The Fifth Floor

by Michael Harvey

  “So?”

  “So one of the mayor’s fixers steps in. Calls a guy like me. I get a story. They get an excuse to can the guy without pissing off the folks with the checkbooks.”

  Jacobs pointed as a car exited from an underground garage onto LaSalle. “Here’s our boy.”

  The Crown Vic with city plates pulled out and headed north.

  “Stay a couple car lengths back,” Jacobs said.

  “I know how to do this, Fred. Where’s he headed?”

  “According to my source, the boozer. ’Course, I’ve heard that before.”

  “You tailed this guy before?”

  “Three times.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Not yet. He drives around a lot. Likes to follow fire engines. Sits at the fire and watches them work.”

  “Must have a scanner in his car.”

  “Yeah, well, I told my guy on the phone. This is it. If Meyers doesn’t get drunk today, I’m taking a pass.”

  “What did your source say?”

  “He said today’s the day. Damn sure. So I go.”

  We followed the Crown Vic west on Randolph, south on Halsted, and then onto Taylor Street.

  “Looks like it’s Little Italy,” I said.

  Jacobs nodded. We cruised past the University of Illinois at Chicago and into a block full of pasta, spiced with espresso and smoke shops, over-the-counter delis, and stands selling Italian ice. Just past the corner of Taylor and Racine, the Crown Vic pulled into a pay lot, and a middle-aged man in a suit got out. He gave his keys to an attendant and walked down the street to a tavern called Hawkeye’s.

  “He’s going in.” Jacobs said it like tumblers rolling, gears shifting, and the fate of one David Meyers falling into its predestined slot. From his duffel, the reporter pulled out a camera and snapped off a couple of quick shots as his man walked into the bar. Then he put the camera down and sat back in his seat.

  “Now we wait.”

  “How long?”

  “Long as it takes. You okay with that?”

  “Sure,” I said. “You going to ruin this guy’s life?”

  Jacobs lit up another Camel and looked at me across the cut of smoke. “You think this is dirty?”

  I shrugged.

  “Let me ask you something,” Jacobs said. “You pay taxes. You like the fact this guy is going to sit in that bar all afternoon and drink the day away? On the city dime?”

  “I hear you.”

  “Sure you do. Let me tell you something else. Those guys downtown, they play rough. But hell, this is a big town and if you don’t know that, then get the fuck back to Iowa or wherever it is you come from. Fact is, David Meyers opened himself up to this.”

  Jacobs held up his camera, two fingers pinching the cigarette as it burned down.

  “If he didn’t have his nose in the booze bag all day, the Fifth Floor wouldn’t be able to put out the call to guys like me.”

  “Doesn’t mean they wouldn’t take him out. Somehow.”

  “Maybe,” Jacobs said. “But they wouldn’t be able to use me. Or any other journalist worth his salt. If the guy’s clean…” Jacobs shrugged. “Like I said, it’s a big town. Tough town. And the Fifth Floor plays it that way.”

  I knew that from hard experience and decided to let the whole thing lie. So we watched the front door of Hawkeye’s and waited. Two hours later, Meyers was still inside. Jacobs had gone in to check on things. Now he slid back into the car.

  “Nice pub. Flat-screen TVs, good jukebox, great-looking waitress.”

  I had been sitting in my car for the better part of the afternoon and was getting sick of the coffee, not to mention the company.

  “What’s he doing?” I said.

  “I talked to the bartender on the side.” Jacobs rubbed his fingers together in the universal sign of currency changing hands. “He let me get a look at the tab. So far, it’s a baker’s dozen. Heinekens.”

  I whistled. “In two hours?”

  “Yeah, bartender says he’s going to cut him off soon. Good for my story. So get ready.”

  It was another hour before the bartender rang last call on David Meyers. Jacobs snapped away with his Nikon as our boy lurched into the hard sunlight and stumbled on a curb cut. I heard a snicker from behind the camera.

  “This guy is pissed,” Jacobs said.

