The Third Rail (6 page)

Robles pointed at the locked door. "And let me do what I want with the girl."

"Actually, that's the other thing I wanted to talk about."

The two men walked over to a window covered in sheer plastic and looked down at what remained of Cabrini-Green's once-notorious nightlife. In a breezeway, a solitary figure huddled against a stiffening wind, waiting for someone to drive up and buy his drugs. Half a block down, a woman stamped her feet against the cold and smoked a cigarette while a second walked small circles under a streetlight. After a while the men moved away from the window and made their plans. Then Nelson left. Robles smoked his own cigarette down and looked up at a starless sky. When he was finished, he got a length of rope, some tape, and his knife. He went over to the locked door and opened it with the key. The girl screamed, but only for a minute. After that Robles had all the time in the world. Or at least until Nelson returned.

E
vergreen Park never changes. Row after row, block after block, the brick bungalows march on, each a story and a half high, each featuring a Post-it-size backyard, each identical to the next save for the number on the front that tells the mailman where to leave what. I parked at the corner of Albany and Ninety-fourth and walked a half block until I found the house I was looking for. The shades were pulled tight, and there was no answer when I rang the bell. I took out a card and slipped it under the door.

I was almost back to my car when the curtain I'd been waiting for twitched next door. It's the way things work on the Irish South Side--from the cars people drive to the newspapers they tuck under their arms; the cut of their clothes and the length of their hair; the shape of their faces, and, of course, the color of their skin. All of it is filtered through the curtain that covers over the South Sider's front window. Tells people everything they need to know before they ever open their door and bid the stranger a cautious hello.

I walked toward the house with the nervous curtain and hoped I'd passed muster. The door cracked its seal even as I reached for the buzzer. I could smell mothballs and peppermint.
A small pink face peeked out and a pair of bright blue eyes blinked.

"Hi," I said. "I'm looking for your neighbor, Jim Doherty."

The door opened another three inches to reveal a head of white hair.

"You looking for Jimmy?" the old woman said.

I nodded. "He's an old police buddy of mine. Thought I might catch him in."

The woman moistened her lips at the new morsel of information. I was now a cop, which helped a lot in this neighborhood.

"What's your name?" she said.

"Michael Kelly."

The door creaked all the way open. "Peg McNabb. Come on in."

She walked back to a yellow couch covered in plastic. I sat in a matching yellow chair, also covered in plastic. A TV ran WGN's news in the corner with the sound muted. A clock ticked on one wall, and a couple of crucifixes framed a picture of JFK on the opposite wall. Underneath the picture was a small table, with a Bible and some holy water in a glass bottle. Peg had her dinner, a sliver of gray meat, potatoes, and peas, on a metal tray in front of her.

"He's not home," she said and gummed down a mouthful of spuds.

"Any idea when he might be back?"

"Not sure." Peg cut off a small piece of meat and chewed it up in quick bites. Then she raised her head and howled, "Denny."

Her voice summoned forth two creatures from the darkness beyond the hallway. The first was an old man, long and alabaster white, wearing a blue T-shirt and red pajama bottoms.
He had a toothpick in his mouth, thick dark glasses perched on his nose, and a can of Old Style hanging loose in one hand. The second figure was an echo of the first, right down to the plastic glasses and beer, except he was thirty years younger.

"This is Denny and Denny Jr.," Peg said. "Junior's just visiting."

I nodded at the pair of them. Life sometimes moved in a closed and curious circle on the South Side.

"He's looking for Jim." Peg's duty done, she turned up the volume on the TV. Tom Skilling was telling us it was still warm for this time of year, but probably going to get colder. Peg grumbled at Tom under her breath. Her husband took a seat on the couch. Her son wandered back to the kitchen and, presumably, dinner.

"You looking for Jimmy?" Denny McNabb wrinkled his already wrinkled forehead.

"He's an old cop buddy of mine," I said.

"Chicago cop?"

"Yeah. I was on the force with Jim just before he retired."

"I was gonna say, you're kind of young to have been working with old Jim."

