The Fifth Floor mk-2

by Michael Harvey

  “I don’t know, but he’ll surface soon enough.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because the mom and daughter he’s with are gonna need some answers.”

  “Answers you can provide?”

  “Maybe, but I might need some help.”

  “What kind of help?” the detective said.

  “The kind that’s gonna tell us who pulled the trigger on Woods and why.”

  I stood up and walked over to Robert Graves’ leather-bound translation of the Odyssey. Behind it was a. 38 Smith and Wesson snub.

  “The gun that killed Johnny.” I slid the piece across the desk. Rodriguez didn’t touch it.

  “You sure?”

  “I know my own gun,” I said. “This was the piece I found beside Woods’ body. The piece that disappeared out of Evidence. I usually keep it behind the Iliad. Yesterday I found it three books down. Behind the Odyssey. Been fired three times.”

  “And I assume you have no idea how it got there.”

  “Actually, I think I know exactly how.”

  “Should we order some pizza?” Rodriguez said.

  “I’m okay with whiskey.”

  “Yeah. Well, I’m not.”

  So we ordered pizza. I told Rodriguez how my gun found its way from the Cook County Evidence lockup back into my bookcase. Then I told him what I needed and why. When I finished, the detective left. I put a call in to Big Bob’s Saloon and asked for the manager. The turtle races weren’t on, so he had a little time. We talked for a while. About Janet Woods and his daytime bartender. After I got off the phone, I sat up, drank some more whiskey, and watched the night grow old. I wondered where Dan Masters was sleeping. And who might be standing over his bed.

  CHAPTER 43

  I slept hard and late the next day. Walked into my office a little after ten. Mitchell Kincaid was sitting there, his back to the door, reading a magazine. Once Rachel talked to the candidate, I knew he’d meet with me. I just didn’t expect it so soon. And I didn’t expect him to be alone. Not an attorney in sight.

  Kincaid didn’t turn when I came in. Just dropped the magazine onto his lap. I walked behind my desk, sat down, and waited.

  “Have you seen the latest copy of Time?” he said. I shook my head. Kincaid tossed the mag my way.

  “They have a list of influential people in this country. Up-and-comers, they call them. My name’s right near the top.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kelly. I guess I always thought it would feel different.”

  “You expected trumpets?”

  “A flourish would be nice.”

  Kincaid offered an easy smile, one that ran off his face as quickly as it appeared. Then Chicago’s would-be savior took a moment. I had seen this moment before. On television. In newspapers. If I opened up the copy of Time, I’d probably see it there too. It was the Kincaid profile. Long chin, gray eyes, cheekbones sculpted in shadow and light. An impression of strength, yet delicate enough to convey the intellect that moved underneath. As far as profiles went, Kincaid’s wasn’t half bad.

  The pundits and pollsters might not realize it, but Mayor John J. Wilson did. And it worried him. In a place and time when leadership was in precious short supply, Mitchell Kincaid looked like he was born to the job. And now it wasn’t going to happen.

  “I noticed the books,” Kincaid said. “Cicero, Caesar, Sophocles.”

  “Something I picked up when I was young.”

  “I read a bit myself. Don’t recall that much, but I do remember Oedipus Rex. And a thing called fate.”

  “Fate, destiny. Free will.”

  “Exactly. I was sitting here, looking at my picture in Time magazine, surrounded by all your books, and thinking about that very thing.”

  “Sir?”

  “This life we lead. The decisions we think we make. Is it all predetermined? All our accomplishments and failures? Locked and loaded when we’re born? Or is it up to us?”

  “You’re asking me if I believe in fate, Mr. Kincaid?”

  He tipped his chin my way. “I guess I am. Are we fated to lead the life we do? Or do we really chart our own path?”

  “I think we’re all given different tools,” I said. “Capable of great good and great evil. What we do after that is up to us.”

  “So you believe in a hybrid?”

  “I guess.”

  “And these tools, they vary from person to person?”

