We All Fall Down mk-4

by Michael Harvey

  “I’m sorry about Anna,” I said.

  “Thank you.” Her fingers picked at the edge of a napkin, and her face began to break into small, pale pieces. I moved my hand across the table until it brushed hers.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Ellen.”

  “I killed her.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  She didn’t fight me. Just wiped the damp from her eyes and folded the napkin into a small, obsessive square.

  “I ever tell you about my older brother?” I said.

  “I don’t know anything about you.”

  “His name was Philip. He hung himself with a bedsheet when he was eighteen.”

  She stopped fidgeting with the napkin. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too.”

  Her voice lifted a touch. “Do you think about him?”

  “Lately I have, yeah.”

  “Why is that?”

  It was a good question. One I didn’t have a good answer for. Philip had always been there. A memory bottled up and staring at me out of a clear glass jar. Tucked away on a shelf with all the others. Now, however, someone had cracked the seal. And my brother wandered loose through my dreams. Waking and otherwise.

  “How old were you when he died?” she said.

  “Seventeen. Philip was in jail. Something stupid. I never called. Never wrote. Never talked to him, except for the one time.”

  “Seventeen years old?”

  “About.”

  “Did you know how to call?”

  “I knew how to use a phone.”

  “That’s not the same as calling in to a prison.”

  “I knew how to mail a letter.”

  “So you feel responsible for his death?”

  “I feel like I never said good-bye.”

  Ellen reached for her empty glass, and it seemed we couldn’t have been in a better place than the bar we were in. With all the people we couldn’t see. Drinking and smoking. No one speaking. Everyone watching one another’s ghosts in the murk.

  “You think you know who’s behind all of this?” she said.

  “I have some ideas.”

  “For a while you thought it might be me.”

  I shook my head.

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Your pain.”

  She wanted to laugh but couldn’t seem to muster the energy. Instead, she slipped a flat package onto the table between us. “For you.”

  I looked at the parcel. Wrapped in brown paper with black string. “What is it?”

  “Read the note inside. Then do what you want.”

  I began to pick at the wrappings.

  “Later, Michael. After I’ve gone.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Eventually? Back to my microscopes.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe find some answers of my own.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  She gave me a hard, ugly snicker. A shiver ran between us.

  “This won’t end well, will it?” I said.

  “What do you think?” She pushed her glass forward an inch. “Maybe we should have another drink.”

  “You gonna tell me what you’re scared of?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s have another.”

  CHAPTER 52

  We stayed for another hour at Little Kings. When we left I looked for the man with the limp, but couldn’t find him. Even better, he didn’t find us. We headed north to Old Town. The bars, like the streets, were mostly empty. Any stores still open had been picked clean: food, bottled water, rubber gloves, disinfectant, and, of course, medical masks. A middle-aged man in a Lexus had gone into the Walgreens at North and Wells and tried to buy their entire inventory of cotton breathers. Another customer shot him dead in the parking lot and took his stash.

  We celebrated all the fun by drinking past midnight. Ellen was quiet toward the end and held my arm as we walked down Wells. A single cab drifted up. A window rolled down. The cabbie wore a pink mask over his nose and mouth. I could tell by the busy eyes he wanted us to get in. So we did. I had him drop us at a boutique hotel called the Raphael, just off Michigan Avenue. We got a room, number 312, and went upstairs. She kissed me just inside the door. I told her to wait. Told her to lie down and close her eyes for a moment. I watched her breathing slow. Sleep crawled across her face.

  I picked up the bottle we’d bought and sat by the window. Smoke from my cigarette coiled in electric light from the street. Below, a lonely figure ducked into a doorway and let the wind tumble past. I took a drink and closed my eyes. I thought about the infection crawling through my city’s bloodstream. The body itself was jaundiced, skin swollen, limbs black with rot. Knives needed to be sharpened. Sacrifices made. But only if the patient was willing to pay the price.

  I opened my eyes just in time to see my friend leave his doorway. He was wearing an overcoat and dragged his left foot behind him as he walked. I had a pretty good idea what the man with the limp wanted. The question was why. And when.

  Behind me, Ellen moved in her sleep. The package she’d given me was lying on the dresser. I’d asked her about it a second time at one of the bars, and she’d called it a going-away present. Then she’d put a finger to my lips and ordered us another round of drinks. Now I opened it, read what was written inside, and slipped the package into my pack.

  Her skin was warm when I touched her shoulder. Her eyes opened like she’d been waiting for me.

  “How long have I been out?”

  “Couple of hours. Go back to sleep.”

  “Did I make an idiot of myself?”

  “Hardly.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  She propped herself up on an elbow. “You told me you had a girl.”

  “I told you it was complicated.”

  “Sometimes it’s easier than you think.”

  “And sometimes it’s not.”

  “You sure about that?”

  I thought about Rachel. Broken bones and bruises. Memories that licked at the edges of her smile and lurked in the corners of her eyes. “I’m sure. Go back to sleep.”

