Michael Harvey - The Third Rail

“You get a look at the guy?” I said.

Chubby smiled. “White dudes al look the same to me.”

Rodriguez grabbed the kid by the col ar. I glanced at the detective, who let the kid go. Chubby stepped back and watched both of us closely.

“You know which floor the white guy might have been coming from?” I said.

“I’d say top floor. No one else up there for sure.”

“Why’s that?” Rodriguez said.

“No wood on the windows. No heat. Colder than shit up there.”

Rodriguez jerked his head toward the stairs. “I need you to go down into the lobby and wait. You’re not there when I come down, I come looking for you. And that ain’t good.”

Chubby glanced back toward the elevator shaft. “I got some shit down there.”

“Forget it,” Rodriguez said. “Now get the fuck out of here before I lock you up.”

Chubby didn’t care about his stuff. Chubby also wasn’t moving. “You slick boys goin’ upstairs, best take me with you. I know how it works.”

“How what works?” I said.

“The layout. Nigger can shift right down the hal way for you. See if your boy’s there and tel you exactly where. Now, how much that worth?”

I put my gun to his nose, and Chubby’s grin fel apart at the seams.

“You want to help?” I said.

Chubby kept his eyes on the gun. I took that as a yes.

“Do just what we say and don’t say a word unless we ask you a question. You got it?”

Chubby nodded.

“Okay,” I said. “Get behind us and fol ow.”

And so we began to climb again, traveling on the edge of Dante’s circles-also known as Chicago public housing. Twice we heard a groan, once a thick whisper and some quick footsteps. Each time, Chubby slipped away, only to return with a nod to keep climbing. Eleven flights later, we hit the top.

“This is it,” Chubby said, hunched in the stairwel. “No heat up here. Only safe place for a white man.”

I edged my head around the corner and took a look down the corridor. Our guide was right. The wind was whistling through blown-out windows, dropping the temperature to whatever it was outside. I could only see two units on my left. Neither had doors on them. I ducked back into the stairwel.

“Any of the apartments up here have doors,” I said.

Chubby shook his head. “Not likely.”

“You think you could take a look for us?” Rodriguez said.

“Sure.”

“Go ahead,” I said. “Just walk down the hal and right back. Nice and slow. We’l be watching.”

I stepped back and motioned with my gun. Chubby eased past us and around the corner. Thirty seconds later, he was back.

“Know exactly where your boy is.”

I felt my heart jump and my fingers itch.

“How so?” Rodriguez said.

“Last apartment on the right,” Chubby said. “Got a door and maybe a lock on it. Gotta be your boy.”

“That unit tunneled out?” I said.

“They al got tunnels up here,” Chubby said.

“Stay here,” Rodriguez said.

I crept around the corner and moved down the hal way, the detective on my shoulder. Chubby was right. None of the units had doors, until we got to the last. We stacked on either side. I took a deep breath and nodded. Rodriguez raised his boot and kicked in the door. I went first, ducking low and scooting along the wal. It was warmer in here, fetid, with fractures of light cutting up the floor. I saw a shape and moved toward it. Somewhere behind me, Rodriguez yel ed “Police.” I was turning over a body and staring down at a young black man, eyes open, dead. There was a second boy close by. I took off my glove and felt for a pulse. Blood greased my fingers as Rodriguez ripped the shade off a window covered over in plastic. The apartment’s north wal had been boarded up, sealing the unit off from the rest of the floor. The opposite wal had a huge hole in it. Rodriguez ducked through it and popped back out.

“Bedroom. Clear.”

An empty chair sat in the middle of the main room. A second interior door stood ajar to my left. Rodriguez eased the door open with his foot and ducked in.

“He must have moved her.” The detective’s voice drifted back through the unit. I was staring at the chair Rachel had sat in just a few short hours ago.

“Kel y, you hear me?”

I kicked the chair across the room. “I heard you. He knew Rachel had tipped me on the video. Knew I’d come here.”

“Couldn’t have taken her too far,” Rodriguez said and paused. “Kel y, come in here.”

I walked into the third room. Rodriguez had his back to me and was running his flashlight over what looked like a bed. I moved up behind him and felt my throat tighten. The mattress was stained with blood.

“Looks like those stains have been here awhile,” Rodriguez said. “There’s more on the floor. I’m thinking Maria Jackson.”

The detective turned toward me. He held a buff-colored envelope between his fingers.

“What’s that?” I said.

“It was taped to the wal over the bed. Got your name on it.”

I turned the envelope over. There was my name in block letters. Inside was a single photo. It was an old shot. Denny McNabb wore a White Sox hat and Peg had what looked like a can of Old Style in her hand.

“Who are they?” Rodriguez said.

“Jim Doherty’s neighbors.”

“Someone’s playing games.”

“Yeah.”

Rodriguez sighed and kicked at some stray glass on the floor. I slid down against the wal and studied the photo.

“I can’t keep a lid on this much longer,” Rodriguez said. “Not with the bodies next door.”

“Bring Lawson in now.”

“You sure?”

I looked down at my cel. The text message light was blinking. It was from Hubert Russel.

“Yeah. Have her get a team in here. Get someone over to pick up Hubert as wel. Tel Lawson I need two hours. Then they can move on the South Side.”

“You think she’l go along?”

“She wants this guy dead. And she wants it off the books. I’m betting she gives me the window.”

“What about Rachel?”

I wasn’t going to ride to her rescue. At least not the way I’d planned. Instead, it was gonna have to be his way.

“I’m thinking you take Chubby and work the neighborhood. If this guy moved her, it had to be today. Maybe someone saw something.”

Rodriguez crouched down so our eyes were level. “Two hours. Then we come. And remember, don’t wait on this prick. You get a shot, take it.”

The detective straightened and walked into the other room. I could hear him on his cel, making his first cal s, cranking up the logistics on a team for Cabrini. I needed to get going. Instead, I flipped open

my cel and clicked on the first of Hubert’s texts. The message was one line: HANG ON TO THIS. MORE TO COME, INCLUDING VIDEO. H.

Hubert had attached a JPEG image file. I opened it.

“Vince,” I said. He stuck his head through the hole in the wal, held up a finger, and finished up his cal.

“What is it?” the detective said.

I showed him the picture Hubert had sent me. And, more important, the date that it was taken. And that’s when everything changed.

Hubert sat back and listened to the sounds outside his window. Then he entered a new command into his computer and waited. He’d been pul ing at this string for a while. It kept his mind off the bruises on his face.

A batch of search results popped up on the screen. Hubert clicked on one and began to read. After a few minutes he pul ed out Jim Doherty’s files and pored through the old clippings a second, then a third time. Hubert shook his head. He glanced toward the kitchen knife lying flat on his desk and grinned. Like he could ever stick that into anyone.