt my throat tighten. The mattress was stained with blood.

"Looks like those stains have been here awhile," Rodriguez said. "There's more on the floor. I'm thinking Maria Jackson."

The detective turned toward me. He held a buff-colored envelope between his fingers.

"What's that?" I said.

"It was taped to the wall over the bed. Got your name on it."

I turned the envelope over. There was my name in block letters. Inside was a single photo. It was an old shot. Denny McNabb wore a White Sox hat and Peg had what looked like a can of Old Style in her hand.

"Who are they?" Rodriguez said.

"Jim Doherty's neighbors."

"Someone's playing games."

"Yeah."

Rodriguez sighed and kicked at some stray glass on the floor. I slid down against the wall and studied the photo.

"I can't keep a lid on this much longer," Rodriguez said. "Not with the bodies next door."

"Bring Lawson in now."

"You sure?"

I looked down at my cell. The text message light was blinking. It was from Hubert Russell.

"Yeah. Have her get a team in here. Get someone over to pick up Hubert as well. Tell Lawson I need two hours. Then they can move on the South Side."

"You think she'll go along?"

"She wants this guy dead. And she wants it off the books. I'm betting she gives me the window."

"What about Rachel?"

I wasn't going to ride to her rescue. At least not the way I'd planned. Instead, it was gonna have to be his way.

"I'm thinking you take Chubby and work the neighborhood. If this guy moved her, it had to be today. Maybe someone saw something."

Rodriguez crouched down so our eyes were level. "Two
hours. Then we come. And remember, don't wait on this prick. You get a shot, take it."

The detective straightened and walked into the other room. I could hear him on his cell, making his first calls, cranking up the logistics on a team for Cabrini. I needed to get going. Instead, I flipped open my cell and clicked on the first of Hubert's texts. The message was one line:

Hubert had attached a JPEG image file. I opened it.

"Vince," I said. He stuck his head through the hole in the wall, held up a finger, and finished up his call.

"What is it?" the detective said.

I showed him the picture Hubert had sent me. And, more important, the date that it was taken. And that's when everything changed.

H
ubert sat back and listened to the sounds outside his window. Then he entered a new command into his computer and waited. He'd been pulling at this string for a while. It kept his mind off the bruises on his face.

A batch of search results popped up on the screen. Hubert clicked on one and began to read. After a few minutes he pulled out Jim Doherty's files and pored through the old clippings a second, then a third time. Hubert shook his head. He glanced toward the kitchen knife lying flat on his desk and grinned. Like he could ever stick that into anyone.

Hubert opened up the text message and photo he'd sent out earlier in the day and thought about its implications. He wanted to try Kelly's cell again, but decided to wait until he had the details worked out. Hubert punched up the camera built into his Mac and hit
RECORD.
He talked for twenty minutes, laying out his thoughts while they were fresh, speculating about the curious things that were popping up in Jim Doherty's old files. He had just started a new recording file when there was a sound outside in the hallway. Hubert terminated the recording, sending a copy to Kelly, and got up. He glanced at the knife a second time, but left it on the desk and walked to the door.

R
odriguez and I agreed. This guy had been wired into us from the start and it had to stop. No cell phone contact. No e-mail. Rodriguez would coordinate with Lawson and handle Cabrini. I'd head to the South Side and whatever waited. Somewhere along the line, I hoped one of us would find Rachel. Alive.

I checked my watch. It had already been almost an hour. I cruised the neighborhood one more time. Checked Jim Doherty's house. Then Denny and Peg McNabb. Both looked empty. Locked up tight.

I parked two blocks away and stepped out of my car. Wind from the east screamed high in the bare trees, rattling storm doors and blowing paper bags across the street. I crept through a patchwork of yards. It was dark, but I'd done my homework and didn't make a sound. Ten minutes later, I slipped over a fence, into the McNabbs' backyard. It took me less than two minutes to work the lock to the basement door free. I half expected to hear Peg's TV going upstairs, but there was nothing. I pulled out the revolver Rodriguez had given me, crept up the cellar stairs, and into the kitchen.

They were both on the floor, facedown, hands tied behind
their backs. Denny had managed to wrap one of Peg's fingers in his. And that was how I found them. Each with a single gunshot wound to the back of the head.

I checked upstairs, but the rest of the place was empty. Then I sat in the kitchen with the old couple and watched light from the street play across the house next door. A shape moved behind a window. Or maybe I just wanted it to be so. Either way, I was over the fence in what felt like a heartbeat and pressed up against the side of Jim Doherty's bungalow. Taped to the back door was a picture, flickering in the night. It was the same image Hubert Russell had sent to my phone. At least we were all on the same page.