  We watched as Meyers made his way to his car. The lot attendant was just a kid. He took the car check but didn’t go back into his shed for the keys. Instead, the kid tried to talk to Meyers. The man in the suit cocked his head and listened, almost as if the kid were speaking something other than English. Then, our city exec exploded. First, he kicked his tires. After that, he slammed both hands on the roof of his car. The kid backed off, scurried over to his shed, and closed the door after him. Meyers followed, Jacobs snapping away, catching every movement for tomorrow’s front page. Meyers raged at the little wooden shed, tugged at the door, pounded on the glass. Finally, the kid opened a small window. The two exchanged more pleasantries, then the kid picked up a telephone and began to dial. At that point, Meyers stuck his hand through the window and grabbed a set of keys off the counter. The kid dropped the phone and watched as David Meyers ran back to his car, got in, and started it up.

  Meyers almost hit four kids in a Honda as he pulled out of the lot. But pull out he did, into a stream of busy traffic, weaving his way, presumably home. I looked over at Jacobs, who took the camera off his eye and shrugged.

  “Follow him.”

  I pulled into traffic about five car lengths behind. Jacobs sat back and continued to snap pictures.

  “Give me your phone,” I said.

  Jacobs looked at me and handed over the cell. I dumped in a number and waited. At the other end was Dispatch for the nearest cop shop. Jacobs watched as I read off Meyers’ tag number and gave them his location. Then I flipped the phone shut and tossed it back to the reporter.

  “What the fuck you do that for?” Jacobs said.

  “You’ll get your story. This way it’s not a homicide as well.”

  The reporter shrugged. “Maybe you’re right.”

  Meyers hopped onto the Kennedy heading north. The expressway seemed to sober him up. He stayed in the right-hand lane and clocked a steady sixty. We both exited at Armitage. Meyers drove another block or two and pulled into a parking garage just south of Fullerton. I didn’t see a cruiser the entire time.

  “His condo’s a block away,” Jacobs said.

  “Guess he made it,” I said.

  “Safe and sound.” Jacobs held up his camera. “Until tomorrow’s edition, that is. Then his world is over.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So now you know what guys like Johnny Woods do,” Jacobs said. “Does it help you at all?”

  I didn’t have any answers for the reporter. As I’d find out soon enough, I didn’t even have the right questions.

  CHAPTER 5

  The next morning, I got up and ran out along the lake. It was still dark. The city lay before me, edged in light. To my left, I could feel the water, hear it rustle against the rocks. A thin line of pink was rising from a distant shore called Michigan, offering the first hint of dawn.

  I was halfway home when I saw her. She was about a hundred yards ahead of me, wearing a black Gore-Tex shell over a long-sleeve yellow sweatshirt, black runner’s gloves, and cap. Her stride was smooth and nice. I ran behind her for a minute or so, then pulled alongside.

  “Hey.”

  Rachel Swenson’s eyes widened a bit. She stopped and turned down the volume on an iPod Shuffle clipped to her upper arm.

  “Michael Kelly.”

  Her cheeks were red with the cold. Underneath her hat, she looked like she might be a law student at Northwestern, getting in her miles before an early morning class in contracts. In reality, Rachel Swenson was a sitting judge for the Northern District of Illinois and a woman I had been meaning to call for at least a year. She leaned close and gave me a hug. I got my arms up, almost to
o late, and then hung on too long.

  “How are you?” she said.

  “Pretty good. You run out here often?”

  “Not as much as I should. How about you?”

  “I try. Gets harder when it’s cold.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  On cue, a volley of wind punched in off the lake. Rachel shivered and stamped her feet. I shook out my arms and tried to think of something to say. We stepped into a pause that seemed to last an hour and a half. Rachel got us out the other side with a thud.

  “I saw you the other day.”

  “Where?”

  “I was at Graceland,” she said. “Thursday morning.”

  Graceland was a cemetery in Chicago. Nicole Andrews was buried there. She had been a friend to both of us. Now she was dead. Murdered, actually. By a third friend.

  “I sat in my car and waited for you to leave,” Rachel said.

  “You should have come over.” A second burst of wind pulled the words from my mouth and scattered them across the lakefront. Rachel, however, caught my meaning.

  “Seemed like you wanted to be alone,” she said.

  I shrugged.

  “I waited there almost an hour, Michael. Then I left.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t be sorry. How often do you go to Nicole’s grave?”

  “Not that much.”

  “How often?”