  “I think a lot of us spend our lives trying to find out exactly what these tools are and how best to use them.”

  “People give that a lot of thought?”

  I shrugged. “Probably not.”

  “How about responsibility, Mr. Kelly?”

  “How about it?”

  “People should hold themselves personally responsible for things that go on in their lives. Good and bad. Regardless of consequence. Agreed?”

  “Things they can control? Yes.”

  “You have introduced the notion of control. A slippery concept.”

  “Especially in politics, sir.”

  “Touchй, Mr. Kelly. I wish we had met under different circumstances. I think it might have been fun.”

  “We need to talk, sir.”

  “I got a phone call last night from someone I respect and admire.”

  “Let me guess. A judge named Rachel Swenson.”

  “She speaks highly of you, Mr. Kelly.”

  I didn’t offer a response. Kincaid stood up and found his way to a window.

  “My security chief, James J. Bratton. He’s a good man. Sometimes confused, but a good man. I’ve talked with him. I know what he’s done. I know that he has, directly or indirectly, tried to gain certain documents he felt might cause great embarrassment to our mayor. He has used whatever means he saw fit to gain those documents, including breaking into your home, the use of force, and physical threats.”

  Kincaid turned on his heel and walked his eyes across the room.

  “I’m here to apologize for that. I was not aware of the existence, or supposed existence, of the Chicago Fire documents until recently. You can believe me or not, as you choose. I’m here to tell you I never endorsed Mr. Bratton’s actions. I do, however, accept full responsibility. That is a personal responsibility. With consequences. For myself and my career. As it should be.”

  Kincaid pulled an envelope from his jacket and slipped it onto my desk.

  “This is a copy of a letter I will post after I leave here. To the mayor. With copies to the Sun-Times and Tribune.”

  I looked at the envelope but didn’t touch it.

  “It’s my withdrawal from the mayoral race. The reasons I give are personal and undisclosed.”

  “You don’t have to withdraw, sir.”

  “Yes, I do, Mr. Kelly. Responsibility without consequence is, in fact, no responsibility at all. If I am to be of use to anyone, including myself, in the years to come, I must withdraw. I must reflect. And I must get better. If I am to lead at all.”

  I picked up the envelope and wondered at its cost.

  “What I ask from you, Mr. Kelly, is one thing and one thing only. But it is significant.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I want your silence about this entire matter. Not for my protection. Although I admit, it does help me. But if the story about the fire and this alleged letter was ever given any credence, it would be embarrassing for Mr. Bratton and for the families concerned. Especially, of course, for the mayor.”

  “And you would have effectively smeared him?”

  Kincaid dropped his head a fraction. “Exactly what I’m trying to avoid.”

  “No one will hear a thing from me, Mr. Kincaid. There is, however, the problem of murder.”

  Kincaid opened his mouth to speak again. This time I beat him to it.

  “I don’t believe your aide had anything to do with the death of Allen Bryant or anyone else. No worries there, sir. But there is someone out there who’s willing to kill.”<
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  “In order to gain control of these documents? To be honest, I just don’t buy it.”

  “Why not?”

  “There would be some political advantage to obtaining the fire documents,” Kincaid said. “If they exist. But seriously, murder?”

  “This isn’t about politics, Mr. Kincaid. And it’s not about the Chicago Fire. At least not in the way you’re thinking.”

  “Then what is it about, Mr. Kelly?”

  “It’s about money, Mr. Kincaid. A boatload of money.”

  I pulled out a copy of Josiah Randolph’s diary from 1871. One more present from my friend Teen.

  “This is what your aide was after. Except he didn’t know it.”

  Kincaid took the diary in his hands and opened it. “What is this?”

  “Pages from a diary. An account of the Great Chicago Fire, written in 1871 by the curator of the Chicago Historical Society.”

  Kincaid slipped on a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses and began to skim. I fixed up a pot of coffee and continued to talk.

  “His name was Josiah Randolph. His great-grandnephew runs the society today.”

  “Did you get this diary from him?”

