The Third Rail (8 page)

Another round kicked up maybe a foot to my left. I flinched
back into the wall, into cover that was not. Fear churned up and I used it to create resolve. I pushed away from the wall and walked back toward the door from which I'd entered. This time there was a whine and a ribbon of white sparks. A round had caught some steel and ricocheted away.

Unbidden, the face of an eleven-year-old girl jumped up in my mind. She'd been skipping rope outside a high-rise in the Robert Taylor Homes when a stray round off the pavement caught her in the head. I was a rookie cop and the first unit to respond. Her mom beat on my arms, my face, my badge, my chest. The blood of her daughter covered us both. The girl, however, was past caring.

I pushed the image away and kept walking alongside the track, edging down the long curved tunnel. I figured maybe he wasn't going to kill me, unless he just wanted to play a little first. So I kept walking, concentrating on each breath, the rise and spread of my ribs, the feel of the air on my skin, and the grit under my shoes. Then I was at the door, opened and closed behind me. Breath came in a cold rush, flooding my lungs, causing my heart to freeze and thump in my chest. I sat back against a wall and listened. Somewhere above me I heard the echo of a second door opening and closing. The access door at street level. My shooter had just left the building, his point made and received.

R
obles was up with the sun, drinking coffee and checking his gear. He'd only gotten two hours of sleep, but it would do. Thirty minutes later, he was walking across a soccer field, stiff with morning frost. Robles hefted the bag slung across his shoulders and grunted. The sky was just starting to lighten over the lake, and he could see the cold billow as he breathed. A woman and her dog materialized, maybe twenty yards away, jogging slowly down one side of the field. Robles kept his head down as their paths crossed. The jogger moved off the field and disappeared beneath an overpass. Robles waited five minutes. The jogger didn't return and the field was empty. He moved up a small incline and down the other side, to a sheltered stretch of ground. Spread out before him were eight lanes of highway, flowing north and south. Lake Shore Drive, dark and quiet, maybe forty-five minutes from rush hour.

Robles zipped open his duffel and pulled out a tripod. A couple of cars cruised by, headlights still on, heading toward the Loop. Robles took out a Nikon D300 SLR camera, fitted it to the tripod, and screwed on a zoom lens. Then he zipped up the bag and stashed it behind a stand of trees to his left. Robles
looked through the viewfinder and adjusted the focus. A woman and a small child popped into view. Robles glanced up. They were coming straight at him, driving an SUV down a nice, long stretch of road. Robles looked back through the viewfinder and counted off the seconds in his head. One, two, three ... The woman was smiling and drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. Four, five, six ... Robles could just make out the top of the kid's head above the dashboard. Seven, eight ... He looked up again. The SUV blew past in a puff of morning mist. Robles smiled. Perfect. He lensed a few more cars. Got timings for all eight lanes, but focused mostly on the traffic coming toward him. When he was done, Robles snapped a few general photos, wide-angle stuff, just in case anyone happened by and wondered why he was there. A photo documentary project. Then Robles crouched back among the trees and waited. For the traffic to build. And his cell phone to buzz.

I
woke up and smelled the coffee. Literally. There was someone in my house, and they were making a pot of joe. Whoever it was, at least they had the good sense to use my stash of El Diablo beans. Now if they'd only bring me a cup.

The second time I woke, the smell was stronger and the intruder closer, as in over my bed, cup in hand, smiling. Simply dream and ye shall receive.

"You're here," I said.

"I let myself in." Rachel Swenson put my coffee on the night table, leaned in, and kissed me. I'd gotten home at a little after four. I looked at the clock on my nightstand. It read 6:50.

"You staying or going?" I said.

"Going. I've got an early meeting."

"I'm thinking they can get along without you."

Rachel's smile was fragrant, even as she shook her head no. I ran my hand down her hip and imagined the slightest bit of maybe. That, of course, was the time Rodriguez picked to call.

"Hello," I said.

"You sound like hell."

"Fuck you. I just woke up."

