Michael Harvey - The Third Rail

“Shouldn’t have done that last bit. With the bat.”

I turned. Jennings’ buddies had been joined by the bartender, who sported an Irish brogue I hadn’t caught before and held a sawed-off shotgun loosely in his hands.

“Back up against the wal, mister.” The bartender tightened his grip, and I noticed a shake in the gun.

“I’m cal ing the cops,” one of the friends said. He was squatting down by a mostly unconscious Jennings, mostly just looking at him. “He’s gonna need an ambulance.”

The barkeep shook his head and slid his eyes toward the back door that led to the bar. “Nobody’s cal ing anyone. Sul y, you take the boys inside. I’l be taking care of this prick myself.”

I shot my hand out, pushing the short barrel up and twisting it out of the barkeep’s grip. It was done without thought, without hesitation. The only way something like that can be done. Then I was holding the gun, and the Irishman was fucked. I snapped open the breech and ejected two shel s.

“Came out here to do some business, did you, Irish?”

The bartender kept his mouth shut. I broke his gun into pieces against the wal.

“Your pal was right,” I said. “You need to get LJ here an ambulance. If he ever wants another shot at the title, tel him to give me a cal.”

I took out my card and stuffed it into the Irishman’s shirt pocket. Then I walked out of the al ey and down the street. From inside the Ham Tree, I heard a yel for booze. The Hawks had scored and someone wanted a round.

I woke up the next morning desperately in need of a cup of coffee and a favor. Intel igentsia provided the first. Katherine Lawson, the second.

“Where are we going?” she said and started up her car.

“I need your badge, Katherine.”

She took a sip of her coffee. “Good coffee. What for?”

“I need to get inside a file down at the ME’s office.”

Lawson sighed. “Let me guess, Hubert Russel?”

I nodded. Lawson took a closer look at my face. “Were you in a fight last night?”

I smiled lightly. “Yeah, with a bottle of scotch.”

Maybe she felt like she owed me after I took the weight on

Doherty. Maybe she felt sorry for me over Rachel. Maybe she just felt sorry for me. Whatever the reason, Lawson started to drive.

“Chicago PD’s taken over Hubert’s case, Michael. And from what I understand, they’ve already closed it.”

“I’m not buying it.”

“Why not?”

“Timing doesn’t work.”

“It’s close, but Doherty had enough time to kil Hubert and get back to his house.”

I didn’t believe it. I didn’t think Lawson did either. She just needed a reason.

“Think about it, Katherine. Doherty’s whole idea with Rachel’s video was to lure me to the South Side so he could play his sick games.”

“Which he eventual y accomplished.”

“Yes, and he accomplished it by giving me a false choice.”

“What does that mean?”

“Doherty’s plan only worked if I cal ed Hubert and found him alive. Then when I cal ed Doherty and got no answer, I’d head south. If I picked up on the clues Rachel left for me on the tape and went to Cabrini, the picture of the McNabbs would push me south again. The whole thing was a sucker play. A false choice with only one result. And that result required that Hubert be alive.”

Lawson hit her turn signal and accelerated onto the Kennedy. “And yet he stil wound up dead. How does that work? More coincidence?”

She was right. I hadn’t figured that part out. Lawson pressed her advantage.

“Who else could it have been, Michael? Who else wanted Hubert Russel dead?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s right. You don’t. Because there is no one else. No one but Doherty. He hated you for whatever fucked-up reason he had, and maybe he kil ed your friend to even the score. You know damn wel he would’ve kil ed Rachel if he’d gotten the chance.”

“A chance you didn’t give him, right?”

“I’m not looking for that, Michael.”

“I guess I should thank you.”

“Look, we’l go down to the ME. You ask your questions. But if nothing turns up, you let it go.” Lawson looked over. “Al right?”

“Yeah.”

We drove in silence for a while. Lawson put on an Alicia Keys CD.

“How is Rachel?” she said.

“Not good.”

Lawson peeked over again. “You want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Al right.” She kept driving. I pul ed out my notes.

“Can I ask you something else?” I said.

“Sure.”

“The binder we found down in Doherty’s house.”

“Which binder?”

“You know which binder. The red one. Doherty had it with him. Looked like he was going to show me something-”

“Right before I shot him.”

“That’s right. And then you grabbed the binder before I could get a look at it.”

Lawson was shaking her head. A hint of something played reluctantly across her lips. She reached over and turned up her music. I turned it down.

“You don’t want to talk about the binder?” I said.

“Why do you need to know?”

“What is there to know?”

“Exactly, Michael. What is there to know? As far as you’re concerned, nothing.”

“Now you got me curious.”

“Bul shit. You were curious from the moment you saw it. And I think you might have gotten at least half a look at it.”

“You’re not gonna tel me about the binder?”

She turned the music up again. I returned to my notes.

“What’s that?” She pointed to a file I had tabbed TRANSCO.

“A lead Hubert was working on the old CTA crash,” I said. “Most of it’s in the files he downloaded to you.”

“That for the ME?”

“Maybe. You want to hear?”

“Hang on.” Lawson had exited the highway. Now she took a right onto Harrison Street and pul ed into a slot in front of the Cook County Medical Examiner’s building. I handed her the folder.

“I’m listening,” she said and began to leaf through Hubert’s notes.

I explained how a faulty device built by Transco derailed a train thirty years ago and probably kil ed eleven people.

“Who owned Transco?” she said, eyes narrowed, stil glued to her reading.

“An old holding company named CMT.” I handed her some more paperwork. “Hubert could never nail down the principals, but I think it’s worth a little more digging.”

Lawson closed the folder and handed it back to me. “Why?”

“Because I get the feeling these guys, whoever they are, don’t want to be discovered.”

“And that interests you?”

“I don’t believe Doherty kil ed Hubert.” I popped open the passenger’s-side door. “And these guys have something to hide. So, yeah, that interests me. Let’s go.”

What makes you think I wouldn’t have given you a look?”

Marge Connel y measured me through a pair of black reading glasses and reached for her coffee mug. She was sitting behind her desk, dressed in a set of blue scrubs, with a stack of files in front of her.

“Why would you?” I said.

Connel y puffed out her cheeks and pul ed the rest of her face into a frown. “Agent Lawson, I don’t know you very wel, but I’m going to ask you a question.”

“Nothing you say leaves this room,” Lawson said. “You have my word.”

The ME sighed and pul ed a folder from the pile on her desk. “What concerns me is the way the case is being handled.” She flipped the file open. “If you know what I mean?”

“I think I know what you mean,” I said, “but fil me in.”

“First day or so, there’s the kind of interest you’d expect. Mayor’s office cal ing, higher-ups in Homicide, even the feds.” Connel y glanced toward Lawson, who crossed her legs and kept her hands folded in her lap.