  “Not exactly. Most of the diary was in the public archives. Some of it was a little harder to get a handle on.”

  “Go ahead,” Kincaid said, and kept reading.

  “There was no agreement between John J. Wilson and Charles Hume regarding the fire. No evidence I could find that they conspired to start anything.”

  Kincaid glanced up. “You know that for a fact?”

  “I’ll tell you what I know and you decide. Josiah Randolph writes in his diary of the moments just before the fire bore down on the historical society. Sit down, Mr. Kincaid. This might take a while.”

  Kincaid sat. I poured us some coffee.

  “The historical society was supposed to be one of the city’s ‘fireproof’ buildings,” I said. “On the night of the fire, according to Josiah, most of Chicago’s money was lined up outside his basement door, jewels and furs in hand.”

  “Looking for a place to store their valuables?”

  “Exactly. Names like Pullman, Palmer, and Ogden. A real Who’s Who. Josiah Randolph took in as much as he could. Then, he heard what sounded like a freight train coming down the block.”

  “The fire?”

  “According to Josiah, heat from the fire began to melt the inside of the society’s walls. The flames themselves were still blocks away. That’s when Josiah Randolph realized his building wasn’t fireproof. In fact, it was anything but.”

  I found a pack of cigarettes, shook one out, and lit up. Kincaid declined. I shrugged. It went well with the coffee. Then I cracked the window, leaned my heels against the sill, and found the line of my story.

  “Josiah figured he had maybe ten minutes to get out of Dodge. After that, the building was going to be gone. So he ran back down to the basement and looked around.”

  “Trying to figure out what he should save?” Kincaid said.

  I nodded. It was good to talk it through out loud. Let me hear how it played, where the holes might be.

  “There was one item in particular he tried to take with him.”

  I flipped open the diary pages and pointed to a section of underlined text. Now that we had gotten down to it, I noticed just a bit of a shake in my hand. That was okay. Fear keeps most men honest. I was probably no exception.

  “Josiah talks about it here,” I said. “The only handwritten copy of the Emancipation Proclamation. Given to the society by Illinois’ favorite son, Abraham Lincoln.”

  “The New York State Library has Lincoln’s handwritten copy.” Kincaid spoke as he read. “I’ve seen it myself.”

  “That was Lincoln’s preliminary copy. The historical society had the final version.”

  Kincaid nodded and continued to skim the pages of Josiah’s diary. Then he stopped and looked up.

  “Says here Randolph couldn’t save the document.”

  “The Proclamation was in a wooden frame,” I said. “Josiah writes that he couldn’t break it and he couldn’t get the frame out the basement window.”

  “So the Proclamation burned,” Kincaid said.

  “That’s what I thought. Then I found a second portion of the diary. The part I told you wasn’t available to the public.”

  I pulled out another sheaf of papers and placed them in front of Kincaid, copies of the diary fragments I had taken from Lawrence Randolph’s locked desk.

  “After I read these, I had all the originals looked at by a document examiner. There’s no doubt. The portion that talks about the Proclamation burning was written with a cheaper, carbon-based ink. The rest of the diary features an ink called iron gall. Same color. Different ink.”

  “How certain are we?”

  “Ink was not mass-produced back then. There were several different qualities and textures. Pretty distinctive. The fragments I am showing you now were written with the original iron-gall ink as well. My expert believes the fragments were clearly part of Josiah Randolph’s original diary. I believe they tell us what really happened to the Proclamation. Why don’t you take a minute.”

  I leaned back in my chair and smoked while Kincaid read. After he finished, he put down the diary and took off his glasses. I put out my cigarette and slipped on a pair of latex gloves. Kincaid did the same. Then I laid out on my desk the Sheehan’s Allen Bryant had been killed for and the parchment I had found within.

  “I found it inside this book, Mr. Kincaid. Already verified the cursive. It’s Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation. The final version. Written by the man himself.”