The detective chuckled. "You ready to go?"

"Go where?"

"Lawson wants to meet us this morning at the Southport L. They finished processing the scene, but she's going up for another look."

"I told Hubert Russell I'd meet him for coffee."

"You bringing him in on this?"

"Could be. Why don't you tag along? Save me the trouble of explaining things twice."

"Explaining what?"

"Filter on Milwaukee. You know where it is?"

"Sure."

"Eight a.m. We can talk then."

I hung up. Rachel sat down beside me and I held her for a good thirty seconds. If I were smart, we never would have moved.

"Sounds like we both have full days," she said, leaning back and studying my face.

I hadn't had time yesterday for anything except a quick phone call, telling her I was involved in the thing at Southport and would explain later. Later, apparently, was now.

"What do you know?" I said, dropping my head back to the pillow.

"Well, I'm guessing you were the eyewitness the police are talking about in the Southport shooting."

"It's a little more complicated than that."

"I'm shocked."

"I bet you are."

"Fill me in."

"I can tell you I'm now attached to the task force working the case."

A frown. "Both shootings?"

I propped myself up on one elbow. "Yeah, they're connected. Hey, you know Katherine Lawson?"

Rachel Swenson was probably the smartest person I knew. Certainly the best looking. She was also a sitting judge for the Northern District of Illinois, which meant she knew the feds. Lots of them.

"Sure. Katherine's a bit of a star with the Bureau. You working this with her?"

"I get the feeling I am. Myself and Rodriguez."

"That should be interesting."

I wanted to pursue how and why Rachel found Agent Lawson so interesting. I also wanted to seriously get Her Honor into bed. Unfortunately, it was getting late for both of us.

"Let's make a date," I said.

"Dinner?"

"Tonight. No matter what."

"You cooking?"

"You feeling brave?"

"Seven o'clock, Kelly."

"Bring your appetite, woman."

I finished my coffee and swung my feet to the floor. Rachel touched me on the shoulder. "How deep are you in this thing?"

I heard the twinge in her voice and thought about the night before--my starring role as the duck in a shooting gallery.

"It's a task force, Rach. Probably just sit around a small office drinking bad coffee."

I hustled into the bathroom. Rachel followed.

"You don't need to lie, Michael."

She was leaning against the edge of the door frame. Some part of my brain registered her legs, which were great. The rest of me was in full avoidance mode.

"What do you want to hear?" I began to run water in the sink.

"Really?"

"Go ahead." I bent down and splashed some water around.

"Law school, Michael? Northwestern, Chicago? You'd love it, you'd be done before you know it, and you'd be a hell of a trial attorney."

It was Rachel Swenson's pet project. Trade my gun for a briefcase. Turn Michael Kelly into Clarence Darrow. I toweled my face dry and escaped back into the bedroom.

"I like what I do, Rach." I threw on some jeans and laced up a pair of New Balance 827s. "Even if I'm not any good at it."

"You're very good at it. And that's not the point."

I reached for my gun on the dresser. She caught my empty hand in hers.

"What is the point?" I said, forcing the question through my teeth.

"It's about growing up."

I pulled my hand away and found the gun. "What I do is pretty grown up." I clipped the nine to my belt.

"That's not what I meant."

I sat down on the bed. She didn't join me this time. "What I do is different."

"What you do is dangerous." Rachel loved to make lists. Now she ticked off my deadly sins on her fingers as she talked. "You work alone. No, you don't work. You hunt. That's what you do. You hunt human beings. Human beings who often hunt human beings themselves. You carry a gun
and routinely use it. You have no backup, no safety net. I don't even know if you have health insurance. Worst of all, you like it."

"And?" When overwhelmed by opposing forces, I liked to reach for the reliable conjunction.

"And where does it end? What's the career path here?"

"You mean do I end up getting a bullet in the neck for my trouble?"

"Yes, Michael. That would be nice to know. And it's not just you anymore. You understand that?"

The pup trotted into the room on cue, jumped up into Rachel's lap, and stared at me.

