Michael Harvey - The Third Rail

Robles had been on the platform for less than twenty seconds. He leaned against the railing and peered through layered curtains of snow, at the stone faces of apartment buildings crowding close to Chicago’s elevated tracks. The row of windows across from him was dark. The street below, quiet. Robles turned back toward the crowd waiting for the train. To his left stood a secretary type, keeping Chicago’s winter at bay with a heavy brown coat that ran to her knees. Beside her was a guy barely out of law school, toting a briefcase that was barely out of the box. A clock wound down inside Robles’ head. Fifteen more seconds and he needed to move. He gripped the gun in his pocket and walked back toward the entrance to the L platform. A dark-eyed woman was putting on lipstick and standing by the stairs. Her bad luck. He moved closer and snuck a look down the stairwel. No one coming up. More bad luck for her. Robles pul ed the gun from his pocket and held it straight in front of him. He focused on the blue pulse beating tiny wings inside the woman’s left temple. Then he pul ed the trigger, and the woman dropped straight down. Like a puppet with the strings cut, she was al here and there, arms, legs, and a smear of lipstick across her lips and down her chin. She gurgled once or twice and might have even gotten a look at him before the darkness dropped across her eyes. Ten seconds later, Robles was back on the street. He didn’t run until he got to the corner and, even then, not too fast. He didn’t want to attract attention. More important, he didn’t want to get too far ahead of the man he hoped would pursue.

I took the stairs two at a time, slid over the turnstile and out of the L station. A kick of wind hit me fat in the face, and snow fel sideways as I shouldered my way down Southport Avenue. A soft frat boy and his softer girlfriend stood stiff at the corner of Southport and Cornelia, wearing Northwestern and Notre Dame sweatshirts, respectively, and pointing their slack jaws and wide eyes east. Even if I weren’t a detective, it wasn’t hard to figure which way the shooter had run. I pul ed my nine mil imeter, held it low by my side, and turned down Cornelia. A half block ahead, a slip of dark fabric disappeared into an al ey. I fol owed, past a run of single-family homes, two-and three-flats, a block from Chicago’s Brown Line. At the mouth of the al ey, I leaned up against a graystone and took a quick look around the corner. The run of pavement was empty, save for a string of Dumpsters and a rat the size of a cat that, thankful y, took off for points unknown. I slowed my breathing and listened. The wind had fal en off and the cover of new snow deadened everything, including the footsteps of the guy who had just shot a woman on the platform of the Southport L. I crept up to the first Dumpster. A scuff of powder told me my guy had turned in to a second al ey that snaked off the first, running paral el to Cornelia. I pul ed my gun up to shoulder height and crept forward again. More footprints in the second al ey, headed east. Whoever he was, he had turned the corner and just kept moving. I slipped my gun back into its holster and took off at a run. I had made it a good ten yards before a body flew up from behind and to my left. I sprawled toward the dusting of snow and hard cement underneath. He kept his body weight balanced and center of gravity low. I tried to shift, but he slipped an arm across the back of my neck and ground my head against the pavement. I relaxed for a second, hoping my guy might as wel. Then I felt steel pressed against the base of my skul and stopped moving altogether. A gun wil do that to you.

“Easy,” the man said and backed off the pressure on his forearm a little. The gun stayed where it was. “Turn around.”

I turned my head just enough. The shooter wore a black overcoat with black buttons. A fine spray of liquid clung to the hem of his coat. Blood splatter from the woman as she fel. I looked up. He had a black knit hat on. A ski mask covered his face. I took al that in even as my brain processed the final piece of the puzzle, the dark hole of a. 40-caliber handgun, sitting six inches from my forehead.

“Ready to die, hero?” He said it more like he was curious than anything else. Real y, genuinely interested in my comfort level with impending mortality. I figured anything I might say would just kick off the festivities. So I didn’t say anything. Just looked at the mask and tried to fathom the face beyond. He lifted the gun a fraction and began to pul back on the trigger. You might think you can’t see that kind of delicate pressure on a trigger. Trust me, when you’re up that close and personal, you notice. So he squeezed back, a pound or two of pressure. Then he stopped, lifted the gun another inch or so, and brought it down, fast, heavy, and hard. After that, it was the rush of Chicago asphalt toward my face and darkness.

Robles was two miles and thirty minutes removed from the Southport L stop. He’d changed into an oversize sweatshirt with a Nike logo on the front and black slashes down the sleeves. He had the hood pul ed low over his eyes and stared out a window as the number 136 bus pul ed onto Lake Shore Drive for its journey downtown. The snow had stopped as quickly as it started, and the winter sun poured cold light over the city. A woman in a Honda Civic cruised close. She had a cel phone cradled to one ear and fussed in the rearview mirror with the corners of her mouth. Robles watched as her front wheel wandered to the edge of her lane and past, brushing close to the side of the bus. His driver laid on the horn. The woman took her eyes off herself, pul ed her car straight, and flipped a middle finger toward anyone and everyone who ever rode the CTA. Then she snapped the cel shut and went back to her face.

Robles felt the anger, hot and uncomfortable inside, but tamped it down. He pul ed out a street map of Chicago and took a look at the Loop. He knew the block and traced the route with his finger for what seemed like the hundredth time. He liked to run things through his mind. That way, when it came time to act, there’d be no thinking. Just hit the button, play the tape, and fol ow along. Robles stood as the bus turned onto Wacker, walked to the back door, and reached for the grab bar overhead. An old lady sat nearby, tapping her foot and cursing softly under her breath. At first, Robles thought the “motherfucker”s were for him; then he realized she was just another nut job riding the CTA. Robles smiled at the old lady and pictured himself cutting her throat. She looked up, tapped her foot again, and cal ed him a cocksucker. At the front of the bus a radio crackled. The driver picked up his two-way and listened, then asked a question Robles couldn’t quite make out. Didn’t matter. He had a feeling he knew exactly what al the chatter was about and pul ed the cord to request a stop. The bus angled to the curb at Wacker, on the edge of Chicago’s Loop. Robles got off and walked south on Wabash to the corner of Lake. The building was four or five stories high, cut rough from blocks of Indiana limestone and black with soot from the big city’s breath. He pul ed on a pair of gloves and stepped inside the front door. There was no one in the vestibule, just a line of metal mailboxes and a set of wooden stairs, sinking to the right and winding up. Robles took the stairs, two at a time, until he got to the top floor, turned a corner, and walked to the end of a hal that was long, narrow, and smel ed like old diapers. There was a smal window at the end, letting in a sad trickle of light onto a wooden door with a silver doorknob.