  She brushed my fingers with hers, rolled over on her belly, and buried her face in a pillow. Within a couple of minutes, her breathing had softened again. I went back over to the dresser. There was a Gideon’s Bible there. I tore out a blank page, scribbled down a few words, and left the note where she could see it. Right beside her gun. It was just past three when I stepped out into the hallway.

  CHAPTER 53

  I had two advantages. First, he was outside in the cold. And I wasn’t. Second, he knew about me. But didn’t know I knew about him.

  I watched for half an hour from a second-floor stairwell. He moved every five minutes, drank coffee to stay awake, smoked cigarettes to keep warm, and kept his eye on the front door of the Raphael. A squad car rolled by once. He did a nice job of fading into the overhang of a Gold Coast brownstone.

  The coffee especially intrigued me. A curl of steam when he took the lid off told me it was still hot, which meant he probably got it somewhere close. Even better, it was a large, at least sixteen ounces. I waited until he finished and threw the blue-and-white cup into the gutter. Then I cut through the lobby and found the back service entrance. Once out in the street, it took all of three minutes to find the only coffee shop open in the area. I looked through the plate-glass window and saw a stack of blue-and-white paper cups beside a large silver urn with black handles. I turned up my collar and stepped inside. The place smelled of Vaseline and earwax. The cook was at the far end of the counter, talking to a slip of a woman in a long black jacket and jeans. She sat on a stool, jacket open, legs crossed, a shoe dangling off her right foot. Neither of them looked at me, and I hiked down a short corridor to the men’s room.

  I had a plan. Like most plans, it needed a little bit of luck. I went into the bathroom and got my first small piece. A latch on the door. I left it
unlocked.

  To my left was a single stall, a long white urinal trough, and a window at the far end. I pried the only mirror in the place, a small plastic stick-on, off the wall above the sink. In a room like this, reflections were something I could do without.

  I stepped inside the stall, crouched up on the toilet, and closed the door. Ten minutes later, I heard the diner’s front door open and a soft scraping. My second piece of luck had just walked in.

  The seconds stretched and hung. But they always did just before. I thought I heard him in the hallway. Then I was convinced he’d stopped at the counter, probably got himself another cup of coffee. I was thinking about taking a look when the men’s room door pushed in. I watched his left foot drag past and let him settle in front of the urinal. He might have done his business in an alley. Might have never left the street. But it was cold out. And I was upstairs in the hotel, warm, with a woman. And the goddamn large coffee. So the man with the limp came inside for his piss. And made a mistake. I wouldn’t make a second.

  I eased the stall door open, grabbed him by the hair, and cracked his face into the fly-specked drywall above the trough. His nose burst in a cloud of red and he went to a knee, right hand reaching inside his coat. I slammed his temple into the porcelain edge of the urinal. A gun skittered across the tiles and he sagged sideways. I stepped to the bathroom door and slipped the latch. I was back in less than five seconds. He was already struggling to get up. I put a boot to his head. Then hammered home two straight rights. This time, he was out.

  I found his cuffs and chained him to a pipe running along the base of the wall. The ID inside his pocket said he was a special agent with Homeland. Name was Robert Crane. I picked up the piece he’d been reaching for. A twenty-two with a suppressor. He had a second gun, a standard. 40-caliber service weapon on his belt. Crane groaned and tried to raise his head. I took out a handkerchief and threw it at him.

  “Wipe off your face. And zip yourself up.”

  “I’m a federal agent, Kelly. And you’re in a world of shit.”

  “Zip yourself up.”

  He did.

  “Why does a federal agent carry two guns?” I held up the forty. “I mean, what’s wrong with the one they gave you?”

  “You got it all figured out. You tell me.”

  “Why didn’t you take a run at me when we were in Little Kings?”

  “Not exactly the best place for a white guy to be pulling a piece. Even if it is to shoot another white guy. Besides, the woman was a problem.”

  “She’s not on your list?”

  “Who said I had a list?”

  I crouched down. “You got a list, Crane.”

  His nose was leaking blood. He wiped it clean, only to have it leak all over again.

  “How long you think before the moron up front decides to check on the two perverts in his bathroom?” he said.

  I glanced at the latch on the door. “We got time.”

  “For what?”

  “Why do they want to kill me?”

  “Piss off.”

  “I’m the one with the gun.”

  “Do what you have to. Or give me back my piece and get out of town before your luck runs out.”

  “You think I’m gonna shoot you?”

  “I’m thinking you better.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He spit a bright red wad onto the floor, stretched one leg, and rolled his good foot in a small circle. “In a job like this you’re an asset but also a threat. An asset until you’re no longer reliable. Then a threat because of everything you know.”

  “No retirement package, huh?”

  “They hire your replacement, and his first assignment is you. So we all do what we do. Until we don’t do it so well anymore. Can I stand up?”

  I uncuffed him and stepped back as he got to his feet. His nose was badly broken. The blood had slowed to a steady drip. For the first time I noticed his eyebrow was crushed. He winced every time he blinked.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “I always wanted to be standing. Don’t know why, but it seems right.”

