Michael Harvey - The Third Rail

The phone rang. I checked cal er ID, lifted the phone, and dropped it back onto its cradle. Then I went into the kitchen and found the Macal an. Or what was left of it. The phone rang again. This time I picked up.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Rodriguez said.

I looked at the water glass of scotch in front of me. “Getting drunk. How about you?”

“No one’s heard from you for a day and a half.”

Actual y, that wasn’t true. Four days ago, I watched as they put Hubert Russel in a hole I’d dug for him. I spent the next three days at Northwestern Memorial. They let me in to see Rachel once. She cried until I left.

“What do you want, Rodriguez?”

“How is she?”

“Nothing’s changed.”

“You gonna try and see her again?”

“They said they’d cal.”

“You want to get a drink?”

“I’l let you know if I run out.”

Rodriguez grunted and hung up. I found an old pack of cigarettes and lit one up. The pup didn’t like that and went back into the bedroom. From the bottom drawer of my desk I pul ed out a folder tabbed L.A. and opened it. On top was a police shot of my father, cold and stiff in a one-room SRO in South Central. Underneath, more of the same.

I turned the picture facedown and picked up the phone. She answered on the first ring.

“Yes, Michael.”

“Anything new?”

“From an hour ago? No, Michael, nothing’s new.”

The woman’s name was Hazel Wisdom. She worked the day shift on Rachel’s floor. My contact at night was a nurse named Marilyn Bunck.

“Did she eat lunch?” I said.

“I don’t know, Michael, but I’m betting yes.”

“Did the doctors see her?”

“I told you. They see her every day.”

“Did she talk to them?”

“I wasn’t there when they examined her, but I know she’s getting stronger. It’s just going to take a while.”

“Meanwhile, I need to keep my distance.”

“It’s not distance. It’s space. Just a little space so she can heal.”

“Doing nothing doesn’t work for me, Hazel.”

“Real y? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Don’t blow things out of proportion.”

“You hung around here for three days, living on coffee and Snickers bars, sleeping on the floor when you weren’t staring at her door and haunting every nurse and doctor that came in and out of her room.”

“Until your hospital booted me out.”

“It wasn’t helping her, and that’s what’s important. Listen, if I could make it happen for you, I would. We al would. But it’s just not the way these things work. You’re in the business, Michael. You know.”

She was right. I’d sat with plenty of them: fathers and husbands, boyfriends and brothers-victims once removed. Most would nod and gasp for air, hands clenching and unclenching, faces moving in broken pieces, lips mouthing questions for which there was never a good enough answer. And now I was one of them, asking a nurse to play God, wishing I could turn tomorrow into yesterday, wishing I could make Rachel whole. Hazel’s voice brought me back to the moment.

“The truth is you just have to sit tight. Chances are she’l be asking for you. Another day or two at most.”

I nodded to an empty room. “Thanks for putting up with me, Hazel.”

She laughed. “For what it’s worth, if I’m ever sick or hurt, I hope you’re on my side.”

“Be careful what you wish for. You’l cal me if-”

“If she asks? What do you think?”

“Bye, Hazel.”

“Talk to you in an hour, Michael.”

I hung up the phone and felt the silence, heavy around me. I took my smokes and drink into the living room, and put on some music. Bruce’s harmonica chased Roy Bittan up the keyboard as “Thunder Road” unwound. I took another sip of scotch, smal er this time, sat down at my desk, and clicked on my Mac. Hubert Russel ’s face popped up. It was the last video he made before he was murdered. His thoughts on the case I’d asked him to investigate-the case that got him kil ed.

“I’ve already sent you the police file on your pal Jim Doherty.” Hubert dropped his eyes to his notes. “It’s probably nothing, but you said he worked the ’80 crash as a cop. As you can see, he didn’t get out of the Academy until 1982.”

No, he didn’t, Hubert.

“Anyway,” Hubert continued, “probably nothing, but whatever. I sent his Academy picture to your phone along with the file. The other thing I’m sending is about your old train crash and the company I’d mentioned, Transco.”

I leaned forward and studied the digitized image of my friend. The kid was excited, knew he’d found a couple of pieces that clicked.

“Your hunch was right, Mr. Kel y. Transco and Wabash Railway were owned by the same group, a corporation cal ed CMT Holding.”

I pul ed out a pad and pen and wrote CMT HOLDING at the top and TRANSCO just below it. Then I drew a line between the two. On-screen, Hubert kept talking.

“CMT appears to have had its fingers in a whole bunch of things back in the day. Railroads, related properties, manufacturing companies. Al held through various subsidiaries. Al very discreet. I don’t have a line yet on who actual y control ed CMT, but I’m working on it. The company’s registered agent was an attorney named Sol Bernstein. He’s dead, but I think his son might know something. So, we’l see. By the way, I also found CMT’s logo.”

Hubert hit a few more keys. “Just sent it to your phone. A dead ringer for the one someone left on your doorstep. Cool, right?”

Hubert paused on-screen and looked to his left. “Just heard something outside. Maybe the good guys are here to take me into protective custody.”

He flashed a sly grin at the absurdity of it al. “Don’t worry, Mr. Kel y. If al else fails, I’ve got my steak knife to protect me. Talk to you later.”

And then Hubert was gone. I shut down my Mac and turned up the music. Eddie Vedder had replaced the Boss and was tel ing me about a kid in Texas named Jeremy. I put my feet up on my desk and watched the day’s light flicker and fade against the wal s. By the time I finished the scotch it was mostly dark. I left my gun at home and walked down the street to find a cab. Rachel would come back, or not. But Hubert Russel was dead. And I needed to do something about it.

Lawson’s meeting was in a Loop bar and gril cal ed the Exchequer. She got there early. He was in a back booth, sipping at a glass of water and reading the New York Times.

“Danielson?”

The man from Homeland Security raised his eyes from the paper and hol owed out a smile. “Agent Lawson.”

Danielson made a move to get up, but Lawson waved him back down and slid in across from him.

“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” Danielson said.

“Not a problem. What can I do for you?”

“You can start by tel ing me why you were wandering around in a CTA subway tunnel this afternoon.”

Lawson’s needle never moved off center; her response was right out of the Bureau playbook. “I work a number of cases, Mr. Danielson. Al of them major crimes. So where I go and what I do is my business. Above-and belowground.”

Danielson held up a pair of manicured hands. “Easy. Same side here.”

“Real y?”

“Yes. One of our people happened to be in the area, doing some fol ow-up on the Doherty thing. They saw you go in the access door at Clinton this afternoon and snapped a picture.”

Danielson threw a photo across the table. Lawson picked up the picture of herself and pretended to study it. Then she scuttled it back across the table and into Danielson’s lap.

“The ‘Doherty thing,’ as you cal it, was my case, a Bureau case.”