Michael Harvey - The Third Rail

Danielson shook his head and folded up his newspaper until it was a neat rectangle. “We don’t have to do this, Agent Lawson.”

“No?”

“No. I’m assuming you took a look at the binder James Doherty had with him when he died.”

“I col ected it at the scene. Of course I looked at it.”

“And you saw the notes he made?”

Lawson shrugged, but didn’t respond.

“And I’m suspecting,” Danielson continued, “that was why you were down in the subway today?”

Homeland Security waited, a hint of smugness tattooed across his lips.

“I’m not sure this conversation is going anywhere, Mr. Danielson.”

“Weaponized anthrax, Agent Lawson. Loaded into lightbulbs and planted in Chicago’s subway system. Is that what you’re concerned about? What you think Mr. Doherty might have been up to?”

“From what I know-”

“What you know, Agent Lawson, is nothing. We’ve explored the possibilities raised by Mr. Doherty and the ‘Terror 2000’ binder. That’s our job. We’ve discussed them with your higher-ups. And we have no concerns about any possible threat.”

“Have you taken a look at Doherty’s accomplice?”

“Robles, Robert R. General discharge from the United States Army in 1998. Prior to that, stationed for two years at Fort Detrick, home to this country’s major bioweapons lab. Yes, we know about Mr. Robles and we’ve talked to the lab. He was never authorized access to any weapons materials.”

“And that’s it?”

Danielson fanned his hands, palms up, on the table. “As far as you’re concerned, yes.”

Lawson pul ed out a news clipping. It was from the Baltimore Sun, dated February 10, 2009. The headline read: BIODEFENSE LAB COUNTS ITS KILLERS. INVENTORY ERROR PROMPTS FORT DETRICK TO CATALOG VIRUSES, BACTERIA, OTHER MATERIALS.

“I’m sure you’ve seen this, Mr. Danielson. The lab director at Detrick spins it as more of a housekeeping issue-until you get to about paragraph five. That’s when he tel s us the probability of a ‘discrepancy’ regarding the lab’s bioweapons inventory is ‘high.’ Then we learn the lab at Detrick didn’t even use computers to track its inventory until 2005. Prior to that, it was al pen and paper.”

“What’s your point, Agent Lawson?”

“My point is this. If a guy like Robles did take a chemical agent such as mustard gas, or, here’s an idea, a couple of lightbulbs fil ed with anthrax, would the lab at Detrick even know it?”

“Detrick has assured us their inventory is secure.”

“You sound a little scared.”

“Concerned, but not for the reasons you suspect. If this sort of rumor gets into the public’s bloodstream, the potential fal out’s enormous. For us. The Defense Department. Hel, you ever think about the city of Chicago? This place becomes a ghost town if tourists start believing there’s a cloud of anthrax floating down State Street.”

Danielson took another sip of his water. “As it stands, we’ve been able to keep the lid on the contamination at Holy Name. Barely. The last thing we need is a loose cannon of an FBI agent stirring up unrest among the locals with her doomsday scenarios.”

“So you’re tel ing me to drop this?”

“I’m tel ing you the water’s far deeper than you suspect.”

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Danielson?”

“Am I?” This time it was Danielson who showed a little bit of his teeth and Lawson who felt herself fidget. “The fact is, you’re neither qualified nor authorized to even have this conversation. So clear the fuck out. If you want to take that as a threat, feel free to do so. In fact, I think you’d be wise to consider it exactly as such. Now, there’s one more thing I need from you, Agent Lawson.”

“What’s that?”

“Everything you have on a PI named Michael Kel y.”

The Ham Tree Inn is located on a working-class stretch of Milwaukee Avenue in Chicago’s Jefferson Park. I walked in around 8:00 p.m. and found a seat. The bartender wandered over. I ordered a Bud and a shot of Jim Beam. A couple of construction types had a harvest of empties in front of them and were swearing at a TV that was actual y televising the Hawks game. There was another guy at the other end of the bar. Like me, he was drinking alone. I finished my whiskey and walked my can of beer over to a corner where three more guys were shooting darts. The oldest was mid-thirties, maybe six-three, two-fifty. He fit the description I’d gotten from Rodriguez. Better yet, his green Camaro was parked in the lot outside. I took a closer look. There were flecks of white paint on his face and jeans. His chest and forearms were layered with muscle, the product of working for a living. I took a sip of Bud. The older guy stepped to the line and tossed a flight of three twenties.

“Nice darts, LJ,” one of his buddies said.

Larry Jennings grinned and pul ed his flight from the cork. I wandered back to the bar. The three of them kept throwing. I’d just finished my second beer when Jennings popped a triple ten to win the match. He stepped in to pul his darts again. I beat him to it.

“You want these, Larry?”

He looked at me funny. “I do, pal. Thanks.” He tried to grab the flight, but I pul ed them back.

“Something I want you to take a look at,” I said.

The place was suddenly stil. Even the Hawks game seemed to go quiet. I took a white card from my pocket and stuck it on the dart board.

“This here is the mass card from Hubert Russel ’s funeral. You recognize the face?”

I pointed to Hubert’s picture on the card. Jennings shook his head. He was confused, on his way to angry. Jennings’ buddies watched from a close distance.

“Didn’t think so,” I said. “You beat up the wrong guy, Larry. Maybe it’s time to pay.”

I went back to the bar and threw down some money. There was a men’s room at the end of a tight hal way, but I kept going, to the back door and an al ey. I knew Jennings would fol ow. Guys like him always fol owed. Mostly because they were too afraid not to.

“You got a problem, asshole?”

He’d brought a pool cue and two of his buddies with him. The latter stayed near the doorway, drinking beer and looking like they’d rather be inside shooting darts. The former was a problem.

Jennings cut the ground between us in half with a step and swung the thick end of the cue at my head. I turned to take the blow on my shoulder. It hurt, but the cue broke in half. And I was inside.

I fired two straight lefts to the face. They were quick and short. The big man dropped to a knee and got up slowly.

“Motherfucker.”

I grinned and beckoned him in. “Come and get it, sweetie.”

Jennings bul — rushed. I half circled and snapped another left to the chin. Then two hard rights to the body. No emotion. Just speed, angles, and leverage.

Jennings covered up low, and I hammered a left, over his arm, into the side of his head. Then I grabbed a handful of hair and slammed his face into the side of a Dumpster. His nose pumped red. I spun him around and straightened out. Two more lefts got him going down. A short right finished it. I’d stashed the basebal bat behind the Dumpster. I took it out and looked at the assembled crowd that now consisted of three friends. Al cowards. Then I swung, two, three times. Heavy, silent blows to the body. Jennings vomited his dinner and a little blood in the al ey. Part of me wanted to go for the skul. Lay the motherfucker open and let his pals pick up what was left. But murder was not on my agenda. So I dropped the bat and kicked him. Just once.

“That was for Hubert.”

He lay facedown, holding his insides and moaning. I could hear noises from the street, the whisper of a car passing by, and careless laughter from a Chicago night. I choked back the darkness and moved toward the light of Milwaukee Avenue. The voice came from behind.