“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 hel o 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’l 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, Kel y. You get inside that house, you’l be lucky to come out at al. 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.”
CHAPTER 14
You 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 cal ed Emmit’s. I’d meant to cal 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 fol owed wiped away my years of neglect.
“No complaints, actual y. In fact, retirement suits me pretty wel.”
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 wal. 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.
“Bul shit. That’s exactly what it looks like, because maybe that’s exactly what it is. And you know what? It’s not al 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 skul.
“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. Tel 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?”
“Actual y, 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. Stil, the Irishman possessed a subtle thread of intel igence. 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 Kel y. 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 stil 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 al ey. Put a gun on me, but didn’t pul 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 cal ed me.”
“The shooter cal ed you?”
“I’m thinking there’s two of them, but, yeah, one cal ed. Hit me on my cel phone.”
Doherty chuckled. “Fucking bal s. What did he say?”
“Bragged about the kil ings. Al that sort of bul shit. But he cal ed 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 al 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 cal ing 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 al 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 al 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’l 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 hel out of here.”
Then Jim Doherty opened up a file. It was ful of papers and pictures. Ful 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 th
e 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.
“Hey, buddy.”
I didn’t say anything. Just tightened my fists and felt a patch of dryness at the back of my throat.
“Kid, you hear me?”
I gripped the handle of the hammer I kept in my pocket and focused my mind on the piece of bone where his jaw hinged. That’s where I’d go. Right fucking there.
“Where you getting off?” The thin man shifted closer, fingering the sleeve of my jacket, pressing me farther into the corner. I caught a flash of teeth, eyes rippling down the car to see if anyone was watching. His collar was loose around his throat and a blue-gray stubble ran down his jaw and cheeks. Underneath the scruff, the skin looked rough and scored.
“Fuck off, mister.” I tugged my sleeve free and started to pull the hammer out of my pocket. It wasn’t the best solution, but at least it was certain. And that felt good.
“Are you all right, young man?” The woman with the green scarf had moved softly. Now she stood in the aisle, close to us, eyes skimming over the thin man who burned with a bright smile.
“I’m fine, ma’am.” I slipped the hammer back in my pocket. “Just gonna change seats.”
Her face was plain and broad, with blunt angles for chin and cheeks and a short flat nose. Not a beautiful face, but open and honest. Maybe even wise. It lightened when she heard me speak, and I felt a warmth I would have enjoyed if I’d known how scarce a childhood commodity it would turn out to be.
As it was, I moved past the thin man without touching him and took a seat two rows closer to the front. Just across from the woman and her friend, face muffled in the folds of his coat. The conductor had returned to the back of the car, eyes closed, head against the window, bouncing lightly to the tune of train and track. And that was how we sat as our train approached a sharp bend at the corner of Lake and Wabash.
CHAPTER 15
Jim Doherty and I pieced through the past for an hour, maybe more. At a little after ten, I headed back to the North Side, my friend’s files in hand. I eased my key into the lock and cracked open the front door to my flat. Didn’t make a sound. Didn’t matter a bit. She was there, waiting on the other side, wagging her entire body in a spasm of greeting. I dropped to a knee and scooped Maggie up. The springer spaniel was a year old, but stil seemed like no weight at al. She licked my face where she could find it and then scrambled out of my arms. I stepped back and watched as a blur of liver, gold, and white sprinted once, twice, three times around the living room, leaped to the couch, and stopped dead stil, staring at me, tongue out, panting lightly, body wag stil in ful flower. I crouched so I was eye level with the pup and feinted like I was going to make a run at her. She offered a head fake to my left and tore off to the right, into the kitchen. I heard the clatter of claws on tile and then a slide and thump into what I suspected was the refrigerator. A second later, Maggie was back in the living room, bearing down on me at ful speed. I dropped to a knee and caught her in midleap. She curled into my chest and almost immediately settled. I found a seat on the couch. Five minutes later, the pup was asleep. I sat that way for a half hour. The best half hour of my day. Then I moved lightly. Maggie opened her eyes and stretched. She jumped down to the floor, shook herself once, twice, and wagged her tail, looking up at me, wondering what was for dinner.
Dinner was a cheeseburger and a cold can of beer. I steamed some spinach to make myself feel better. Then I gave most of it to the dog. She didn’t like it, either. I put a cal in to Rachel Swenson’s cel phone, but got her voice mail and left a message. My favorite judge stil had her own place on the Gold Coast, but spent a good part of the week at my apartment. It felt good to have her here, to see her clothes strewn around the bedroom, my bathroom cluttered with atomizers and smoothers, exfoliants and lotions, peelers and masks. I didn’t know what most of it was for, but it didn’t matter. Between Rachel and the pup, my apartment was ful. And the emptiness I never real y knew existed, gone. Or at least put away for a while. I found the pup’s leash and took her for a quick tour of the neighborhood. Then I settled in at my desk and powered up my Mac. The CTA shootings dominated Google’s news page. I searched for my name, but didn’t get a hit in any of the articles. Good. I shut down the link and sat in the dark, watching the wind batter my front windows. Outside, the night offered an inky canvas on which to replay the day’s events: a woman dropping to the hard boards of the Southport L, surprise scratched al over her face; an al ey, tunneling through the black and fil ing up with snow; a tangle of footprints and the fat hole of a. 40-cal pressed to my head. Slipping underneath was the electric silk of the voice on my cel phone, one that cal ed me by name, one I couldn’t place. I closed my eyes and let the images play. Pretty soon I started to nod off, the pup close by, readily fol owing my lead.