  I felt my cell phone buzz in my pocket but ignored it. Crane was studying me. Hands loose at his sides. Not looking for an advantage. Just studying.

  “It’s not that hard, Kelly.”

  “Looks like it took its toll on you.”

  “They’re coming either way. For me. For you. So just do it. And don’t spend whatever time you have left worrying about the rest.”

  Crane buttoned up his overcoat, wiped his face for a final time, and straightened his shoulders. He looked at the thin gun in my hand and nodded.

  “Ready when you are.”

  Twenty minutes later I climbed out the bathroom window. The sky was lightening in the east, and I needed some sleep. I’d walked two blocks when my cell buzzed again. I had two text messages. Both from Molly Carrolton. It appeared she’d been up all night as well. And had the piece of the puzzle I’d been waiting on.

  CHAPTER 54

  I met Molly at a coffee shop in Printer’s Row called Stir. She was bundled into a short black coat, her hair a riot of red tucked under a knit cap. It was 6:00 a.m. We were their first customers. The coffee was fresh and wonderful.

  “Have you slept at all?” Molly said.

  “I had a busy night. How about you?”

  “I have something.” She took a perfunctory sip from her mug, eyes never leaving my face.

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “A DNA profile from the cigarette butt you gave me.”

  I looked out the shop’s front windows. Cold water beaded up and ran in broken rivers down the other side of the glass. Thick wrappings of morning fog floated off the lake and filled the crooked streets. A cop siren whooped once and was squelched. At the end of the block, three unmarked cars had blocked off the intersection. I watched, fascinated, as their blue lights pulsed like muffled heartbeats in the gloom.

  “Did you hear me?” she said.

  “I heard you. That was quick.”

  “I ran it last night. Got a little lucky.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I pulled it from the filter.”

  “Saliva?”

  “Probably.” She reached down for a file in a leather case at her feet. The black grip of a gun was tucked neatly into her jeans at the small of her back. Scientists with guns. The latest thing, apparently.

  “It’s a good profile,” Molly said. “Male. Sixteen distinct loci.”

  “What are the chances of an ID?”

  “Already on it. Homeland now requires that all employees and private contractors working in classified areas submit genetic samples to keep on file. I was able to run our profile through their database.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “You’re probably better off not knowing.” Molly flipped open the file and pulled out a photo. The face looking back at me was maybe mid-forties. Long, thin nose and sharp chin, eyes of mixed color, and black hair, shiny with a shock of white running through it.

  I took a sip of coffee. “Who is he?”

  “He’s the guy from your photo.”

  “You sure?”

  “Take a look.” Molly laid the photo Vinny DeLuca’s men had snapped against the profile picture.

  “Could be him,” I said.

  “Well, he’s a match for the cigarette butt. Name’s Peter Gilmore. Former SEAL. Now in private practice. CIA started using him about ten years ago on some black ops. Strictly a pay-as-you-go thing.”

  I picked through the file. Names, dates, operations.

  “What else?” I said.

  “He has expertise in the deployment of chemical and bioweapons.” Molly paused.

  “Yes?”

  “And he worked with Danielson. A little more than five years ago.”

  I looked out the window again. My reflection looked back, carved out of smoky gray and cold, blowing rain.

  “Mic
hael.” Molly had slid a little closer. “You okay?”

  My gaze moved across the line of her jaw and fine fuzz on her cheek.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “You don’t look so hot.”

  “It’s nothing. Rodriguez got back a ballistics report. The bullet you took came from the same weapon as the slug I found in Lee’s cellar.”

  “What does that tell us?”

  “Maybe he was targeting you. Maybe me.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Molly tapped the photo. “So this is the guy.”

  “Seems like it. Now we just have to find him.”

  She pulled a slip of paper from her pocket and pushed it across the counter.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve got a friend inside the Agency. He gave me an address. Says Gilmore uses it sometimes when he’s in the city. At least he’s used it before.”

  “And you think he’s there now?”

  “It’s a long shot.”

  I put the note in my pocket. “I’ll check it out.”

  “I’m trying, Michael.”

  “I know.” I smiled for the first time and took another sip of coffee.

  Molly fidgeted in her seat.

  “Is there something else?” I said.

  “There is, but I need you to be straight with me.”

  “What is it?”

  “Ellen was able to slip out of the lab last night. Now she’s off the grid and isn’t picking up her cell.”

  “And you want to know if we met?”

  A nod.

  “We had a drink. Talked for a bit. Then I put her in a cab.”

  “We need her, Michael.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you. Ellen’s one of this generation’s brilliant minds.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short.”

  “I was number three in my class at CalTech, so that’s not a problem. I’m still not Ellen.”

  “She was going to pick up her sister’s ashes. That’s all I know.”

  Molly wasn’t buying it. I could feel her anger wedged into the small space between us and knew things were about to get worse.