Denny grinned at his own cleverness and looked over to his wife for a bit of silent applause. Peg ignored him, as the five-day forecast was on. The old man found some solace in his can of beer and returned to our conversation.

"Jimmy comes and goes. We always say he's retired, but you'd never know it. On the go, all the time."

I nodded. "Any idea when he might be back in town?"

"I didn't say he was out of town."

"Is he in town?"

"Saw him this morning, didn't we?" Peg bobbed her head in confirmation, and Denny Sr. continued, "He waved hello. Jumped in his car and was off. Well, speak of the devil."

True to his South Side roots, Denny was keeping an eye on the front window. There, through the curtain, was Jim Doherty, large as life, rolling through the night and up the front walk. Denny pulled the door open before Doherty had made it halfway to the stoop. I stepped out. My pal shook his head and laughed.

"Jesus H. Christ. Michael Kelly." Doherty held out his hand, and I grasped it. The grip was rough and strong.

"You looking for me?" the retired cop said.

"Sort of," I said. "How did you know?"

"I didn't. Just thought I'd stop in and say hello to these two. That your car?" Doherty jerked a thumb toward the street.

I nodded. "These folks saw me at your door. Kind enough to help me track you down."

Denny and Peg hopped around Jim Doherty like he was Irish royalty, if such a thing exists.

"Thanks for hauling him in here," Doherty said.

Denny nodded. "Told him you'd be around, Jimmy." The old woman moved aside to let Doherty into the house.

"No, no, Peg. Michael here is a busy man." Doherty glanced my way. I nodded in agreement.

"I'm just going to take him over for a cup of tea and a chat. I'll come by tomorrow and we can catch up." Jim winked at the couple and nudged me down the walk. I felt their eyes on my back as I moved away. Doherty swung his arms by his sides and laughed as we walked.

"Fuck's sake, Kelly. You get inside that house, you'll be lucky to come out at all. I'm here."

The ex-cop turned down his driveway, toward the back door. On the South Side, front doors were for first-time visitors. Everyday traffic knew better and went around back.

"You want some tea," Doherty said and hung his coat on a hook in the kitchen. I shrugged. Doherty steered me toward a large table.

"Sit down. I got what you want in the other room."

"You know why I'm here?"

Doherty used a match to light the stove and put on a kettle. "Course I know why you're here. Now sit down. You're making me nervous."

Y
ou look good, Michael."

I hadn't seen Jim Doherty in maybe five years, since the day he retired and we drank Guinness together at a pretty good Irish place called Emmit's. I'd meant to call him. Even made notes for myself. But never got to it.

"Thanks, Jim. It's been a while. How you doing?"

Doherty widened his eyes in mock surprise. The smile that followed wiped away my years of neglect.

"No complaints, actually. In fact, retirement suits me pretty well."

Doherty waved a hand around the house. His bungalow was identical to his neighbors', except this one didn't feature a crucifix, or even JFK, on the wall. In fact, the whole house felt bare. No pictures, no paintings. Just a few shelves, heavy with books. Otherwise, only what was needed to live.

"I know," he said, "it looks depressing. Some pots and pans and an old cop waiting to die. Right?"

I shook my head. Doherty, however, was never one to cut corners.

"Bullshit. That's exactly what it looks like, because maybe
that's exactly what it is. And you know what? It's not all that bad."

My friend cast pale blue eyes into a future most of us try hard to ignore. His features seemed finer than I remembered; his skin, tissue thin and stretched tight over his skull.

"But you're not here for that sad story, are you, Michael?" Doherty glanced at the thick brown files he'd placed on the table between us.

"You think I'm crazy?" I said.

He shrugged. "What's crazy? In this game, you get hunches. Tell you the truth, I kind of thought the same thing myself."

"Yeah?"

"Yup. First thing jumped in my head when I heard about the shootings in the Loop. Same date. Same place." Doherty leaned in so I could hear the wheeze in his voice. "And I was there, Michael. Don't forget that."

He straightened his spine and stirred some sugar into his tea. "You got any other connections?"

"Actually, I do."