CHAPTER 16
Five miles south, Nelson rol ed to a stop underneath a cement overpass near the corner of Jefferson and Congress. A twist of snow blew across the hood of his Impala and dissolved into cold smoke. Overhead, the Eisenhower hummed with the whine and thump of rubber on asphalt. Nelson looked at the envelope on his dashboard, addressed to his favorite reporter. Then he put on his gloves and cracked open the driver’s-side door. The parking lot wasn’t much more than an afterthought, shoved under the highway between the Clinton Blue line stop and the Greyhound bus station. During the day it was fil ed with the cars of Loop workers who couldn’t afford downtown parking. At night, it became a black hole. Tonight was no exception. A brown Ford with a cracked windshield and rims for tires sat in a far corner. Otherwise, Nelson had the place to himself. He moved out from under the highway and took a slow walk around the block. The bus station had a single cab out front, motor running, driver asleep in the front seat. The rest of the buildings on the street were factories, locked up for the night. Nelson ducked back under the overpass and moved past his car to a far wal abutting the L station. There he found a green door with black stenciled letters that read CTA. Nelson turned his back to the wind and pul ed out the keys he had made. The third one fit, and the door opened. He stepped out of the weather and into a greasy darkness. Nelson found a light switch and flipped it on. A stairwel uncoiled to his left, down and into the bel y of Chicago’s subway system.
Nelson walked back outside, popped the trunk on the Impala, and considered a local prostitute named Maria Jackson, smiling red at him through the thick plastic. Robles had done a good job wrapping her after he’d finished, and the blood did not seem to have leaked. Nelson took a last look around, lifted the body, and carried it inside. Then he drove his car two blocks and parked on a deserted section of street. From the backseat he pul ed a duffel bag. Inside it was a rifle, his scopes, and the hard black case he’d taken from Robles. Nelson hiked back to the access door and opened it again. Maria hadn’t gone anywhere. He hefted her body across his shoulders, duffel in his right hand, and began to walk down the first staircase.
Nelson took his time, resting frequently. Two flights of stairs and a long sloping ramp threaded him back toward the Loop and deep into the lower levels of the subway. A second door opened out to the first run of tracks, an auxiliary spur reserved for trains in need of repair. Nelson walked another hundred paces before al owing the body to slip from his shoulders. Maria Jackson fel among the cinders wi
th a graceless thump. Nelson kept moving.
A quarter mile later, he stopped again. The auxiliary track split here. Nelson took the right fork and came to a second set of tracks. This was a primary set for the Blue Line’s run into the Loop.
Nelson stepped gingerly across the rails and onto the main track. He would hear the train wel before it came around the bend, roughly two hundred yards away. Besides, he didn’t figure the job to take long. The track Nelson was standing on was the oldest usable section in the entire CTA. It had been scheduled for renovation in 2004. The work had been delayed once, twice, and now, in 2010, stil hadn’t been done. Which was why Nelson was here. Unlike the other three hundred miles of subway track, this portion had not been updated with sealed fluorescent lighting. Nelson looked up at the bare lightbulbs. Heavy-duty, yes, and partial y shielded with steel covers. But lightbulbs al the same. Nelson found the ladder he knew they kept in a maintenance shed and positioned it under a bulb. Then he took Robles’ black case out of his duffel, climbed the ladder, and unscrewed the bulb from its porcelain fixture. He knew this fixture wel. He’d bought a half dozen like it from a man who col ected CTA odds and ends. Nelson knew it took six turns to secure the bulb in the fixture. Four turns and it would stil be al right. Three turns and the vibrations from passing trains would begin to turn the bulb in its grooves and eventual y loosen it. Fewer turns… or more vibrations… and the bulb got looser that much more quickly. An inexact science, with an inevitable result.
Nelson opened the case and took out one of the two bulbs stored inside. Careful y he screwed it in. One and one-half turns. The bulb was now, essential y, a timing device. Depending on how many trains rattled by, the bulb would loosen itself in anywhere from seven days to a couple of weeks. Then it would fal and smash on the steel tracks below. Nelson held out his hand again, felt the oily breeze flowing across his fingertips, and looked up at the huge black vents connecting this section to the rest of the subway system. He climbed down the ladder and checked his watch. Robles was supposed to deliver the package at 2:00 a.m. Plenty of time. One more bulb down the line and Nelson would find a good place to hide, a good place from which to hunt.
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