  “Not much. Maybe once a month. I just stay awhile. Sometimes it’s a good place to think.”

  Rachel was looking at me closely now. I didn’t like it.

  “You okay, Michael?”

  “I’m okay.”

  And I was. At least, I thought so. Nicole was my best friend. Always would be. Death was just another thing to work around.

  “Why don’t we get together sometime,” Rachel said.

  “I was going to call and suggest the same thing.”

  The judge cocked her hip and tilted her head. “You were going to call?”

  “Yes.”

  “And ask me out?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Michael, it’s been at least a year since I’ve talked to you.”

  “I know.”

  She sighed. “You got my number?”

  “I got it. Told you I was going to call.”

  Rachel turned on her music and began to jog in place. “This is where I turn around. Call me. Drinks, dinner. Whatever. Might do us both some good.”

  I watched her go. It was cold, but I watched her, anyway. Then I headed home. Ripped off the last mile and a half, feeling strong, promising myself I’d call this woman, wondering how in the hell I was going to find out her phone number.

  CHAPTER 6

  Half an hour later, I was showered, dressed, and headed down to Intelligentsia. They’d been open fewer than ten minutes, but the queue was already five people long. I got a large coffee and opened up the Trib. Fred Jacobs’ story played just below the fold. Five column inches with a jump to page four. Probably fewer than a thousand words in all. The career obit for one David Meyers. According to the article, the mayor would hold a press conference today and put the soon-to-be-former exec out of his misery. I imagined the mayor’s niece was already redecorating her new office and turned to the sports page.

  By seven a.m., I was back downtown, sitting chilly a half block from City Hall, waiting on Johnny Woods. I had never seen the guy, but Jacobs had given me a description. Even better, Janet Woods had given me a picture. Their wedding shot, actually. Janet wore a lace dress with a long veil, sweet smile, and not the vaguest idea of the mistake standing directly to her left. For his part, Woods looked like a big guy. Maybe six-three, two hundred plus. He was thick too. Thick forehead over a thicker brow. A thick smear of ears, nose, and lips. Thick arms, one stiff by his side, the other circling his bride’s waist, tugging her close, daring anyone to try and take her. The one thing about Johnny Woods that wasn’t thick was the hair on top of his head. That probably pissed him off. I had a feeling Woods could hit when he got pissed and I bet it hurt. In fact, I’d seen his handiwork up close. Of course, lots of guys could hit. Make the heavy bag pop in the gym. That is, until the bag grew arms and hit back. If things played out right, maybe we’d get to see about Johnny.

  The mayor’s fixer stepped out of City Hall at a little after nine. Woods wore a Brooks Brothers suit, red tie, and black loafers. He was freshly shaved and probably whistling. I got out of my car, dropped a few quarters into the mayor’s meter, and drifted behind. Johnny strolled down Clark Street, moved to the curb, and lifted his hand. A yellow Checker pulled to a stop and Woods got in. Fortunately, I was in the Loop, amid an armada of hacks, yellow, green, blue, and everything in between. I hailed a Flash cab and told him to follow the Checker. The cabbie thought I was kidding. I told him I was a cop and shoved a couple of twenties under his nose. The cabbie smiled and followed. At a discreet distance, even.

  JOHNNY WOODS’ CAB threaded its way north, through Chicago’s Lincoln Park neighborhood, to the corner of Clark and Webster. There, the Checker swung a left and eased to a halt. I got out around the corner and tiptoed behind. My boy found his way down the block, to a small bit of street called Hudson.

  It was a nice street. Actually, it was more than nice. It was a street with the quiet, comfortable attitude of money. A grand display of two-flats and single-family homes ran down both sides of Hudson. Turn-of-the-century brick and stone spread out behind black iron fences. Big yards with trees and birdhouses. Covered garages and a BMW or two parked somewhere in the back. Starting price for a shack on this block was two million. In Chicago, folks lined up for the privilege.

  Halfway down the street sat 2121 North Hudson. More cottage than house, it was half the size of its neighbors and the only building on the block made entirely of wood. A short sweep of stairs led to a small porch, supported by slender columns carved with an Ionic turn at the top. The double front doors looked to be made of oak and were heavy with beveled glass. To one side of the porch was a pair of windows, long and narrow, set with stained glass, and trimmed in lead. The house itself was covered in scalloped blue siding and accented with white. All in all, 2121 had a look of quiet elegance, with the small touches of craftsmanship you don’t see today—unless, that is, you’re looking at something built a long time ago.

