Michael Harvey - The Third Rail

His role apparently played, the deputy director sat back and waited. A woman across the table cleared her throat. She was thirty-five, maybe forty, with nervous eyes and a tough mouth that would have been attractive if it wasn’t so disapproving. I’d seen it before. Battle fatigue from too many years in the Old Boys’ Club.

“Mr. Kel y, my name is Katherine Lawson. I’m heading up our field investigation.” Lawson had long, thin hands that she folded in front of her as she spoke. Her fingers were devoid of any jewelry, save a gold ring with a black stone that also carried an FBI crest. I guessed cuff links didn’t work for her.

“Did you, by any chance, recognize the man in the al ey?” Lawson said.

“He was wearing a ski mask,” I said. “It’s in my statement.”

“Voice?”

I shook my head. “Sounded young. Plenty strong and looked to be in good shape.”

Lawson glanced down at her notes. “He asked if you were ready to die?”

“That’s right.”

“Any idea why he said that?”

I shrugged. “I assume he was just making conversation.”

Lawson caught her boss’s eye. Rudolph seemed to be watching the exchange closely, but kept quiet.

“And why would you assume that?”

The last question came from a black man with white tufts of hair planted on either side of his head and a trim white goatee. He was sitting at the far end of the table, his chair turned to face the nearest wal.

“This is Dr. James Supple,” Lawson said. “He works with our Profiling Section out of Quantico.”

I nodded, but Supple continued to study the wal. Fuck him. Fuck profilers.

“He didn’t pul the trigger,” I said. “What else should I assume?”

Supple turned a fraction in his chair. A smile licked at the corner of his lips. “So the suspect was playing with you?”

“You mean suspects,” I said.

Supple sat up a bit. “Excuse me?”

“Suspects,” I said. “There were two suspects in that al ey. Not at the same time, but they were there.”

I went on to explain the theory Rodriguez and I had worked out.

Supple shook his head and glanced at Rudolph. “Doubtful.”

“Why?” the deputy director said.

“A kil er like this almost always operates alone.” Supple plucked his glasses off his nose and wiped them down as he spoke. “I know, everyone cites the DC sniper. But that was a unique set of facts. A man and a boy. Student and teacher. The exception, rather than the rule. I can tel you, without any doubt, this suspect almost certainly works without an accomplice.”

If they hadn’t taken my gun at the door, I would have considered shooting the profiler where he sat. Instead, I took a sip of bad coffee and worked on summoning my reflective self.

“The phone cal you took, Mr. Kel y. About how long did it last?” That was Agent Lawson, dutiful y picking up the bal and trying to move it forward.

“Less than a minute.”

“And the voice on the phone, was it the same as the voice in the al ey?”

“The voice on the phone was disguised. Electronical y altered. Must have had some sort of device tapped onto the line.”

“And why would he do that, do you suspect?” Supple was back again, laying out his piece of cheese and waiting to pounce. Fuck it. Let him pounce.

“I have no idea,” I said. “Why?”

“You had heard his voice once in the al ey, and he wanted to make sure you didn’t hear it a second time, especial y if there was a possibility you might record it.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “That supports your theory of a single shooter?”

“The facts speak for themselves, Mr. Kel y.”

“Real y? Because it seems to me if he’d let me hear his voice in the al ey, why would he go to the trouble of disguising it the second time around?

And why would he think my cel would be set up to record a cal I had no reason to suspect I was even receiving?”

Lawson intervened again. “What’s your point, Mr. Kel y?”

“My point is pretty simple. This guy disguised his voice because he was afraid I might recognize it. Not from this morning, but from some other time.

The feds stuck me in another smal room, this time with a pot of cold coffee and a door that was locked. Every ten minutes, a sal ow-faced woman would check to see if I had accomplished anything worthwhile-like, perhaps, hanging myself. No such luck. After two more hours of nothing, Rodriguez walked in.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“So soon?”

The detective grimaced and handed me my coat. We didn’t say much more until we had cleared the building and were safely in his car.

“They’re not happy.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” I said.

“They can’t get a handle on any pattern to the shootings. And they definitely don’t like the fact that he cal ed you.”

“And then there’s al those dead people.”

Rodriguez ignored me. “They’re thinking of giving you a new cel phone, one with your old number. If this guy cal s again, they’d be able to trace it. By the way, Rudolph’s worried you might go to the press.”

“Rudolph’s a fucking moron. Not as much of a moron as that profiler, but he’s stil awful y dumb.”

“Yeah, wel, the good news is Lawson thought you’d keep your mouth shut, and that seemed to carry a lot of weight. Stil, it’s the Bureau. They don’t trust anyone. Especial y, anyone inside.”

“Who said I was inside?”

“You’re not. So that’s another point in your favor. At least, it was.”

“What does that mean?”

Rodriguez sighed and spun the wheel. His car scraped onto Halsted Street and accelerated. “Rudolph decided the Bureau doesn’t want to be on the hook alone in case they don’t catch this guy.”

“Let me guess, a task force?”

“Just got off the phone with the mayor and my boss. Local, state, and federal. Lawson is running point.”

“Bet the mayor loved that.”

“I’m the scapegoat for the city.”

“Even better.”

“Fuck you, Kel y. At the end of the cal, Lawson pipes in that she might want you attached to the investigation.”

“As what?”

Rodriguez pul ed his car to the curb in front of a fire hydrant at the corner of Halsted and Adams.

“That’s what the mayor wanted to know. Come on, let’s go.”

Rodriguez popped out of the car and walked across the street. We were in the heart of Greektown, home away from home for out-of-town businessmen looking for a shot of ouzo, a leg of lamb, or a wayward bel y dancer.

We ducked our heads inside a restaurant cal ed Santorini. The bar was warm and fil ed with dark men in starched white shirts with nothing to do. Rodriguez flipped open his badge. The bartender smiled and nodded toward a set of stairs. Rodriguez turned to me.

“He’s at a table upstairs, Kel y.”

“Who?”

“Who do you think? And don’t be an asshole.”

I WALKED UP two flights alone and surfaced in a dining room that was as large as it was empty. A burst of sizzle and flame flared to my left. Two smal Greek men danced around a table, clapping their hands and crying “Oopah” while a third worked on containing the smal inferno he’d created. In the midst of it al, Mayor John J. Wilson sat and scowled. The dish was cal ed saganaki, essential y a piece of cheese doused in booze and set on fire. Wilson had a forkful halfway to his mouth as I approached. The mayor waved me to an empty chair.

“You like this shit, Kel y?”

I shrugged. “It’s fried cheese. What’s not to like?”

“Give him a piece,” Wilson said. The waiter smiled and set another hunk of cheese on fire. After I had my portion, Wilson gave the boys a look, and they disappeared downstairs. We were alone. Just me, the mayor, and our saganaki.