Doherty squeezed his eyes a fraction. He hadn't joined the force until he was in his thirties and never made it past sergeant. Still, the Irishman possessed a subtle thread of intelligence. The kind that made you wonder sometimes if you were playing checkers while he was quietly playing chess.

"I knew there had to be more," Doherty said. "Said that to myself the minute I saw your face pop out of the house next door. I said, 'That fucking Kelly. He's running down those old streets again.'"

Doherty flipped open one of the files and thumbed through a stack of photos as he talked. The fingers were still thick and hard. The hands of a cop. Retirement or no. "So what else do you got, son?"

"I was on the platform at Southport this morning," I said.

"The first shooting?"

I nodded. "Chased the guy for a couple of blocks."

"Didn't catch him, I take it?"

"He caught me up in an alley. Put a gun on me, but didn't pull the trigger."

Doherty put down the old photos and rubbed an index finger along his lower lip. "And you think he was laying for you?"

"I know he was. After the second shooting, he called me."

"The shooter called you?"

"I'm thinking there's two of them, but, yeah, one called. Hit me on my cell phone."

Doherty chuckled. "Fucking balls. What did he say?"

"Bragged about the killings. All that sort of bullshit. But he called me by name and knew a little bit about me. Mentioned Homer."

"Homer? As in
Iliad
and
Odyssey
Homer?"

"One and the same."

The Irishman walked to the sink and considered his reflection in a window. "And you're wondering if this could all tie into the old case?"

"That's why I'm here, Jim."

He poured some more hot water into his mug and sat down again with the files. "I always kept track of this one, Michael."

"I know. You keep in touch with any of them?"

"Some are dead. Some just old. Their sons, daughters ..." Doherty shrugged off a generation. "They don't always feel it like they would have. You know what I mean?"

I nodded. There was no substitute for being there. "So you think there's no connection?"

"I didn't say that. There could be. Or maybe it's just a coincidence.
Maybe these guys are using you as some sort of decoy."

"That's what the feds think."

"FBI?"

"They're running the case. I met with them today."

"What about Chicago PD?"

"They got a man at the table, but the feds are calling the shots."

"Tread lightly, Michael."

"I hear you. What does your gut say on the connection?"

"Honestly?" Doherty tickled his fingers across the files. "I think all of this bothers you more than you want to know. Always has, for some reason."

"And so I see ghosts?"

"Could be. Is the Bureau letting you in?"

"Bits and pieces but, mostly, no."

"So you want to run this down all by yourself?"

"I could use a fresh set of eyes, if that's what you're asking."

"I wasn't. These eyes are past their prime. And I was never even a detective to begin with."

"You were good enough to be one, and you've lived with this case your whole life."

Doherty's chuckle faded to nothing. "You're welcome to whatever I have. If you get a crazy idea you want to run by someone, I'm here."

"But otherwise?"

"Otherwise, I'm old. I know that sounds lame, but, believe me, you'll get there someday and know what I'm talking about. Besides, I have you to do my bidding."

"Fair enough, Jim."

It was an effort, but my friend managed a smile. "Good.
Now let me walk you through this stuff and get you the hell out of here."

Then Jim Doherty opened up a file. It was full of papers and pictures. Full of the future, staring up at me through my past.

I WAS NINE YEARS OLD
and sat in the last seat on the second-to-last car of Chicago's Brown Line, listening to the creak of steel and wood, swaying as the train rattled around a corner, watching the Loop's gray buildings slide past. A man sat across the aisle from me. He had a thin face he kept angled toward his shoes, a long black coat, and his hands jammed into his pockets. Three rows down was a young couple, their heads thrown together, the woman wearing a thick green scarf and glancing up every now and then at the route map on the wall
.

The train jolted to a stop at LaSalle and Van Buren. I snuck a look as the conductor came through a connecting door in the back, pressed a button, and mumbled into the intercom. His voice sounded stretched and tinny over the cheap system. Something about the Evanston Express. His red eyes moved over me without a flicker. Then he craned his head out the window, looked down the platform, and snapped the car doors shut. As the train started to move again, the conductor disappeared into the next car, and the thin man slid into the seat next to me
.