"Nothing I do is going to hurt you." I gestured around the room. "Hurt us."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do."

"How?"

"How what?"

"How can you make that promise? How can you say that and not know it's a lie?"

I turned my eyes down again, found my watch. "Listen, Rach, I gotta run. Hubert Russell is waiting and Vince might just start shooting things."

I winced at the choice of words, but Rachel didn't seem to notice. I kissed her on the top of the head, packed up Jim Doherty's files, and left.

As usual, the judge had all the right questions. As usual, I had nothing but jokes for answers.

F
ilter was in a section of the city called Bucktown. The neighborhood got its name from the goats Polish immigrants used to tie up in their front yards. Today the goats are gone, replaced by angst-ridden hipsters, spiked goths, and dewy-eyed emos. Pick a label and throw a blanket over them: what you have are a collection of just-out-of-college types, living in industrial lofts bought with what was left of their dad's cash, specializing in self-awareness and taking it all very seriously. Think yuppies with tattoos and no sense of humor.

I sat at a table near the window. My waitress stumbled her way across the floor on black platform shoes, wearing ripped jeans stuffed to overflowing and a T-shirt that read
WE NEVER SLEEP.
She was texting on her cell phone as she set down my cup of coffee.

"Could I get a pierogi with this?"

The woman nodded and began to wander away. Then she looked up from her phone and wrinkled her nose.

"A what?" She spoke in that flat, loud, cringe-inducing tone Americans are beloved for the world over.

"A pierogi. It's a Polish dumpling."

"We don't have them. We have carrot muffins."

I was about to launch into the history of Poles in Chicago, and pierogis in particular, when the waitress's cell phone came alive in her hand, bleating out the theme song from
Sanford and Son
. She beamed at her ring-tone choice as if it were a newborn and then returned to the unappetizing prospect of her job ... and yours truly.

"Listen, sir, I have things to do. You want something else?"

Hubert Russell drifted into view--baggy jeans, red sneakers, and backpack a perfect fit for the Filter vibe.

"My friend behind you might want something," I said.

The waitress rolled her eyes and flipped open her still-singing phone. "I'll call you back." She hung up without waiting for a response. Then she took Hubert's order for chai tea and moped away.

"What did you do to her?" Hubert settled into a chair across from me and pulled off a chili-red stocking hat. Underneath was a mop of black hair, tied back in a small ponytail.

"Nothing. How you doing?"

"Okay." Hubert began to unpack what I assumed was a nuclear-powered laptop. He kept his body turned away from me and his head slouched low between his shoulders. I knew there was a problem. Then the light coming through the window shifted and I knew why.

"What happened to your face?"

A shiver of anger settled in his jaw. Hubert turned toward me and blinked out of one eye. The other was partially closed and that was the good news. He had a ragged run of stitches holding together the upper half of his eyelid and swelled up into his brow. The left side of his lower lip had caught some thread too, and I bet whatever had happened might have cost him some teeth.

"Was it just fists or something else?" I said.

"No offense, Mr. Kelly, but I don't want to talk about this."

"Not how things work, Hubert. You look out for your friends. And your friends look out for you."

"Maybe I don't need looking out for?"

"Really. You take care of the truck that hit your face?"

Hubert tried to smile, but it looked like it hurt.

"Let me ask you something," I said. "You want to live your life like this?"

"Like what?"

"Scared, ashamed. Pretending whatever it is, it's not a big deal."

"Not right now, Mr. Kelly." The pleading edge in his voice tugged at the fabric of denial that lay bunched between us.

"We're gonna talk," I said. "Later, for sure."

Hubert took a sip of his tea. "Can we do the case now?"

I shook my head and gave him the bare bones. Most of it he had already picked up from the news.

"We have one at least solid lead," I said. "Guy dumped his rifle in an alley after the shooting downtown."

"He never would have done that if it could have been traced, right?"

"You'd be surprised at how careless these guys can get," I said.

"Guys?"