Michael Harvey - The Third Rail

“Have you got any concrete evidence the two are connected?”

That was from an olive-skinned woman with a notebook and pencil, standing at the back of the crowd, just in front of me. She was slight, maybe thirty years old, with glasses that had slipped halfway down her nose and a look of intel igence you don’t often see in a gathering of the media.

“No, we don’t have anything specific that connects the two,” Rodriguez said. “But, as I indicated, we’re in the early stages.”

Several reporters jumped in, yel ing questions, one over the other. It was Donovan who broke through the maelstrom.

“Detective, does Chicago have a spree kil er loose in its public transportation system?”

Rodriguez paused, eyes searching, then resting on me. I could see a smal, sad smile flicker at the corner of his mouth. Then he looked at Donovan and offered up the sound bite everyone was waiting on.

“John, I’l be honest. At this stage, we don’t know what we’re dealing with. Rest assured, however, the entire weight of the Chicago Police Department wil be brought to bear on these cases, and we wil get some answers.”

“When?” Donovan said.

“Soon, John. Sooner rather than later. That much, I can promise you.”

With that, Rodriguez ended the press conference. Several people continued to yel questions, but the detective waved them off. After a few minutes, the crowd began to dissolve. The print reporters went back to reporting. The TV folks shot pictures and put on makeup. RODRIGUEZ DRIFTED ACROSS Wabash and met me at the corner of Randolph.

“Let’s get a coffee,” he said.

I nodded and we walked back across the street.

“Why am I not surprised you’re here?”

I shrugged. “What did you expect?”

“Exactly. What do you think?”

“About what?” I said.

“The press.”

“Hysterical, as usual. Maybe even more so.”

“This is going to be a fucking zoo.”

“You got that right.”

We walked into a Starbucks and ordered. Then we sat by the window and looked out at the street.

“You got one shooter here, Vince.”

Rodriguez stared me down over his cup of coffee. “You sure about that?”

“Seems logical to me.”

The detective took a sip. “One’s a walk-up with a handgun. The other, a sniper with a rifle.”

“You thinking they’re not connected?”

Rodriguez shook his head. “I didn’t say that. Just doesn’t fit the normal pattern.”

I shrugged. “It’s the same guy.”

“Or guys,” Rodriguez said. “Let’s talk about your al ey.”

The detective placed a napkin between us and sketched out the scene at Cornelia. “You turn the corner here and see a set of footprints tracking al the way down this al ey. Right?”

I nodded.

“Okay, the snow had been fal ing ten minutes. Correct?”

“Tops,” I said.

“And there’s just one set of prints?”

“Just the one.”

“But when you fol ow the prints, the guy is waiting for you. Halfway down the al ey, behind a Dumpster.”

“Maybe he doubled back?” I said.

Nelson held the cel phone tight to his ear, looked across the street, and through Starbucks’ front window.

“Michael Kel y, how are you?”

“Do I know you?” Kel y’s voice was gruff and aggressive. Certain, but curious. Pure cop, even if the man himself was no more.

“Do you know me? I believe I put a gun to your head earlier this morning. A lot of fun that. Then I picked up a Remington 700 with a scope and blew the brains out of one of Chicago’s many drones on the CTA. If you want to check my bona fides, that is.”

The silhouette in Starbucks raised his chin and gestured to the cop sitting next to him. Nelson smiled.

“Tel Detective Rodriguez, the bul et’s a Nosler AccuBond, one-eighty grain, loaded into a Black Hil s. 308 Winchester. Special y designed to fire through glass. By the way, how’s the coffee there? Starbucks is a piece of shit in my book. Then again, I heard they’re grinding their own beans. Getting back to basics. I like that.”

Kel y had to be surprised he was being watched. Stil, the man’s head didn’t move.

“You didn’t look around. Very good, Kel y. You’d never see me anyway. And don’t worry. I have my eye on you, but not through the scope of a weapon. That’s long gone, so tel Chicago’s finest not to look too hard for it.”

“What do you want?”

“What do I want?” Nelson snorted into the cel. “I don’t want you dead. Could have checked that off the to-do list today. No, you’re going to suffer a little bit first. A matter of honor, I think.”

“What would you know about honor?”

“Homer pegged it as a zero-sum game. The more you suffer, the greater my glory.”

Kel y’s silhouette seemed to stiffen at the classical reference. “You’re gonna die, asshole.”

“Undoubtedly. The question is: How many am I taking into the hole with me?”

Nelson cut the line and waited. Kel y flipped his phone shut and leaned across to the detective named Rodriguez. Nelson could see them talking. Then the detective reached for a radio and held it close to his lips. Nelson unplugged the adapter he’d used to alter his voice. He tossed his cel phone into the Dumpster he was crouched behind and stripped off the skin-color gloves he had on. Then he pul ed out a shopping cart fil ed with old cans and newspapers and began to push it down the al ey. Somewhere a church bel struck twelve. The old man picked up his pace. If he hustled, he could stil make the 12:30 mass.

I watched as a woman standing ten feet away ordered a skim mocha, no whip. Rodriguez was whispering into his radio, tel ing someone somewhere that the kil er, or maybe his accomplice, had just given me a ring. The woman was in her early thirties, with light brown hair tied back into a ponytail and a large emerald cat pinned to her dark blue coat. She smiled as the tal, angular barista pushed her drink across the counter. Then the woman took a sip and found her way to a corner table looking out at the street. She pul ed out a paperback, tucked one leg underneath her, and began to read. It looked pretty peaceful, pretty nice. I wanted nothing more than to join her. Then Rodriguez got done with his radio machinations and gave me a tap on the shoulder.

“We gotta go.”

I knew that was coming. As we exited the Starbucks, four cruisers sealed off the block. Ten cops got out and began to comb al eys, roust bums, and shake down regular folks on the street. I figured too little, too late.

“You got a car?” Rodriguez said.

“No.”

“Good.” Rodriguez popped the locks on his Crown Vic. “Get in.”

Five minutes later, we were out of the Loop and headed west.

“Not going to headquarters?” I said.

The detective shook his head. “Looks like the feds might be taking over. Possible terrorist acts.”

“Bet downtown loved that.”

“Brass doesn’t mind. If it goes wel, we’l stick our nose in the trough, suck up as much glory as we can. If we have bodies stacking up on L platforms in a week and a half, we got someone to blame it on.”

“Don’t you love your job?”

“Funny guy. Right now you’re the star of the show.”

“Great.”

“That’s right. Now, talk to me about the guy on the phone. Was he legit?”

“You tel me.”

Rodriguez took a left onto Canal. “A patrol found a rifle in the trash. Remington with a scope.”

“He told me we wouldn’t find it,” I said.

“Guess he lied. Try to get over it.”

“How about ammo?”

Rodriguez took a right and accelerated down the block. “We’l know more when we pul the lead out of our victim. But there were three rounds in the rifle.”