  Kincaid’s fingers ran lightly over the document. He began to read the first few lines, lips moving but no sound forthcoming. Then he looked up. I nodded and he kept reading. When he was done, Mitchell Kincaid sat for a moment. Content, it seemed, simply to be with history. After a while he looked up again. This time, with a smile. Then we talked. About what to do with Lincoln’s document. About what to do with Mitchell Kincaid’s future. I packed up the Proclamation and gave it to the soon-to-be-ex-candidate. He called for a car to meet him and left, holding his treasure like a newborn. Kincaid’s run for mayor might be over. His destiny, however, was just starting to take hold. Now it was time to catch a killer.

  CHAPTER 44

  T he door creaked open. A shaft of light slipped across the floor and tickled the toe of my shoe. I pulled my foot back and waited in the darkness. The door creaked a bit farther. I saw a hand scrabble across the wall, find the light switch, and hit it. The hand’s owner was still outside the room talking to someone, backing his way into the office. Then Lawrence Randolph turned and saw me, sitting behind his desk, smiling.

  “Hello, Mr. Randolph.”

  “Kelly, what the hell are you doing in my office?”

  “Waiting for you.”

  Randolph reached for his phone. “I’m calling security.”

  “There’s no need.”

  Randolph followed my gaze. Behind him, at the door, stood Teen.

  “What’s she doing here?”

  “She’ll be right outside. If you feel you’re in danger, just give a holler and Teen will come running.”

  “I’m calling security and having you escorted from the building.”

  Randolph reached for the phone again. I pulled out the Sheehan’s and laid it on his desk. Then I opened it up and let him see the red number inside.

  “That’s a number four, Randolph.”

  The curator’s eyes feasted on the Sheehan’s as he waved Teen away. When we were alone, he held out his hands like one of the statues you’d see in the Queen of All Saints Basilica. Only this statue was real and ready to kill for his God.

  “Mr. Kelly. Could I take a look?”

  I pushed the book his way. He turned pages, pretended to examine the text. All the while long lengths of finger pried and poked at the book’s binding. Feeling for the document he knew was secreted within.
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  “It’s not there, Randolph.”

  The curator’s fingers stopped probing. His eyes reached into mine. “Excuse me?”

  “The Proclamation. It’s gone.” I threw a silver flash drive onto his desk.

  “Believe it or not, that drive contains the entire contents of your laptop. We lifted it yesterday afternoon in the Starbucks down the street.”

  Randolph was sitting now. Eyes moving from the flash drive to the book and back.

  “You killed Allen Bryant. You got his name from Johnny Woods and went to his house. You wanted to get your hands on the number four edition before Johnny got there. Didn’t work out.”

  Randolph’s eyes hollowed and the corners of his mouth squeezed up into a reluctant smile.

  “The e-mails we pulled off your laptop go back more than a year,” I said. “You and a skinhead named Clarence Lester. Negotiating the sale of Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation.”

  I pulled out a booking photo of Lester. Long, lean face. Chalk-white skin with three teardrops tattooed under one eye. Randolph pulled the shot close with a single finger, took a look, and pushed it back.

  “How much were you going to get?” I said.

  “You’ll never prove it.” Randolph nodded at the flash drive. “That’s illegal. Wiretapping. Invasion of privacy.”

  “How much were you going to get?” I said.

  “If you hijacked my laptop, then you already know.”

  “Eight point five million,” I said.

  The nostrils on Randolph’s face seemed to thin and quiver, anxiously scenting cash their owner would never get to spend.

  “Close enough,” the curator said.

  “Where does the Aryan Brotherhood get dollars like that?”

  “Think I give a damn, Mr. Kelly? They planned a worldwide webcast. Going to burn the thing online. But that’s not the point. Your intercept and any information obtained from it are illegal.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “Yes, I do,” he said.

  I leaned forward on my elbows, steepled my fingers under my chin, and looked carefully across the desk.

  “At first, I thought, why wouldn’t you just try to obtain it legitimately? Aboveboard. Sell it at Sotheby’s. Probably bring in fifteen, twenty mil.”