  Woods stood in front of the tiny gem and took stock. Then he stepped up the walkway onto the porch and rang the front bell. I stopped a few houses down and slouched. I was good at that. Woods tapped his hand against his side and fidgeted. No answer. He thought for a bit and took a look through the front door. Then he thought again and pushed. The door opened. My boy stepped inside.

  I wasn’t sure what to expect from the tail. Maybe dig a little dirt. Maybe find a quiet moment and have a chat with my client’s husband. I wasn’t expecting a walk through Lincoln Park and I wasn’t expecting any breaking and entering. Less than a minute after Woods walked through the door, I got another surprise. Johnny came out of the house and down the stairs, head low. He glanced up. Just once, but that was enough. His face was white. Eyes wide. Body stiff. I’d seen that look before and gently turned away. Woods blew past me and hit the corner at Webster, half running. I followed quickly and got to the end of the block just in time to see him wave down a cab. Woods took a last look around, ducked his head into the back of the taxi, and was gone.

  I rubbed a thumb along my lower lip and walked slowly back down Hudson. Johnny Woods had been in the house thirty, forty seconds, tops. He could have killed someone. Could have robbed the place. Could have raided the refrigerator and been done with it. None of those, however, seemed likely. I figured Johnny Woods went to the house looking for someone or something. Whatever he found inside had surprised him. And scared him. All of which interested the hell out of me.

  CHAPTER 7

  I took a look up and down Hudson before I approached the house. The street was empty, quiet except for a few birds having some fun next door. I slipped on a pair
of leather gloves, eased my gun off my hip, and held it by my side as I walked up the stairs. The front door was still ajar. I pushed it open with my foot. Nothing. I walked inside and found myself in a small parlor, a greeting area with a coat stand against the wall. It held a trench coat on a hook and a wooden-handled umbrella. Underneath, I noticed a pair of men’s boots. They were dry and looked like they’d been that way for a while. I crept out of the parlor and into a large sitting room. Sun streamed through the stained glass and threw a rainbow of color across walls washed in cream. The floor and furniture were made of lightly varnished wood, thick, shiny, and smelling of soap and lemon. To my left, a grandfather clock ticked away the morning. Softly. To my right, a mahogany banister leisurely carried a flight of stairs to the cottage’s second floor. All in all, it was peaceful, pleasant, a nurturing sort of place—that is, until my eye reached the top of the stairs. It was there I saw the old man, hanging from a well-crafted bit of railing by what appeared to be a good strong length of rope.

  I took the stairs one at a time, got to the top, and moved past the body. There was one bedroom and what looked like a study upstairs. Both empty. I went back downstairs, checked the kitchen and a small basement. Also empty. I put my gun back on my hip and went upstairs a second time. The old man was hanging against a run of turned balusters. The rope was looped under his shoulders and tied off back under the railing. I crouched down, reached through the wooden pegging, and turned the body, just enough to get a look at the face. It was a refined face. A face of education. Of culture. Probably the face of a grandfather. At least it had been. Now the face was tinged with blue, which told me whoever I was looking at had died from a lack of oxygen. I didn’t think it was the rope, however, that did it. Mostly because it wasn’t looped around the corpse’s neck. Also, because the dead man’s mouth was stuffed to overflowing with sand.

  I hadn’t seen anyone suffocated with sand before and wasn’t quite sure how a detective should proceed. I sat back for a minute and considered. The corpse didn’t seem to mind the wait. His eyes were open when he died. Now he just looked at me and dangled. I took a letter from my pocket. It was actually an electric bill, overdue by at least three months. The hell with ComEd. I slipped a little bit of the sand out of my new friend’s mouth and into the envelope. Then I gently reached over and went through his pockets. In his shirt pocket, I found a set of reading glasses. The rest were empty. I thought about searching the house. Then I thought about Johnny Woods. Maybe he ran away. Maybe he ran to the nearest phone and dialed up Chicago’s finest. I figured my work here was done and headed for the exit.